The Witch of Napoli (8 page)

“You’re filled with pride, like all academics,”
the voice snarled. “
Unwilling to trust your own eyes. O unbelieving and perverse generation, how long shall I suffer you?
”

Lombardi jerked backwards as an invisible hand slapped him hard, knocking him clear off his feet, his glasses flying off his face.

My heart was in my throat. Rossi kept his eyes glued on Alessandra as he reached down, retrieved them from the floor, and passed them back to the dazed Lombardi. I sat absolutely motionless, praying that Alessandra – or the demon that possessed her – didn’t turn its eye towards me.

“I allow this only because my beloved daughter Alessandra begs me,”
the voice spat out.
“Someone from this side wants to talk with you.”

In the gloom directly behind Lombardi’s chair, a gray, formless mist seemed to slowly materialize, gradually taking human shape, like a photograph being developed in the darkroom – blotches of grey, then the first faint edges emerging from the depths, a suggestion of something coming forward, then slowly resolving itself before your straining eyes into a figure – a body, arms, legs, and finally a head.

An old woman.

The vaporous apparition leaned down and started gently stroking Lombard’s hair, and I could hear it whisper something in his ear. Lombardi uttered a cry and whirled around.

“Mama! Oh, mama!” he cried.

A luminous hand with exquisite delicacy applied itself to his lips, preventing him from continuing. The figure bent down and gave him a kiss on the head. Lombardi grabbed the spirit’s hand, but it seemed to melt into his own, and the phantasm started to lose its shape, dissolving into a grey smoke.

Lombardi gave a wail, snatched the oil lamp from the table and thrust it into the shadows, but the spirit was gone. He frantically swung the lamp in a circle, and as the light passed Alessandra’s face, she let out a scream, striking the lamp with her burned claw, and knocking it from his hand. The lamp smashed to the floor, snuffing out the light, and we were pitched into total darkness.

In the blackness, I could hear Lombardi sobbing.

L
ombardi called us all to Rossi’s office the following morning.

I had slept fitfully, my dreams haunted by Alessandra’s grotesque transformation, and woke up groggy. Nobody knew what Lombardi would do next.

I caught an early tram to Piazza Amore and hurried up Corso Umberto to the university. The sun was up and the street sweepers were already hard at work. It promised to be a hot and muggy day, but the air was cool along the tree-lined boulevard. When I reached the university, I found the broad steps fronting Rossi’s philosophy building packed with protesting workers and students. A flag of the Italian Socialist Party fluttered from a second story window, which meant it was Filippo Turati’s boys. On the top step, a thin, bearded man in rolled up shirtsleeves paced back and forth, leading the crowd in a chant.

“Free Passanante!” Free Passanante!”

Giovanni Passanante was one of us, from Naples, a kitchen cook who hated popes and monarchs. In ’78 when King Umberto visited Naples, Passanante attacked him with a knife during the parade, but the assassination failed and he was sentenced to life in prison. I’m not an anarchist, but you have to understand, people were desperate back then. The old order had collapsed and things were worse in the South than before Garibaldi.

I maneuvered my way through the crowd and climbed up to Rossi’s third-floor office where I found him and Alessandra leaning out the window, cheering on the demonstrators down on the street. Rossi pointed down at a bushy-bearded young man who was reading out a list of demands. “Niccolo Raffa – one of my philosophy students,” Rossi said proudly as he closed the window.

Alessandra looked fantastic. Her luxurious black hair that morning was pinned back with a tortoise shell comb, a white linen scarf encircled her neck, and a silver bracelet hung from her left wrist – so different from the night before. Alessandra never wore jewelry when she performed a séance. She believed Savonarola would be angry because he disapproved of female vanities. But the spirits had retired with the dawn, and her eyes were bright with excitement. She knew she had performed spectacularly. After she came out of her trance, Rossi had told her everything.

She paced the room. “Where is he?” she pouted. “He’s late.”

My eyes wandered around Rossi’s office. It was large, pleasant, book-filled room, flooded with morning sunlight from three tall, curtained windows, the air stale with tobacco smoke, black walnut bookshelves climbing to the ceiling, filled with tomes and antiquities. Rossi noticed my gaze linger on a small marble bust on his desk. He smiled.

