The Witch of Napoli (27 page)

“The game’s not over,” I said, trying to cheer her up. “Lombardi will force Huxley to give you one last shot. You’ll get your 1,000
lire
and be off to Rome, leaving me behind.”

I didn’t believe it, of course. Huxley wasn’t about to give Alessandra a second chance. It was over.

A
carrozzella
driver called to us as we stumbled out of the station into the September heat, but I waved him away. We didn’t have the fare. We would have to walk to Doffo’s place. It was scorching, no breeze, and my feet hurt. Fortunately Doffo was there when we knocked on the door.

“Tommaso!” he cried. “You’re back?”

We squeezed into the room and I dumped our bags on the floor. Doffo shared his tiny apartment with three other guys from the
Mattino
– double bunks, nails for clothes hangers, cracked mirror, a small table and some wooden chairs, pile of dirty clothes in a basket. He ladled out a glass of water from a clay pot and passed it to Alessandra who drank it down greedily.

“I saw the story,” Doffo said, sneaking a glance at Alessandra. “What happened?”

“She made a mistake. I’ll tell you the story later.”

“What are you going to do next?”

“Ask Venzano to take me back.”

Doffo grimaced. “Too late. They already hired another photographer.”

“He likes me. I can write. I’ll become a reporter.”

I looked over and Alessandra had fallen asleep in the chair, still clutching the empty water glass in her hand. Her shoes and skirt were covered in dust, her head was cradled in one arm, and matted, tangled hair covered her face. She looked old.

“I hate to ask you this, but can we stay here tonight?”

“I can probably talk the guys into letting you stay one night. She can have my bed, and we can sleep on the floor.” He nodded at Alessandra. “What will she do now?”

“Find a job.”

“She can always go back to doing séances.”

“No. Pigotti would eventually hear about it and come after her. She has to find some other line of work.” I looked at Alessandra. “That’s life. God I’m thirsty.” I walked over and slid the glass out of Alessandra’s hand, filled it with water and gulped it down. “Has Pigotti been around?”

“The newspaper? More than once. Asking people where Alessandra had gone.” Doffo looked at me. “She didn’t tell him that she was leaving? Or where she was going?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“One, he wouldn’t have let her go. Two, she stole his money.”

“You’re kidding!”

“If Pigotti learns she’s here, she’s dead. And he’ll probably kill you too.”

Doffo laughed. He had been beaten up twice in Rome by thugs hired by politicians he skewered in his cartoons. He didn’t scare easily.

“A lot of people would like to kill me. He can get in line.”

M
y heart jumped into my throat.

The guy looked just like Vito, Pigotti’s enforcer. The squat, beefy guy who beat the bushes looking for me the night I met Alessandra at the Piazza del Plebiscito.

He was standing on the sidewalk in front of the
Mattino
, hands in his pockets, smoking a cigarette. I hurried into the building. Once I was safe inside, I glanced over my shoulder, but nobody was following me.

Alessandra’s exposure and humiliation in England made every newspaper in Italy. Pigotti wasn’t especially smart, but it didn’t take a genius to guess that Alessandra would return to Naples. So you put a guy outside the
Mattino
, maybe Rossi’s place too, all the old haunts, and wait for her to show up – or for me to show up. I was on the tour with her. Good chance I’d know her plans. I walked back to the door and peeked out. Whoever the guy was, he was gone. I chalked it up to nerves. A lot of guys in Naples looked like Vito.

I walked up the stairs to the fourth floor. Julieta was nasty as ever when I showed up outside Venzano’s office.

“Well look who’s back home,” she smirked. “Where’s
Signora
Seduta Spiritica
?
I heard our little séance queen ran into a little trouble in England. Caught cheating. What a surprise!” She pointed to a chair. “Wait here.”

Venzano’s voice boomed out from his office. “Tommaso? Is that you? Get in here.”

I flicked off Julieta and entered the office. Venzano was at his desk, reworking a headline.

“Boss!” It felt great seeing him again.

