“I’m not familiar with it,” I answered. “What is toxoplasmosis?”
“It’s a disease caused by the toxoplasma gondii parasite. Very interesting. Do you have a cat Mr. Vincent?”
I thought about Belka. He wasn’t my cat, just a fellow traveler, sharing my timeline for a little while. “No,” I replied.
“Good. Filthy creatures. They’re the definitive hosts for toxoplasma. The parasites go back and forth between cats and mice and sometimes humans. It’s a fascinating life cycle. They can only reproduce inside a cat. Their reproduction results in oocysts which are basically parasite zygotes. The cat shits them out. Mice or birds eat contaminated soil or plants growing in the soil or they drink contaminated water. After they’re ingested the little fuckers get into the mouse’s brain and change its behavior to make it more vulnerable to cats. They do it by a process called epigenetic remodeling. They actually alter the mouse’s neurons in order to make it less afraid of cats. So, cat eats mouse and gets infected. The parasites reproduce inside the cat. The cat poops them out and the cycle continues.” Jutting smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Humans can be infected too. There’s new research pointing to a link between schizophrenia and toxoplasmosis. No cats in this house!”
“I guess not.”
“I’ve been tested of course. I did a full course of pyrimethamine and sulfadiazine just to be sure.”
I nodded, not sure what to say. I could hear Victoria’s pen scratching away in a notebook. Was she writing down everything? “I guess that’s one thing I won’t have to worry about.”
“Not in my house anyway. But of course I didn’t bring this up just to make conversation. I was thinking of it more as a metaphor. My company is the mouse Mr. Vincent. We’ve been infected by something that has caused poor judgment. In the last week I have fired three of my top executives. They lost their instinct for survival.”
“I see.”
“All of this is to assure you that I am in full control of my company. We are ready to turn this project around. I would like you to report this back to Mr. Ortoli.”
“Of course. Signore Ortoli had several specific questions he would like me to ask.”
“Please,” Jutting held his arms out. “I’m an open book. Ask away.”
“Maybe we can start with a description of the debt structure?”
I spent the next forty-five minutes asking Ortoli’s questions and listening to Jutting explain various facets of the development on the Amalfi coast. It was a formality. His people had sent all the details to Ortoli’s people already. There was no need for me to retain the information. Finally, when I felt that I had spent enough time for the interview to be creditably complete and there was a lull in Jutting’s monologue, I broke in.
“Well, Mr. Jutting, I’d like to thank you for your time. I think I have all the information I need.”
“Very well. I trust you will give Mr. Ortoli a satisfactory report.”
“Yes, of course. It’s been a pleasure.” I stood.
Jutting stood too, looking uncomfortable. He seemed like he was going to let me go but at the last moment, just as I was turning, he cleared his throat. “Perhaps you would stay for dinner? I’m having a few people over tonight. And of course Baptiste St. Martin will join us. He’s doing some work for me and staying at the house. Do you know his work?”
I glanced at Victoria and she gave me a compressed smile. I turned back to Jutting. “No, I’m not familiar with Baptiste St. Martin. Is he someone I should know?”
“Oh, an academic type. Mathematician. Quite intelligent. French but not infected, with toxoplasmosis that is. You know France has the highest infection rate of any country? It’s the raw meat and unpasteurized cheese in my opinion. Anyway, will you stay?”
“Yes, I’d be glad to. Thanks for the invitation.”
“Good. Victoria will take you down. I have a few things to finish up but I will be down at six thirty promptly.”
“Thank you for staying,” Victoria said, giving me a forced smile. The elevator was silently lowering us back to ground level. It was a very smooth ride. Victoria yawned, covering her mouth with a well maintained hand. Her nail polish was an interesting pale blue. It was probably called something like Above the Clouds or Hazy Aster. “Sorry,” she said. “Up late last night.”
The elevator slowed, stopped, and the doors parted to reveal not the ground floor corridor where we had originally embarked, but instead a short, wide passage with an archway at the end opening on a dark, cavernous space. From what I could glimpse, it was like a small movie theater if you took out all the chairs, plush carpet, and sound absorbing wall panels. The interior was bare concrete, dimly lit by faux flame sconces. Three massive steps led down to a recessed platform where the screen would have been in a theater. In the center was a sort of altar formed from a flat block of stone supported by two more rectangles of stone. It looked like a small dolmen spirited away from Stonehenge. On the altar, though the light was dim, I thought I could make out a dagger and a bowl or maybe a chalice, both glinting in the flicking light with a polished bronze sheen.
“Oh!” Victoria gasped and punched at the buttons on the elevator control panel. “Sorry, I must
