The Alchemist’s Code (17 page)

Because even though until a few hours before I had been convinced I was living my normal life in my beautiful home, it was now clear that neither me nor Àrtemis had been in that apartment for a long time.

A light film of dust had settled everywhere. Everything else looked the same.

I wandered from room to room as though I were a stranger, and stopped to look at old mementos or photographs that I had passed thousands of times before. I picked up a photo that showed me with my Maltese friend Sante and his wife Carmen, a photo taken in Granada some years before. A bitter smile appeared on my face.

“I always did cause poor Àrtemis a lot of trouble. I've always tried to protect her, but I've continuously put her life at risk. And now—”

The tears stopped me from continuing.

“Your wife's illness isn't your fault,” said Oscar, remaining discreetly behind me. “She loves you very much and has always admired your thirst for knowledge, despite the risks.”

I turned to look at him. “What good has all this knowledge done me if I can't even protect the people I love?”

Oscar shrugged. “There are many obstacles that we can't overcome, even with the deepest knowledge. You know that better than me.”

I put down the photograph. “I'm not asking that much. But as regards nature… there I can intervene. I am an alchemist. In the next room I have a small workshop where I've done all sorts of experiments. If all the medicine in the world fails, I'll find a way to save my wife.”

Oscar nodded. “I'm sure you will. Now go and pack your bags, while we take a look around.”

When I went into my office to pick up some things that I wanted to take with me, I realised that there was something wrong. The desk drawers were open and the contents had been scattered around. The same fate had befallen the documents in the library, while the safe hadn't been found. I realized immediately, however, that it hadn't been thieves, because none of the valuable pieces of my collection had been touched. What were they really looking for?

With these thoughts swirling around in my head, I quickly packed my suitcase and went back to Viola and Oscar, who were waiting for me in the living room, with a frown on my face.

“What's up?”

Oscar came towards me. “Unless it was you who rummaged through those drawers and threw the contents all over the place while you were under the influence of the drugs, I'd say that your new friends have been here looking for something. And that only serves to dispel any doubt about what happened to you.”

I nodded. “Yeah, they rummaged about in the study and in the bedroom too, but nothing's been stolen.”

“What were they looking for, then?”

“Probably the Cardan grille,” I replied.

Oscar nodded. “Can it really be so important that they'll kill to get it? In any case, we'll have it analysed and see if we can get some fingerprints or other information.”

I suddenly remembered something that I'd forgotten until that moment, I rummaged through my pocket and smiled. More proof that I hadn't just imagined the whole thing.

“Whilst analysing the grille, you can analyse this too. The woman pretending to be my wife tried to make me swallow it this morning.”

The pill.

Oscar nodded, then noticed that I kept looking at the time. He smiled good-naturedly.

“Come on, let's have something to eat and then I'll drop you off at the airport. I don't want to leave you here alone.”

Reconstruction based on the FBI report drawn up in connection with the raids on the headquarters of Nanotech and the interrogation of Dr Brad Höffnunger

Silicon Valley, January, 2013

Two men sat at a large oval table in a luxurious meeting room sipping whisky. It was difficult to guess how old they were, as both of them were in fairly good shape. The older of the two, who wore a double-breasted grey suit, had sharp eyes and a rapid, accurate way of moving, but his manner was also relaxed, almost studied. He was completely bald, a pair of pince-nez with darkened lenses rested on his nose, and he nodded as he listened to the words of the other man.

The younger of the two, who had thick, wavy, grey hair, was wearing a black suit with a badge in the shape of a cross pinned to his lapel. His movements were more studied than those of the first man, although the colour of his skin and the tense muscles in his face betrayed an internal fire that was completely lacking in his companion. The first was as cold as ice while the second was on fire.

The man in black, who had now finished speaking, took a sip of whisky and added, “Well, that's it for now.”

The other nodded. The two knew each other so well, the bond between them was so deep that they almost didn't need words to understand one another. The man in the double-breasted suit touched a screen and an automatic door at the back of the room opened. An attractive buxom blonde in high heels and a short skirt appeared carrying a small tray and approached the two men.

“Thank you Janine. Janine will take you out, my friend,” said the man in the double-breasted suit, as he picked up the object that the woman had brought on the tray. “This is for you. It's the latest travel version. I tested it personally and as you will see, the effect is amazing, even though it doesn't last long enough.”

The man in black grabbed the object, barely attempting to conceal the ravenous light that appeared in his eyes. “Thank you.”

The other stood up and allowed himself a slight smile. “You're getting old. You keep forgetting that you never have to thank me.”

The man in black stood up, put the object in his breast pocket and turned to leave. Before going out, he turned. “Maybe you're right, maybe I am getting old. That's why we have to hurry.”

Alone now, the man in grey headed for a door which hid a private elevator. Instead of a call button there was a fingerprint recognition system. The door opened, the man pressed the only button on the panel and began to descend into the bowels of the building. The elevator reached its destination and the man found himself in front of a door decorated with various symbols, including a swastika, a wheel with spokes – something like a black sun – and a sword with a swastika superimposed on it. The man crossed the threshold and suddenly had the feeling of stepping back in time at least seventy years.

A large room, like a museum, opened up before his eyes. Draped with flags that bore the same symbols as the door and decorated with glass cases containing all sorts of paraphernalia dating back to one of the darkest periods of European history, the hall was a kind of mausoleum. The man walked past the display cases, gazing at them sadly and headed for the back of the room, where a bier of white marble hid a graphite sarcophagus which was hooked up to some sort of sophisticated equipment. The lid of the sarcophagus was made of glass.

