by Blanca Miosi
“Are you saying that these documents were in the catacombs?”
“Precisely, signore. I found them by accident. But along with the documents was a little chest. And I fear we should have left it undisturbed.”
“Brother Martucci, please speak more plainly.”
“The strangest part is that the inscription I found in the catacombs was engraved in ancient Armenian, which at first made me think that it all had to do with the remains of a cleric,” he continued, heedless of my request.
“And then there’s the coincidence that you just happen to be an expert in that language,” I threw in, a bit worn out by his display of knowledge.
“Exactly, Don Dante. Precisely. It was a very strange inscription that did not belong there, given that it did not mention the name of any dead person. It was just a few words: ‘Here it is. Whoever does not understand its meaning will die.’ There was a Latin cross, and underneath, it said, ‘May divine wrath fall upon the desecrator.’ There were little symbols that looked like lightning bolts carved into the four corners. At first I couldn’t figure out what they were, since in Armenia you can find early swastikas and crosses dating from over nine thousand years before Christ. Later, after I had seen the contents, I understood they were Nazi swastikas. On that occasion I left the place without touching anything, and the first thing that occurred to me was to call my good friend, your Uncle Claudio. He was extremely interested in what I had to report, and he came to see me in Armenia.”
I could not stop smiling. My uncle was playing an extremely elaborate joke on me. Well played. It also occurred to me that the monk was perhaps seeking to relieve me of some money in exchange for a marvelous hidden secret somewhere deep in Armenia.
“Look, Brother Martucci, I don’t think I’m the one you’re looking for. You and my uncle were barking up the wrong tree. I don’t see what any of this has to do with me, and I’m not even sure he wrote this letter. How do I know it’s not just some cheap scheme to rob me blind? I should tell you from the get-go that I’m completely broke.”
He responded, “I know that, and your uncle did, too, before he died. But don’t worry, the two million he gave you for America have been recovered.”
That hammerblow knocked me out completely. Who was this man?
He must have seen my shock, because he hastened to add, “Your stockbroker was a swindler. If you read the news you’d know he’s behind bars now. We’ve followed you, Don Dante. It was your uncle’s idea. He was a good man but hated losing money. Remember your little friend, the flower shop owner? She introduced you to this Jorge Rodríguez, whom you trusted blindly. Ms. Irene is a dangerous woman. Her Colombian flower business is a cover for something much less benign.”
With that, he knocked the wind out of me again. I staggered to the closest tomb and sat on the gravestone. A cat jumped from somewhere nearby, hissed at me, and then scampered off. Brother Martucci stayed where he was for a moment and then moved toward me.
I was digging my hands into my forehead, trying to make sure I really did exist. I heard the monk’s approach and stared at the worn tips of his shoes.
“Believe me, signore Dante, I don’t need your money. I have plenty, but, even so, I live practically as an ascetic. Books are my life. What I’m doing now is at the request of my friend Claudio. He was the only one of the Contini-Masseras to treat me like family. Did you know he wanted to leave part of his fortune to me? But what would I do with all that money? So instead he made a generous donation to the church I belong to, the Order of the Holy Sepulchre. Thanks to that, I am now an abbot; and I could have been an archbishop! Money opens all kinds of doors. But it comes weighed with complex responsibilities. On the other hand, I am happy just as I am. I took the vow of humility years ago.”
“Brother Martucci, you need to know who I am. I only finished school because I had to. I’ve gotten used to thinking that someday I’d receive an inheritance. I don’t have the basic skills to get along in life, much less be in charge of a secret I can’t even understand.”
“Well, your uncle must have thought very differently about you. He knew he was going to die, and he wanted to leave you something very valuable to him, more important than his entire fortune.”
“I sort of get what you’re talking about, but why all the mystery?”
“It’s not for my sake, Don Dante. It’s for yours, to keep you safe. It wouldn’t have bothered me a bit to have you come by the abbey or have talked right there in front of everybody on the villa grounds. But the fewer people who know we are connected, the safer you’ll be.”
