23
THE RIVER
“FOLLOW ME,” THE GYPSY HAD SAID, AND ELETTRA HAD OBEYED HER.
She left the known city to delve into the invisible world of the Gypsies, thinking of all the things she knew about them, none of which were flattering. Don’t trust them. Don’t look at them. Don’t let them read your palm. Don’t let them touch you. Stay away from them.
But instead, a few hours away from the night of San Silvestro, Elettra agreed to follow one of them through the hovels built beneath a bridge spanning the Tiber.
She follows her past a broken parapet, along a path of muddy snow that makes its way past shrubs, rocks by the riverside and dry branches, caught on which are strips of plastic that flutter in the wind like little flags. She follows her into the ice-cold shade of a bridge. Below the noise of cars. She leaves the city behind her.
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?”
“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 …,” Beatrice 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.