Ring of Fire

by Pierdomenico Baccalario

  She dropped Jacob Mahler off outside the small house she’d rented for him in the Coppedè district, near Corso Trieste. It was Mahler himself who’d requested it. He wanted to sleep in one of those bizarre, menacing-looking buildings full of strange faces, masks, crenellations, turrets, lilies, roses and vines intertwined beneath the pointed rooftops.

  Well, if that’s what he wants. …

  Beatrice rests her head against the car window. She’s tired. The cold glass feels good against her cheek. It freezes out her most troubling thoughts. She was expecting a lot from this day, and she has the feeling she didn’t get much out of it. Not that she thought “the great Jacob Mahler” would be more easygoing, but she’s disappointed by the man’s pointless arrogance and by how she let her thoughts get muddled.

  Jacob Mahler is tremendously self-confident and incredibly cold.

  They say he’s one of the very best professional killers in the whole world.

  Inside the Mini is a lingering trace of his violet-scented cologne.

  Beatrice shuts her eyes and thinks back to how they said goodbye.

  “What should I tell Joe Vinile?” Beatrice asked, dropping him off outside the house. A wrought iron gate spiked with sharp points. Balconies resting on the backs of ancient mythological figures.

  “Tell him we’ll meet tomorrow at eleven past eleven.”

  “Here?” Snowflakes were clinging to her hair like little white spiders.

  He shook his head, looking at her with his piercing, light-colored eyes. He nodded toward the house. “I’m not here. Nobody’s here.”

  I’m such an idiot, thought Beatrice. No one’s supposed to know that Jacob Mahler’s here in Rome.

  “We’ll see you at Joe’s restaurant, then?”

  For the second time, Jacob Mahler shook his head, enjoying the chance to make her feel foolish.

  “Where, then?”

  “At the best café in Rome. At eleven past eleven.” Having made this enigmatic statement, he turned around and walked through the gates.

  “Mr. Mahler?” Beatrice called after him. “Mr. Mahler? The best café in Rome … Which one is that?”

  A thick whirl of snow was carried in by the wind, forming a white curtain between her and Jacob Mahler.

  When she looked again, he’d disappeared.

  A honking horn suddenly snaps her back into the real world. Traffic has moved ahead a few meters. Beatrice puts her car into gear and creeps forward. It could take her hours to get home. And all she wants to do is crawl into bed and close her eyes.

  She’s gripped by the anguishing feeling of helplessness. She looks for her cell phone and scans down the list of names. She finds Joe Vinile’s number, stares at the phone’s glowing display but can’t find the courage to hit the call button. Instead, she sends him a message: MEETING TOMORROW AT ELEVEN PAST ELEVEN, AT THE BEST CAFÉ IN ROME.

  “What the heck!” she yells, tossing the cell phone over her shoulder. She clutches the steering wheel and counts the minutes it takes her to move one meter forward. Just then, the cell phone starts ringing.

  Beatrice twists her arm back and finds it, checks the number and is relieved to see it’s neither Joe nor any of her ex-boyfriends.

  “Beatrice?”

  It’s Jacob Mahler.

  Her mouth drops open slightly. Her stomach churns with worry while her brain wonders, How’d he get my private number?

  “Yes, Jacob?” Beatrice bites her lip. She just called him by his first name.

  “There’s been a change of plans,” Jacob Mahler continues.

  “How so?”

  “We need to do something tonight.”

  “Did you hear from Joe Vinile?”

  “We need to go see a man.”

  “Where?”

  “Under the Ponte Sisto. In half an hour.”

  “We can’t,” replies Beatrice. The cars around her aren’t moving. The snow whirls down from the sky and gives no sign of letting up. “I’m in the middle of a traffic jam.”

  “Find a way. It’s very important.”

  “It’s impossible! Nobody’s moving.”

  “That’s why we’re going to move. I’ll wait for you here. I’m counting on you.”

  Beatrice is about to protest, but Jacob Mahler has already hung up.

