The Tower (11 page)

Philip looked at the square jaw, the straight nose, the big, black, shining eyes. ‘El Kassem! Oh, my God, I can’t believe it’s you!’

‘It’s best we leave,’ said the Arab warrior. ‘This city is more dangerous than the medina in Tangiers.’

‘Did you say “your father”? Is it true, then, that he’s still alive?’

‘If Allah has kept him from harm, yes, he is.’

‘Where is he?’ asked Philip as they walked off in great haste. He couldn’t help but glance around for more attackers.

‘This I do not know. He has surely walked a long path since I left him and we will have to find him again. Come now, follow me. You can no longer stay in your serai. Your things have already been moved to a safe house.’

T
HE SKY WAS
beginning to pale to the east when they reached an old house with chipped walls. They went in and found themselves in a large courtyard crossed by long lines of fluttering laundry.

‘This way,’ said El Kassem, slipping around the obstacles with familiar ease. They reached a staircase and started up.

‘Strange folk, these Naples . . .’ observed El Kassem, the steep rise of the stairs not taking away his breath in the least.

‘Neapolitans,’ corrected Philip, gasping.

‘Yes. How can they think to win a fight with such short
jatagans
? At our oasis, only the children play with those.’

‘We’re not in the desert here, El Kassem. I can’t understand how you’ve managed to get around dressed like you are in a place like this, where everyone sticks his nose into everyone else’s business.’

‘Oh, it is not difficult,’ said El Kassem. ‘If you remove the rope from your keffiyeh, wrap it around your shoulders and walk with your head down, you look like one of their widows.’

They stopped at a landing on the third floor and Philip leaned against the wall to catch his breath.

‘If we are to find your father you must strengthen your muscles and your limbs,’ said El Kassem. ‘If three flights of stairs take such a toll . . .’

Philip knew it was no use answering. He had known El Kassem since, as a boy, he had accompanied his father as far as Oran, before one of Desmond’s many departures into the desert. El Kassem was his father’s guide and bodyguard, bound to him by the loyalty that only the men of the desert are capable of. Stalwart and untiring, he could ride for days without a sign of weariness, catching a bit of sleep now and then without leaving his horse’s saddle. He was extraordinarily skilful in the use of any weapon and could bear up under any hardship, heat or cold, hunger or thirst.

El Kassem knocked at the door and the shuffle of slippers could be heard on the other side. An old man’s voice called out, ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s us,’ answered El Kassem in passable French.

The door opened and an old man greeted them. He was wrapped in a creased dressing gown, but his hair was neatly combed.

Philip recognized him and opened his arms. ‘Lino!’

The old man looked puzzled for a moment, then said, ‘Is that you, master Philip? Oh, Holy Virgin, it is you! Come in, come in. But look at you! Look at what a state you’re in!’

‘My dear old friend,’ said Philip, embracing him.

The old man dried his eyes with his sleeve and had them sit down so he could make them coffee. El Kassem sat on a carpet with his legs crossed, while Philip settled in an old armchair with worn upholstery. Everything in the little apartment seemed frayed and shabby, and Philip couldn’t help but think of how things had changed for the old man. When he’d met Lino, Philip was an adolescent, living in Naples in an elegant residence on Via Caracciolo with a stupendous view of Mount Vesuvius and the bay. Natalino Santini had worked for them back then as his father’s valet and driver. He would accompany Desmond to the Piazza Dante bookshops that specialized in rare and antique books and manuscripts, and introduced him to all the city’s hidden secrets. There was not an alleyway in the Spanish quarter that Lino was not perfectly familiar with. When Philip and his father left Naples, Lino was living respectably and had found another job.

The
caffettiera
began to perk, so Lino took it off the flame and turned it upside down, in true Neapolitan fashion.

‘I’m sorry,
signuri
,’ he said, ‘to receive you in such humble surroundings but, you see, when my poor wife fell ill with consumption, I spent my last penny trying to help her.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve lost her, along with everything I had, and no one will hire me any more at my age. But I scrape by with a few odd jobs now and then . . . Ah, the good times are long gone,
signuri
. . .’

