Ring of Fire

by Pierdomenico Baccalario

  Her guide is a mass of dirt and patched-up coats. But once in a while, a golden glimmer can be seen through her hair. It’s a single gold earring dangling from her right earlobe.

  The Tiber’s current rages along, driven by the snowfall of the previous days. It’s like a song that drowns out the noise of the traffic. “We’re there …,” the Gypsy announces after a long while.

  She shows Elettra a makeshift hovel built with sheets of metal, plastic, old boards and broken window shutters. It has no lock. It’s entered by simply pushing open a door made of streetside posters that have been pasted together.

  It’s cold inside. Seeping through the walls is the icy chill from outdoors and the cold from the stones of the bridge looming overhead.

  The Gypsy tries to light a small gas heater. At first the flame won’t catch, but a few well-planted kicks to a tank lying on the ground make the last wheezes of gas hiss through the pipe.

  Elettra stands warily by the door. The floor’s covered with plastic. Patches of insulating material cover the walls. It smells pungent, foul.

  “Come …,” says the Gypsy. “I’m not going to hurt you.” She heads toward the back of the shanty, where trunks and boxes of old clothes are piled up. She starts searching for something.

  Elettra gulps and walks inside.

  “Help me …,” says the woman. “It’s heavy.”

  Moving the boxes aside, the two lift out into the light a wooden trunk that was hidden against the back wall of the hovel. It’s very heavy, as if it were full of stones.

  “Why did you bring me all the way here?” asks Elettra.

  The Gypsy rummages through various baskets full of golden trinkets, looking for the key to the trunk. When she finds it, she kneels down on the ground to unlock it. “The professor brought this to me …,” explains the Gypsy. “After I’d read his palm.”

  Elettra stares at the chest, amazed. “He gave you that trunk? What’s inside it?”

  “Wait and see.”

  “When did you read his palm?”

  “When I met him, he was searching. And I was waiting. We met in Piazza della Gatta.”

  “What was he looking for?”

  “A treasure, he told me. But he was sad, regretting something for which he wasn’t to blame. I could tell. I saw it in his eyes. I walked up to him and asked if I could read his palm.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He agreed, but …”

  “What did you see in his palm?”

  “The end of the world …,” whispers the Gypsy, closing her eyes and turning the key in the old lock.

  She opens the lid.

  “I don’t know why he wanted to give me these …,” she explains with a faint voice, having cast a glance at the contents of the trunk. “I think it was because I’d seen the end of the world in his palm. He already knew about it, you see? He asked me how I understood that.”

  Elettra remains silent. It’s too dark for her to see what’s inside the trunk. All she can make out is some writing engraved in the lid: ORSENIGO 1867-1903.

  The name rings a bell, but she doesn’t know what it means. Maybe she’s seen it in the professor’s notes … one of the many things he’d scribbled in his journal that Mistral copied down. But the strange familiarity of the name makes her heart beat faster.

  The Gypsy raises her hands. “I don’t know how I understood it, but I really did see the end of the world in his palm.” She points to her left hand. “All of his lines were broken, and they came together to form a big spiral.”

  “Like a whirlpool,” says Elettra.

  “Like a whirlpool, yes …,” the Gypsy says, nodding. “The whirlpool of peril.”

  Elettra clutches the wooden top in her pocket, thinking of Sheng and the top of the whirlpool.

  The woman’s voice grows more intense. “Every one of his lines was wrong. I saw other lines within them. I saw men shouting. I saw tears. I saw flames. Terrible winds that shook everything to the core. The earth opening up beneath people’s feet. A salty, black sea wiping away everything. This is what I saw in the professor’s palm.”

  Elettra has the sudden urge to get out of there. The Tiber gurgles outside of the hovel.

  “But I don’t know why he brought me these …,” the Gypsy continues with a hushed voice. Her hands dive down into the trunk. “He paid me to keep these for him. He paid me well and he said, ‘No one will come here to look for them. But hide them anyway. And if anyone ever comes here asking questions … go … go at once. If you’re frightened, destroy them. But let no one see them. No one at all.’ ” Her earring sparkles. “Then he added, pointing at the lines showing the end of the world, that they were also looking for the treasure. That they mustn’t know where to look for it.”