“I know he loved me like the son he never had. But he stopped coming to our house. I think that when my grandfather died, he had a falling out with my mother about the inheritance that would’ve gone to my father if he’d still been living. That’s when all the problems with my mom started. I was the only one who went to see him. Quentin would take me.”
“Claudio’s father was very careful with his belongings. Begging your pardon, he most certainly knew to whom he should leave them,” Martucci explained.
“Oh, forget the demure; I know what my mother is like. But Uncle Claudio had no right to abandon us. Every time I went to see him I felt like I was committing some terrible sin. I was forbidden to speak with him until I stood up to my mother.” Remembering it all opened up a pit of sadness in my stomach.
“He never abandoned any of you. He took care of you all, though he never treated your mother like before. And, on that matter, I think it’s time for you to know something very important: your mother and your Uncle Claudio were more than in-laws. You are the son of my good friend Claudio. You have his blood.”
Martucci rested his eyes on me, apparently expecting me to react visibly. But this news was worth more than a facial expression or a lift of the eyebrows. I just sat there, dumbstruck, as thousands of thoughts swirled around my brain. So far the day had been like walking into the Book of Revelation. What I had always longed for was true. Right then, after his death, I learn that the man I had most loved and respected was actually my father. That my mother had been in love with him did not phase me in the least. Many times I had thought that they could have been together. Why had they not gotten married?
“Did you hear me?” Martucci asked.
“Yes, I heard you.”
“Claudio Contini-Massera was in love with your mother his whole life. But she chose his brother, Bruno. Bruno was the eldest and, therefore, stood to inherit the lion’s share of the family fortune. Yet your uncle and your mother continued seeing each other, and that is how you were conceived, signore mío. When your father died, their love continued. From what he told me, I presumed they would get married, but Donna Carlota never truly loved Claudio. I don’t think she’s capable of loving anyone. Forgive me for speaking like this della sua mamma, but it’s the truth. One day Claudio showed up and found her in bed with a much younger man, one of the many she liked to bring home, and he had had enough. Claudio was the executor of the small fortune you inherited from your father, and she had to accept whatever my good friend allowed for her upkeep. Even so, she got more than what had been set aside for her.”
Things began to fall into place. Uncle Claudio had been my father, which is why he had acted like a father. I was his spitting image. Probably everyone else had already realized the truth, and I was the last one to figure things out. Martucci, at times inexpressive, seemed at war with himself to conceal his concern, as if at all costs he wanted to keep me from knowing how he felt.
“There’s one more little thing, signore, but, before I tell you, I need you to promise me that it will stay between us.”
By that time I would have sworn to anything.
“I promise.”
“As I already said, you are the son of Claudio, and you are also the son of your mother, Donna Carlota. However, she thinks you are neither her son nor Claudio’s son.”
It was too much. I took a few steps back to be able to size him up fully. He was,
without a doubt, insane.
6
Non-Catholic Cemetery, Rome
November 12, 1999
“I know that what I’m saying sounds absurd, signore Dante, but there is an explanation. Claudio wanted to have a son, and he got your mother, Donna Carlota, pregnant while she was married to Bruno. Nine months later, she gave birth, but the newborn was presented to her dead. Sometime later, when you were two years old, your father, Claudio, brought you to your mother, Carlota, acting as if you were just an abandoned child he’d picked up off the streets. ‘To replace the child you lost,’ he explained, and Bruno accepted the boy willingly. He was always a good-hearted man. Sua mamma, however, was more reluctant, thinking you were the product of an affair Claudio might have had. Over time he convinced your mother that you were the son of a distant cousin who lived in Switzerland, a girl too young to care for you,” Martucci finished explaining, overlooking my stupor.