  Try to think, she tells herself.

  To get back to the Coppedè district, Beatrice would need to reach the first traffic light and turn off on the street going up the hill, on the other side of the divider.

  The cars are lined up in three lanes. An endless procession of white and red lights surrounded by snow. At this rate, just getting to the intersection might take her half an hour.

  And she doesn’t have half an hour.

  Nobody’s moving.

  That’s why we’re going to move.

  Find a way.

  A crazy idea flashes through her mind. Her arm shoots back and grabs the jacket from the backseat. She clasps her fingers around the door handle, her hand trembling.

  Nobody’s moving.

  That’s why we’re going to move.

  Beatrice takes a deep breath. She switches off the engine, opens the door and gets out of the Mini, leaving it stranded in the middle of traffic.

  “I’ve gone totally nuts,” she says, starting to walk between the other cars. “I’ve gone totally nuts.”

  Horns are blaring out behind her, but Beatrice doesn’t turn around. She starts running, reaches the traffic light and crosses the street. Just as she expected, cars are zooming down the road going up the hill.

  “The mysteries of traffic in Rome,” she murmurs with a smile.

  Just past the intersection, she starts waving her arms. A dark car pulls up beside her. “Need some help?” the young driver asks, rolling down his window.

  “Yes,” Beatrice replies.

  Suddenly, something strange happens.

  Around them, all the lights in the city suddenly go out. The traffic lights go out. Then all the streetlights. Then the shop lights. The lights in all the houses.

  Rome is plunged into darkness.

  “What’s going on?” the young man asks, looking around, astonished. Instinctively, he gets out of his car, leaving the door open.

  To Beatrice, this is a sign of destiny.

  “I’m stealing your car,” she says.

  Thinking she’s joking, he plays along. “Oh, sure. Be my guest! What are you, a thief?”

  “Maybe.” Without giving him the chance to react, Beatrice dives down into the driver’s seat, grabs hold of the steering wheel and peels out, splashing up a wave of slush behind her. The young man runs after her, shouting.

  It’s snowing.

  Her yellow Mini is abandoned in the middle of traffic.

  She’s just stolen someone’s car.

  Rome is pitch-black.

  But all she thinks about is getting to Jacob Mahler in time.

  6

  THE DARKNESS

  IT’S PITCH-BLACK IN ELETTRA’S ROOM.

  “Did you hurt yourself?” the girl asks Sheng, kneeling down beside him. The shattered dandelion lamp is lying on the floor in a thousand pieces.

  “No, but—”

  “Mistral?”

  “Harvey?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Me too.”

  “Is anybody hurt?”

  “No.”

  “What happened?”

  The kids move closer to each other, crawling on the floor.

  “Watch out for the glass.”

  “It’s everywhere,” says Sheng.

  Elettra feels around for the light switch. She flicks it, but nothing happens. She goes into the bathroom, but the light doesn’t work there, either.

  “No luck. We must’ve blown a fuse.”

  “A flame,” says Harvey. “It was like a flame.”

  “I—I saw it come out of Sheng’s hands,” Mistral stammers. Her voice is quavering like a violin string.

  “Man,” repeats Sh
eng. “Man …” It’s as though he is incapable of saying anything else.

  The room is totally immersed in darkness. The only light coming in is the reflection of the snow falling in the courtyard. A dark courtyard, like the bottom of a black box.

  “Where are you going?” asks Harvey, hearing Elettra move across the room. She sits down on the edge of the bed and slips on a pair of shoes.

  “I’m going out to check the hallway.”

  “I’ll go with you,” the American boy offers, suddenly active.

  Actually, Elettra’s mind is somewhere else. She’s thinking about the bolt of energy that surged through her. How she transmitted this to Sheng by touching his shoulder. How the energy made her aunt’s lamp explode.

  She’s scared. She can feel her body trembling, right down to her bones.

  The lamp exploded in a blinding flash of white light.

  Harvey gropes around and finds his shoes at the foot of the bed. “I knew I shouldn’t have taken these off,” he jokes.

