City of Dark Magic Read Free Page A

you must do when you get there,” Alessandro said, “is visit
Il Bambino di Praga
, and say a prayer to him.”
    Sarah rolled her eyes. Alessandro was a scientist. He was studying yeast, although Sarah wasn’t totally clear on the specifics. Mostly because the way Alessandro pronounced the word “yeast” always cracked her up. She knew his work had something to do with brain functions, but in a way that didn’t seem to overlap at all with her own interest in music and the brain.
    “What’s a bambino of Praga?” she asked.
    Alessandro shook his head in mock despair. “What kind of a nice Catholic girl are you?” he asked.
    “I’m not,” said Sarah. That, too, had been a showdown with her mother. The day she had decided that she wasn’t going to mass anymore.
    “It’s an ancient statue of Gesu Bambino, the baby Jesus, that has magical powers when you pray to him.”
    “This from the man who stares into an electron microscope all day.” It never ceased to amuse and perplex her that Alessandro, a neuroanatomist, freely switched from evil eyes and the magical abilities of saints to Einstein’s unfinished unified field theory in a microsecond.
    “Sarah,” Alessandro said, sternly. “There is much more to this life than what we can see even through an electron microscope. You will learn, when you go to Prague. There is magic there.” He crossed himself. “Dark magic. Prague is a threshold.”
    “Prague is a city,” she said firmly. “A place where, just like here, the rules of science apply.”
    “Rules of science.” Alessandro shrugged his elegant shoulders. “And what are those? We don’t even know how this works.” He pointed to his head. “Eighty-six point one billion neurons. And glial cells surround neurons—eighty-four point six billion glia. For over a century,
cento anni
, we know glia are there, but not what they do. Now we know they modulate neurotransmission. But how? We don’t know. And universe? Ninety-six percent of the universe is dark matter and dark energy. What are they?
Chissá?
No one knows. I tell you, rules of science are
molto misterioso
.”
    Sarah downed the rest of the Campari. The doorbell rang.
    “One of your lovers?” Alessandro raised an eyebrow. “I thought you say no sex till you finish paper on pitch perception in the brain?”
    Sarah shook her head. “I’ll see who it is,” she said, and handed Alessandro her glass. “If we’re going to talk about dark matter I think I need another drink.”

TWO
    W hen Sarah opened the door the hallway was empty. Then she turned her head. And then she looked down.
    The man was . . . small. Was he officially, Sarah wondered, a “little person,” or whatever the correct phraseology was these days? She looked at the top of his head, which was large and blocked the rest of his figure, except for a set of feet in brown shoes. The toes pointed outward, in the manner of ballet dancers. Or paper dolls.
    The shoes were odd. Retro, but more so. They had buckles, not laces. Sarah blinked.
    “Sarah Weston?” The man’s voice was not small. It was loud, and very deep. A bassoon. Well, he was about the size of a bassoon, Sarah thought, and probably the weight.
    “Can I help you?” Sarah hedged. You couldn’t be too careful. Not with the kind of student loans she was carrying. A tantalizing image involving stacks of Czech crowns floated before her eyes. Did you have to declare that kind of thing to the IRS?
    The little man tilted his head. Raised tiny hands to frame his eyes as if he were cutting off the glare of the hallway’s fluorescent lighting. Or instigating a game of peekaboo. His eyes were large, and very dark, almost black.
    “So?
Chi é?
” Alessandro appeared at Sarah’s elbow. The knot of his towel was on the same level as the tiny man’s chin.
    “You do not look like her,” said the stranger, ignoring Alessandro and continuing to scrutinize Sarah.
    “Maybe you’ve got the wrong Sarah Weston,” she