Page 64 of The Crimson Lily
17
My night was populated with black-and-white dreams of shady speakeasies and Giovanni with a bowler hat smoking a cigar. When I open my eyes, the migraine is still there. I am in the king-size bed of this apartment suite somewhere in Rome, lost and alone. I instinctively check my phone and feel a hop of glee when I see I received a text message from…an Italian number.
I’m in Rome. I’ll see you tonight. M
I immediately add the number to the countless entries I have under Maksim’s name. I sincerely hope I finally have a stable way to contact him now. I spend the next fifteen minutes on Twitter, letting it drain my mind. I don’t want any thoughts to sit there and glower at me. I click on funny pandas and cute birds, then save a picture of a bat eating a banana to forward to Béatrice later. I ignore whatever news or political issues cloud my feed. I have much better things to do than that, like checking that fox with a tail too poofy for its own good.
I put my phone down once I’m prepared to get ready. I stagger out of bed and amble to the bathroom, where I cast a glance at myself in the mirror and instantly think of Maksim. That mark on my neck is fading, which wasn’t so appealinganymore, then I find it a little creepy that I even think of bruises as appealing.
I shower quickly, wash my hair, and dry it in ten minutes tops. I jump back in yesterday’s jeans and put on a large pink knitted sweater. It’s cozy in there, as if I’m wrapped in a cloud of cotton. I hesitate briefly between spending the morning in my room doing nothing or going out for a walk. My stomach growls, so I opt for a good breakfast before making any decision.
Down the endless stairs of the Grand Hotel Flora is a large hall with white walls adorned with decorative arches and a beige floor so smooth, I can catch my reflection as I walk. The buffet offers a selection of bread, jam, croissants, eggs, mini pizzas, and a wide variety of fruit. I am already tunneling toward the food when a woman’s voice addresses me.
“Good morning!” she exclaims to wake me. “What is your room number?”
She has brown hair tied in a ponytail and a white blouse that flatters her breasts. She speaks to me cheerfully, her heavy Italian accent making its own music between my ears. I reply with a big smile. She lets me attack the buffet, and I grab as much bread and eggs as I can, then go sit at a lone chair by a small round table and begin to feast on my queen’s meal.
I thought I’d spend a quiet morning, not thinking about anything other than food, but after a sip of wonderful Italian coffee, images of yesterday return to my mind. I was a member of the Syndicate. The Kinzhal Strastey is an authentication key to an anti-satellite weapon system. Criminal organizations mustn’t fiddle with the world’s order. Giovanni wants to erase whatever is on that dagger, possibly destroy it, who knows, and I have to omit that detail next time I speak to the Bratva. To top it all, there’s a meeting in two days, and we are supposed to infiltrate it with Chiara’s stupid brass token.
I down my coffee and stuff my mouth with a piece of bread, hoping it’ll silence me. Nice try. After I swallow it all, I start pondering thatstupid token. Chiara mentioned something about being granted her own token. What does that mean? Is the Syndicate only allowing a few members at their meetings? Is the token some sort of medal, or maybe a proof of rank? She said something about knowing where these tokens are made. What is the meaning of that? Is it important? That detail wouldn’t be unimportant for her to disclose it like that. There has to be more to it. I need to know. As much as I don’t want to think about it, my urge to solve this mystery gets the better of me. I have to know what Chiara meant with the origin of these tokens. I have to call Giovanni.
I search through the pockets of my jeans for that piece of paper he gave me last night. I find it, but then I realize it’s Chiara’s note, with the phone number of a therapist that, according to her, can help me solve yet another mystery. The final pieces of a puzzle I’m missing. The remainder of whatever my mind shadows from me.
Instinctively, I take my phone in both my hands and dial that number. I instantly regret it, but there’s no time to feel like I’m being stupid. If there’s any chance to retrieve the last of my lost memory, maybe it can help us with the mission. Maybe it can help me understand who the hell I used to be. Why the hell I was a member of the Syndicate. How I can possibly have made a choice I don’t recognize as mine.
“Pronto,” a man’s low voice says through the phone.
I want to speak, but no words come. I inhale deeply, stuttering even in my breath, and gather the might to speak.
“Hi…” My greeting ends in a weird slant. I clear my throat. “My name is—wait…Do you speak English?”
“Yes,” the man answers immediately.
“Hi, my name is Liliana. I got your number from Chiara Zanetti.” I end my sentence like a question, to check if he even knows the name.
“Yes, Chiara, she told me about you,” he responds. He has the voice and the accent of an Italian opera singer—that’s who he reminds me of. “I am Doctor Alberto Rossi, and maybe I can help you.”
I pause, thinking of what to say next. “How do you think you can help me?” I wonder.
It was his turn to clear his throat this time. “I do hypnosis therapy.”
“I’ve tried hypnosis before,” I inject. “It wasn’t really successful.”
“My method is…different,” Doctor Rossi argues. “You had an accident, right?”
I chuckle silently. “Let’s call it an accident.” I was almost murdered, but sure.
“You see,” he proceeds to explain. “It is possible that your memory was not removed by your accident.”
He has a heavy Italian accent. I have to make sure I understand everything correctly.
“What do you mean?” I check.
“I have a theory that some memories in amnesia patients get removed selectively,” he says. “As if your subconscious does not want to remember.”
I shake my head even if he can’t see. I wonder how that can be physiologically possible in the first place. How the brain can decide to remove a specific memory, especially considering this was an accident, where the aftermath is supposed to be incidental.
Doctor Rossi probably deduces my confusion from my silence. “Come to my office tomorrow, and we can try.”