“What you’re telling me is unbelievable. Why all the mystery? It just doesn’t make any sense…”
Martucci interrupted, “No one could know that you were the son of Claudio Contini-Massera. Especially not your mother. Your life would have been in too much danger.” He paused for a breath and then continued, “Remember the note you just read? I was there when he wrote it. It talks about some signs you should recognize. Ah, there is so much to tell you! And everything goes back to what we found in Armenia.”
“Ok, then, please, start at the beginning and lay it all out for me slowly,” I pleaded, digging deep for patience.
“Yes, that’s what we’ll do. I made the mistake of mentioning the inscription I’d found to my friend Claudio. He has always been an incredibly persuasive man, and, to be honest, it didn’t take much to convince me to do it. I’m talking about what happened in Armenia. One night we went to the catacombs of the old monastery. According to our calculations we were about fifty feet underground, maybe more; it’s hard to tell since the way down winds all around, up and down, back and forth. Against my better judgment, Claudio broke the flagstone with the inscription. In the niche behind it lay a small chest seemingly embedded in the rock. I did not dare touch it. I feared that doing so would call divine wrath down upon my head. But Claudio didn’t even flinch. He yanked it out. Something strange happened. Within seconds of having it in his hands, he dropped it as if the fire of hell itself were burning him. There was also a tube with documents inside.”
The monk mechanically smoothed down his sparse hair, and I noticed the tremor in his hands. His enlarged, owl-like pupils seemed to grow even wider. Then he lapsed into a fit of coughing.
“I didn’t take enough atropine,” he explained. “I’ve had asthma ever since...” His words trailed off, and he remained silent as his eyes, suddenly weary, stared blankly at the nearby tombstones.
“Everything you’ve said is all very interesting, but I don’t see where I come into play,” I prompted.
“Your Uncle Claudio wanted you to keep the documents and the chest. He said you were the right one for them. Believe me, their contents are powerful, even...monstrous. I fear they were part of what led to his death. He was a stubborn man. He refused to return the chest to its place, so we brought it with us, despite my reservations. And ever since then, Claudio was never the same. A kind of madness took hold of him.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, curious.
“When I translated part of the documents, which were in Latin, we learned that they were detailed notes about genetic research. And your father, Claudio, or your uncle, however you want to call him, became obsessed with finding their author. He truly believed he could find a way to extend life and stay young. That was over twenty-five years ago.”
Brother Martucci watched me again for a reaction. And, again, I felt myself being examined. From the moment I had crossed paths with Martucci since my return to Rome, I had known I was the object of study to a degree usually reserved only for the rarest of species. His strange gaze made it clear that he did not care how obvious he was in his observations, and that annoyed me. It bothered me that a stranger wanted to know my innermost feelings. Yet I had to admit he had gotten my attention, despite how confusing it all was.
“But now my uncle lies in his tomb, and there’s no cure for death.”
“You don’t understand. Your father rests in peace thanks to you.”
Nothing was making sense. I gave him the kind of condescending smile reserved for the mentally infirm and headed for the exit. I sensed him following behind, and I turned to invite him to walk beside me. But Francesco Martucci grabbed hold of my wrist with disarming strength.
“You must listen to me! This is not a joke, and I am not mad!” He hissed fiercely. “A very important part of the documents are missing, and if you are smart enough and worthy of the legacy of Claudio Contini-Massera, you will know how to find it. The rest of your life depends on it, do you understand me?”
“No! I don’t understand a damn thing! I don’t want to hear any more about this ridiculous nonsense. Forgive me, Abbot Martucci, but this whole time you’ve just been throwing out meaningless arguments. You bring me here to give me a note from my uncle, or maybe my father, that doesn’t say hardly anything except that I’m supposed to trust you. And I can’t do that until you explain exactly what all this is about. Stop saying cryptic things like ‘Your father rests in peace thanks to you,’ and just tell me what the hell is going on. A good place to start is why you’re worried about my safety.”