He served their coffee in elegant porcelain cups, a reminder of better times, and sat down himself to sip at the steaming black brew, closing his eyes. It was one of the few luxuries he could still afford.

‘What brings you back to Naples?’ the old man asked Philip.

‘I’ve been investigating the passageways beneath the old Franciscan monastery,’ he replied.

The old man regarded him with an expression of surprise. ‘Just like your father,’ he murmured.

‘My father, did you say? Lino, what was my father looking for in the catacombs?’ Philip asked.

The old man took another sip of his coffee, then set the little cup on its saucer and breathed a deep sigh.

‘You’ll think it strange, but he was looking for a sound.’

‘A sound?’

‘Yes. A soft metallic sound, like the notes of a music box. The Franciscans claimed they could hear it when an earthquake was coming. The people believed them and would seek shelter between the monastery walls, because they said that the sound would protect them from any cataclysm. And in fact the walls have never been damaged. Didn’t the guardian tell you?’

Philip passed a hand over his forehead. Everything fitted together perfectly, even though, for the time being, nothing made sense. ‘Yes, but . . .’

‘Your father asked for permission to explore the catacombs. He heard that sound and was deeply affected by it. I don’t know, maybe he only thought he’d heard it, but afterwards he had no peace. He would hum that little tune continually, obsessively. He asked me to find a craftsman who could make a music box that would reproduce those notes. I had it made and he gave it to you as a gift, remember?

‘Then one day he gave it back to me, telling me to take good care of it. Look, I’m not making this up,’ he added, getting up from his chair and opening the door of a little cupboard. ‘See?’ And he took out a little wooden box topped by a lead soldier. ‘Remember it? He gave it to you the day of your fourteenth birthday, but when he had to leave for the war, he brought it to me and made me promise not to say a word to anyone about it.’ He opened the cover and turned the key and a brief, plaintive melody filled the little room.

Philip blanched. ‘My God . . .’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I know . . . where this music comes from. Look.’ He got up, went over to his haversack and took out the sistrum under the mystified gaze of the old manservant and the Arab warrior. He hung it on the doorjamb and gave it a little push with the tip of his index finger. It swung and the bronze beads slid on their rods, tapping the metal frame one after another and producing a silvery sequence of notes.

The old man reached out a hand with tears in his eyes. ‘You’re right! This is the true source of the music, my son.’

‘Yes,’ said Philip. ‘This has sounded for centuries in the underground labyrinth every time the earth shook. This is what my father was looking for. But why?’

The old man shook his head. ‘I don’t know, and neither did your father. It was something he couldn’t explain. There are forces that guide us at times without our realizing why. Don’t you believe that?’

‘What about you, El Kassem? Don’t you know either?’

‘No. But it must be very important. There was someone else looking for it tonight. Remember?’

‘Yes. I saw his face.’

El Kassem jumped. ‘You saw his face? Why didn’t you tell me right away? It was so dark that I thought . . .’

‘No, not there on the street. When he was underground. He’s tall, blond, with a square jaw and icy blue eyes.’

El Kassem paled. ‘O merciful Allah! It was Selznick.’

C
OLONEL
J
OBERT HAD REMAINED
at the El Aziri fort for a month in the hope of receiving news from Philip Garrett which could help him in his search. Seeing that no message was forthcoming, he decided to leave the fort at the end of October with two companies of legionnaires. Although the heat should have been tolerable so late in the season, the summer was unusually prolonged that year and their advance to the south-eastern quadrant became more strenuous and punishing with each passing day.

He managed to get information from the bedouins at the oases. They spoke of two foreigners: one – a tall infidel with light eyes, suffering from a pain in his right side – sounded like Selznick; he had been seen in April heading north towards Fezzan. The other had left the well at Bir Akkar, directed east, at the beginning of September. This second
nabil
had dark eyes and silver hair at his temples; he was certainly Desmond Garrett. Although he felt sure of their identities, Jobert could not understand why Selznick was going north. Where could he be headed, and for what reason? Perhaps Garrett had confided in Selznick years earlier, when he still thought he could trust him, and the trail he was following might be based on the very information he’d received from Garrett.

