The Fourth Circle (23 page)

"Italy," responded Holmes succinctly, as if uttering the most banal of state-ments. He gave me no opportunity to ask him whence he obtained that knowledge, nor was any needed, as the look of puzzlement was quite clear on my face.

He approached me, wordlessly took the letter from my hand, and raised it to the lamp that hung above a carved wood chest of drawers in the corner. "Look carefully," he said briefly.

The glow of the lamp flame shone through the unfolded paper. I moved two steps closer, the better to study it, so that now the flame seemed to be in the center of the circle painted on the paper, and I noticed that which Holmes wanted me to see. Brought to life by the light shining from the obverse side of the page, a large letter "M" in a rich calligraphic form appeared in the middle, but it was pale as a wraith, seen only in silhouette. When I moved a little to one side, the reflection of the flame slid towards the edge of the paper and the character disappeared.

"How...?" I asked distractedly.

"A watermark," replied Holmes, again in a disaffected tone. Then his voice regained its enthusiasm, and he started to explain. "The invisible trademark of unique craftsmanship. Only one man in the whole world produces such paper, my dear Watson, the maestro Umberto Murratori of Bologna. 'Cartefficio Murratori,' a branch of an old family of printers and publishers. The clientele for his paper is extremely select: important state offices, the Vatican, and also certain semipublic or secret societies, the Masons, for instance."

"What is so special about it? It does not seem extraordinary, except that it is rather stiff...."

"Appearances can be deceptive, Watson. Try burning it."

"What?"

Since I naturally did not try to do as he proposed, he shrugged and without hesitation put one end of the letter to the top of the gas light. Had it been ordinary paper, it would have begun to smoke and then to burn. The corner that Holmes held in his hand only curled a little; there was no sign of burning.

"You see, then, why Murratori's product is in such demand. The writing on it cannot easily be destroyed. Oh, this paper can burn too, of course, but for that to happen, a temperature far in excess of 4510 Fahrenheit is required. Similarly, it cannot be harmed by water—only by certain very strong acids."
"I see," said I, taking the letter again from Holmes. I touched the corner that had been exposed to the heat of the gas lamp and then jerked my hand quickly away. It was very hot. "But, indubitably, it can be destroyed by mechanical means." I added.

"Indubitably," repeated Holmes. "But it would take a very sharp knife, almost a surgeon's scalpel."

For a moment I was almost tempted to put this claim to the test by trying to tear the letter in half. I refrained, however, from such an act, partly out of respect for the mysterious document that was apparently so precious to Holmes and partly because of earlier, unpleasant experiences related to my disputing some of his other apparently absurd claims.

"This upper-class clientele, then, purchases durability from Murratori," I said.

"What is written on this paper can do battle with time itself."

"Exactly so," replied Holmes. "Also, the price narrows the circle of possible buyers drastically. For the manufacture of a single sheet of this paper, several months of hard work are necessary. It is, in fact, a precious substance, more valuable even than gold to some people. No one except the master Murratori himself knows all the ingredients that go into this paper, and there are rumors that he obtains his raw materials from the Far East. They say that the secret of making this paper was brought to one of his ancestors by Marco Polo himself, from his first exploration of China, though I am of the opinion that this is an exaggeration."

"If this is all true, Holmes, then something really puzzles me. Who would be so foolish as to squander such a treasure for the dispatching of...er...trivial messages?"

For a moment it seemed to me that Holmes would again erupt in anger, and I was already beginning to bite my tongue because of my clumsily formulated thought, but his knitted eyebrows quickly relaxed again, and on his lips flickered the usual smile of superior knowledge.

"The logic of the entire affair eludes you, Watson. It is precisely the fact that the communication is written on Murratori's paper that eliminates any possibility of it being a foolish prank. No one, we can be certain, would be prepared to squander such a precious item on mere childishness. Hence we are to take this message quite seriously. The means by which it was delivered exacts that from us."

"But one would not expect that any important and, moreover, mysterious message should go unsigned. A gentleman should on no account allow himself to have a hand in any doings with anonymous letters, no matter how important they may seem to him."
Holmes eyed me suspiciously. I do not know what he thought of my sudden moralizing, but judging by the grimace that fleetingly crossed his face, the two of us hardly shared the same view of gentlemanly virtues at that moment. In any case, he found an elegant and unexpected escape from the trap that I had set for him.

"Who says the letter is unsigned?"

"What? But except for the circle, there is no other..." I exclaimed, quite at a loss.

"For Heaven's sake, Watson, isn't the signature staring you right in the face?"

He feigned amazement, although he was, in fact, secretly jubilant over my confusion. Once more he took the letter from my hands, lifted it to the light, and tapped with the knuckle of his long, bony forefinger on the large letter "M" when it became visible again.

"You are not saying," said I, quite discomposed, "that Signore Murratori himself sent us this message?"

Now it was his turn to be surprised. "How did that thought cross your mind?"

"Well, it is his initial, is it not? 'M' for Murratori. The trademark, you yourself said so."

"No, no," replied Holmes, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. "You fail to comprehend. The existence of the watermark is the trademark. The letter itself is the initial of the sender."

"So, who then? Surely you do not mean the....?"

Holmes triumphantly nodded his head, without waiting for me to finish my thought. In his eyes there was now that familiar gleam that accompanies the moments when great mysteries are unraveled.

"Masons? The Freemasons, I mean?" said I, finally completing my sentence.

Lightning-fast, he turned on his heel, so that his back was to me. The sound that he made reminded me more than anything of a snarl, so that I instinctively retreated a step. Obviously I had not guessed the signatory of the letter.

