The Ancient Curse Read Free

been closed and locked up all these years?’
    ‘Well, you see, Doctor, there’s a secret passage that leads from the Caretti-Riccardi palace to the chapel of the Holy Souls in Purgatory near the Etruscan cistern. You know the one I mean, on the other side of the state road . . .’
    So there you were! He would have liked to say, ‘If that passage was so secret, how come even a porter who worked at the mill knew about it?’ But he’d finished the bean soup and so he decided to compliment the signora on her cooking instead and to order a piece of frittata with a bit of salad.
    After dinner he took a little stroll around the city. All in all, his first contacts – his chats with the museum security guard and the trattoria owner – had been very agreeable, making him feel at home in this new context, among people that he’d heard were usually not very welcoming to strangers, despite the steady stream of tourists they must have become accustomed to.
    It was completely dark and there wasn’t a soul on the streets by the time Fabrizio made his way back to the museum gates. He turned off the alarm, let himself in with a key and then activated the alarm again as soon as he was inside. The time had come to meet the lad of bronze who was waiting for him in the exhibition hall. He went up the stairs, took a chair, switched on the light and sat down in front of the statue. Finally.
    To Fabrizio’s eyes, it was the most remarkable thing he’d ever seen. The choice of the subject was incredibly original, the crafting extraordinary. The aura that emanated from the boy was intense and emotional, capturing all the poetry of Vincenzo Gemito’s street urchins, the expressive punch of a Picasso, the exasperated fragility of Giacometti’s most inspired bronzes. This heartfelt vision was of such creative power that it left Fabrizio feeling awed and almost daunted.
    It was the tender image of a sad, slight little boy. His frail body was exaggeratedly long, while his minute face had a melancholy look that couldn’t entirely mask a hint of natural light-heartedness, cut down too soon by death. A child whose loss must have left his parents in the most unthinkable despair, if they had appealed to such a sublime artist to portray him so realistically, capturing his personality, his youth, perhaps even signs of the illness that had spirited him away . . .
    When the bell tolled from the tower of the nearby Sant’Agostino church, Fabrizio realized that almost an hour had gone by. He got to his feet and began to set up his camera equipment.
    The photographs available on file had been wholly inadequate. Fabrizio felt the need to explore each and every detail of the statue with his lens; perhaps he’d discover aspects of the casting that the experts hadn’t picked up on. He was reminded of the words of his professor and mentor, Gaetano Orlandi, who used to say that the best place to excavate in Italy was in the museums and storehouses of the National Antiquities Service.
    It took him hours to set up the lights, then study the angles and shots. He took about ten rolls of slide film and the same number of photos using a digital camera so that he could analyse the images electronically. Just as he was finishing up on the figure’s face, head and neck, the phone rang out in the hall. Fabrizio checked his watch: it was after one a.m. Evidently a wrong number. Who could be calling a museum at that hour? He went back to his work, intent on finishing despite his fatigue, but the telephone distracted him again only a few minutes later.
    He went to pick up the receiver and began to say, ‘Listen, you’ve got the wrong—’
    But a woman’s voice with a curt, peremptory tone cut him short. ‘Leave the boy alone!’ This was followed by the click of her hanging up.
    Fabrizio replaced the receiver mechanically and wiped a hand over his sweaty brow. Was he so tired that he was hearing things? No one knew anything about his research, except for the