“Thomas Aquinas. One of the more distinguished alumni in our university’s 600-year history. A Dominican, like Savonarola – but a philosopher who celebrated reason instead of a twisted piety.”

A loud knock interrupted him. Alessandra gave a cry and hurried to the door. Professor Lombardi rushed in.

“I apologize for being late,” he announced. “But I had to make my way through the commotion on your doorstep. We have our own share of these disturbances in Torino these days.”

Rossi steered Lombardi to a high-backed, leather chair before offering him a coffee. Lombardi waved it away. He had dark rings under his eyes and he looked like he had slept in his clothes. He put down the leather portfolio he was carrying, slumped into his chair, then took a deep breath, as if to compose himself.

“I must apologize for my unprofessional behavior last night,” he began. “I assure you I do not normally act that way. I have spent the night trying to reconcile what I observed last evening with my lifetime of scientific training.” He rubbed his forehead as if trying to erase what he had witnessed at Alessandra’s apartment.

“I am quite familiar with the subconscious mind, and the manias and hysterias it easily falls prey to, not to mention the tricks and limitations of human perception. But I freely admit to being baffled – even astonished – at what I observed with my own eyes last night.”

Behind his desk, Rossi broke into a smile. Next to me, Alessandra moved to the edge of her chair, her hands clasped tightly together, nervously biting her lip. Lombardi pressed on.

“Like all of you, I observed the bell rise up off the table, and hover in the air, then fly across the room. The light was dim but adequate, and I could discover nothing attached to it. I also felt a powerful blow to the face, without observing the perpetrator of that phantom blow. These are facts, and I am treating them as such. Perhaps the human mind has unknown powers Science has yet to discover – telekinetic powers which are available to us in exceptional situations, or peculiar states of mind.”

Lombardi gazed across the room, as if recalling something, then turned to Rossi.

“I will share a story with you, Professor,” he said, “an experience which has perplexed me for many years. It may or may not have a bearing on this matter.” He paused, gathering his thoughts, then launched into his odd story.

“My youngest brother was always sick as a child. Three times a day, he had to swallow a foul-smelling medicine which he detested – a thyroid extract – which the maid served to him in a silver spoon, part of an antique tea set from Austria which my mother inherited and cherished.

“After several months of this, my brother finally refused to take another spoonful. The maid was afraid of disobeying my mother, but couldn’t force him to drink it, so she held it out and waited for him to relent. My brother told me that he stared at the spoon, and felt a burning anger inside him, and the spoon began to turn hot in the maid’s hand, as in sympathy with his feelings, then the spoon handle began to curl up. She dropped it and fled the room, and was dismissed shortly afterwards by my mother who believed she had carelessly bent it.

“My brother showed me the spoon. I didn’t believe him, and accused him of trickery, but he never changed his story. Indeed, after that, he submitted meekly to the medicine – frightened, as he confided to me, of seeing something scary happen again.”

He paused to clean his spectacles with his handkerchief, then returned them to his nose.

“I reluctantly confess to another unusual experience I had last night – an astonishingly vivid hallucination of what appeared to me to be my deceased mother. I attribute this to the fact that the anniversary of her death is fast approaching, and she has understandably been in my thoughts.” Lombardi sighed. “However, this visual hallucination was also accompanied by an auditory hallucination – I distinctly heard my mother’s voice. Such a combination is not unknown in the literature, but exceedingly rare.”

Lombardi nodded towards Alessandra.

“There was of course the possibility of ventriloquism on the part of
Signora
Poverelli, but that suspicion collapsed when the voice in my ear spoke to me in the native dialect of my race, and addressed me by an affectionate, pet name known only within my family. Though I cannot accept the existence of spirits, I admit to having no explanation for these facts.”

“Professor,
we
saw the spirit too.” Rossi insisted. “How do you explain that?

I chimed in. “I heard the voice. A woman’s voice – an old woman.”