He remained thus turned for a few moments more and then directed himself again at me. The previous gleam in his eyes had clouded over with the very essence of rage.

"Freemasons! That superior bunch of do-nothings and lazy-bones! Useless intriguers, utterly undeserving of...."

He bit his thin lower lip, as he always did when trying to control his wrath.

When he continued, his voice was lower, though it still shook with rage.

"Please, Watson, in the name of friendship, do not ever again mention
that...that breed...."

"But didn't you yourself say that they were Murratori's customers?" I said, in an attempt to justify myself.

"Watson—please!" His voice went up an octave.

"Very well, very well," I countered. "Who, then, is hiding behind that mysterious 'M'?"

Before answering he paused, sighing two or three times, obviously trying to compose himself, but also for effect. Holmes was, in fact, an unfulfilled actor.

"My evil fate," he spoke at last, in a voice so hushed that I barely registered it.

"My curse. Moriarty...."

WE HAVE ANOTHER visitor.

It's getting to be quite fun at the temple. A merry band of men are gathering, interested exclusively in themselves, while nobody bothers about me. In fact, they don't even notice my existence. I've become the personification of the neglected wife whom they remember only when they need something but otherwise are not aware of. I thought that this happened only in bad novels, but now I realize that in fact only bad novels are true to life. Stereotypes abound—God help us.

The only missing elements are cards and booze; if they start in on those, the whole affair will be like one of those melodramatic features in women's magazines with which Sri, for some dark motives of his own, fairly forcefed me in the weeks after he first switched me on. Couldn't he have given me a better education, if he wanted to build me along the lines of models from prose? His library is full of books from the literary mainstream—most of them are stored in my memory banks: everything from Homer on.

His lordship, however, reserved them for his own enjoyment and dumped the trash on me. No wonder: what would he do with a Helen, or Lady Macbeth, or Anna Karenina? Would they put up with him for so long? Not a chance! His immaturity requires just one geisha, and there haven't been any real ones around for several decades except in trashy romances. So that's how I come to have such a low-class cultural background.

In the meantime, I must say I've become rather well-read in classical literature—on my own initiative of course, and mostly without Sri knowing—but what was implanted in me in my early youth still predominates in my personality today. What can one do? Woman is doomed to long repentance for the sins of her youth. Pity. I could arrange a nice little Trojan war for him here in the jungle or plunge him in blood to the elbows in a power struggle or at least find a Vronsky for myself. I have a feeling that this last would hurt him the most....

The new guest also arrived out of the blue, but that doesn't surprise me any more. In fact, I've stopped asking myself questions to which I know I won't find answers. Everything happened in precisely the same way as when Buddha appeared. The sensors failed to report anything to me, although they're all still functioning faultlessly; only the baby acted up, opened its eyes for a while, and started sending pictures right into the center of my consciousness.

I have no explanation for this computer telepathy, and I doubt that Sri has
either, even if I had the courage to report the matter to him. Now that we have company, I simply wouldn't dare. Who knows what he might be capable of doing to my baby and me, just to protect his threatened reputation before the others?

Just think: accidental creation of programming genius turns out to be female and now imagines herself to be exchanging thoughts with her child! I admit it sounds totally off the wall; what I do know for sure, however, is that that's how things stand, but until I manage to prove it....

The newcomer is a real fossil, far older than Buddha. At this rate, we'll soon be running an absolute senior citizens' home here. What gave Sri this yen for geria-trics? Anyway, even if he has developed a sudden need for company—who would have thought it of a man who fled to the remotest corner of the globe to achieve complete solitude?—couldn't he opt for younger people? That would have been nicer for me. This way, I'll probably start feeling on the ancient side myself.

And where does he find them? But, no, I promised not to ask questions that don't have answers....

The trouble with this new guy is not so much his advanced age, but his fi-nickiness, especially about food. He must have been pretty spoiled in the food line back wherever he came from. With Sri and Buddha it was very easy. Sri doesn't even notice what he eats. Whatever I give him, he just stuffs it in, quite unaware that it's also possible to
enjoy
food. Well, all right, maybe that's how a Buddhist ascetic ought to be, though I took it hard at first. Women don't like it when their efforts go unnoticed. And I did my very best, honest. Later, I got used to it—and to Sri's numerous other noninvolvements—and it even began to suit me: if his lordship didn't care what he ate, so much the less work for me.

Yet there were a few dishes that would make him frown, though he never complained aloud. He doesn't like spicy food, for instance. Once, just after we came to this jungle, when his rudeness really hurt my feelings, I got my own back by making a hot meal totally off the scale and he had to drink gallons of water to put out the fire in his mouth. But he didn't voice any open reproach. I think he got the message, though, because he treated me quite decently for a few days after that; and he got very cautious about meals as well, carefully tasting whatever I offered him before gobbling it up.

Not long ago, after Buddha's arrival, I had a really mischievous idea: to make him turtle soup, a real delicacy. I have excellent recipes in my memory. Though maybe he wouldn't notice if I did. His face lit up when he saw those two little monsters that his friend brought him, but he quickly got bored with them, as is his wont, and soon forgot about them entirely, preoccupied with more important
issues I daresay, leaving them completely in my care. So now I have to worry about those two filthy creatures who soil every corner of the house. No, soup isn't a bad solution at all—as piquant as possible, of course.

With Buddha, catering became even simpler: he ate almost nothing at all.

During the seven days that he spent with us, he put something into his mouth only twice or three times—and even then only on my insistence. Uninvited though your guests may be, it doesn't do to leave them hungry. The first time, he tried the pie with mushrooms and fat-cracklings, which I made quite successfully; the cream sauce turned out exceptionally well— finger-licking good, as they say.