  “You guys aren’t leaving us here, are you?” asks Mistral.

  Elettra makes her way toward the door. “I’m just going out to see if the light in the hallway works.”

  “I’m ready,” says Harvey. Then he pats his legs, realizing he’s still in his boxer shorts. “Um, just a sec.” They hear a brief rustling of jeans. Elettra opens the door and tries flicking the switch in the hallway.

  Clack. Clack.

  Nothing.

  “Man,” murmurs Sheng for the millionth time.

  “What do we do?”

  “I’m going down to check the electrical meters,” says Elettra.

  “Have you got any candles?”

  “In the kitchen, maybe,” she replies.

  “Where are you?” asks Harvey, groping around the bedroom. He trips over something, making a loud thud.

  “My bag!” cries Sheng.

  “Don’t move, Harvey!” orders Elettra with a touch of agitation. “Everybody, stay right where you are! Let’s let our eyes get used to the dark.”

  “I can’t see a thing,” says Sheng.

  Neither can Harvey. He stays perfectly still.

  They all remain in silence.

  Elettra thinks, Everything can’t be as dark as this.

  A few moments later, Harvey says, “I’m starting to make things out a little. Elettra, I can see you near the door. I can see the beds, too.”

  “So can I,” murmurs Mistral.

  “I still can’t see a thing!” Sheng insists.

  Elettra nods. To her eyes, too, the glowing snow is helping her make out the blurry silhouettes of the furniture in the room. But beyond the door, toward the inner rooms of the hotel, the hallway is pitch-dark. “I can see a little bit …,” she says.

  “Lucky you,” replies Sheng. “Because I still can’t see a thing. Maybe … the explosion blinded me. … Hey!”

  Something’s brushing up against his face. It’s Mistral’s hand. “Don’t worry, Sheng. It’s just me.”

  “What are you doing?” the Chinese boy asks her.

  The girl’s hands are caressing his face. “I don’t think you were hurt, Sheng. It’s just … well, maybe you should open your eyes.”

  Sheng gives an embarrassed start. “Huh? I what …?”

  “Your eyes are closed.”

  Sheng tries to calm down and slowly opens his eyes.

  This time it’s Mistral who gives a start. “Sheng!” she cries out. “Guys, look!”

  “What is it?” he asks, suddenly nervous.

  He sees Harvey and Elettra’s shadows standing over him. A hunched beanpole and a wild mane of dark curls.

  “Your eyes …,” whispers Mistral.

  “What’s wrong with them?” he asks, putting his hands up to his face.

  Harvey shakes his head. “I must be dreaming.”

  “What?”

  “They’re yellow,” says Harvey.

  “They look like gold,” whispers Elettra. “Like two precious little jewels…”

  “You guys are kidding, right?”

  Mistral shakes her head. “No, really! You’ve got two giant owl’s eyes.”

  “Golden yellow.”

  “But it’s going away,” Harvey points out.

  “What’s going away?”

  “The glow in your eyes. It’s like they’re … melting.”

  “Do they hurt?”

  “No!”

  “Can you see okay?”

  “I see everything … yellow.”

  “But what can you see, exactly?”

  Sheng gets up. “You guys, the beds, the door to the hallway, the bathroom …”

  “You can see all the way to the bathroom?”

  “Yeah. I mean … What, can’t you guys?”

  “Not me.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Everything’s dark, Sheng. We can’t see a thing.”

  “What’s happened to me?”

  “I’m going down to check the meters,” decides Elettra, wheeling around.

  “We’re coming, too!” the other three shout out, almost in unison.

  Moments later, the four kids are feeling their way down the hall leading to the dining room. “I’m seeing less and less yellow … and not so far away anymore,” Sheng tells them.

  He turns to look at Mistral, who says, “They’re almost back to normal.”

  Sheng wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “So whatever it was, it’s going away, right?”

  “That was pretty cool, though,” comments Harvey. “A flame turning you into a nocturnal animal.”

