The Serpent Papers (52 page)

I arrive early at the appointed rendezvous and decide to order an almond milk
horchata
, out of season but still delicious, and a plate of
jamón ibérico
with crushed tomato and bread. The waiter brings me a copy of
La Vanguardia
, which I skim through. Unbeknownst to me, he then retreats into the lobby and places a swift phone call to the clerical offices at Santa Maria del Pi. Fifteen minutes later the bustling figure of Father Canço heaves out of a taxi and scoots across the road towards the café.

Canço is round and red as a swollen tomato and wears a white carnation in his button hole. A moth-worn coat amplifies the effect of this bulk, and there is not a hair on his shining head, which sweats despite the cold, insipid sun. When he sees me, he gives a furtive meaningful sigh and shuffles forward, worrying his hands. ‘
Perdó
,’ he interjects upon reaching my table, eyes nearly swallowed up by fat. ‘But am I speaking with Anna Verco, friend of the Librarian of the Abbey of La Real and the Noble Monks of the Tramuntana Range?’

‘You are indeed.’

‘Thank God you are here.’ The priest gathers wind before exhaling – ‘I have a matter of grave importance to discuss with you . . . And I fear there might be people listening.’

The café is unpopulated and the waiter absconded entirely.

‘I will take a coffee with you. I cannot stay for long. My throat is very dry.’

He pauses, twitching slightly, and smiles the smile of a man who does not want to appear nervous. ‘I admire that you are reading the papers. Too few of our citizens read the papers.’ The waiter reappears and Canço orders himself a
cafè amb llet
, a fresh orange juice and a side of
churros
with chocolate.

‘I feel, given the circumstances, that a bridge must be made between our distinguished personages. Miss Verco, your illustrious name was delivered to me by a messenger who asked me to reveal my secret upon certain circumstances, which sorrowfully –’ the priest crosses himself twice – ‘have occurred . . .’

Goosebumps on the back of my neck.

Canço drops his voice to a theatrical whisper: ‘It is concerning the murdered girl, Natalia Hernández. Now I would like to hear everything that you claim to have witnessed in your vision.’

* * *

‘My dear . . .’ he sighs when I have finished. ‘It was all just as you have described. I must affirm the correlation in the positive – proving once again that one can never underestimate the mysterious powers of the delicate sex . . .’ The priest dipped the end of his
churro
into a bowl of chocolate. ‘The woman you witnessed came to my side on the eve of San Juan, 23 June. From her voice I knew that she was young, no older than twenty. One of my novices found her in the church – such a dreadful story – it was very late on La Revetlla, around midnight, if I remember correctly.’ The priest takes another bite of his
churro
before continuing: ‘She confessed a great deal to me that night . . . She called herself a “midwife to murder”, insisting that she had drunk blood, blood she could not wipe off her hands. When I asked her to speak the name of her oppressor the devil bit her tongue. She could not utter his name aloud – a terrible thing which I am told occurs only –’ he coughs demurely into his hand, then squints up at me – ‘when one has had sexual intercourse with the Beast. My dear girl, you must understand that this woman had fallen under the control of a monster – and that in penance she wished to excommunicate herself from Heaven, believing her crimes could have no punishment but the most miserable of self-inflicted deaths.’ The priest paused. ‘With hindsight I have come to the bitter conclusion – as I am sure you will – that the madwoman who arrived at my door was none other than Natalia Hernández.’

‘Why didn’t you go to the police?’

Canço sighs a large, arching sigh.

‘Ours was a private matter of the Church. An issue of faith. If we went to the police with every confession we received half this city would be behind bars. However, my agreement before the eyes of God does not stop me from her message. The girl gave me a most puzzling and rather horrible object. I had it blessed with holy water on the off chance that it did something vile.’ From the pocket of his coat he removed a small bible, and opened it to a dog-eared page. There, tucked into the fold of the book was a furled piece of parchment.

‘Give me your hand,’ the priest orders.

I offer up my palm hungrily.

‘Miss Verco, I wish to absolve myself of this burden. Each day I have felt guilty. But I believed the time would come. “The Sign of the Sibyl” she called it, and by God –’ Canço crosses himself profusely – ‘it is surely a mark of the devil, the very thing which bound her tongue, and I am glad to be rid of it.’

My breath sucks in as I turn the scrap over. On one side: the golden ouroboros. Against the opposing face, she has written six illumined letters:

AUREUS

Beneath this, two ornate keys drawn in the shape of an X, their mouths crusted with battered gold leaf.

‘That night the girl uttered a great many wild incantations: repeating 
– That which she seeks he does not know, and that which she knows he does not seek
 . . . and a second line – if I recall correctly –
As a man is a pen so he is a knife –
or something to that effect. After this point, my dear, I am afraid I could not make head nor tail of her ramblings. I thought she was deranged, and did not believe the import of her words. I absolved her of her sins and sent her on her way. My shame will follow me to my grave.’ The priest casts his squint down. ‘I apologize for not having come forward sooner, but the heavens have their own logic – which I, mere mortal, cannot fathom. I trust also that you will respect my secrecy in this matter. I do not want it getting out. If you have any questions you know where to find me, but I see from your face the object is self-explanatory.’

