The Mephisto Club

“How did he happen to send us this piece?”

Giorgio shrugged. “It arrived in the crate today. That’s all I know.”

“He wants you to sell it for him?”

“He asked only for an appraisal. What do you think?”

She rubbed a finger across the patina. Felt the chill again, seeping from the stone to her flesh. “Where does he say it comes from?”

Giorgio reached for a bundle of papers. “He says he acquired it eight years ago, in Tehran. I think it must be smuggled.” He gave another shrug, a wink. “But what do we know, eh?”

“Persian,” she murmured. “This is Ahriman.”

“What is Ahriman?” asked Paolo.

“Not a what, a who. In ancient Persia, Ahriman is a demon. The spirit of destruction.” She set the magnifier on the desk and took a deep breath. “He’s their personification of evil.”

Giorgio gave a laugh and rubbed his hands in glee. “You see, Paolo? I told you she’d know. Devils, demons, she knows them all. Every time, she has the answer.”

“Why?” Paolo looked at her. “I never understood why you’re so interested in evil things.”

How could she answer that question? How could she tell him that she’d once looked the Beast in the eye, and It had looked right back at her? Had seen her? It’s been pursuing me ever since.

“So it is authentic?” asked Giorgio. “This cornerstone?”

“Yes, I believe it is.”

“Then I should write him at once, eh? Our new friend in Tel Aviv. Tell him he has sent it to the right dealer, one who understands its value.” With great care, he set the stone back into its packing crate. “For something this special, we will certainly find a buyer.”

Who would want that monstrosity in their home? Lily thought. Who’d want to have evil staring at you from your own wall?

“Ah, I almost forgot,” said Giorgio. “Did you know you have an admirer?”

Lily frowned at him. “What?”

“A man, he came to the shop at lunchtime. He asked if an American woman worked for me.”

She went very still. “What did you tell him?”

Paolo said, “I stopped Father from saying anything. We could get into trouble, since you have no permit.”

“But now I’ve been thinking about it some more,” said Giorgio. “And I think maybe the man’s just sweet on you. And that’s why he inquired.” Giorgio winked.

She swallowed. “Did he say his name?”

Giorgio gave his son a playful slap on the arm. “You see?” he scolded. “You move too slowly, boy. Now another man will come and swoop her away from us.”

“What was his name?” Lily asked again, her voice sharper. But neither father nor son seemed to register the change in her demeanor. They were too busy teasing each other.

“He didn’t leave one,” said Giorgio. “I think he wants to play the incognito game, eh? Make you guess.”

“Was he a young man? What did he look like?”

“Oh. So you’re interested.”

“Was there anything”-she paused-“unusual about him?”

“What do you mean, unusual?”

Not human was what she wanted to say.

“He had very blue eyes,” offered Paolo brightly. “Strange eyes. Bright, like an angel’s.”

Quite the opposite of an angel.

She turned and immediately crossed to the window, where she peered out through dusty glass at passersby. He’s here, she thought. He’s found me in Siena.

“He’ll come back, cara mia. Just be patient,” said Giorgio.

And when he does, I can’t be here.

She snatched up her backpack. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not feeling well.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I think I shouldn’t have eaten that fish last night. It’s not agreeing with me. I need to go home.”

“Paolo will walk you there.”

“No! No.” She yanked open the door, setting off a violent jangle of the bell. “I’ll be fine.” She fled the shop and did not glance back, for fear that Paolo would try to run after her, would insist on playing the gentleman and escort. She couldn’t afford to let him slow her down. Haste was everything now.

She took a circuitous route back to her flat, avoiding crowded piazzas and major streets. Instead she cut through tiny alleys, scrambled up narrow steps between medieval walls, steadily circling toward the Fontebranda neighborhood. It would take her only five minutes to pack. She had learned to be mobile, to move at an instant’s notice, and all she had to do was toss her clothes and toilet case into the suitcase and grab the stash of Euros from its hiding place behind the dresser. These past three months, Giorgio had paid her under the table in cash, knowing full well that she had no work permit. She’d collected a nice nest egg to tide her over between jobs, enough to last her till she settled into a new town. She should grab the cash and suitcase and just go. Straight to the bus station.

No. No, on second thought, that’s where he’d expect her to go. A taxi would be better. Costly, yes, but if she used it only to get out of town, maybe as far as San Gimignano, she could catch a train to Florence. There, among the teeming crowds, she could disappear.

She did not enter her building through the piazzetta; instead, she approached through the shadowy side street, past rubbish cans and locked bicycles, and climbed the back stairs. Music was blaring in one of the other flats, spilling out an open doorway into the hall. It was that sullen teenager next door. Tito and his damn radio. She caught a glimpse of the boy, slouched like a zombie on the couch. She continued past his flat, toward hers. She was just taking out her keys when she spotted the torn matchstick and froze.

It was no longer wedged in the doorjamb; it had fallen to the floor.

Her heart pounded as she backed away. As she retreated past Tito’s doorway, the boy looked up from the couch and waved. Of all the inconvenient times for him to start being friendly. Don’t say a word to me, she silently pleaded. Don’t you dare say a word.

“You’re not at work today?” he called out in Italian.

She turned and ran down the stairs. Almost tripped over the bicycles as she fled into the alley. I’m too fucking late, she thought as she hurtled around the corner and scrambled up a short flight of steps. Ducking into an overgrown garden, she crouched behind a crumbling wall and froze there, scarcely daring to breathe. Five minutes, ten. She heard no footsteps, no sounds of pursuit.

Maybe the matchstick fell by itself. Maybe I can still get my suitcase. My money.

Risking a glance over the wall, she stared up the alley. No one.

Do I chance it? Do I dare?

She slipped into the alley again. Made her way down a series of narrow streets until she reached the outskirts of the piazzetta. But she did not step into the open; instead she edged toward the corner of a building and peered up at the window of her own flat. The wooden shutters were open, as she’d left them. Through the gathering twilight, she saw something move in that window. A silhouette, just for a second, framed by the shutters.

She jerked back behind the building. Shit. Shit.

She unzipped her backpack and rifled through her wallet. Forty-eight Euros. Enough for a few meals and a bus ticket. Maybe enough for a cab ride to San Gimignano, but not much more. She had an ATM card, but she dared not use it except in large cities, where she could easily slip straight into a crowd. The last time she’d used it was in Florence, on a Saturday night, when the streets were thronged.

Not here, she thought. Not in Siena.

She left the piazzetta and headed deep into the back alleys of the Fontebranda. Here was the neighborhood she knew best; here she could elude anyone. She found her way to a tiny coffee bar that she’d discovered weeks ago, frequented only by locals. Inside, it was gloomy as a cave and thick with cigarette smoke. She settled at a corner table, ordered a cheese and tomato sandwich and an espresso. Then, as the evening passed, another espresso. And another. Tonight, she would not be sleeping. She could walk to Florence. It was only-what, twenty,