The Alchemist’s Code (6 page)

Rather curious.

“Oh, yes, erm… De Paolis called, he's interested in that eighteenth century clock you picked up recently in Vienna.”

I remembered nothing about it, but shot out a random name.

“Ah, the Marie-Antoinette Breguet?”

“Exactly.”

“Great. When is he coming to discuss the details of the sale?”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“Perfect.”

*

At one o'clock I went to eat with Àrtemis in my favourite restaurant. We often went there for lunch, even though it was quite a long way from both our workplaces, but I loved the place, so Àrtemis would do me the favour of going with me when she could.

On the way there, though, I couldn't stop thinking about the conversation I had just had with Bruno. My almost unintentional provocation had been unexpectedly successful, and had fuelled my doubts enormously. Bruno was an excellent, authoritative antiquarian, and would have at least had to smile at my joke, knowing that there are only two Marie-Antoinette Breguets in the world: the original from the nineteenth century and a faithful copy, made in 2005. Two precious clocks, never put on the market but only exhibited in museums. No antiquarian, unless they had stolen them for resale on the black market, could ever own a Marie-Antoinette Breguet. It would be like having Goya's
Vestida Maja
on display in the window of your shop. And that could only mean only one thing – one frightening thing: Bruno was not Bruno, or if he was, he was playing a part. But why?

“Mr Aragona, today we have pasta and beans, chickpea soup and meat ragù?” said Teresa, who ran the
osteria
together with her parents.

“I'll have the chickpea soup,” said Àrtemis.

I hesitated a moment, undecided whether to eat or not. At that point I felt as though everything was conspiring to keep my mind clouded, including whatever I ate at the restaurant. I looked at Teresa. Her face was as friendly and cheerful as ever. I tried to work out if what I was looking at was her real face or whether some drug was altering my vision. But how could I distinguish reality from imagination?

“You know, I don't think I'll have anything, Teresa,” I said, without thinking.

“Sorry?” she asked, her eyes wide.

I looked at her in surprise and then smiled. “I'm not very hungry – is it a problem?”

Teresa shook her head uncertainly, and, before going to the kitchen, glanced at Àrtemis.

“No, no, Mr Aragona, it's fine.”

Àrt was staring at me with an expression that was a mixture of disbelief and disappointment. “You shouldn't skip lunch, you know –- it's not good for you.”

I returned her gaze, keeping a straight face. “I'm just feeling a bit nauseous, but it's fine.”

Àrt didn't reply, and changed the subject. “How's everything down at the shop?”

“Oh, everything's fine,” I said without thinking, before adding, “Bruno has almost sold the Marie Antoinette Breguet.”

“Wow. You really ought to thank him, you know. He's so organised – not like you, always leaving piles of old junk on your desk.”

“Yeah, I'll have to sort them out sooner or later.”

While Àrtemis ate, I occasionally peered over at her without letting her notice. Her answer was even more shocking than Bruno's: after visiting an exhibition where the two Breguets were on show, it had been she who had given me the catalogue. Àrtemis ought to know even better than Bruno what I was talking about. But I didn't want to reach the obvious, disturbing conclusion. Not yet.

*

I went back to work, and for the rest of the afternoon I stared numbly at the computer screen or wandered amongst the furniture on display. Bruno, intent on his accounts, seemed to pay me no attention, even though a couple of times I caught a glimpse of his tense eyes following my movements. Twice he left the shop without saying anything, returning after about fifteen minutes each time. There was definitely something strange going on, but I tried to behave as normally as possible until the end of the day.

At around seven, I left the Églantine and set off towards home. The streets, the people, even the traffic lights where I happened to stop looked as though they had been put there expressly for my benefit, to make me follow a predetermined path. It was clear, though, that it was just an impression – things were as they should be, like always.

*

At home I found my wife busily preparing dinner. “Hello darling, I'm home.”

“Hi!” she answered from the kitchen as I took off my overcoat in the hall.