The priest slurps the last of his juice, throws down a five-euro note and sombrely bids adieu, leaving me speechless in the café, staring with fascination at the shimmering golden serpent in my hand.

Aureus
.
A scrap of paper handed to a priest in a confessional, accompanied by a myth. The Mark.
I redraw her compass, allowing my imagination to follow the lines of her diagram.
Aureus.
I scribble the word again, sound out the syllables.
Au. Re. Us.
From the Latin
aurum
meaning
gold
.
In figurative speech, meaning glorious, excellent, magnificent
.
Followed by the black keys of St Peter, formed like a barrier, a position of defence. Check again for Catholic connotations.
Bishop and Martyr of Mainz, Germany, slaughtered by Huns with his sister. Saint Aureus. Also: Treasure. See: Codex Aureus of St Emmeram, ninth-century Carolingian Book of Gospels.
I drum my fingers on my computer keyboard. Then
Aurelius. Bishop of Carthage and Companion of Saint Augustine of Hippo, active in the fourth century, responsible for the establishment of Christian Doctrine and the eradication of the leading heresies of the time.
Father Canço called it the ‘Sign of the Sibyl’.
The lead in my pencil breaks.
Click
,
click
, snagging at the paper.
Again. She meant it as a name. A name. A name.
I am interrupted by the movement of two feuding crows in the branches beyond my window. They squawk and argue bitterly, but I find them reassuring. Wine cold down my throat and warming all at once.

A U R E U S

I shift the first three letters.

U R A E U S

My pen hovers.
Uraeus.
From the Egyptian hieroglyphic: ‘rearing cobra’, from the Greek,
ouraios
or
on its tail.
The Egyptians celebrated the beauty and wisdom of the snake, and chose it as a symbol of divinity, royalty and power. The cobra could not blink, and thus was an ever-watchful guardian of kings, rearing on the golden Mask of Tutankhamen. The Uraeus may also have been a totem of the ancient goddess
Wadjet
, the snake-headed deity of pre-dynastic Egypt, the life-giving Serpent Womb, protectress of Lower Egypt; her oracle inhabited the city of the region named after her snake-self,
Per-Wadjet
or House of Wadjet – rumoured to have given birth to the oracles of Ancient Greece. Her image was worn for the blessing of women in childbirth.
Wadjet. Derived from the hieroglyphic symbol: Papyrus. Or Papyrus-coloured one. Wadj
meaning
green-coloured
in reference to the leaves of the plant –
Goddess of the famous ancient symbol of the Eye of the Moon, the wadjet, later called the Eye of Horus
,
the focal symbol of seven gold, lapis lazuli, carnelian and faience bracelets found in the tombs of the mummy kings, in the pendants of old framed by the rearing carnelian cobra and eagle . . . The goddess Wadjet being the two-headed Serpent, or lion-headed matriarch . . . an amulet against the evil eye and chthonic protection for safe passage into the underworld, the mark of a king on earth, icon of the dominion and power of Egypt.
Aureus – Uraeus. Connection far-fetched?
I rein myself in.
Focus on the keys.
That symbol is clear.
The Crossed Keys of St Peter, Pope of Rome. Peter the Rock.
Gemini mouths canine, at once a barrier and a seduction.
Protecting and revealing.

Then it dawns on me.

I feel a resonance.

Gut-deep.
Act on it.

On my makeshift desk a glass of wine. Open laptop. The photographs of her face posted on the window. Ashtray with six stubs. Two half-drunk cups of coffee. I upload the photos from my camera, the sketches she drew as a teenager.
Rest in them.
Little phonebook black on table. Her handwriting so delicate, so quick. I flick through the book.

‘
I was always too scared to call these numbers.
’ Villafranca’s voice breaks my thoughts. ‘
Every man’s name. I thought: “I’ll ask each one. Did you do it? Did you drive her mad? Did you love her?” But I didn’t want to know this version of my daughter.
’

I return to the picture.
Keys to the city of Rome.
Perhaps they signify something so simple as
Pere
in Catalan
?
Or
Pedro
?
She has not alphabetized by first names,
but I am undaunted, and read methodically on through the bulk of the entries until I reach five magic letters in blue pen.
Peter
. I think of the fisherman. The tight skip of her
R
ending with a sharp flourish. To my surprise the spelling is English, the last name
Warren
. Beside his surname she has drawn a tiny set of keys. A landline number
.
Reach for the phone.
One, two, skip to my Lou. Fly’s in the buttermilk, shoo, fly, shoo. There’s a little red wagon, paint it blue.
Round and round you go. Dial. Punch the numbers in. Phone next to ear. Mouth open.