Chapter 17
The stairwell isn’t as tight a fit as the alleyway we came from, but it’s not wide enough for my liking either.
Naked, glowing bulbs hanging along the walls light our way. Cec marks each step below us with his cane. My hand tightens around his arm reflexively the further we descend. He reaches over and squeezes back, reassuring me.
Guilt wracks me whenever I underestimate Cec. Without him having to say it aloud, he reminds me constantly how his disability doesn’t define him. Simply by being himself. Yet, I always assume he needs my help.
If anything, we need him—he can hear things, smell things, taste things Bes and I can’t. We might’ve gotten caught by those Blackshirts outside, or Mussolini’s foot soldiers in Alexandria, if it weren’t for him.
Before long, the stairs drop us off into the middle of another corridor. To the left, I find only darkness. Thankfully, Bes heads to the right. The cool, stale air wraps itself around me, the stone walls now bathed in fire instead of electricity, though I have no idea why.
I swallow. “Down the rabbit hole, eh?”
My voice echoes along the empty passageway; I wince at the sound. I should learn when to keep quiet.
Cec’s milky gaze slides up to the ceiling wistfully. “We’d be lucky to see a fraction of the things Alice saw.”
“There’s still a chance we will,” Bes mutters.
I press my thumb along the spot against my chest where the Amulet of Amun once rested, recalling the way it heated up at the Temple of Seti I. Like it was warning me. Perhaps I’ve grown used to it, but it hasn’t warmed much since then…
“But I don’t want to go among mad people,” I say, quoting Alice.
Cec grins just like the Cheshire Cat. “Oh, you can’t help that, we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”
My smile matches his. “How do you know I’m mad?”
“You must be,” says Cec, “or you wouldn’t have come here.”
I break character. “In that case, I’d rather stay in our world, thank you. There’s plenty to fear here.”
Bes glances back at us. “Afraid, Miss Hawkins?”
I don’t hesitate, squaring my shoulders. “Never.”
“I’m a little frightened, thanks,” Cec says. His calm demeanor refutes it.
Now that we’re no longer out in the open, my curiosity reignites. “So, once we get the information on the God Men, we’re going straight to Genoa?”
Bes takes a moment to answer. “If everything goes to plan, yes.”
I huff in frustration. “What do you mean if everything goes to plan?”
“The same way things didn’t go to plan for you at the Temple of Set the First. Or for any of us at the museum in Cairo, of the port in Messina.”
“Alright, you’ve proven your point, mate.” Cec mutters.
I glance down the hall. “Let’s hope things go smoother down here.”
“Don’t worry, Hawkins—we’ll get the information we came for. You’re simply here to enjoy yourself,” Cec assures me.
I shoot him a look he can’t see. “Drinks, dancing, intrigue? What more could a girl ask for?”
He taps his cane on the stone floor. “That’s the spirit.”
Unlike the alleyway aboveground, this corridor doesn’t lead to a dead end.
As we make our way along the cold stone hall, the sweet aroma of wine and the acrid stench of cigar smoke grows stronger.
Soon, another sound accompanies our footsteps: music.
Jazz music, to be exact. It pricks sentimentally at my ears; Nonna and I used to dance to it often at home.
I press down the pang in my heart to stop it from festering.
As the music grows louder, light flickers at the end of the hall. I take a settling breath, preparing myself to do whatever it takes to help Bes and Cec get the information they came for. The more I learn about the God Men, the better.
We stop in front of the arched opening, finding a flurry of colors roiling on the other side. My mouth drops open at the sight, finding it hard to believe that something so extravagant thrives beneath the empty cobblestone streets of Civitavecchia.
The chaos swells as we cross the gold-lined, baroque threshold into a huge room. Laughter and conversation soothe the debilitating hush of the passageway we left behind.
Remember to keep your wits about you. There could still be God Men here.
Club Sotterraneo vibrates with music and dancing.
Taking in the clientele filling this room, I could swear we’ve gone back in time a decade.
Curvy women in flapper dresses and thin men in fitted suits serve finger food and cocktails.
Dozens more gas lamps mount its walls, and one quick sweep tells me there’s no electricity here either.
Only natural fire and real musical instruments.
The occasional puff of cigar smoke wafts through the air, briefly obscuring it.
