Ring of Fire (14 page)

“Why are you getting so angry?” snaps Mistral, who’s starting to get annoyed by Harvey’s attitude.

“Hao!”
cries Sheng just then.

“What is it?”

The Chinese boy shows them the inside cover of the journal, which he’s completely blackened in with the pencil.

“Take a look! I’ve seen them do this on TV. It shows you the impression of what was written on the page before, so you can read it,” he explains. “And it works!” On the blackened page, in a sort of carbon copy, is a large circle inside of which they see the professor’s tiny, angular handwriting, which reads:

It’s already evening when the phone rings at the hotel. Fernando Melodia folds up his copy of
La Gazzetta dello Sport
with a rustling of paper, grabs the receiver and replies, “Domus Quintilia. Oh … hi, Elettra.”

“Who is it, Fernando?” a shrill voice immediately asks. Aunt Linda peeks in from the doorway and the man motions for her to be quiet.

“No, that’s fine, of course you can …,” he says in the meantime. “I think your taking them to the Montecarlo for pizza is a great idea!”

“Is that Elettra?” Linda interrupts, her voice rising in intensity. “If that’s Elettra, let me talk to her immediately.”

Fernando turns his back on her, letting the telephone cord wrap around him. “Of course, I’ll let them all know. … Sheng’s father hasn’t come back yet, and Harvey’s parents … What’s that?”

Aunt Linda angrily sits down on the sofa and demands that he let her speak to her niece.

“Elettra, your aunt wants to—” Fernando manages to say before the phone is ripped out of his hand.

“Elettra!” Linda Melodia shouts out furiously. “Just tell me one thing! What did you kids get up to last night? I saw your footprints!”

Fernando plops down on the couch and grumbles, “Oh, she said they were out buying magazines in Largo Argentina. And that they wouldn’t be back for dinner.” He smiles sheepishly at a dark-eyed young woman, who’s now glaring at him from the sitting room. He escapes into the comfort of his sports paper.

“Tell me what you did last night!” the aunt barks out again.

A long moment of silence follows.

“Elettra!” Linda Melodia thunders out, shocked. “What on earth has gotten into you?!” she exclaims. And with this, she hangs up.

“So what did they do last night?” Fernando asks with amusement, without looking up from his paper.

“Your daughter reads too many books!” Aunt Linda sighs. “Do you know what she just had the nerve to tell me? That last night on Ponte Quattro Capi, they met a man whose throat was slit shortly afterward!”

“Oh, my!” exclaims Fernando, without managing to hide a hint of admiration for his daughter’s outlandish excuse.

“She also said that it was on the front page of all the newspapers,” Linda continues, returning to speak with their guest. “It’s unbelievable! Kids these days come up with the most frightful stories. …”

His curiosity piqued, Fernando folds up
La Gazzetta
and takes a look at the front page of
Il Messaggero
. “Actually, they say they really did find a man’s body beside the Tiber. …”

“Fernando! Don’t you get started now, too!”

The man shrugs his shoulders, withdrawing into a dignified silence.

A few minutes later, Beatrice walks out of the Domus Quintilia, overjoyed.

She quickly dials a phone number.

“Little Linch? I think I found something,” she says into her cell phone. “Meet me in Largo Argentina. At the newsstand.”

N
APPING AMONG THE REMAINS OF THE TEMPLES IN
L
ARGO
Argentina are dozens of stray cats. Not minding the snow or the traffic around them, others stroll around peacefully, like local gods. Not far from them or the crowded bus stops is a little pre-fabricated newsstand, which looks like it’s been attacked by an army of advertising posters. The owner’s wrinkled face can barely be seen peeking out from behind the stacks and stacks of magazines. When the kids appear before her, the woman can barely keep herself from running out to hug them.

“I was so worried!” she cries. She points at the first page of
Il Messaggero
and says, “When I saw that photo this morning, I almost fainted! That looks just like your uncle’s raincoat. …”

Elettra, Sheng, Mistral and Harvey try to avoid the subject.

“I’m so relieved! I’m so relieved!” Ilda says, sighing. “I haven’t seen him for days now, and if you hadn’t called me, I’d have stopped by to take a look in his house tonight.”

“It’s a good thing we called you, then …,” Elettra says softly.

Ilda disappears into the depths of the newsstand and starts to rummage around in the plastic containers full of magazines. She
doesn’t stop talking for a second. “He’s seemed so anxious lately! I’ve even asked him if he’s been eating, because he looks so pale, and he’s a lot thinner than normal. I don’t think he even weighs sixty kilos! Literally! You read too much, I tell him! And you’re always so worried about … well, about something!”

The news vendor slips out of a little side door. She’s a tiny woman, much shorter than the kids, although she has massive shoulders and arms. With no apparent strain, she holds up four plastic bags stuffed full of newspapers.

“This is all of it,” she explains. “In the first one I put all the main daily papers:
Le Figaro, Le Monde
, the
New York Times
, the
Bombay Post
. All that’s missing is
Pravda
, which they keep delivering late. In this other one I put all the magazines from African missionaries as well as Argentinean and Bolivian weeklies. Polish and Finnish monthlies are here in the third bag. I mean, they’re all from up north, aren’t they? When I couldn’t understand where something came from because I didn’t recognize the language, I put it in the fourth bag.”

“I’ll take that one!” Sheng offers, peeking into the bag, hoping to find a Chinese newspaper.

Ilda stares at him rather curiously, amazed that the professor has a nephew with Asian features. But then, as if she’s understood everything, she remarks, “He certainly is a man of the world.”

Each of the other kids grabs a bag.

“I’m sorry, but …,” Elettra hazards, turning to the woman. “You said that if we hadn’t called, you would’ve stopped by our uncle’s place in person. … Does that mean you’ve got a copy of his house keys?”