He leaned back in his chair and smiled. “I was wondering when you would show up. Alessandra come back with you?” I closed the door behind me, and took a chair.

“She’s here in town. But her husband is looking for her, and he’s not happy.”

“Doffo told me he’s come around looking for her.” He put down his pencil. “So Lombardi’s girl was a fraud all the time?”

“She was stupid. But she’s not a fraud. There’s no way she could have faked some of the things she did.”

“Then why did she cheat?”

“Huxley baited her into going to England where she was a fish out of water. Couldn’t speak the language, hated the food, surrounded by people who wanted her to fail.”

“That makes a difference?”

“She’s not a machine. She performs best when she’s surrounded by friends.”

“Why didn’t Lombardi go with her?

“She wouldn’t let him. It was between her and Huxley. She didn’t want his help. Then when she couldn’t produce anything, she panicked. She couldn’t stand the idea of him winning.”

Venzano shook his head. “Too bad. I’m going to miss her. She made a lot of money for us. ” He held up a copy of the
Mattino
. The front page was a blow up of Alessandra’s face, eyes closed, grimacing, cropped from the famous photo I took at Rossi’s house. Underneath was a single word in huge black letters –
Exposed!
Venzano tossed it on the desk.

“We sold 5,000 copies.”

It was the opening I was hoping for.

“The story’s not over,” I said, trying to sound confident. “Lombardi told me he’s going to force Huxley and the English to do a final test.”

Venzano’s eyes widened. “Tell me more.”

“He and Renard are going to rally scientists here on the Continent. One final test – here in Naples. He’ll be announcing it soon.”

Venzano grinned ear to ear. I had him.

“Take me back, and you’ll have the inside story. I know everybody. Lombardi trusts me. And you’ve seen my writing.”

“I can’t pay you what Lombardi did.”

“I can help you sell a lot of papers,” I said. “Just double my old salary.” I had learned a few tricks from Alessandra.

Venzano laughed. “Deal.”

“I need one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“A place where Alessandra can stay until the test – some place in town Pigotti won’t find her. She also needs a job. She’s broke.”

Venzano looked at me for a long moment, then picked up his pen. He scribbled out a note, folded it, and pushed it across the desk. He glanced towards the door and dropped his voice.

“A lady friend of mine,” he whispered. He winked. “French woman. She’s always looking for domestic help. They’re always quitting on her. She lives up in the Vomero, near Castel Sant’Elmo. It’s a classy neighborhood. Guys like Pigotti wander in there, the police rough them up and kick them out. Alessandra will be safe there.”

I
t
was
Vito. And for a fat guy, he was fast.

I was a block from the
Mattino,
heading back to Doffo’s place, when I heard running footsteps behind me. I spun around and Vito was in my face. He lunged at me, grabbing my shirt, but I twisted out of his grasp and took off. I ducked down a side street but it was a dead end. I looked around helplessly as Vito came charging around the corner. He tackled me, knocking me to the ground, then grabbed me by the collar and dragged me to my feet.

“Got him, boss!” he said.

“Hold on to the bastard!”

I looked up and Pigotti was hurrying down the alley. When he reached me he jerked me into a little courtyard and shoved me up against the wall.

“Where the fuck is she?” he snarled.

“Where is who?” I said.

He punched me in the stomach and I doubled up, gasping for breath. It felt like I had been kicked by a horse. My head started spinning, and I fell to my knees. I could taste blood in my mouth.

“Get him up,” Pigotti ordered.

Vito yanked me to my feet. Pigotti grabbed me by the neck.

“Where is she – my wife?”

“I don’t know.” I said.

“Fucking liar! You went everywhere with her. You think I didn’t read the newspapers while that fat Jew was running around Europe fucking my wife?” He slapped me hard. “I knew she would fuck up, and he would dump her, and she’d end up back here with nothing.”

He tightened his grip around my throat, and leaned in close. His breath stank.

“She’s here. She came back with you.”

“She didn’t…”

He kneed me in the balls and I fell to the ground again. He kicked me in the ribs.

“Liar! Where is she?” he screamed.