  Her hands in her pockets, Elettra takes a small step forward, trying to see what’s inside the trunk.

  “I hid them here, as he wished,” the Gypsy continues. “And no one came to look for them. Until today. When you appeared.”

  “And you ran away.”

  “Yes.”

  “You wanted to come here to destroy them.”

  “Yes. I considered it.”

  “So why did you change your mind?”

  “The professor told me that what he was looking for had something to do with the end of the world. That’s why he was afraid. Because he thought there were other men who had the end of the world in their palms,” the Gypsy replies. “But, you …”

  “I what?” Elettra asks, taking a step back.

  The woman removes her hands from the trunk. “You’re not afraid.”

  Elettra lets out a laugh. “Oh, you’re wrong. I’m really afraid. A lot more than you can imagine.”

  “Let me see your hand,” says the Gypsy.

  “No!” cries Elettra, alarmed. A shiver runs down her spine like a drop of ice-cold water.

  “Let me see your hand,” the Gypsy insists.

  “Why?”

  “I want to study your lines.”

  Elettra shakes her head. “I … I don’t want you to …”

  “At times what you want or don’t want isn’t important.”

  “I’m not interested in knowing what’s written in my palm.”

  “You can see your reflection in the mirror even with your eyes closed.”

  “How did you know that? How do you know about the mirrors?”

  The Gypsy tilts her head slightly over her right shoulder, a pose that makes her look incredibly sweet. She’s reaching out for her hand as though she were inviting Elettra to dance at a ball.

  “Well, just don’t tell me anything …,” Elettra says in a hushed voice. “If you see something, don’t tell me.”

  The Gypsy nods her head.

  It’s agreed.

  Elettra holds out her left hand, palm up, to the Gypsy.

  “Please …,” she whispers, as if praying.

  The woman’s fingers grasp Elettra’s firmly and she begins to slide the tip of her index finger over the girl’s palm. She moves it up and down, in long circles, pressing down here and there. She does this for a few minutes and then releases her grip in a single swift movement.

  “Well?” asks Elettra.

  “You asked me not to tell you anything. So I won’t tell you.”

  Elettra’s heart beats faster and faster.

  “Now take a look. … Look at what the professor left us,” the Gypsy says, waving her over to the trunk. Holding her breath, Elettra rests her eyes on a mass of white, irregularly shaped objects. For a moment, she doesn’t understand what they are.

  “It can’t be …,” she whispers. She kneels down beside the trunk with a mix of horror and curiosity. She shakes her head. On her palm she can still feel the spots where the Gypsy woman pressed down on it. “Are these what I think they are?”

  The woman smiles. “Teeth,” she says.

  The trunk contains hundreds, perhaps thousands, of human teeth.

  * * *

  “Hello …,” B
eatrice says in a soft voice as she opens the bedroom door slightly. Sitting on the bed, Mistral doesn’t react at all. She just looks straight ahead, a distant, stubborn look on her face.

  Beatrice takes a few steps into the room. “How do you feel?”

  The girl stares at the closed shutters and doesn’t say a word.

  “It won’t be long now …,” Beatrice insists, trying to be as reassuring as possible. “He’ll be back soon.”

  “But he isn’t going to take me home, is he?” Mistral asks point-blank.

  Beatrice walks over to the bed and rests her hands on it. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you guys are … them.”

  “And who are they?”

  Mistral’s stare is cold. “I’m not stupid,” she says. “Let’s just say you’re them because I don’t know your names.”

  “But—”

  “So who are you, anyway? Why have you kidnapped me?”

  Beatrice bites her lip. “It’ll all be over soon, you’ll see. It’s just that …” Mistral’s eyes are deep, intense, begging the woman not to lie to her. To tell her the truth. Beatrice sighs. “I work for him, that’s true …,” she admits. “But I don’t know anything about all this. All I can tell you is I won’t let him hurt you. Believe me.”