Nicholas Blohm
Manhattan, New York
November 10, 1999
To his dismay, Nicholas had to stop reading. Dusk was creeping over the cemetery. He took the precaution of folding the manuscript back instead of shutting it, turning the part he had just read into the cover. He headed back home annoyed at Linda’s impending arrival. She could not have chosen a worse time to come. He keenly wanted to keep reading the manuscript, to finish before the words disappeared and were replaced by a different story. Tomorrow he would photocopy it. Why had he not thought of that earlier?
A little more light-hearted with this prospect, he bounced up the three flights of stairs to his apartment and noticed a light coming from under the door. Linda must have arrived. He despised her punctuality as never before.
“Hello, sweetie!” Linda gushed, puckering her lips. “Thank God I still had my key!”
“Hi.... How was your trip?”
“Oh, is that what you’ve been writing?” she pointed to the bundle under Nicholas’ arm.
“This? Uh, yeah.”
“Can I read it?”
“No! I mean, not yet. I need to make some corrections. It’s not finished.” Nicholas’ nerves were getting the best of him.
“Ok, fine, you don’t have to yell about it. I just wanted to know what it was about.”
Linda sat on one of the two chairs in the small living room and crossed her legs. She was barefoot and wore cut-off shorts. Her snug-fitting t-shirt stopped just short of her waist, showing off the flat line of her midriff. At any other time Nicholas would have tackled her and taken her to bed. But not tonight. He was too afraid to let the manuscript go.
He sat on the armchair in front of her and tried to concoct a story coherent enough to satisfy her curiosity, though he doubted she actually wanted to know what he had supposedly been writing.
“There’s this guy who, when his uncle dies—the uncle is a bigshot Italian millionaire—gets a chest that holds a secret. A priest, who’s the uncle’s friend, gives it to him, and the priest also helps him figure out the chest’s power. The chest was discovered in the catacombs of an ancient monastery in Armenia, along with some documents that came from a Nazi scientist.”
“That sounds amazing.” Linda actually seemed interested. Her response calmed Nicholas down a bit. She was perched on the edge of her chair, elbows on her knees and hands cupping her chin, clearly waiting for him to go on.
“You really think so?”
“Yeah, of course. I
t doesn’t sound like your other novels. Where’d you get the idea?”
“Maybe solitude is good company,” he responded without thinking.
“So who was the Nazi scientist?” she asked, overlooking the remark.
“A doctor who did a lot of experiments.”
“Wait, don’t tell me: Mengele? ‘Josef Mengele, Angel of Death,’” she added in a theatrical doomsday voice.
“Well, yeah...that’s him,” Nicholas answered, annoyed. He was not going to let on that he had no idea who it was. It seemed odd that Linda would know about a German scientist. “What do you know about Mengele?”
“I saw a documentary about him. He sewed a set of twins together to see what would happen. He was the scum of the earth. What was the secret inside the chest?”
“The secret to eternal youth,” Nicholas answered quickly. He did not know what compelled him to say that, but it was not a bad idea. Later he would figure out how to dodge Linda’s curiosity, which was altogether atypical. She had never been very interested in his writing.
“This might be your best novel yet.”
“I think so, too.”
“I’m going to take a shower. I ordered Chinese. It should be here soon. Can you get it?” With a deft tug, Linda pulled off her shirt and headed for the bathroom, naked from the waist up.
Nicholas took the opportunity to glance back at the manuscript. Everything was just as he had left it. He folded it back again and took it to his room. Making sure to keep the last page he had read open as the cover, he hid it in the bottom desk drawer. The doorbell rang, and he went to get the Chinese food. He pulled out a bill and told the delivery boy to keep the change. What a luxury! But the day deserved it. Nicholas was euphoric. It was a good novel, and it would be his, all his. The author was deader than Claudio Contini-Massera, Nicholas mused. He set the table and waited for Linda. She emerged from the bathroom in his robe, as was her custom. He had never understood why she preferred to wear his clothes. At first he had liked it, but now it was just annoying. He held his tongue, though. He had to find the right moment to tell her it was over.
