The Witch of Napoli (7 page)

Two elderly women I didn’t recognize were seated at the table chatting with Alessandra when we stepped inside. A kerosene lamp burned brightly on the table, casting harsh, deep shadows in the corner of the room. Alessandra stood up as we entered.

Lombardi probably expected a gypsy fortuneteller, wearing bright colored skirts, and sporting bead necklaces and silver rings and bracelets. Instead, Alessandra was dressed completely in black. Her dark hair and the black, high-neck collar of her plain silk dress framed her pale, consumptive face, drawing your attention to her liquid eyes. She wore no jewelry. Alessandra stepped forward, offering her hand.

Lombardi was still fuming from Rossi’s trick. “So, you’re the woman who levitates tables and talks to dead monks?” he said sarcastically. Alessandra’s eyes flared at his rudeness, but Lombardi had already turned his attention to the two women –
Signora
Damiano, president of the Spiritualist Society of Naples, and her companion who served as the Society’s secretary.

Damiano grabbed his hand and pressed it to her ample bosom. “Professor, we believe you will witness miracles tonight which will change your mind about the question of survival,” she gushed.

“
Signora
,” he replied coldly,” You have one night to produce your miracle. I’m not coming back here.”

He turned to Rossi and told him he wanted to inspect the apartment. There wasn’t much to inspect, but Lombardi did a thorough job. When he finished with the bedroom, he returned to the parlor and asked Rossi and me to turn the table and chairs upside down. He took the lamp, got down on his knees, and peered through his pince-nez looking for hidden wires or mechanical devices. Finally, he walked over to the kitchen window, closed the shutters and locked them.

“Can’t you leave it open a bit?” Damiano pleaded, fanning herself. “We will all die of heat in here.” A sirocco wind was blowing the week Lombardi visited, and the heat and humidity was oppressive. She looked to Alessandra for help.

“Professor,” Alessandra said, “would you agree to….”

Lombardi whirled around “No, I don’t agree to,” he snapped. “I didn’t agree to a test in your apartment, but I’m given no choice.” He stared hard at Rossi. “I am not a fool. I find this whole arrangement exceedingly suspicious.”

He held out his hand. “Now, if someone will kindly give me the apartment key. I will lock the door and hold the key – after
Signor
Pigotti here is ushered out.”

Pigotti’s jaw dropped. For a second, he was speechless then you could see the color rise in his face. He stepped up to Lombardi, and dangled the key in his face.

“I remain in the room during all séances,” he said in a soft, menacing voice.

I would have pissed in my pants. Amazingly, Lombardi didn’t flinch. Maybe when you work with the criminally insane, like Lombardi did, you learn how to read them. Whatever, my opinion of Lombardi changed that night. He locked his eyes on Pigotti, his voice calm, measured.

“If you remain in the room,” he replied, “I leave.” He held out his hand again. “The key please.”

Rossi had backed away. Alessandra thrust her hand out.

“Give me the fee. Quickly!”

Rossi pulled it from his coat pocket and handed it to her. Alessandra pushed past me and shoved the money into Pigotti’s hand.

“
Caro
, take it! Take it!” She grabbed the key and pushed him towards the door.

Anger and avarice contested briefly on Pigotti’s face before he finally jammed the money in his pocket, glared at Lombardi, and stalked out. Alessandra immediately slammed the door, locked it, and handed Lombardi the key.

“There. Are you satisfied now?”

Lombardi ignored her. He assigned us seats, starting with Rossi, who was ordered to sit at the opposite end of the table, furthest from Alessandra. Lombardi himself would sit next to Alessandra, controlling her right hand and knee. He wanted me to sit on her left, controlling her left hand and knee. He didn’t care where Damiano and her friend sat. When we were all in position, he reached over and turned up the lamp. “It will remain at full illumination during the séance,” he announced.

Signora
Damiano rose to her feet.

“That’s impossible!” she protested. “Bright light frustrates the work of the spirits, and can be dangerous to the medium.”

“I’m sorry,” he replied curtly. “Those are the requirements for my participation.”

“Surely, Professor, you will not object to half-light?” Rossi pleaded. “I assure you that you will find the illumination adequate for your purposes.”

