30
THE FIREWORKS
BEATRICE PULLS HER MINI OVER IN VIA DELL’ARCO ANTICO. THE engine steams in the crisp night air. “You need to go through that archway. Turn right,” she explains to Mistral, “and you’ll be in Piazza in Piscinula. From there, you should be able to find the hotel on your own.”
The girl nods. She leans over in her seat to kiss her on the cheek. “Thanks for everything you’ve done.”
Beatrice waves her hand with mock indifference. “Don’t mention it. After all, I promised you. …”
Mistral opens the door and rests one foot on the snowy ground.
“Be careful,” Beatrice warns her.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come, too?” the girl asks. “We could tell everything to the people who run the hotel and—”
Beatrice stops her. “I can’t. It’s no place for me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not a good person. …”
“You’re wrong.”
“Don’t say that again.” Beatrice feels as though her insides were turning to jelly. “Or I might just change my mind.”
Mistral gets out of the Mini. “Keep in touch, if you want.”
“I will. Straight down that way and take a right,” Beatrice reminds her.
She waits, watching the girl walk away, waves to her one last time and then puts the car into gear. As she’s driving away, she feels her chest pounding, tears welling up in her eyes. Her seat belt is suffocating her.
She doesn’t know where to go.
She doesn’t know what to do.
All she knows is that she did the right thing.
She reaches the Tiber, drives over Ponte Quattro Capi and takes the road along Piramide. From there, she drives down to the Colosseum, seeking out the lights of Via del Corso and the noise of bars. It’s almost midnight, the end of a very trying New Year’s Eve.
She clicks on the radio and turns up the volume, hoping it will relax her.
The city lights go whizzing by.
She enjoys the sensation of the road zipping along beneath her tires.
She checks the time. Only a few minutes left until the New Year.
“A new year … a new life,” she whispers, waiting for the noisy burst of fireworks that will announce that it’s midnight at last.
The capital of the ancient world awaits the sound of the bell that will toll the New Year. Thousands of people have turned on their television sets to synchronize their watches. Elettra, Ermete and the Gypsy woman emerge from the depths of San Clemente. An eerie silence awaits them. The very last minutes of the year.
Colorful banners flutter between the buildings. Blinking lights decorate the streets. The windows flicker with the glow of TV screens. Behind the panes of glass are laughter, corks being held back, hands seeking out other hands, lips ready to be kissed.
“This is the strangest New Year’s Eve of my life …,” says Elettra, walking through the bustling city, the Ring in her hands.
The first windows are now being opened. The voices of television hosts echo from building to building.
“You’re telling me!” Ermete smiles. “I’ve never been out with two girls on New Year’s Eve. What about you, Gypsy Queen?”
The woman doesn’t answer. She walks ahead of them with the steady pace of someone who’s well familiar with the city streets and the tranquil eyes of someone who’s accustomed to watching others celebrate from afar.
Through the open windows, they can hear people start their countdown of the last twenty seconds of the year. The three stop to listen to the chorus of people who, as a single voice, testify to the last remaining moments until midnight.
The Gypsy woman turns to face Elettra and says, “It’s time.”
She’s asking her to do something. Something important. Something that needs to be done.
The seconds fly by.
It’s a very special night. The night of San Silvestro, the pope who celebrated mass on the last day of the year 999. The day that many had believed would be the very last day before the end of the world. After that midnight, everything changed.
Elettra stares at the Gypsy woman. And the Gypsy woman says, “It’s time for the world to change once more.”
Elettra. Kore Kosmou. The Maiden of the Cosmos.
She’s the one who has to decide. She’s the one who has to use the Ring of Fire. The time has come for her to do it.
Or to refuse.
The seconds fly by. The countdown grows louder and louder.
Elettra’s hands snap open the seal and unwrap the linen.
The Gypsy woman says, “Look.”
Ermete smiles.
And Elettra raises the mirror to look into it.
The first ones to go are the blinking strings of holiday lights hanging over the streets. They turn bright white and burst one by one, like popcorn. Then come the streetlights, which flare up in whitish flames. The energy spreads out like a wave, transforming television screens into blinding sheets of whiteness, lightbulbs in the houses into sudden flashes, home appliances going berserk, tubes in neon signs melting. A blaze of whiteness flies over the city, bursting out from San Clemente in a giant explosion of light. Rome blanches in a single, massive electrical surge that hits it like a gargantuan gale of wind.
Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the light vanishes. Choruses of spark plugs and circuit breakers begin to click wildly in every street, in every building, in every neighborhood. Their rhythmic snapping sets the beat, joined by the sound of champagne corks and the first celebrations.
Exhausted and overcharged, Rome is plunged into darkness.
The laughter comes to a sudden halt. Champagne flows out in suddenly silent rivers. After the pure whiteness that had blinded it like a star mirrored in the snow, the capital suddenly disappears in a vast pool of darkness.
Blackout.
“Elettra?” comes Ermete’s voice after an endless moment. “Elettra, are you all right?”
The girl opens her eyes. It’s dark. Ermete is leaning over her.
“What happened?” she asks.
“You looked at your reflection in the Ring of Fire and there was a giant burst of light. … Then you fainted,” the engineer explains.
Elettra feels weak, drained. “I don’t remember anything.” She gropes around and feels cold metal. She’s sitting in Ermete’s sidecar.
“Can you hold out until we get to the hotel?”
Elettra stares at the windows of the buildings around them. The glow from the televisions has been replaced by the flickering glow of candles.
Candles.
Thousands and thousands of candles, lit on every windowsill in the city.
“Why?” the girl asks.
“There’s been another blackout,” replies Ermete. “It seemed like a massive power surge.”
Elettra looks over at the street and sees the Gypsy woman dancing. But she’s not making a sound. “What’s she doing?”
“Oh, who knows?” Ermete says softly. “But she sure looks happy.”
“Ask her …,” whispers Elettra. “Ask her what she saw on my palm, would you?”
Ermete shrugs. “I could try … but I’m not so sure she’ll tell me.”
He walks away from the sidecar, leaving Elettra to contemplate the captivating sight of the candlelit street. When she looks back toward the Gypsy woman, the girl only sees Ermete.
“The minute I asked her,” the engineer says, walking back to the sidecar, “she burst out laughing and whispered the answer in my ear. Then she ran off.”
“What did she tell you?” asks Elettra.
“That she saw a star on your palm. And that by looking at your reflection, you summoned it.”