The man in grey reached the inner sanctum and leant forward, his eyes full of love, towards the inside of the sarcophagus. The young serene face, the blonde hair, the uniform worn by the officer before falling into a cryogenic sleep: the man in the coffin appeared to be sleeping. In reality, the machine to which the man was connected was being used simply to preserve his body, whose vital functions had ceased seventy years ago. The man in grey knew this and he also knew that once the sarcophagus was opened the body would disintegrate within a few minutes. The technology developed by his scientists was still far from being able to achieve the desired result: resurrection.

*

Even his own time was now running out and he could not delay his own end for much longer. Unless he could find that damn idol. Where his science had not yet arrived, that of the wise men who lived thousands of years ago would have. Of that he was sure.

He took a last affectionate look at that young body, touched the smooth surface of the coffin and walked away, his heart full of sadness.

Events reconstructed by Lorenzo Aragona

Zurich, January, 2013

One drop, two drops, three drops. Then four, five, six. Unceasingly, but without haste.

One drop, two drops, three drops. In the aseptic, white silence, that continuous dripping was almost hypnotic, and for a brief moment had a soothing power, as though it could cancel the thoughts that tore at my brain like the claws of some bird of prey.

One drop, then two… then the mind is awakened and that moment of distance and relief disappears and there is nothing
but
that aseptic, white silence, and a bed, and a suffering face and the bitter feeling of helplessness.

I had familiarised myself very quickly with the drops that drip-fed Àrtemis. Almost spellbound, I watched them fall, praying that each one would heal her instead of just feeding her sick body. I imagined that the liquid was the universal panacea that every true alchemist hopes to create and whose secrets I had attempted to discover in my crazed studies. All in vain.

I had come to Zurich clutching to myself an avalanche of memories and hopes, and what I had found there was uncertainty and pain. I also found Christa and Dimitris, known as 'Mitzos', Àrtemis's parents. He was a retired professor of ancient Greek literature, she a talented violinist of some fame. Both of them were now only shadows of themselves.

When they saw me enter the room in the clinic where Àrt had been hospitalized, they stared at me in silence for a few seconds, their eyes conveying a mixture of shock, joy and pain. Anguish for their daughter's condition, and over the last month, for my inexplicable illness too.

Christa was the first to run over to me. Her six-foot tall body seemed hunched with pain, her blue eyes were dull and her curly hair – a thick black bush like her daughter's – was untidy and matted. She approached me without saying a word and embraced me, sobbing softly on my shoulder.

I returned the embrace. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.”

After a while, Mitzos joined us, perhaps in an attempt to seek comfort: poor old man, once strong and proud but now bent over from the unbearable pain.

After the embrace, I walked over to the bed where Àrt was lying. My proud Greek woman. What was left of her was, at that moment, resting: Christa and Mitzos told me that they often kept her sedated and numb with painkillers.

My breath seemed stuck in my throat.

After the initial impact, I had decided to establish a kind of armed truce with my past, with my good or bad memories and with anything that might divert my attention from my new mission: to stay by Àrtemis's side, day and night.

I fought against the rules of the Swiss Institute for Experimental Oncology where she was hospitalized. Rules that would have prevented me from staying there once the visiting hours were over. The morning after my arrival I had knocked on the manager's office door and I had calmly made it clear that it would be useless to attempt to throw me out of her room, because I would find a way back in. I had been so persuasive that the manager had finally given up.

“Make sure you make yourself invisible while you're here outside of visiting hours, or I'll call security and have you kicked out.”

I followed his advice to the letter, and the nurses weren't even aware that there was anyone in the room or in the surrounding area during those hours.

The seriousness of Àrt's condition was explained to me by Doctor Marco Ganz, head of the department where my wife was hospitalized. After being completely astonished at seeing me again and hearing from my own lips the reason for my disappearance, the doctor, who knew as much as Àrt's parents about my situation, accepted my explanation, despite looking a little doubtful, then filled me in on my wife's condition.

*

“We have removed a large part of her stomach, which was totally compromised by a large tumour, and then we started chemo and our experimental therapy. But there are other metastases deeply rooted elsewhere. We are doing our best, but I have to be honest with you. There's not much hope.”

By now I felt permanently dazed.

“How long do you think she's got?” I asked, almost without realising what I was saying.

The answer did nothing but multiply the shock of pain that raged through my body.

“Not long. Maybe a few weeks. I'm sorry.”

I stared at him vacantly, then slowly got to my feet and walked to the door.

“So am I.”

Whether Àrt was conscious or sedated, I spent hours and hours sitting next to her bed reading to her. I read everything, from the essays on Greek philology that she frequently consulted for her work, novels and poems by her favourite authors, the poems of Odysseas Elytis and Seferis to Theodorakis's lyrics, everything I could find in the books Àrt had there with her or could download onto my tablet. I left her only for the hour a day when I had something to eat with Christa and Mitzos.

One afternoon, after lunching quite near the institute with Mitzos, I found a beautiful bouquet of flowers in Àrtemis's room.

“Christa's got her some fresh flowers—”

“Actually, the florist delivered them a few minutes ago saying that they were sent by a woman. I asked if he was sure, but he said that it was the right room. There's no name on the card, just a strange message.”

I picked up the note that accompanied the flowers and read it.

I looked back at Christa. “How long ago were they delivered?”

“Fifteen minutes, maybe.”

“I'll be right back.”

I left the institute again. At the entrance there were a few people but no-one that I knew: although it was early afternoon, it was very cold and only a few people were about. I walked to the parking lot and in that large open space dotted with the odd car among the piles of snow and small, icy trees, I saw her. There she stood, wrapped up in a heavy jacket, with her old hat pulled over her eyes, and her face hidden by a scarf. But I still recognized her.