  “He’s really dangerous, isn’t he?” asks Mistral, glancing at the door behind the young woman, which is ajar.

  Beatrice stares down at the blanket. She thinks about how hard it is to lie to a girl like this. And how hard it is to tell her the whole truth.

  “Yes,” she says in a low voice. “Very.”

  Mistral goes back to staring at the shutters. “I knew it,” she mumbles. “And I bet he was the one who killed the professor.”

  Beatrice quickly tries to change the subject. “I had a little sister like you. That is …” She smiles. “A bit like you. She’d be more or less your age today.”

  “Where is she?”

  “They split us up. That happens sometimes, when parents … fight.”

  “I haven’t got both parents. I’ve only got my mom, so she doesn’t have anyone to fight with,” Mistral remarks.

  “Sometimes it’s better that way, you know? I grew up with my dad and—” A series of bad memories flashes before her eyes. “And it wasn’t much fun.”

  Mistral stares at her, not understanding, but she doesn’t ask any questions. She wipes her eyes with her hand.

  “Do you want a tissue?” asks Beatrice.

  “I’m not crying.”

  A heavy silence fills the bedroom. Through the window come the muffled sounds of traffic.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Beatrice.”

  “I’m Mistral.”

  “Hello, Mistral.”

  “Were you serious? Do you really think it’ll all be over soon?”

  Beatrice nods nervously. She looks at Mistral and sees herself at age twelve. Locked up in her room, waiting for her father to decide that her punishment is over and let her out. “Of course I was serious. Of course.”

  Mistral fidgets nervously. Beatrice listens to the noise coming in from the street. She thinks she can make out the engine of her Mini. And then a door slamming at the bottom of the stairs.

  “What is it?” asks Mistral.

  “Nothing,” replies Beatrice, rushing out of the room.

  Jacob Mahler is back.

  24

  THE LETTERS

  “OKAY. DON’T MOVE!” ERMETE SHOUTS INTO THE PHONE. “I’LL BE right there!”

  “Where are we going?” asks Harvey, watching the engineer rush from one end of the house to the other, his sparse hair still damp. He opens and shuts all the drawers, one by one. As always, the keys to his motorcycle have disappeared.

  “How is this possible?” he yells furiously. The phone rings again. “You get it!”

  Harvey picks up the receiver and hears a woman’s voice shrieking nonstop. Guessing who it is, he covers the receiver with his hand and calls out, “Ermete! It’s your mother!”

  “Tell her I’m not here,” the engineer replies, rummaging around in a pile of dirty T-shirts. “Where the heck did I put them?”

  Harvey uncovers the receiver and stammers, “Um, ma’am? Right now Ermete is—”

  “I’m not here!” the man shouts from the back of the room. He’s finally found his keys inside an empty vase. He grabs them, walks up to Harvey, yanks the phone out of his hand and says in Italian, “Hi, Mom. Listen, whatever it is, I don’t care. No no no no. Really. Today I can’t!” And with this, he hangs up.

  Then he crouches down beside Harvey and explains, “Elettra called. She seems to have found … well, something incredible. …”

  “What?” asks Harvey, his heart thumping.

  “Oh, it’s an old legend in Rome. … Years ago there was this monk over on Tiber Island—”

  “I’ve seen that,” Harvey bursts in. “That’s the island where all this started.”

  Ermete ignores the interruption and goes on. “His name was Friar Orsenigo. He was a tooth-puller.”

  “A what?”

  “A kind of dentist. It’s just, he didn’t take care of teeth. He only took them out. And he did it with his bare hands.”

  Harvey instinctively raises a hand to his mouth. “Not for me, thanks.”

  “Well, all of Rome used to go to him because he didn’t ask for money. He’d slip his fingers into your mouth and … Crack! Goodbye tooth, goodbye pain. They say the pope even went to see him and that this was the only time the monk’s fingers were particularly gentle. The only thing Orsenigo asked in return for his services was that he be allowed to keep all the teeth he pulled. They say he collected almost two million of them during his lifetime.”

