The next morning I woke to the sound of music.
Vitelli was already awake.
He had dragged a small radio onto the balcony and was dancing to some absurd Rasta song with the enthusiasm of a man who had forgotten both dignity and gravity. One of the guards attempted to restrain him. Vitelli rewarded the attempt by knocking the man flat on his back.
For reasons I still struggle to explain, I had begun to like my uncle.
We spent long nights together talking about things that had nothing to do with the world outside the house. He called them spiritual journeys. At the time I believed him.
In truth we were simply two addicts trying to outrun the silence inside our own heads.
Strangely enough, he helped me abandon heroin.
Not through discipline, or wisdom, or anything respectable like that. He simply refused to allow despair to settle anywhere near him. His appetite for life — even in its most corrupted forms — was contagious.
It was harder for him to save himself.
But he was trying.
Which was precisely when my father decided to intervene.
Don Giovanni did not trust recovery.
Especially when it occurred outside his control.
It was a clear night when they came for us. I remember the air being unusually calm, as if the entire countryside had paused to listen to something distant.
My father's men arrived without warning.
Vitelli and I were taken from the house and driven for several hours through roads I did not recognise. Neither of us asked where we were going. By that point we both understood the uselessness of questions.
Eventually we arrived at a place called Xanthos Rehabilitation Centre.
Though "rehabilitation centre" was not the phrase anyone inside it used.
Joseph paused and lifted the glass of cognac to the light.
"Would you like a refill, Silvio?"
"Yes, signor."
He poured slowly, watching the liquid gather in the glass before continuing.
"So what happened there?" I asked. "Did the place actually cure you?"
Joseph smiled.
"No."
"The place did not cure anyone."
"What it did instead was far more interesting."
"And Mat?" I asked. "Did you ever see him again?"
Joseph took a slow sip before answering.
"Not until very recently."
"And when I did, he handed me the letter meant for you."
"That was the last time we spoke."
A silence passed between us.
Then Joseph continued.
"The centre itself was not a hospital."
"It was a prison."
"A very well funded prison run by a man who believed the human mind was merely an unfinished machine."
"And who was that?" I asked.
Joseph leaned back slightly.
"Doctor Xanthos."
"You're making him sound dramatic," I said.
Joseph shook his head slowly.
"No."
"I am understating him."
The first thing anyone noticed about Xanthos was his height.
He was remarkably short.
Not merely short in the ordinary sense, but compact in a way that made him appear as though some force had compressed him slightly during childhood and then lost interest before restoring him to normal proportions.
His beard hung absurdly low, almost to his knees, and was so dark that it appeared to swallow the light around it.
His skin had a peculiar colour.
Not simply dark — but burnt, as though he had been exposed to something intense and invisible for far too long.
People said many things about him.
Some called him a genius.
Others called him a devil.
Most simply avoided speaking about him altogether.
But there was one story that circulated among the inmates with particular persistence.
"Have you ever heard of spontaneous human combustion?" Joseph asked suddenly.
"I have," I replied. "Mostly as folklore."
"Countess Cornelia Bandi," I added. "And that American case… Mary Reeser."
Joseph smiled faintly.
"Yes."
"Stories people like to repeat when they wish to feel clever about the unknown."
"And what does that have to do with this doctor?" I asked.
Joseph studied the smoke rising from his cigar before answering.
"Some people inside the centre believed Xanthos could make it happen."
I stared at him.
"You mean burn people alive?"
Joseph shrugged.
"I mean they believed it."
"You saw this?"
"I saw people collapse."
"I saw panic spread through a room like a contagious fever."
"I saw men scream that they were burning when there was nothing visibly burning them at all."
He paused.
"Tell me, Silvio… if a man believes with absolute certainty that his body is on fire, how long do you suppose it takes before his body begins behaving as if it were?"
"That sounds like hysteria," I said.
"Perhaps."
Joseph smiled.
"But hysteria has always been a more powerful force than science."
"So you're saying this doctor hypnotised people?"
Joseph shook his head.
"No."
"Hypnosis is a cooperative activity. People allow themselves to be hypnotised."
"Xanthos didn't ask permission."
"Then what did he do?"
Joseph leaned forward slightly.
"He spoke."
"That's all?"
"Yes."
"Just spoke."
I frowned.
"That hardly explains anything."
"No," Joseph said quietly.
"But it explains more than you think."
He tapped ash from the cigar.
"Words are strange instruments, Silvio."
"Most people treat them like air."
"But under the right conditions a word can alter a human being more efficiently than any drug."
"Religions have known that for thousands of years."
"So have armies."
"So have lovers."
I remained silent.
Joseph continued.
"Say the wrong sentence to the wrong man and you may watch his entire life collapse within seconds."
"Say the right sentence to a frightened crowd and you can make them march willingly into gunfire."
"And you believe this doctor had that ability?" I asked.
Joseph smiled again.
"I believe he understood something about the human mind that most people prefer not to examine too closely."
"What?"
"That we are far more programmable than we like to pretend."
The room had grown darker during the conversation.
Outside the window the forest was almost black.
"Did you ever figure out how he did it?" I asked.
Joseph considered the question.
"No."
"But I eventually stopped asking."
"Why?"
"Because the more time one spends trying to understand a magician…"
"…the easier it becomes for the magician to understand you."
I looked at him carefully.
"You still sound unsure whether any of it was real."
Joseph returned my gaze.
"That," he said calmly, "is the only correct way to remember a place like Xanthos."
I leaned forward.
"So what happened there?"
Joseph stood and stretched slowly.
"Mannaggia," he said.
"We've wandered very far from the story again."
"It's late, Silvio."
"You can't stop now," I protested.
Joseph laughed.
"Oh I absolutely can."
"But if you insist on hearing the rest tonight…"
He gestured toward the cupboard.
"…then you will have to fetch your grandfather's cognac and another pair of cigars."
"My grandfather's cupboard?" I said.
Joseph looked at me innocently.
"Where exactly did you think these cigars were coming from?"
"Fifteen years discontinued," I said.
"And yet somehow appearing every night."
He smiled.
"Life is full of mysteries."
I shook my head and stood.
"Fine."
"But I'm taking one of those cigars myself."
"You should," Joseph replied.
"They belong to your family after all."
When we returned with the cognac and the cigars, Joseph leaned back in his chair, lit the cigar slowly, and said:
"Now then."
"Where were we?"
"Ah yes."
"The rehabilitation centre."