Upheavals at Cuma: an E.T. Madigan Mystery

PART I

Yet must you not yield to affliction, but reply to it by going forth the more daringly along the way which your fortune permits you.

Words of the Cumaen Sibyl to Aeneas — Virgil, The Aeneid, VI, 90–12

Chapter 1 — Ellen Theodora Madigan

I was conceived (soooo something I don’t want to think about) in Turkey, even though I have no Turkish blood in me. I know this because Turkey is where my parents happened to be living nine months before I was born in Boston. This is important because something weird happened there twelve years ago to make my life abnormal. According to my mom, an old Turkish woman placed a hand on her pregnant belly and predicted that I would have special sight, like E.S.P. or mind reading. In other words, I, the science buff, am supposed to be a psychic! It would be laughable, except that it’s true. For most of my twelve years, I’ve known things that science can’t explain. Weird, right? In fact, it’s so weird that I haven’t even told my family that the prediction has come true, and no way would I tell my friends. It’s hard enough to make friends when you’re normal. Who wants to deal with abnormal?

Of course there could be a scientific explanation for my abnormality — genetics. However, I can only come up with things that are not so out there. I probably get the science gene from my dad, an archeologist who digs up facts about Greeks and Romans. My perceptive gene could come from my mom, an artist. As for the rest of my genes, they are a mixed bag. My dad, Andrew, is from the United States, but his grandparents were from Sweden and Ireland. My mom was born Carolina Ribera in Mexico, where her father is from. Her mother is from Ecuador, and she’s the one I’m named after — Elena, but I’m called Ellen. All in all, they all seem pretty normal, for adults. If there is a gene for being abnormal, I don’t know who gave it to me.

Abnormal brings me back to the Turkish connection. My middle name, Theodora, comes from an eleventh-century Byzantine empress. When I asked about the name, Dad said that Mom had picked it and they both thought it was pretty. They had also considered the name Efe, in honor of his dig site at Ephesus, but they liked that Theodora had done a lot for women’s rights in Turkey in her day. She sounded cool, and since I’m curious, I checked out her story myself. Yikes! I found out that she might have had a creepy side as well; her enemies called her a demon whose head was seen to leave her body and roam the palace at night! Definitely abnormal. I wonder if she was psychic too.

Looking at my reflection in the rental car window, I don’t see an abnormal face, just a practical one. Yup, that’s me, practical, and it suits me. It doesn’t get in the way of my specimen collecting and exploring. I’m thinking that maybe this new place will provide some interesting specimens, because I’ve read about its ancient ruins and underground places.

My beautiful artist mom dresses like a gypsy and paints amazing pictures inspired by the places we go. She’s more creative than practical, and maybe it’s her creative side that likes the psychic possibility in me. My older sister, Catherine, is thin and sleek, so we call her Cat. She’s more teen princess beautiful than practical. My younger brother Alexander is more social than practical and he attracts friends with ease. He’s also great at sports so I call him T.G. (The Great). It's an inside thing; we learned early on that Alexander the Great was an ancient Greek hero, Dad being an archeologist and all.

This highway we’re speeding down could be anywhere, except that it’s called the Autostrada, and the highway police have machine guns. What is that about?

Our plane arrived in Rome, Italy, yesterday, and we’re heading south to a place called Cuma for Dad’s next assignment. It’s near Naples, or as the highway signs say, Napoli.

At the Napoli exit, we take another road that edges the city — the Tangenziale. Traffic is crazy but Dad is not one to shy away from a challenge. He morphs into Race Car Man and I close my eyes and hope for the best.

I think I can relax when we turn off on another road heading away from the city, but I’m wrong. On the Via Domitziana, nobody seems to be obeying any traffic rules at all. It’s a two-lane road, but there are three lanes coming toward us, and our lane is riding on the right edge. Hoo boy! This is going to be interesting.

We take a break at the entrance to Hell. I’m not kidding. A long time ago they really believed that hell was under this ground; now it’s just a dormant volcano filled with water. It’s called Lago Averno, which means a lake without birds. Something must have scared the birds away for good, and that’s kind of creepy. Could it have been poisonous gases? I wish I could take a water sample.

I listen to Cat rattling on about being at the very spot where so much history took place and wanting her picture taken. Ellen, take my picture... but don’t drop my camera. And don’t snap until I’m ready. Typical. It’s always about her. Why are teenagers so vain, and why does she always have to boss me around? I’m not stupid. I’ve been using a camera since I was five. She’s been a pain in the neck since I was born.