Lombardi shrugged, and reached for his bag. “Then I am ready to return to the hotel.”

“
Basta!
Enough!”

It was Alessandra. She marched over to the door and yanked it open.

“Get out! Enough of your insults, your rudeness, your suspicions. Get out!”

Everyone looked at Lombardi. My heart was in my throat. If Lombardi walked, her dream was over. Damiano and her circle would wash their hands of her, and Pigotti would dump her on the street. But you could only push Alessandra so far.

Lombardi stared at Alessandra for what felt like an eternity, then surprised everyone by folding his cards.

“My report will note that illumination was marginal,” he announced stiffly. “I suggest we begin.”

Everyone was exhausted, and the séance hadn’t even begun.

I
was looking forward to holding Alessandra’s knee under the table.

We all joined hands, bowed our heads, and
Signora
Damiano led us in a
pater noster
– except Lombardi of course, because he was an atheist. I mumbled along. You always do a prayer before every séance to beg God to protect you from evil spirits. As Rossi said, when you summon the dead, you’re opening a door to the spirit world, and you never know who will step through. You hope it’s your dead grandmother, not Jack the Ripper.

When Damiano finished, she pulled a small, silver tea bell out of her purse and placed it in the middle of the table. Any spirits hovering around the room would be invited to announce their presence by moving or ringing it, she told Lombardi. Of course, spirits could use raps, taps or touches as well, but the bell seemed to attract the spirits’ attention, and the Society always used it in its séances. Lombardi was instantly suspicious. He insisted on examining it carefully before returning it to the table himself. His skepticism was becoming extremely annoying and tiresome.

At last, Lombardi nodded to Rossi who turned down the lamp, everyone settled back into their chairs, joined hands, and Alessandra started the séance.

“Spirits, we know you are here,” she intoned. “Give us a sign.”

I didn’t bring my camera that night. Venzano had wanted me to photograph the séance, but Rossi vetoed it. The Mattino could interview Lombardi after the séance. He didn’t want extra pressure on Alessandra, because she was already nervous. Cappelli had promised to join the circle that night, but at the last minute had to go to Palermo on business. Alessandra wanted me to take his place. She knew I believed in her. I had seen the table levitate. I had even photographed it. Alessandra was convinced believers increased her psychic powers.

I did my best. I closed my eyes and tried to will the spirits to show themselves, but I didn’t really know how, and eventually I gave up and opened my eyes again.

The lamp cast a flickering pool of light on the table. Everybody’s fingers were resting lightly on the top, like we were instructed.
Signora
Damiano and her assistant sat there with their eyes shut, simpleton smiles on their expectant faces, their bony, hands clutching Rossi’s. Across the table from me, the lamplight danced on Lombardi’s glasses. His eyes were wide open, his watchful attention alternating between the bell on the table and Alessandra, who fidgeted uneasily in her seat. You could see the concentration on her face, her eyes scrunched shut, whispering to herself, straining to summon up the dead.

The minutes passed.

You never know what will happen at a séance. Sometimes you sit there in the dark, holding hands for an hour and nothing happens. The room was stifling, everyone was sweating, and the smell of Lombardi’s cologne hovered in the fetid air.

I was delighted to hold Alessandra’s hand. She had delicate long fingers, like a pianist, soft and warm to the touch. Occasionally she would squeeze my hand, but it didn’t mean anything. She was in constant motion, shifting her position, giving out soft sighs. My other hand rested on her knee. I was supposed to make sure she didn’t use her knee to lift the table. I could feel her leg through the silk of her dress. I wondered what Lombardi felt as he held her other knee in the dark. I imagined Pigotti, kneeling outside the door, eye glued to the keyhole, going crazy.

After fifteen, twenty minutes of nothing happening, Damiano and her assistant spontaneously launched into a hymn, hoping to increase the “psychic energy” in the room, but Alessandra angrily shushed them. She closed her eyes and resumed her whispered pleading. ”Spirits come. Spirits come!”

Across the table from me, Lombardi wore a smug look on his face – even making a show of pulling out his pocket watch to check the time.

In the apartment next door, a couple started arguing. The voices on the other side of the wall got louder and angrier, then we heard a dish shattering, screaming and cursing, a slap, then a woman bawling. Then kids joined in the wailing.

