by Anne Rice
I knew this was my destination. No doubt of it. But before I could reach for a bell rope, or call out a name, one of the elders of the crowd stepped up as if to bar my way.
“You enter that house at your own peril,” he said. “It’s in the possession of a dybbuk. We have called the elders together three times to exorcise this demon, but we have failed.
“Yet the headstrong young man who owns the house won’t leave. And now the world, which once trusted him and respected him, has begun to regard him with fear and contempt.”
“Nevertheless,” I said, “I’m here to see him.”
“This is not good for any of us,” said another one of the men present. “And your playing a lute for his patient is not going to change what is happening under this roof.”
“What then would you say I should do?” I asked.
An uneasy laughter went through the group. “Stay clear of this house and stay clear of Vitale ben Leone until he determines to leave it and the owner decides to have it pulled down.”
The house looked immense with four stories of round arched windows, and the action described seemed desperate.
“I tell you something evil has taken up its habitation here,” said one of the other men. “Can you hear it? Can you hear the noises inside?”
I could in fact hear the noises inside. It sounded as if things were being thrown about. And it seemed that something made of glass was shattered.
I banged on the gate. Then I saw the rope for the bell and pulled hard on it. If the bell rang, it was deep within the interior of the house.
The men around me backed away as the gate finally opened, and a young gentleman, about my age, stood squarely on the threshold. He had thick black shoulder-length curly hair and deep-set dark eyes. He was as finely dressed as I was in a padded tunic and leggings and he wore Moroccan leather slippers on his feet.
“Ah, good, you’ve come,” he said to me, and without so much as a word to the others, he pulled me inside the courtyard of the house.
“Vitale, leave this place before you’re ruined,” said one of the men to him.
“I refuse to run,” Vitale answered. “I will not be driven out. And besides, Signore Antonio owns this house and he is my patron and I do as he says. Niccolò is his son, is he not?”
The gate was shut and the heavy wooden door closed and bolted.
An old servant stood there holding a candle which he shielded with his skeletal fingers.
But the sharp light came from the high roof into the courtyard, and only when we started up the broad stone steps did we find ourselves plunged into shadow and in need of the little flame to guide our way.
It was like many an Italian house, showing only drab windowed walls to the streets, but its interior was worthy of the word “palazzo,” and I was enthralled by the sheer size and solidity of it as we made our way through vast and polished rooms. I glimsed beautifully frescoed walls, floors of rich marble tile, and a wealth of dark tapestries.
A loud crashing noise sounded somewhere and this brought our little party to a halt.
The old servant uttered some prayers in Latin, and crossed himself, which surprised me, but the young man with me appeared fearless and defiant.
“I won’t be driven out by it,” he said. “I will find out what it is that it wants. And as for Niccolò, I will find a way to cure him. I am not cursed and I am no poisoner.”
“That’s what they’re accusing you of? Of poisoning your patient?”
“It’s because of the ghost. If it weren’t for the ghost, I would be under no suspicion whatsoever. And because of the ghost I can’t attend to Niccolò, which is what I should be doing now. I put the word out for you to play the lute for Niccolò.”
“Then let’s go to him, and I’ll play the lute just as you’ve asked me.”
He stared at me, indecisive, and then rattled again by a fierce crash that came from what might have been the cellar.
“Do you believe this is a dybbuk here?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Come into my study.” he said. “Let’s talk just for a few minutes together before we go to Niccolò.”
There were sounds now coming from everywhere, creaking doorways, and the sound of someone on a lower floor stomping his feet.
At last we opened the double doors of the study, and the servant quickly lighted several more candles for us as the shutters were drawn. The place was stacked with books and papers, and I could see glass cabinets of peeling leather volumes. It was plain some of these books were printed, and some were not. On the various small tables there were handwritten codices open, and on others papers filled with what looked like scribbling, and in the center of the room was the man’s desk.
He gestured for me to take the Roman chair beside it. And then he flopped down, put his elbows on the desk and buried his face in his hands.
“I didn’t think you would come,” he said. “I didn’t know who in Rome would play a lute for my patient now that I am in such disgrace. Only the father of my patient, my good friend Signore Antonio, believes that any measure I take might be helpful.”
“I’ll do whatever it is you need for me to do,” I said. “I wonder if a lute might calm this troublesome spirit.”
“Oh, what an interesting thought,” he conceded, “but in this day and age of the Holy Inquisition, do you think one of us can dare to try to charm a demon? We’d be branded witches or sorcerers if we did this. Besides I need you badly at the bedside of my patient.”
“Think of me as the answer to your prayers. I’ll play for your patient and do whatever it is I can possibly do to help you with this spirit, also.”
He looked at me for a long thoughtful moment, and then he said, “I can trust you. I know that I can.”
“Good. Let me be of service to you.”
“First listen to my story. It’s brief and we have to be on our way, but let me tell you how it unfolded.”
“Yes, tell me everything.”