As usual, T.G. is muttering about being hungry. My stomach is rumbling too but we need to get moving again and find our new home.

After turning left at a group of houses called Parco Costa Sibilla, the paved road changes to ancient cobblestones. Dad is excited because we’re on the original Roman road leading to Cuma, and it has an authentic Roman arch, the Arco Felice, which is the last marker before our driveway.

Driveway? The old ironwork gates seem to lead straight into a large rock. However, it’s in the right place and is open, so we figure, why not? Dad enters slowly and aims for the rock. At the last second, the drive curves sharply to the left, a fact that was hidden from the road, and we continue climbing a steep hill.

Straight ahead, the yellow rock wall has a space scooped out of it, and it’s filled with fresh-cut flowers surrounding a religious statue. T.G. is sure that it must have taken centuries to carve the rock. However, Dad explains that it’s tufa, a rock that is soft. How crazy is that? Aren’t rocks by definition hard?

I’m still wondering about this when I feel the car turn sharply to the right. We keep climbing and then, voila! We’re on flat ground entering a large courtyard. I see lots of white statues and parts of statues, two large villas, and a pack of dogs running toward the car. They’re barking and jumping excitedly, and Dad has to slow to a crawl to avoid hitting them. Walking at a very slow pace behind them is an old man who seems an island of calm. He’s all dressed up, almost formal, with a sweater vest and suit jacket, despite the heat. He’s kind of short and has white hair and seems to be waiting for us. Sure enough, when Dad stops the car, he says, Signor Madigan?

We all smile, knowing we have found the place.

Motioning for us to follow, he guides us to the front of the second villa — ours. He quiets the dogs and then gestures for us to get out with a backward bye-bye. As we do, he takes each of us by the shoulders and kisses us on each cheek. Dad and T.G. aren’t weirded-out because cheek kissing between men was common in the Middle East where we last lived. Mom and Cat look surprised though, and I feel myself blushing. It was definitely something that Middle Eastern men reserved for family and close friends, especially where females are concerned. Still, it doesn’t feel creepy coming from this old man, just warm and welcoming. Maybe it’s his way of saying that he considers us family since we will live next door? Whatever. I just hope that I’m not going to be cheek-kissed by every Italian man I meet!

As he hands Dad a set of keys, he says something in Italian, and then he nods his head and shuffles off in the direction of the other villa. Hey, I’m thinking, I can’t understand Italian! But Dad doesn’t seem worried so I try to relax. Besides, the dog that’s licking my cheek speaks a universal language.

The dogs start barking like crazy again and head for the top of the driveway. An extremely small, white Fiat zooms into the courtyard and screeches to a halt. A slick-looking guy in a shiny business suit and tie jumps out and hurries over. Signor Madigan! Everything okay, yes? I found you the best villa, no? You come tomorrow at eleven thirty, and we sign papers with the Proprietario... I gotta go... Too many people want a house... too many problems... He turns and hurries back to the car as quickly as he had arrived.

Dad isn’t so relaxed now. I see him running and shouting, Come where?

Slick guy is already in his Fiat, and he shouts back, Cafe Sirena... Pozzuoli... You ask for Antonino... Antonino Agnone. He guns the motor and flies off with the dogs yelping behind him. They disappear into the dust he leaves behind.

Dad absentmindedly strokes the back of his hair as he says, Well, I guess that was our real estate agent.

Finding the cafe is a problem for another day. It’s time to check out home, sweet temporary home.

Chapter 2 — The Collar

The villa seems a little creepy when we go in — mostly empty rooms. All of our stuff, except for what we’ve carried, is in transit. I dump my suitcase and backpack on the sole item in my bedroom — a bed with a bare mattress. It looks pretty decent — I’ve slept on worse at some of Dad’s sites. My room is on the second floor. It’s actually pretty cool, with its own balcony and a view that isn’t half bad — a hill with trees on it. I wish I could see the ruins though. They’re supposed to be just a little further down that bumpy Roman road that runs by our driveway.

Hey, Ellen, c’mon! Dad’s taking us out for lunch. I’m starved, aren’t you? I look at T.G.’s face poking through my doorway and think, Duh! We haven’t eaten since Rome.

We make a unanimous decision for pizza — a no-brainer since we’re in Italy, right? So, we head for the closest town. According to our map, that’s Fusaro, and it’s only a five-minute drive.

Who knew? Fusaro seems to have no pizzerias or any restaurants at all. It’s pretty much a factory town, so on to the next town we go — Bacoli.

