I dressed and ventured out to look at the cemetery in the daylight. It was cold and eerie at this early hour, with the sun rising and the fog lifting between the shadowed cypresses. As the light melted the night away it fell on monuments of astonishing variety: classical marble statues and headstones pointing the way Heavenward for the souls of the dead to follow. To my surprise, many plots were decorated with fresh bouquets of daisies and roses, carnations, gladiolus or chrysanthemums. On quite a few headstones there were even coloured photographs of the deceased behind glass or Perspex – strange disembodied pictures of life on dead stone. I stopped to read a few: a young dancer; a father of six; and a young man who died in a motorcycle accident. Every inscription a summary of a life lived all too briefly.
I followed the grassy track without aim. The cemetery was a labyrinth, divided into many parts, each with its own nationality and religion and character. The most humble section included long rows of tombs set into drawers stacked one on top of the other that were accessed by rolling ladders; a library of bones! What looked like the wealthier section was filled with large, stately, unattached family chapels adorned with neoclassical ornamentation. I saw some that were good examples of modernist architecture, and here and there caught a glimpse of freestanding sculptures by well-known artists. I passed into a section that housed a number of nineteenth century–style Gothic ruins hidden by a tangle of shrubs and trees. Overgrown paths almost indiscernible in the long grass led to cracked, fallen stones of famous residents. Among the neglected, the poet Ezra Pound was still lovingly remembered.
I paused to take in the wistful sadness of the place – after all, was there a happy way to die? It was cold and so I kept walking, the leaves crackling under my feet and the trees rustling in a stiff breeze. Without noticing it, I found myself in the French section, where I came upon an old monk sweeping a grave. It was hard to say who was more startled, he or I.
‘Proibito! Non permesso!’ he shouted. His ancient face was a tempest of wrinkles beneath the monkish cowl.
I told him in my best Italian that I was a guest, though I couldn’t give him the name of my host.
‘It is forbidden for you to be here,’ he said, waving. ‘Go away! Go away! Do you hear? I won’t tell you anything, nothing at all! I don’t want anything to do with you!’ He turned away and began walking hurriedly in the direction of the monastery, looking over his shoulder once or twice to make certain I wasn’t following him.
The man was eccentric and no wonder, living on an island with only the dead for company. The grave he’d been cleaning was marked by the figure of a lion man carrying a staff and a key, and entwined by two serpents.
‘This is his favourite grave.’ The Writer of Letters was behind me, looking rested and calm but his eyes were penetrating. I wondered how long he had been standing there.
‘Do you know what that figure is?’ he asked me.
‘It looks like a cross between a Hermetic and a Mithraic symbol. The staff of Hermes also has two snakes entwining it, and I think this figure, the lion man, is Mithraic, am I right?’
‘It’s a Leoncetophaline, the guardian of the World of the Dead, and you’re right, it is both Mithraic and Hermetic.’
‘There’s no name and no date on this grave.’
‘No. Do you see the inscription?’
I recognised it. It was part of an alchemical verse attributed to the famous alchemist Basil Valentinus. But before I could answer, the Writer of Letters appeared suddenly aware of the time and the fact that the cook had prepared breakfast and we should not delay. Obviously, he wanted the mystery of the grave to hang in the air between us, creating suspense, and he achieved his aim.
Later in the library, he took me to the shelves full of ancient books bound in leather. Some books were covered in studs; others had studs only on the bindings. One exquisite manuscript was decorated with a great rosette of gold over a large raised cross; its spine was covered in gilding and its fore page was emblazoned with the title written in impeccable calligraphy:
El Ingenioso Hidalgo Don Quijote de la Mancha
Primera edición Mexicana Conforme a la de la Real Academia Española, hecho en Madrid en 1782. Además del análisis de dicha Academia, se han añadido las notas críticas y curiosas del Señor Pellicer, con hermosas laminas…
‘That’s the Mexican edition that Rahn and La Dame were looking for when they first met,’ the Writer of Letters said. ‘I mentioned it yesterday. It is very rare – there are only three copies, one in the Biblioteca Nacional de Madrid, another in the Biblioteca Nacional de Mexico; and this one, of course.’