I was afraid he was going to kill me.

“She…followed Lombardi…back to Torino,” I gasped. “…went…to his house.” It was the only thing I could come up with.

“Bitch!” Pigotti slammed his fist against the wall. “Whore! I’ll kill her! I’ll kill them both!”

From a window above my head, I heard a man’s voice call out, “Hey, what’s going on down there?”

“Boss, we gotta go,” Vito said. I heard them run back towards the street.

I rolled over on my back and lay there, gasping for breath.

“
G
o away! We’re not hiring.”

The maid slammed the door in our face.

I banged on the door. When she opened it this time, I jammed the door open with my foot and forced into her hand the note Venzano had given me.

“It’s for Madame Dubonnet. From her friend,
Signor
Venzano. You better deliver it or you’re in trouble.” She stared at the note suspiciously, then looked at me.

“Wait here.”

Alessandra and I sat down on a small wooden bench. My ribs still ached, and I had a cut on my forehead, but Alessandra had cleaned me up pretty well. The servants’ entrance in the back of Madame Dubonnet’s mansion was surrounded by a high wall and the watchman at the big iron gate kept his eye on us.

“How are you doing?” I whispered.

“God, Tommaso, I need this job,” Alessandra replied.

“Where’s Bastet?”

“Right here.” She pulled the lucky charm out of her dress pocket and kissed it. She still looked tired, but her spirits were on the rise. She was a survivor.

The door opened and a man dressed in a long tailed coat and striped trousers looked down at us.

“Who’s Alessandra?”

Alessandra jumped to her feet. “I am,
Signore
.”

He stared at her, then looked at Venzano’s note. “You’re looking for employment?”

“Yes,
Signore
”

“What do you do?”

“I do laundry,
Signore
.”

“Who did you work for before?”

I jumped in. “She worked for
Signor
Venzano – the editor of the
Mattino
newspaper. You have his letter.”

He turned to me. “And who are you?” he demanded sourly. The snooty maid stood next to him, glaring at me.

“I work for
Direttore
Venzano. He told me to bring her here.”

He folded up the note, put it in his pocket, and turned to the maid. “Leave us.”

He closed the door and stood there, arms folded.

“I don’t know how your
Signor
Venzano knows Madame. It is not my business. But she has instructed me to find you a position.” He pointed to a shack leaning against the side of the wall. “There’s the laundry. Thirty
lire
a week –ten back to me. You sleep there.”

“Why do you get ten?” I protested.

The butler wheeled on me.

“Screw you, boy!” He turned to Alessandra. “If you don’t want it, I’ll be happy to tell Madame you turned down the job.”

Alessandra stepped forward. “I’ll take it,
Signore
.
Mille grazie.
When do I start?”

He glared at me, then adjusted his bow tie.

“You start now. Madame has a big party tonight. ” He stepped back inside the house and slammed the door.

“Fuck you,” I muttered.

Alessandra rolled up her sleeves. “I’ve done this before, Tommaso. I can do it again.” She reached out and embraced me. “You better be going. Thank you for everything.”

“Give Lombardi two months,” I said. “You’ll see. He’ll be back here, with Huxley…”

Alessandra looked away, and I watched a tear run down her cheek.

“Camillo may come back, Tommaso, but he won’t be coming back for me.”

H
uxley underestimated Lombardi.

He thought the little professor would slink home and quietly resign his position at the university, but Lombardi came out swinging in an interview he gave to
La Stampa
newspaper. Yes, Alessandra had failed her test in England, Lombardi admitted. But she successfully passed
thirty two
tests conducted by skeptical scientists in five different Continental countries. Baron von Weibel in Munich had captured on film a dancing basket. And what about my photographs in Naples and Geneva? And Monsieur D’Argent’s endorsement?

Yes, Alessandra had “made a mistake” in England, but it wasn’t a fair test. She was exhausted from three months of constant traveling and testing. She had collapsed in Warsaw, and he had prudently cancelled the tour. As soon as Huxley learned about her weakened condition, he launched his demand that she travel to England without delay to sit for them.