It’s another ten minutes or so down the road and looks more promising. Not only is Bacoli a pretty seacoast town, we see a restaurant just opposite a small park as we arrive. The umbrella-shaded tables on its outdoor terrace are filled — a good sign.

Dad finds a diagonal parking space and, copying cars to the right and left, rides the front wheels up onto the sidewalk. We feel a bit like parking outlaws, but hunger quickly overcomes guilt. Happiness is seeing pizza on the menu posted by the restaurant doorway.

Buona sera! Waiting to seat us is a teenage hottie and he’s smiling silly right at Cat. As if she would be paying for lunch. She’s smiling back, spellbound. Ugh! Fortunately, Dad steps forward and asks if he speaks English.

English? No, no English, Signore. Vogliono mangiare?

Mangiare? Oh, mangiare! Si, si. Dad is relieved that he has remembered the word for eat.

Cat’s hottie, who tells her his name is Gianni, leads us to an indoor table and hands us menus. Fortunately, pizza needs no translation. We’re ready for the waiter when he arrives with a basket of bread. Prego, Signore?

Dad clears his throat and points to all of us. Pizza!

No pizza. Mi dispiace, Signore.

Dad glances at Mom who looks at Cat. Cat looks at T.G., and he looks at me. Don’t look at me! The only other word I understand on this menu is vino.

Just then, a shadow falls across the table. Perhaps I can be of service? I look up to see a guy who’s dressed like a doorman and sounds like Harry Styles from One Direction. (Too bad he doesn’t look like him — not that he’d notice me with the teen princess around.) You aren’t able to order pizza because the ovens aren’t fired up until after seven or eight in the evening. It’s definitely not a luncheon item in Neapolitan restaurants.

Dad admits that we don’t understand the menu well enough to know how to order anything else.

Allow me to help. After he translates the choices on the menu, Dad, Mom and Cat decide on green salad and grilled shrimp, and T.G. and I choose squiggly pasta with tomato sauce. T.G. learns his first new Italian word, aranciata — orange soda, and I drink bubbly water that tickles my nose.

Dad invites our rescuer to join us for a glass of wine. He is Commander Symes, a Wing Commander of the British Royal Air Force, whatever that is. I picture him standing in his clean and pressed uniform before a group of the recently dead, deciding who should get wings and go to heaven. The others are to be sent to hell, but very politely, of course.

As I resurface from my private giggle, he’s sharing some more tips about life in Napoli. I don’t get the details because the restaurant is quite noisy, in a comfortable sort of way. Italian is kind of musical — not like boy band music, more old school, but still nice.

When I finish eating, I notice that everyone is busy. The adults are still talking away about boring adult things and T.G. is over at the lobster tank. The waiter is making eyes at Cat, and she loves the attention. Yuk! It’s obvious that none of them will miss me, and I need fresh air.

I walk to the outdoor terrace and lean my elbows on the railing. As I stare at the palm trees across the way in the park, something furry brushes against my leg. A tiny black kitten darts away and heads under one of the tables. Before long, I see it move again to a corner beside a potted palm, and I follow. When I reach out to pet her (I’m close enough to scientifically observe her gender), she stretches out and enjoys my gentle stroking. I inch closer and, pretty soon, the two of us are nestled together, ignoring everything around us.

As I run my fingers over her silky coat, I notice that the fur around her neck is worn away. An old, rusty, metal collar is irritating her skin so I try to take it off.

A booming voice makes me jump. A large shadow looms over me and a big hand reaches down and grabs the kitten. I look up into the face of a big man with grey-streaked black, curly hair and a bushy mustache. His eyes, however, seem kinder than his voice, so I manage to find mine.

Her neck is hurt... I was trying to help.

Ah... Americana. Then he scolds the kitten in Italian.

I pretend to strangle myself and point to the kitten with pleading eyes. He understands that. He examines the rusty band, reaches into his pants pocket, and pulls out a knife. He slides it under the leather tie that is holding the metal band together and, with a swift upward motion, releases it. Va bene?

I just stare at him stupidly. I have no idea what he said and I’m still shaking from seeing the knife. He doesn’t wait for an answer anyway. As he carries the kitten away, I pick up the collar. Somehow I know that I’m meant to have it. I put it into my pocket and turn toward the palm trees again. Across the roadway, I can see him approaching a bright green car. He opens the door and puts the kitten into a crate. It’s too far away to read the letters on it but they look funny somehow, and an odd chill, despite the midday heat, runs through my