Aware of the fact that dividing one’s forces in the desert was invariably a mistake, Jobert sent a telegraph from the last outpost to the garrisons along the coast, ordering them to watch the caravan routes and the ports and to stop Selznick should he try to take ship, although he didn’t have too many illusions about the success of such an operation. If Selznick had managed to get to Libya and gone to Gadames and Tripoli, he would be able to reach Italy or Greece or Turkey without problems. Jobert was nonetheless sure that their paths would one day cross again.

He had saved the most difficult task for himself: the exploration of the south-eastern quadrant, a desolate and practically inaccessible area, cursed by extremely high temperatures and very few wells. A report dating back to the early 1800s, cited in Desmond Garrett’s study, spoke of an oasis beyond the inferno: a little Eden, with luxuriant palms, fig and pomegranate trees, where clear water flowed abundantly. The oasis was completely hidden in a gully of Wadi Addir and was protected by its banks from incessant sandstorms. This small but completely independent realm was ruled over by an ancient family who claimed to be descended from an Egyptian son of Joseph the Hebrew. They reigned over their land from an impregnable fortress: the castle of Kalaat Hallaki.

No one knew what there was beyond this oasis. The bedouins claimed the territory was haunted by spirits and called it the sands of the djinn. The Sand of Ghosts. It was there that Colonel Jobert hoped to find Desmond Garrett, sooner or later, and it was there that he was convinced he would discover the reason behind the disturbing phenomena that he had been sent to investigate.

For days and days they advanced over a land scorched by a merciless sun, losing horses and camels along the way, without ever meeting a single human being.

They camped one night near a well half-buried in the sand. After they had laboured long and hard to clear away the sand, just a little bitter water gurgled out, barely enough to slake the thirst of the men and animals. As the soldiers were setting up camp, Jobert sent one of the captains to reconnoitre the surrounding area with a patrol before darkness fell. The officer returned some time later, alone, at a gallop.

‘Colonel!’ he cried out, without dismounting. ‘You must come and see this!’

Jobert jumped onto his horse and followed the man. They rode for a couple of kilometres until they reached the spot where the patrol had stopped, in front of a low, jagged ridge that rose from the sand like the crest of a dragon.

‘You’ll never believe what we’ve found!’

Jobert dismounted and followed him to a point at which the rocky ridge was interrupted by a smooth surface a couple of metres long. It was completely covered with carvings depicting strange creatures: headless men wearing grotesque masks on what appeared to be their chests.

‘The Blemmyae, Commander! Look! The race of headless men with their faces on their chests spoken of by the ancients!’

Jobert immediately noticed the agitation that his words were producing in the soldiers nearby and he shot his subordinate a withering look. ‘They’re just pictures on a stone, Captain Bonnier,’ he said. ‘Control yourself. We’ve seen much worse over the years!’

They returned to their camp to eat some biscuits and dates. Before retiring for the night, Colonel Jobert summoned the captain to his tent.

‘Bonnier, you must be mad! How could you spout such foolishness in front of the men? They are soldiers, but they’re vulnerable under these conditions. Good God, man, you should know them by now! Make them face a pack of marauders on horseback in the middle of the desert and they won’t bat an eye. But if you fill their heads with strange imaginings you’ll have them trembling with fear in this cursed land. Do I really need to explain it to you?’

Bonnier lowered his head in confusion.

‘I apologize, Commander. But you see, in those rock carvings, I saw the truth behind an ancient legend reported by Pliny the Elder. He speaks of a fierce race of beings who live on the edges of the southern desert. The Blemmyae: men with no heads, who wear their faces on their chests.’

‘I am astounded at you, Bonnier! Do you think you’re the only one to have read the classics? I’m sure you’ll have noticed, in your reading, that any area, any area at all, that is out of reach, inaccessible or unexplored, on land or at sea, is populated by monsters of every description by the ancients! Your Pliny describes a race of men in India who have but one foot, which they lift above their supine bodies to shade themselves in the heat of noon!’

‘You’re right, Commander. But this is proof ! While we have no evidence of those other stories.’