Of Love and Evil - By Anne Rice Page 0,17

something evil has taken up its habitation here,” said one of the other men. “Can you hear it? Can you hear the noises inside?”

I could in fact hear the noises inside. It sounded as if things were being thrown about. And it seemed that something made of glass was shattered.

I banged on the gate. Then I saw the rope for the bell and pulled hard on it. If the bell rang, it was deep within the interior of the house.

The men around me backed away as the gate finally opened, and a young gentleman, about my age, stood squarely on the threshold. He had thick black shoulder-length curly hair and deep-set dark eyes. He was as finely dressed as I was in a padded tunic and leggings and he wore Moroccan leather slippers on his feet.

“Ah, good, you’ve come,” he said to me, and without so much as a word to the others, he pulled me inside the courtyard of the house.

“Vitale, leave this place before you’re ruined,” said one of the men to him.

“I refuse to run,” Vitale answered. “I will not be driven out. And besides, Signore Antonio owns this house and he is my patron and I do as he says. Niccolò is his son, is he not?”

The gate was shut and the heavy wooden door closed and bolted.

An old servant stood there holding a candle which he shielded with his skeletal fingers.

But the sharp light came from the high roof into the courtyard, and only when we started up the broad stone steps did we find ourselves plunged into shadow and in need of the little flame to guide our way.

It was like many an Italian house, showing only drab windowed walls to the streets, but its interior was worthy of the word “palazzo,” and I was enthralled by the sheer size and solidity of it as we made our way through vast and polished rooms. I glimsed beautifully frescoed walls, floors of rich marble tile, and a wealth of dark tapestries.

A loud crashing noise sounded somewhere and this brought our little party to a halt.

The old servant uttered some prayers in Latin, and crossed himself, which surprised me, but the young man with me appeared fearless and defiant.

“I won’t be driven out by it,” he said. “I will find out what it is that it wants. And as for Niccolò, I will find a way to cure him. I am not cursed and I am no poisoner.”

“That’s what they’re accusing you of? Of poisoning your patient?”

“It’s because of the ghost. If it weren’t for the ghost, I would be under no suspicion whatsoever. And because of the ghost I can’t attend to Niccolò, which is what I should be doing now. I put the word out for you to play the lute for Niccolò.”

“Then let’s go to him, and I’ll play the lute just as you’ve asked me.”

He stared at me, indecisive, and then rattled again by a fierce crash that came from what might have been the cellar.

“Do you believe this is a dybbuk here?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Come into my study.” he said. “Let’s talk just for a few minutes together before we go to Niccolò.”

There were sounds now coming from everywhere, creaking doorways, and the sound of someone on a lower floor stomping his feet.

At last we opened the double doors of the study, and the servant quickly lighted several more candles for us as the shutters were drawn. The place was stacked with books and papers, and I could see glass cabinets of peeling leather volumes. It was plain some of these books were printed, and some were not. On the various small tables there were handwritten codices open, and on others papers filled with what looked like scribbling, and in the center of the room was the man’s desk.

He gestured for me to take the Roman chair beside it. And then he flopped down, put his elbows on the desk and buried his face in his hands.

“I didn’t think you would come,” he said. “I didn’t know who in Rome would play a lute for my patient now that I am in such disgrace. Only the father of my patient, my good friend Signore Antonio, believes that any measure I take might be helpful.”

“I’ll do whatever it is you need for me to do,” I said. “I wonder if a lute might calm this troublesome spirit.”

“Oh, what an interesting thought,” he conceded, “but in this day and age of the