There must be some sort of hidden ventilation down here. Otherwise, the entire room would be filled with smoke.
I’ve never seen anything like this place: pulsating in bright primary colors, a painted blue and yellow checkered pattern stretches across the dance floor.
The weight-bearing pillars are slick with red and white swirls, like enormous candy canes without the hook at the end.
A dozen patrons crowd the bar off to our left, with a cluster of tables scattered in the middle, and a line of velvet emerald-hued booths along the far wall.
Stationed intermittently along the walls are statuesque men in all-black suits, staring out into the crowd with solemn purpose.
They must be hired guards. Given they’re likely armed as well, I can’t help questioning the kind of clientele the club hosts that they feel the need for this level of protection.
Once the music picks up again, however, I push those thoughts away.
“This is fabulous.” It’s the only word I can think of to describe this place. It could be the heady cigar smoke permeating the air or the jaunty tunes, but my mind grows a little fuzzy at the edges with delight.
I fight it, digging my nails into my palms. We’re here to get information, and I don’t want to be the reason we miss out on something important. Otherwise, we’ll have come all this way and risked our lives for nothing.
Bes leans in. “The theme changes each week. Tonight’s is jazz.”
Before I can respond, a man appears before us. He’s short—much shorter than me, anyway—with a completely bald head and a thick red beard. Like Bes and Cec, he wears a tuxedo, but with a red poppy tucked into the chest pocket.
“Mr. Belzoni, Mr. Giudice, we’ve been expecting you.” His words contain a faint Italian inflection, spoken in one of the deepest voices I’ve ever heard. His gaze flits across Cec and I before focusing back on Bes. “Let me show you to your table.”
Leading us into the depths of the club, on the opposite end of where we came in, he brings us to the only empty booth.
The more distance we put between us and the entrance, the more I can’t help thinking there has to be another way out of here.
Whoever owns the club is clearly quite careful and meticulous, and not the sort to have only one entrance and exit out of an underground speakeasy.
I search slyly for another door, but detect nothing.
We stride past half a dozen tables packed with jubilant patrons, laughing and drinking Negronis to their hearts’ content, most of them olive-toned and dark-haired.
Many of the women have their hair pinned up and in curls, while most of the men have gotten their hair cut like Clark Gable—slicked back and longer on the top.
These are people we could’ve easily passed on the streets above, but I would have no way of recognizing them now. Up there, they hide their faces and hold their tongues for fear of saying the wrong thing, or doing something that’ll get them arrested and torn from their families.
Down here, they’re not afraid of the Blackshirts or worried what rules their fascist dictator might force upon them. All they’re thinking about is what their next cocktail should be or who they’re going to dance with for the next song.
As it should be.
A few of them, however, glance up at us as we pass, gazes sliding off of Bes and Cec before finally landing on me.
Their eyes widen first at my dark-blonde hair before meeting my blue eyes.
The men, especially, take their time looking me over with heated eyes.
Without needing to look around, I’m fairly certain I’m the only person here with light hair, despite Francesca’s reassurances.
I have the urge to pull it back into a braid again so there’s less of it on display.
No, you’re not yourself tonight. You’re someone else—someone capable of playing whatever part you need to.
I jut out my chin, no longer concerned with what these people think of me.
Italian blood flows through my veins, despite the fact that it doesn’t make me brown-haired and brown-eyed like many of the men and women crowding this club.
And even if I wasn’t southern Italian, as so many here are, having blonde hair and blue eyes doesn’t make me their enemy.
If only I could convince the rest of them as easily as I persuade myself.
The man stops in front of the booth closest to the stage and gestures to it. Cec slides in first, with Bes and I taking the open seats on either side of him.
The strange man leans in close. “The Maestro is busy at the moment.”
The band finishes their song with a bang, followed by the riotous applause from the audience.
The man raises his voice over the raucous. “When the saxophone plays alone, she will come to you.”
Both Bes and Cec nod seriously. Having delivered his message, he inclines his head, turns, and slips into the crowd.
The jazz band starts up again after a bout of boisterous hollers and I quickly locate the saxophonist. He appears to be changing out his reed, so it might be a bit until our host comes to see us.
Besides the saxophone, the bandstand plays host to a piano, two violins, drums, and a banjo, of all things.
I tell Bes and Cec, “I’ve never seen anything like this.”