“Signore Antonio brought me here from Padua, along with his son Niccolò, who has become the closest friend I’ve ever had in the world, though I’m a Jew and these men are Gentiles. I was trained as a physician at Montpellier and that’s where I first met father and son, and immediately began copying medical texts from Hebrew into Latin for Signore Antonio, who has a library five times the size of this which means everything to him. Niccolò and I were drinking companions as well as fellow students, and we went on, all of us, to Padua together and then finally home to Rome, where Signore Antonio set me up in this house to prepare it for Niccolò. It’s for Niccolò and his bride, this house, but then the ghost appeared the very first night I knelt down and said my prayers here.”
There came another loud crash from above and the distinct sound of someone walking, though it seemed to me, in a house like this, one could not have heard the sound of an ordinary person walking.
The servant was still with us, crouched by the door, holding his candle. His head was bald and pink in the light with only a few wisps of dark hair, and he stared uneasily at the pair of us.
“Go on, Pico, get out of here,” said Vitale. “Run to Signore Antonio and tell him I’m coming directly.” Gratefully the man ran out. Vitale looked at me. “I’d offer you food and drink, but there’s nothing here. The servants have run away. Everyone but Pico has run away. Pico would die for me. Perhaps he thinks that’s what’s about to happen.”
“The ghost,” I reminded him. “You said that he came the night you prayed. This meant something to you.”
He fixed me seriously for a moment. “You know, I feel I’ve known you all my life,” he said. “I feel I can tell you my most spiritual secrets.”
“You can,” I said. “But if we should see Niccolò soon, you’ll have to speak quickly.”
He sat still gazing at me, and his dark eyes had a low fire in them that I found rather fascinating. His face was filled with animation, as if he couldn’t disguise any emotion, even if he wa
nted to, and he seemed at any moment about to burst into some wild exclamation but instead he grew quiet and began to talk in a low running voice.
“The ghost was always here, that’s my fear. He was here and he will be here after we’re forced out. The house has been shut up for twenty years. Signore Antonio told me that long ago he had let it to one of his earlier Hebrew scholars. He will say nothing else about the man except that he once lived here. Now, he wants the house for Niccolò and Niccolò’s bride, and I’m to stay on, to be Niccolò’s secretary, and physician when needed, and possibly the tutor to his sons when they’re born. It was all such a happy scheme, this.”
“And Niccolò was not ill yet.”
“Oh, no, far from it. Niccolò was fine. Niccolò was looking forward to his wedding to Leticia. Niccolò and Lodovico his brother were making all kinds of plans. No, nothing bad had happened to Niccolò.”
“And then you prayed that first night and the ghost began to trouble you.”
“Yes. You see, I found the room upstairs which had been the synagogue. I found the Ark and in it the old scrolls of the Torah. These had belonged to that scholar whom long ago Antonio had let live here. I knelt down and I prayed, and I fear I prayed for things I had no right to pray for.”
“Tell me.”
“I prayed for fame,” he said in a small voice. “I prayed for riches. I prayed for recognition. I prayed that, somehow, I’d become a great physician in Rome, and that I would be an outstanding scholar for Signore Antonio, perhaps translating texts for him that no one had yet discovered or made available.”
“That sounds like a very human prayer to me,” I said, “and given your gifts, it sounds quite understandable.”
He looked at me so gratefully that it was heartbreaking. “You see, I have many gifts,” he said humbly. “I have a gift for writing and reading that could keep me busy all my days. But then I have a gift as a physician as well, an ability to touch a man’s hand and know what is wrong with him.”
“Was it wrong then to pray that these gifts would flower?”
He smiled and shook his head. “You may have come to play the lute for my friend,” he said, “but right now you give me more comfort than music ever could. The point is, that very night the ghost began his rumblings, his stampings, his casting things to the floor. It was right after my prayer, and always after he’d torn this study to pieces, and believe me, he can make the inkwells fly, he would retreat to the cellar. He would retreat and bang his fists against the casks of the cellar.”
“My friend, this ghost may have had nothing to do with your prayer. Now go on. What happened with Niccolò?”
“Well, at this time Niccolò suffered a fall from a horse. It was nothing of any consequence and the wound healed instantly. Niccolò is stronger than I am. But ever since, he’s been failing. He’s grown pale. He shudders and I tell you every day he’s worse and it’s eating at his mind, this illness, this idleness, this lying in bed and watching his own hands tremble.”
“The wound’s clean? You’re sure of it?”
“Certain. He has no fever from the wound. He has no fever at all. And the rumors, the rumors are spreading now as they always do, that I, his Jewish physician, am poisoning him! Oh, thank Heaven that Signore Antonio believes in me.”
“This is a terrible danger, this being accused of poisoning,” I said. I knew this well enough from history. No one had to tell me.
“Oh, understand, I have my indemnity from Signore Antonio, all properly signed, to treat the patient and that I’ll be paid whether he lives or dies, and no accusation can formally be brought against me. That’s the usual thing in Rome, and I have my dispensation from the Pope to treat Christians. I’ve had that for years. I’m dispensed from wearing the yellow patch. All that’s in order. My concern is not what will become of me. My concern is this ghost and why he’s here. And my concern is what will happen to Niccolò. I love Niccolò! If it weren’t for the ghost I wouldn’t be accused. And my other patients wouldn’t have fled. But I could do without them. I could do without it all. If only Niccolò were well. If only Niccolò were restored. But I must discover why this ghost plagues me and why I cannot cure Niccolò there where he lies not one hundred feet from here in his own house growing ever weaker.”