Anna's words rang in my ears like a horrifying nursery rhyme. I absolutely did not want to believe what she had told me, but I couldn't stop thinking about it.

I went into the kitchen and tried to act as naturally as possible. I kissed Àrtemis, and pulled a pained expression.

“What's the matter with you? You don't look well,” she asked in amazement.

I nodded. “Yeah, I'm not feeling any better. My stomach is still upset. I see you're preparing
biftekia…
Shame.”

“Why a shame?”

“Because I think I'd better not eat.”

Àrt's eyes widened. “What do you mean? You love
biftekia
.”

“Yes, I know, but I'm really not feeling well. In fact, excuse me a moment, I think I'm going to be sick.”

Without another word I went into the bathroom. I looked in the mirror, studying my face, and my tousled hair and beard. I took a deep breath and then did something disgusting: I put a finger down my throat and made myself retch. I had to look rough if I was going to put my plan into effect. All that I brought up was a bit of saliva, but when I examined myself in the mirror again, I did look very much under the weather.

I didn't go back into the kitchen, but sat down in the living room by the fireplace, pulled a blanket over me and acted as though I was feeling terrible as I waited for Àrtemis to come looking for me.

“Ah, there you are,” she said a few minutes later, entering the room. “I didn't know where you'd got to. So? How are you feeling?”

“I don't know. I threw up, I feel rotten. Maybe it's flu. That would explain why I had no appetite at lunch.”

“Ok. So you don't want anything?” she asked, stroking my cheek and looking at me with those feline eyes.

“Maybe in a little while, if I feel better. I'm sorry, I'd love to eat your meatballs, you know how much I adore them—”

Àrtemis rose to her feet, looking slightly annoyed. “Ok, fine. I'm going to eat. You get yourself to bed.”

“Wait, I'll come and keep you company.”

“No, no – if you're sick you go to bed, don't worry.” She returned to the kitchen.

The brusqueness of her attitude rekindled my suspicions, but I decided to do as she said. I got up and walked to the bedroom. As I walked past my study, my eyes fell upon a box placed at the centre of the rug.

“Àrt, what's this box?” I shouted.

“Have a look if you feel like it – it's old stuff, maybe you don't need it anymore,” she shouted back.

I dug into the junk, finding old watches, key chains and other items of no value that I had accumulated since adolescence. But there were also things in there that I would never get rid of: my toys.

Futuristic soldiers, transforming robots, Lego bricks – all dear mementoes of my childhood. Àrt knew how much they meant to me. And in the midst of all those old toys, I found one of which I had been particularly fond as a child: a Spider-Man with magnetized limbs. As I picked it up, a sudden light dazzled my eyes – a light that disappeared a moment later, giving way to a dizzying array of images. I saw faces unknown to me emerge as from a fog, figures in old-fashioned clothes or in the military uniforms of the last war. One of these characters came forward out of the crowd. Unlike the others, his face seemed familiar. Raising a hand, he showed me a key. In place of the teeth, though, there was a strange symbol – a spoked wheel, like the sign used in alchemy to identify common salt.

A second later and the vision had gone, leaving me standing alone in the centre of the room, my eyes still on the toy.

As I continued to stare at the little plastic man, I had walked almost unconsciously into the bedroom.

I undressed and, clutching the toy like a child, I slipped under the covers and sat there for a moment in bed looking around me, with no idea of what my next move might be.

My bedroom was the same as always: the art nouveau furniture, the Gaillard wardrobe, my Bugatti desk, the extremely rare Privat-Livemont posters – everything was in its proper place. This could not all be the result of hallucinations.

While, with Spider-Man's help, I tried to sort out the chaos that filled my mind, I heard footsteps in the hallway. I hid the toy under the covers and waited. Àrtemis entered the room with a cup in her hand. “So have you taken a look at that box?”

“Oh yes, but I'll sort it out properly tomorrow, I'm not really feeling up to it at the moment. I'm sorry.”

“No problem. Here, I've made you some herbal tea for your stomach. It's marvellous stuff, it'll help.”