Alessandra finally opened her eyes, and locked her frowning gaze on the bell. As she did, she swept her hands towards the bell, then slowly drew them back towards herself, commanding the bell to come to her.

“
Vieni! Vieni!
”

I shot a glance at Lombardi who observed impassively from his seat. The bell was a good half-meter beyond her extended fingertips, making it impossible to reach, and no tablecloth to pull on to tug the bell towards her. Lombardi let her drag his hand along with hers, an amused look on his face.

Suddenly the bell jerked forward, almost toppling over.

Everyone saw it, even Lombardi. Alessandra gave a sharp cry of excitement and frantically redoubled her efforts, dragging our hands along with hers towards the bell. She was shouting now.

“VIENI! VIENI!”
Come! Come!

We all crowded around the bell, faces flushed with excitement, even Lombardi. But as quickly as it happened, the show was over. The bell refused to move any further.

Alessandra let out a howl of frustration.

We had been sitting there for almost an hour. At the end of the table, Rossi slumped despondently in his chair. I felt terrible for Alessandra.

“Shall we call it a night?” Lombardi announced.

Everyone looked to Alessandra.

“No!” she replied.

“Alessandra, maybe it’s time…” Rossi started.

“NO!” she shouted. “Not yet.”

Everyone sat back down, unsure of what else to do, and the séance continued.

I took control of her hand and knee again. Tired of the whole night, I shut my eyes and let my mind wander. She was sweating from her exertions, and I could feel the heat from her body. I imagined myself slipping my hand under her dress, running it up between her thighs, and playing with her
fica
. After a while, I could feel a bulge in my trousers which I couldn’t touch but which continued to grow and stiffen. Now we were in bed, and I was on top of her, and she was moaning and I could hear her calling out my name – “Tommaso…maso.” Then Alessandra’s leg shifted again, snapping me out of my fantasy, and I realized she was whispering to herself.

“
Babbo…. Babbo
….” Father. Father.

She was calling Savonarola.

Down at the end of the table, Rossi’s eyes were fixed on Alessandra, and he looked scared.

I
t all happened so quickly.

Alessandra’s hand suddenly went limp in mine. She slumped against my shoulder, slid off and fell forward, striking the table with her face, and lay there motionless, a thin tickle of blood coming from her forehead. She didn’t appear to be breathing. Panicked, I looked to Rossi but he shook his head – leave her alone. Across the table, Lombardi reached for her wrist.

“We need to check her pulse.”

“No!” Rossi shot back. Lombardi hesitated, then sat back.

A shudder ran the length of Alessandra’s body, then she began to jerk and twitch violently, her head banging against the table. Once again, she lay there lifeless, unmoving. I let go of her hand and, as I released it, the fingers on her hand slowly began to curl up into a claw, and what looked like blisters appeared on her skin. I thought I was hallucinating. I reached forward and touched the hand, and suddenly – I can’t explain how – I found myself there, on the Piazza della Signoria, in the jeering crowd, watching him twist and burn, smelling his fat sizzle, hearing his screams of agony.

I recoiled in horror, fighting the urge to vomit, and as I pushed away from the table Alessandra’s head jerked up.

Her eyes had rolled up into her head.

When they rolled back, they were no longer Alessandra’s.

The dull green eyes staring back at us were heavy-lidded, almost reptilian. From her throat came a deep, menacing growl – a
man’s
voice.

“Oh ye of little faith!”

Lombardi drew back, surprise and confusion on his face.

“Alessandra?” he said.

“Alessandra’s not here, Jew,”
the voice hissed. “
You see the world through human eyes. You’re blind to the world of spirit, like all unbelievers. What shall I do to open your eyes?”

As we stared in amazement, the small, silver bell rose slowly into the air and hung there in the gloom, tinkling softly,
ting, ting,
as if taunting Lombardi.

“It’s a trick!”

Lombardi lunged for the bell. As he fell forward onto the table, the bell shot across the room as if flung by an invisible hand, smashing against the wall.

Lombardi stood up and shook his fist at Alessandra.

“It’s all a trick! I know it is! How do you do it?” he demanded.