  “Next time you do it, okay?” Sheng jokes.

  Elettra leads the way. She knows the hallway by heart, but in the silent darkness, something is bothering her. And she’s got the nagging feeling that somehow it’s her fault.

  They reach the dining room with its rows of little tables. The white tablecloths, in the near darkness, make them look like big, sleeping flowers. At the other end of the room, the elevator’s emergency light is off.

  “The whole power system must’ve shut down,” Elettra says to herself.

  She crosses the room, her hand brushing against the tables, making the porcelain cups rattle on their saucers.

  “Does this happen often?” asks Sheng.

  “Occasionally,” Elettra lies.

  “I can’t see a thing,” Sheng moans after a while. They’re standing beside the big door leading out into the courtyard, at the bottom of the stairs that go up to the bedrooms.

  “Auntie?” whispers Elettra, hearing a noise coming from the floor above.

  Silence.

  “I’d say they’re all snoozing away.”

  “Actually, there’s not much better to do during a blackout …,” Harvey points out.

  “Could we open up the door to let a little light in?”

  “Sure. Give me a hand,” orders Elettra. She pushes on the heavy, well-oiled bolts, which slide across without making the faintest noise. The door opens up with a decisive clack, as if it were waking up from its silent slumber.

  Outside, a mantle of white has covered everything. Soft and light, compact and silent, it gives a graceful appearance to the square courtyard, the well, the awkward shape of the minibus. Over the terrace, the four statues have big heads of white hair.

  “It’s like being in Lord of the Rings,” says Harvey.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if Gandalf jumped out from somewhere,” Sheng agrees.

  Mistral bites her lip, remaining silent. The stone courtyard looks magical to her, too, but she was thinking of something far more poetic than a simple movie.

  With the front door wide open, a glow now fills the hotel’s atrium, allowing them to make out the stairway, the reception desk with its large copper umbrella stand and a thick cluster of garden plants.

  “Elettra?” calls out Sheng when he notices that the girl of the house has disappeared.

  “Coming!” a voice calls back from a distance. The kids h
ear a few drawers being opened and shut, and then Elettra’s voice. “Great! I knew it!”

  She reappears from behind the reception desk holding a pack of cigarettes.

  “You smoke?” Harvey asks her, horrified.

  Elettra smiles and her perfectly white teeth gleam with the reflection from the snow. “I don’t. But my aunt Linda does. That is, she tries to make us believe she gave it up years ago, but I was sure she kept an emergency pack of cigarettes hidden around somewhere. And this is just what we need.” She opens up the pack and takes out a green disposable lighter.

  * * *

  Harvey’s thumb gives the lighter a flick, and a little flame lights up the stairs leading down into the basement. “Wow! Look at this place! It’s like—” Mistral passes by him, cutting him off before he has a chance to ruin the fascinating effect of this place, too. It’s an ancient stone basement, its stairs disappearing into a maze of rooms piled high with old things.

  “It’s magnificent …,” she remarks, taking in the atmosphere.

  “Hao! Cool!” murmurs Sheng, admiring the stairs that disappear down belowground.

  “The meters are right over here …,” Elettra says calmly, moving a few steps beyond the doorway. Harvey holds up the lighter so they can see the row of ugly black boxes, inside of which sparkle metal disks, which are perfectly still.

  “It looks like they’ve stopped completely.”

  “There’s an echo in here,” Mistral points out, a few steps farther down.

  “And a nasty old mouse, too,” adds Elettra, checking the meters. “You’re right, Harv. They’ve stopped.”

  The flame from the lighter flickers in the darkness. The American boy’s eyes are big and deep. “Yep, Elly,” he answers her, resting a hand on her shoulder.

  Elettra blinks a couple of times. And she thinks, Elly? No, no. That’s no good. She hates nicknames. And she’s got to be the one who decides how friendly a boy can get with her.

  “My name isn’t Elly,” she says, stepping away from him.

  “Then my name isn’t Harv,” he replies stonily.