“We should go to Niccolò. We can talk of the ghost later.”
“Oh, but one thing first. I prayed with pride that first night. I know that I did.”
“We all do, my friend. It’s pride, is it not, to ask God for anything? And yet He tells us to ask. He tells us to ask as Solomon asked for wisdom.”
He drew back and that seemed to calm him. “As Solomon asked,” he whispered. “Yes. I did that. I told him I wanted to have all these many gifts, gifts of the spirit and the mind and the heart. But did I have the right to do it?”
“Come now,” I said. “Let’s go to your friend Niccolò.”
He paused as though listening for some distant sound. And we both realized the house was quiet, and had been for some time.
“Do you imagine the dybbuk has been listening?” he asked.
“Perhaps,” I said. “If he can make a sound, then he can hear a sound, isn’t that likely?”
“Oh, may the Lord bless you, I am so glad you came to me,” he said. “Let’s be going.”
He clutched my hand with both of his. He was a passionate man, a volatile man, and I realized how very different in spirit he was from those I’d visited on my last adventure, who for all their passion had not had his hot southern Mediterranean blood.
“You realize I don’t know your name?” he asked.
“Toby,” I said. “Now let’s go to see your patient. While I play the lute, I can listen and I can watch and I can see if in fact this man is being poisoned.”
“Oh, but that’s not possible.”
“I don’t mean by you, Vitale, I mean by someone else.”
“But I tell you, Toby, there is no one that does not love him, no one that could bear to lose him. Therein lies the dreadful mystery.”
We found the same crowd in the street, but this time the Jews had been joined by some onlookers and some of the rougher sort and I didn’t like the look of it.
We pushed through without speaking a word, and as we made our way through the thick press of the alleyway, Vitale was whispering to me.
“Things are good here now for the Jews,” he said. “The Pope has a Jewish physician and he’s my friend, and there are Jewish scholars in demand everywhere. I think that every cardinal must have a Hebrew scholar on his staff. But that could change in an instant. If Niccolò dies, the Lord have mercy on me. With this dybbuk I will be accused not only of poison but of witchcraft.”
I nodded to this, but was mainly trying to make my way through the press of passersby, peddlers and beggars. The cookshops and taverns added their scents and swell to the narrow street.
But within minutes, we had arrived at the house of Signore Antonio, and were admitted at once through its huge iron gates.
CHAPTER SIX
IMMEDIATELY WE ENTERED A HUGE COURTYARD, FILLED with potted trees, arranged at random around a glittering fountain.
The bent and withered old man who opened the gate for us was shaking his head and very forlorn.
“He’s worse today, young Master,” he said, “and I fear for him, and his father has come downstairs, and will not leave the bedside. He waits for you now.”
“That’s good, Master Antonio is out of bed, that’s very good,” said Vitale immediately. He confided to me, “When Niccolò suffers, Antonio suffers. The man lives for his sons. He has his books, his papers, his work for me all the time, but without his sons, there’s nothing really for him.”
Together we went up a very broad and impressive stairway of shallow treads and polished stone. And then proceeded down a long gallery. There were spectacular wall hangings everywhere, tapestries of wandering princesses and gallant young men at the hunt, and great sections of the wall painted in brilliant pas
toral frescoes. The work looked as fine to me as if it had been done by Michelangelo or Raphael, and for all I knew some of it had been done by their apprentices or students.
We passed now into a chain of antechambers, all with marble tiled floors and scatterings of Persian and Turkish carpets. Magnificent classical scenes of nymphs dancing in paradisal gardens adorned the bare walls. Only an occasional long table of polished wood stood in the center of a room. There were no other furnishings.
Finally the double doors were thrown open to a vast and ornate bedroom, darkened, except for the light that came in with us, and there lay Niccolò, obviously, pale and bright-eyed against a mound of linen pillows beneath a huge red-and-gold baldachin.
His hair was blond and full and matted to his damp forehead. In fact, he looked so feverish and so restless that I wanted to demand someone bathe his face immediately.
It was also plain to me that he was being poisoned. I could tell that his vision was blurred and his hands were trembling. For a moment he stared at us as if he couldn’t see us.
I had the sinking feeling that the poison had already reached the fatal level in his blood. I felt a slight panic.
Had Malchiah sent me here to know the bitterness of failure?
Beside the bed sat a venerable gentleman in a long burgundy velvet robe, with black stockings and slippers of jeweled leather. He had a full head of near-lustrous white hair, with a widow’s peak that gave him considerable distinction, and he brightened at the sight of Vitale. But he didn’t speak.
On the far side of the bed stood a man who seemed so deeply moved by all this that his eyes were wet with tears and his hands were shaking almost as badly as the patient’s hands were shaking.
I could see he bore some resemblance to the old man and to the young man in the bed, but something very different marked his appearance. He lacked the hairline for one thing, and he also had larger and much darker blue eyes than either of the others, and whereas the old man expressed his concern in a devout manner, this young man seemed in the midst of breaking down.
