On the wooden chair I found a linen parcel tied with an ochre ribbon. I loosened it slowly, as though it might bite me. Inside lay a milk–colored silk shirt and a pair of black trousers, cut to perfection. I was tempted to put them on at once, but forced myself to wash first. I stepped into the bathroom, climbed quickly into the basin, and poured the whole bucket of icy water over myself, teeth clenched. Two swipes of soap, and I was done.
I put on the shirt. The silk clung to my skin with the softness of a serpent. Then the trousers—falling upon me as though they'd been tailored for my body. In the mirror I caught a glimpse of another man: no longer the rag I had been in the past days, but someone who could almost pretend to belong here.In the right pocket I felt a small lump. I drew out a black cravat. I shrugged and tied it, rather pleased with the result.
I stepped into the kitchen. Becker was there, dark in his suit, staring intently at his pocket watch.
"Mein Gott, Herr Cremaschi!" he exclaimed, lifting his gaze. "Thou lookest like another man entirely."
"Credit to thy care," I replied, seating myself with triumphant airs. Before me steamed a plate of juicy meat. The silverware gleamed between my fingers. But just as I was about to sink my teeth into the filet, my appetite vanished. I looked at Becker—yet again, no food before him. I looked back at my plate, but my stomach remained unmoved.
"Master Becker," I murmured, lowering my fork, "do not take offense, but I'm not hungry… Is that bad?"
The German's eyes lit up with a smile that never reached his lips. "Thy body, Herr Cremaschi, hath for the first time understood that it is soul—and no longer the other way round."He rose abruptly. "Come."
"Where to?"
"For a walk."
I followed him outside. The street before his house was boiling with passers-by.
"'Tis well that thou learnest to orient thyself in Alexandria," Becker explained. "Here, the streets bear no names."
"I was just wondering why," I replied, dodging a group of tattooed Hispanics who rushed past us. It seemed everyone was moving in the same direction.
"It is one of Hell's deceits: to lose time and space. Little by little, one learns to recognize fixed points: buildings, columns, arches, statues. But it requires discipline. Thou must be able to move even by night, without light."
"With eyes closed?"
"If possible, ja."
We walked eastward until a colossal statue rose before us: a woman in armor, helmet and spear, a gigantic shield. Upon her palm stood a winged figure glowing under Alexandria's red sun. Roman legionaries surrounded her, keeping the crowd at bay.
"That is…!"
"Athena Parthenos," Becker confirmed. "Gold and ivory, once in the Parthenon. From this day forth, thy primary point of reference."
I longed to linger on the exquisite details of her sandals and shield, but Becker dragged me away with a brusque "We have no time."
"And all those guards?" I asked, glancing back.
"Gold draws thieves. The Podestà is jealous of her: he has filled the surrounding buildings with soldiers. Theft would be madness—besides the risk of attracting the Jikininki…"
The crowd grew thicker with each step. All were flowing southward, toward the harbor. And there, like frenzied ants before a storm, the souls were massing upon the docks—shouting, pushing, some nearly tumbling into the reddish water.
"Why are we here?" I attempted.
"Wait, and observe."
"That I had gathered. I meant: the purpose."
"Silence."
I shut up just in time to glimpse, on the horizon, a scarlet vessel. It grew rapidly, cutting the sea like a blade.
"The Red Barge!" I blurted.
Becker beside me said nothing. The ship docked with perfect precision. A ram–prowed gangplank struck the wood, and from the parapets sprang little demons with whips, lashing inward and outward, carving a path through screams and blood.
"Unload!" bellowed one who, with his British officer's cap, had to be the chief.
Figures began descending from the ship—gaunt, spectral, each clutching a barrel against their bony arms. I froze. They were paler and more wasted than other souls, reduced to skeletons draped only in a fundoshi. Their heads were covered by a canvas sack, without a single opening. And yet, despite their apparent blindness, they moved in single file with unnatural balance, as though they saw the slippery gangplank perfectly.
The demons' lashes were useless upon their narrow backs. No reaction, no moan. Only rhythmic steps, like puppets without life. Every strike echoed in my mind with a refrain that refused to stop: I'm pulling your strings, twisting your mind and smashing your dreams… An obsessive echo, pounding inside my skull with every synchronized movement.
My chest tightened with compassion and rage. What had they seen, when they first entered the red ship, to end up like this?
"Those people," I said to Becker, pointing at the wretches, "what are they? How can they walk with their eyes covered?"
"Those, Herr Cremaschi, are Lemures," he replied with glacial calm. "Once souls, now slaves. Beings held together barely by fiber, bone, and tendon. They possess no will: they are merely the demons' lackeys."
"Is this the fate of those who fail to pay Charon's obol?"
"I am certain of it," he cut short.
I felt that familiar pressure rise in my lungs—the harbinger of my asthma fits. My fists tightened until the knuckles paled. Pure injustice, bare and raw. Becker noticed: he placed a hand on my shoulder to steady me.
"Great labor is needed for the Elysian Fields," he said.
"Elysian Fields?"
"So are called the places from which the Red Barge returns each week. Fields where the wretched are taken to work. Almost none return, and those who survive remember nothing. With no plants or beasts, Alexandria depends on that food."
"I thought souls did not eat."
Becker chuckled softly. "Only those who truly understand they are souls. But the vast majority remains convinced they need bread and meat. And upon this the demons build their power. They create dependence, breed loyalty within the crowd. Each day they erode hope, Herr Cremaschi. Today thou hast witnessed yet another example."
I looked at the throng—outstretched hands, clenched stomachs, feverish eyes fixed on the barrels. And yet, for the first time, I felt no pity. It was like sitting before a television: a staged scene, without truth. An illusion from which I was excluded.
Becker eyed me sideways. "Thou hadst the sensation of being at the theatre, didst thou not? Thou no longer feelest sympathy for them."
I lowered my gaze. "I feel pity, but I no longer feel involved."
"Then thou art improving," he concluded, a spark in his eyes. "Thou hast bitten into the fruit of knowledge, Herr Cremaschi—thou hast lifted the veil. Thou shalt never again be part of the crowd."
Meanwhile, the pressure at the harbor rose. The Lemures' barrier, set to guard the crates, wavered under the crowd's shoves. The little demons barked shrill orders, whipping wildly, but it was clear the crowd—ever growing—was becoming ungovernable.
"Bread!" the voices cried—insistent, furious.
"You shall have food at the markets! Away now, filthy damned, or we shall inform Charon!"
But the threat held no sway. That multitude had become a headless leviathan, incapable of reason. Screams thickened, shoulders pressed tighter. The Lemures' line began to buckle.
One demon, hysterical, raised his whip. "Scoundrels!"
He never managed to strike.
A voice exploded over the harbor—sharp and final, harder than any lash:"ENOUGH!"
The crowd froze. Even the demons stiffened.I still saw nothing, but the entire port was already holding its breath.