I told him everything.From my comfortable origins to Clara, the wife I kept visiting at night down here. I spoke of my "touristic" descent, the fortune wasted in Charon's calloused hands, and finally the ambush—the thugs of Belle who had left me half dead.
Becker listened in respectful silence. When I finished, he allowed himself a brief, calculated pause.
"Brynhild Paulsdatter Størseth," he commented, "is a vile creature. She built her fortune upon men like thee. Her hands are more stained than Lady Macbeth's. So many clients vanished: she kills them, takes their coin, and throws their bodies away like rags."
"We need to get my money back!" I snapped.
He raised a pudgy finger with the solemnity of someone announcing a dogma."Point one: thou must get thy money back—do not drag me into thy shopkeeper quarrels. Point two: as a dear friend of mine once said, 'the cruellest revenge is to despise revenge itself.' So forget it and find peace. Point three: there is a reason Brynhild prospers despite the trail of corpses."
"And what reason would that be?"
He looked at me as though I were ignorant of the most obvious fact in the universe."She is backed by the Orthodox."
Silence. My first thought almost made me laugh: bearded Eastern priests, golden icons, incense? No—impossible.
"The Orthodox?" I ventured. "What is it, a Masonic lodge?"
Becker burst into a poisonous laugh."Oh, please! Freemasonry is a completely different business. I myself was a Mason, and I assure thee, it has nothing to do with this. The Orthodox are an extremist branch of the namesake religion—one of the wealthiest and most influential in Hell."
A "How so?" escaped me, but he replied only with a look of pure condescension. Then he began pacing around the room, hands clasped behind his back.
"It is customary in certain rites to throw coins into the coffin, or stuff the dead man's pockets with money. Understand?"
I lit up. "They don't need to work for Charon!"
"Bravo." He pointed at me. "But not only that. Arriving with an initial capital, and finding down here other brethren who have already multiplied their wealth, these gentlemen carve out considerable influence. Fortunately for us, there are simply too many planets in this system: their power is split into countless small fiefdoms."
"So they're less dangerous than they seem?"
"Do not delude thyself. The synod of Alexandria, for instance—reduced as it is—is still capable of crushing a poor Kaffer like thee."
I swallowed."By the way… how many planets make up this system? And how many systems are there? When I look at the sky I always see thousands of stars running back and forth… I'd like to understand."
Becker laughed.
"Herr Cremaschi, what imagination! First: the stars thou seest are planets. Just as we are stars to those who look up from elsewhere. Secondly: there are no other systems. All the dead end up here. Period. Galaxies, universes, constellations—forget all that. And finally, as for thy question… the planets are an archipelago of tens of thousands of atolls."
My head spun."But… that's so many! How can there be enough souls to fill them? Most must be empty!"
Becker's gaze grew enigmatic."Thou do not think thy species is alone in the universe… do thee?"
My heart leapt. Planets full of aliens—the dream of my entire adolescence."Really?"
"Certainly. But rid thy mind of ever meeting them. None can travel between planets, except the ferrymen. And races do not mix."
I collapsed back onto the bed, disappointed.
Becker stopped before me and continued, pragmatic:
"Let us return to practical matters. From thy story, three facts emerge: one, thou were very wealthy. Two, Charon knew it and played upon thy sentiment to make thee spend thy fortune. Three, journeys like thine cost him enormous effort, because he transports a soul who has no permission to return."
"What does Charon gain from it?"
"He," Becker replied instantly, "is a demon. The most powerful in Hell—and the greatest collector in history."
"What does he collect?"
"Demons are like dragons: they love noble metals and circular shapes—rings, coins, globes. But above all, they love stealing objects that once held emotional value for their owners. That is what raises the price."
I shuddered."So that's why sometimes my return trip lasted longer than expected, even if the obol wasn't worth much!"
"Exactly. And thou rememberest that payment wasn't limited to a coin. One could offer any object precious to the heart."
My head spun—too much information at once. Becker noticed.
"Better that thou rest. We shall continue tomorrow."He filled a cup with the steaming brew and set it beside the bed."Did thou know that in Greek, 'poison' and 'medicine' are the same word? We'll reflect upon that. Tomorrow we'll discuss thy role, once thou art healed. Good night."
He closed the door halfway. The embers dimmed little by little, leaving his words hanging in the air.I shut my eyes, cradled by the warmth of the fire and the bitter taste of the brew.
And I kept wondering: how on earth did ancient Greek get involved in all this?