“Oh, thanks,” I said, feeling a shiver run down my spine. My wife was trying to get me to drink, after I had refused to eat. Still following Anna's suggestion, I had decided that I would not eat or drink anything. I couldn't keep refusing, though, otherwise it would look too suspicious, so I played for time. “Put it on the bedside table, I'll drink it in a minute.”

Àrtemis did as I said, although she seemed unconvinced. “Anyway, are you feeling any better?”

“Yes, but I'm still a bit nauseous. That's why I don't want to drink it right away.”

She looked at me strangely for a moment, as if trying to work out whether or not I was lying.

“Ok, but drink it – it will help with the nausea too. I'll be in the study. I'll be back to check on you in a bit.”

“Take your time.”

As soon as she was gone I glanced at the cup as though it were an alien object. My first thought was to throw away the contents, but something stopped me. Anna's words.

“Your home has a thousand eyes.”

Was it really possible that there were cameras in my apartment? That my every move and word were spied upon?

I was now in the grip of severe paranoia, and could do nothing to shake it off. I told myself that if it was all a joke, that nothing would happen – at worst, Àrt would think I was behaving a little more bizarrely than usual. That would be it. And if Anna was right? At that point – and the very idea set my heart racing – I would have to re-assemble the pieces of my life, and above all answer the question that I was still trying not to ask myself: where was Àrtemis – the
real
Àrtemis?

I looked around warily, trying to guess where the hidden cameras might be, then took the cup, lifted it to my lips and pretended to take a sip. The tea was not overly hot. Then I turned off all the lights and put in place my stupid plan.

When Àrtemis was finally in bed, she found the cup empty. She went to the bathroom, came back, put on her pyjamas and slipped under the covers. I had my back to her and was curled up in a foetal position, so she just stroked my head lightly and turned the other way.

After about two hours, during which I remained motionless, pretending to be asleep, the stomach ache I had been feigning had become real. Spasms, occasionally violent, and cold sweats seized me. My ears began to whistle and at times I could hear my pulse, as though my heart had leapt away from its natural location and set up shop near my brain. Stabbing pains, like long pins, ran through my head. I was alone, and couldn't call for help because the only person who could help me was probably the cause of what had every appearance of being withdrawal symptoms. I couldn't even get up to seek relief: if that woman, who until a few hours ago I had believed was my beloved wife, really was there to watch my movements, she would immediately become suspicious. I had to resist.

I opened my eyes and once again in the dim light saw my bedroom as I knew it. Everything was in place, but now, in the faint light coming from the outside, I could also see figures dancing like will-o-the-wisps, hallucinations of a mind which was fighting against the drug. It had certainly also been in the tea, but I had poured it over myself very slowly, trying not to get the sheets wet but allowing it to be soaked up by my pyjamas.

The figures continued to dance around the room, and, gradually, memories emerged clearly, memories of the recent past. I remembered that I really had seen Anna before that day, I remembered meeting her in the park of Villa Floridiana, as she had told me, I remembered a big black car, but couldn't focus on the place where I had seen her, or why. Even more insignificant moments of my recent life resurfaced: the sweet awakening in the morning, the kindness of my wife, the order and precision of Bruno, Doctor Ciliento who bought the Riesener console table—

“Just a moment,” I thought to myself, trying to remember clearly, “Bruno said today that Doctor Ciliento had written the first cheque for the purchase of the Riesener. But the same thing happened yesterday.”

With great effort, I tried to reach back with my mind at least two or three weeks before, but I found myself facing a blank wall. The closest memory I could recover went back to the summer spent in Greece with Àrtemis.

“But how's that possible? If it really is nearly Christmas, that means that there's a hole in my memory of at least three months.”

I spent three hours curled up in the same position, waiting for my pyjamas to dry. I was shocked: Anna's revelations were proving well founded. My strength was about to fail, and my tiredness was getting the better of me.

I wondered what I would do the next morning and how I had ended up in that situation. But the biggest question pounding away inside my head was the same as before: who was the woman sleeping next to me?