“Of course! Do you need them?” exclaims Ilda, disappearing
back into the newsstand. She reappears moments later next to the culinary magazines, handing a set of keys to the kids. “This is the copy the professor left with me. He’s always forgetting them at home, and he comes here for the spare set whenever he’s locked out.” On the key ring is a little tag with an address written in ink. Elettra has never heard of the street name before, but she decides not to ask any more questions.

Having said goodbye to Ilda with a world of thanks, they walk down into the nearest subway station, looking for a map of the streets of Rome. “Line B,” says Harvey, the first one to find the address. “The last stop.”

“Will that leave us enough time to come back for pizza?” Sheng wonders, the bag of newspapers in his hand and the backpack on his back.

The others don’t reply.

When they get out of the subway, night has already fallen.

The sun has set behind the hills and the buildings look like ant farms along the street. The cars zoom by, their headlights shining through the night. Many of the streetlights are still off, while others are now blinking on, as if they were exhausted. The asphalt smells of dirt and stray dogs.

Elettra, Harvey, Mistral and Sheng walk along slowly, lugging the four plastic bags stuffed with newspapers. “Do you think the professor actually read all this stuff?” asks Sheng. “And in all these different languages?”

“I don’t know,” replies Elettra, the keys clutched in her hand. “But I guess we’ll find out real soon.”

“Nasty little place,” remarks Harvey. “Even worse than the Bronx.”

The kids walk along tall walls covered with graffiti.

“This is it …,” Elettra whispers after a while.

They’ve stopped in front of the shabby-looking front door to a small gray four-story building, which looks like it’s been squeezed in between other cement constructions. The closely set terraces are thick with satellite dishes. Through the windows the intermittent glow of televisions flickers. The street is dark, narrow and covered with potholes. The remains of a motorbike are still chained to the only working streetlight. “Not exactly a great neighborhood …,” whispers Mistral, looking around with concern.

Harvey clears his throat, discouraged. “This building looks like it could topple over any second,” he says.

“Are you sure this is the right address?” Sheng asks. “Because, if you ask me, it doesn’t look like anybody lives here. …” All of the building’s windows are sealed off with aluminum shutters, making it seem more like a high-security prison than an apartment building.

A car zips down a nearby street, its muffler rattling as if it were in the throes of death.

“In any case, I say we get off the street,” Elettra suggests. She climbs up the steps separating her and the main door to the building. On the intercom panel is a single listing, handwritten on a piece of tape. “It’s the right address …,” says Elettra softly. “Take a look.”

Drawn on the piece of tape is a ring.

* * *

They buzz twice but get no answer. Elettra pulls out the set of spare keys and unlocks the main door, which opens up with a creak. Lying in the dusty entranceway are dozens of envelopes that have slid across the old, cracked tiles all the way up to the inner stairway. The railing is made of old black wood. A bicycle has been abandoned on the ground. Everything smells of mold.

Elettra finds the light switch and flicks it on.

Overhead, a crooked ceiling lamp sputters and then turns on with a groan. The harsh light reveals walls eroded by dampness. Metal pipes in various sizes make their way down the stairway to disappear belowground. The electrical meters look like plastic mushrooms growing out of the plaster.

“I’m not going up there …,” says Mistral.

“I think it’s better to go upstairs than stay here …,” Sheng says in a hush.

“You think the stairs will hold our weight?” asks Harvey.

“I’ve never seen anything more intimidating,” Mistral says.

“Come to Shanghai and I’ll show you the junks!”

“Anybody home?” Elettra calls out toward the stairway. Not hearing any reply, she leans over the railing and looks up. “What floor do you think he lived on?”

“If you want me to take a wild guess,” says Sheng, “given that we’ve got to drag these bags up with us and there’s no sign of an elevator … I’d say the top floor.”

“I think you’re right,” the girl replies, starting to climb the stairs.

Harvey shuts the door leading out to the street. “But let’s make this quick.”

“Pizza,” Sheng reminds everyone, as though it would be a sort of reward.

They climb the stairs in silence, trying not to look around them.

When they reach the first landing, the lights let out an electrical squeal.

And then they go out.

“There aren’t any light switches here,” Elettra groans, feeling the wall.

“Or windows, either,” says Harvey, bringing up the rear.

“In the dark again!” mutters Sheng. “This is getting to be a habit.”

“Did you hear that?” whispers Mistral.

“Hear what?” Harvey asks her.

“The noise the lights made! It … it was really creepy.”

“They’re just lights.”

Mistral clenches her fists. “It isn’t normal,” she insists. “Stairway lights never shut off after only a few seconds.”

“It’s an old system in an old building,” says Harvey. The pessimistic yet logical Harvey seems calmer than the others.

“Wait for me here …,” orders Sheng. He rests his bag of newspapers on the ground and slips the backpack off his shoulders. He goes down the stairs and returns to the entrance, where he flicks the first light switch.

“There’s nobody living here at all …,” says Elettra.

Except for Sheng going down the steps, they can’t hear any footsteps or voices or water flowing through the pipes. The stairway is cold, dark, abandoned.

“Oh, man,” grumbles Sheng a moment later. He fiddles with
the light switch beside the front door and then gives up. “Looks like it’s dead.”

“Houston, we have a problem …,” recites Harvey.

Elettra turns around in the darkness. She has the impression she’s seeing the American boy’s eyes glimmer in the dark, as if he is looking back at her. “Light just isn’t on our side, it seems …,” she whispers.

“Not today, at least,” Harvey answers. “Should we keep going? After all, it’s just a stairway.” With this, they all start to make their way slowly up the stairs in the darkness.