  Something suddenly dawns on Harvey. “Does this have anything to do with the tooth we found in the briefcase?”

  “It sure looks like it,” Ermete confirms. “Elettra found one of Friar Orsenigo’s trunks. Which, naturally, is full of teeth … and each tooth has something written on it.”

  Harvey gapes. “You mean there’s some sort of message on them?”

  “You got it. I’m going over to take a look.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “No,” Ermete says, stopping him. “You’re going to see my friend. Without me.”

  “But I’ll just get arrested—”

  “I don’t think he’s under surveillance. He’s not a big fish. He’s more of a movie and music pirate. But he’s one of those guys who knows everything about everybody. You know the type.”

  “No. I don’t know the type.”

  “Try to work with me here. …” Ermete walks over to the table and scribbles something on a piece of paper. “He might just know something about the man with the violin. Like if anyone’s seen him. Or if there are rumors spreading around …” He hands him the piece of paper. “Go and tell him I sent you. Ask him for everything he knows. But don’t give him too many details, and most importantly, don’t tell him your real name.”

  “It all sounds pretty shady to me,” Harvey remarks.

  “And it is. But didn’t you want to do something, too?”

  “So what’s ‘Bucatino’?” the boy asks, reading the note.

  “It’s a restaurant a few blocks from here. Go down three hundred meters and take the first right. You can’t miss it.” Ermete opens the garage door.

  “How do I recognize your friend?”

  “That’ll be easy,” the man mumbles as he slips on his helmet. He climbs onto the motorcycle and revs the engine. “He looks just like Vasco Rossi.”

  “Who?”

  “You guys don’t get Vasco Rossi in America?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  The motorcycle roars like a military helicopter. “He’s a little guy, with a bit of a belly and long hair. His name’s Joe. You’ll recognize him because they operated on his vocal cords. In order to talk he needs to keep a little amplifier box pressed up against his throat.”
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  “Amplifier box,” Harvey says, making a mental note of it.

  “And close the garage door!” shouts Ermete, peeling out through the snow.

  Elettra and the Gypsy woman are sitting cross-legged on the plastic-covered floor of the shanty. Neither one says a word. They’ve begun to take the teeth out of the trunk, dividing them into little piles according to the letters engraved into them. So far, they’ve made five piles.

  “Were the lines bad?” asks Elettra suddenly, fishing a handful of incisors and molars out of the trunk.

  The Gypsy doesn’t reply. She continues to sort through the teeth with methodical precision. “There are no good or bad lines. There are only lines,” she explains after a moment.

  “The lines about the end of the world are bad lines.”

  “That depends on the world you live in,” the woman rebuts.

  Elettra can’t think of anything to say to that. She lets more time pass before she says, “If I asked you to tell me what you saw in my palm … would you do it?”

  “Only if you really wanted me to. Do you?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Then I won’t tell you.” The Gypsy’s eyes dart over to look at the door of the shanty. They hear footsteps drawing near.

  “That must be my friend …,” Elettra guesses. She goes up to the door made of streetside posters and opens it up to let Ermete in.

  “What a disaster …,” the man complains, brushing off his muddy jacket. “I tripped and almost took an ice-cold bath in the Tiber.”

  Once inside, he raises his hand to greet the Gypsy woman. “Ermete!” he says, introducing himself. She replies, a hint of gold sparkling through her hair.

  “This is incredible!” Ermete cries a moment later, staring at the trunk. “Why didn’t Alfred ever tell me about this?”

  “There’s one letter on each tooth,” explains Elettra, showing Ermete the little piles they’ve made on the floor. “So far, we’ve found five different letters.”

  “It would take a whole day to sort through all these …,” the engineer begins, looking at the hundreds of teeth still lying in the trunk.

  “That’s why I called you. I was hoping you’d show up here with Harvey and Sheng.”

  “They were busy. Besides, they wouldn’t both have fit in the sidecar. Let me see the letters …,” Ermete says, changing the subject.