Lombardi shook his head. “The psychological conditions conducive to a collective hallucination were strong last night. You desperately wished to see a miracle, and therefore you did.” He paused. “What I cannot understand is that I certainly did
not
, yet fell ill to the same hysteria.”

Rossi pressed him. “And your explanation for Savonarola? Do you honestly believe that was Alessandra speaking to you last night? That she’s capable of counterfeiting such a voice and manner?”

“I don’t believe in voices from a Spirit World,” Lombardi replied. “I believe Savonarola is simply a primitive, secondary personality of Miss Poverelli’s.”

Alessandra leapt to her feet.

“
Basta
! You and your stupid theories. You know nothing about the spirit world.”

“And you know nothing about Science,” Lombardi shot back. “Sit down!” He reached into his portfolio and took out a piece of paper.

Alessandra remained standing, her eyes blazing.

A
lessandra wasn’t prepared for Lombardi’s stunning offer.

He closed his portfolio and looked at her. “I have a proposition for you.”

“And what is that?” Alessandra returned, eyeing him suspiciously.

He took a deep breath. “I said I
believe
Savonarola is a creature of your mind. But even if I’m right, I have no explanation for the bell, or my mother’s hallucination. I want you to come to Torino to be studied by me, for six months. For your service, you will receive room and board, and a fee of 3,000
lire
upon completion of that service.”

We let out a collective gasp.

Three thousand
lire
was a lot of money. You could live in Naples on that for several years – or you could escape to Rome and start a new life.

Alessandra was speechless.

“A generous offer,” Lombardi continued, “but it comes with an equally generous number of conditions.” He sat back in his chair and stared at Alessandra. “I’m risking my professional reputation by undertaking this investigation. You frankly risk nothing. To earn your fee, you must earn, and maintain, my trust. My requirements are spelled out in this agreement. They’re not negotiable.”

He handed her the agreement, then sat back in his chair.

“First, you will live in the staff dormitory at my asylum during those six months, under the supervision of my chief female warden. You will not leave the premises, nor receive visitors, without my prior approval. Is that understood?”

Alessandra nodded.

“Second, you will make yourself available for testing by me or anyone I invite to test you, under whatever test conditions I propose, whenever and wherever I choose. After I conduct my own tests, we will spend the summer touring the Continent. This will allow professional colleagues of mine, in Vienna, Munich and other cities, to conduct their own tests. I will, of course, cover all your travel expenses.

“Third, you will act like a woman of good breeding. I expect you to control your temper, and speak politely at all times. If you’re caught drunk, in a compromising situation, or involved in a scandal of any kind, your employment will be immediately terminated. You will also forfeit the fee – all 3,000
lire
. This way we both have something to lose. Do you accept?”

Alessandra eyed him calmly. “Four thousand,” she replied.

“Three is more than generous. I will also be paying your room and board.”

Alessandra waved the agreement at him. “You’ll find an excuse to dismiss me when the time comes to pay my fee.”

“I’m a gentleman. My word is my bond.”

“And I’m from Naples. Four.”

A thin smile appeared on Lombardi’s face. “You’re an unusual woman,
Signora
. You would do well at the card table. Agreed – but one slip-up and you will find yourself back in Naples without a
centesimo
.”

Alessandra flashed me a triumphant smile, grabbed Lombardi’s pen, and laboriously scratched out her name on the contract. Lombardi passed it to Rossi who affixed his signature as witness, then turned to Alessandra.

“I expect you in Torino within the month. I will arrange a train ticket for you.”

“I’ll return with you.”

Lombardi raised an eyebrow. “That’s not possible. I leave for Torino tomorrow. You will need to secure your husband’s permission for your employment in Torino. I am sure that will take some time, though I trust you will be successful.”

“I’ll have it by tomorrow.”

Lombardi stared at Alessandra, then waved his hand. “As you wish. A ticket in your name will be left at the station master’s office. Ask for the
capostazione
.” Rossi passed him the signed contract and the professor slipped it into his portfolio.

“Please understand,
Signora
Poverelli. My offer of employment is for you alone. Your husband is not to follow you to Torino, to visit you while you are in my employ, nor attempt to attend any of the sittings I will arrange. If he shows up, you may consider your employment terminated.”