by Blanca Miosi
“There’s a cleaning lady. And a boy who takes care of the yard. Sometimes he stays awhile and keeps me company. I have no fear of my true friends.”
“You’re going to have to tell the cleaning lady and the yard boy that you can no longer pay for their services. It would be best for your double not to have to deal with them.”
“That should be the easiest part,” Mengele quipped ironically. “Did you come into contact with the contents of the chest?” he asked suddenly.
“Yes...”
“For how long?”
“Does it matter?”
“For how long?” Mengele urged.
“The first time was only for a moment.”
“If you were in contact with what was in the case on more than one occasion, I fear, Count Contini-Massera, that you are in grave danger. It is highly radioactive. We need to make haste to see if I can reverse its effects.”
Claudio began to realize that his suspicions had been entirely and unfortunately founded.
“Make haste?”
“Do you have offspring?”
“I’ve never married.”
“I’m not talking about your civil status, Mr. Contini,” Mengele clarified with a wry smile. “If you don’t have children, you must begin thinking about having them. It doesn’t matter who the mother is. What matters is the fetus.”
“What are you saying?” Claudio asked. His face, typically jovial, clouded over with horror. “Do you mean for a woman to conceive of a child of mine just to sacrifice it?”
“If the idea seems dishonorable to you, we could try letting it get born and obtaining the umbilical cord, which we hope would be compatible with your organism. It’s the only way to save your life.”
“I refuse to sow wild oats.”
Mengele studied him through thick glasses. “In the studies I did in some Argentine laboratories where I was a partner, I left advanced experiments with stem cells. Do you know what those are?” Seeing Claudio’s expression, he continued, “They are cells that produce cells that are different than themselves. That is, they are undifferentiated cells capable of producing differentiated cells. Let me explain. The most powerful stem cell, the most potent, is the egg or zygote: the fertilized ovary. This one cell has the capacity to generate all the specific cells that will form the individual, the cells for the bones, the neurons, and so on. In the early stages of the embryo, they are nearly as potent as that first great stem cell. As the embryo grows and becomes a fetus, the stem cells are less and less powerful, in the sense that they can no longer achieve the production of any and all other types of cells; some stem cells produce other cell types. They are more specialized. We need them if we’re going to cure the leukemia you certainly have if you have been exposed to the radioactive isotope in the chest. It took me years to realize that the key to the definitive answer to all my research lay in the ovary cells, or stem cells.”
The man in front of Claudio was talking about human beings as if it were a matter of crossbreeding cattle to improve the race. He had no interest in going down that path but focused on what Mengele had said regarding his illness.
“I will have only one child. If the umbilical cord works, we’ll use it. If not, I’ll let my illness take its course.”
Mengele dropped his gaze and shook his head.
“How difficult for science to advance when there are so many prejudices. But, very well, it’s your life. I’m warning you: a cancer in the blood-forming cells could be counterproductive if you really want to benefit from the antiaging formula. It’s the x factor I mentioned. You will have to listen carefully and follow step by step all my instructions for the attempt to be effective.”
12
Villa Contini, Rome, Italy
1977
Claudio Contini-Massera, stretched out in his enormous bed in Villa Contini, could not take his mind off Carlota, his brother’s wife. If he only knew...he thought. But his brother had always been indolent in every sense of the word. He was content to live on handouts from their father, biding his time until he would inherit the family fortune. Carlota was doing the same. But it would never happen. Not because he, Claudio, did not want it to. Their father, Adriano, the head of the family, had made his decision and had told Claudio just the day before.
Nor did his brother Bruno know that the child his wife bore in her womb was not his. Claudio opened the second drawer in his nightstand and took out Carlota’s photo. He had loved her from the first day he had seen her running around the grounds of Villa Contini. Later she turned into a fifteen-year-old coquette who played at being a woman and flirted with the brothers. They soon realized that she was more of a woman than an adolescent, and the games turned into a constant struggle for her attention. Though Claudio knew she preferred him, Carlota had chosen Bruno.
“There’s a certain kind of woman, and the blood coursing through their veins is too hot,” Claudio’s nonna explained. “Take care with such women, Claudio, because they are not made for just one man.” Carlota apparently belonged to that class. Before she married his brother, Claudio had already possessed her, and she him, which was basically the same thing. He never asked her who had been her first. When he was with her, it really did not matter; he just wanted her. On the wedding night itself, Carlota escaped with him to one of the many rooms in the villa while the banquet carried on like a living portrayal of Bosch’s Earthly Delights. Bruno was making a show of one of his pet sins, stupidity. What could be better than passing out drunk on his wedding night?
The privilege of undressing the bride fell to Claudio, and he proceeded with parsimonious slowness, relishing it with all his senses. He knew very well she was his brother’s wife. The image that was burned into his mind’s eye that night was unforgettable, as unforgettable as the ache he had borne watching Carlota, bedecked in white, walk toward Bruno’s outstretched hands at the church. Claudio got even that night, waging the battle of his life without the slightest remorse, just as Bruno had no misgivings at marrying Claudio’s lifelong love. His trophy, Carlota, lay waiting like the Venus of Urbino, with her hair flowing free, her curves just right, her skin soft and satiny: all in stark contrast to the soul of ice buried within the body of a feral cat in heat. As Claudio made love to her, the priest’s words circled around his brain: “For richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health.... I pronounce you man and wife, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.... Amen.” His tears mingled with Carlota’s groans of pleasure. She had no idea that what he was doing right then was enacting a purification rite that climaxed when he later learned that she had conceived that night. The child of their night’s passion would unite him forever with the love of his life.
Nicholas Blohm
Manhattan, New York
November 10, 1999 – 2:00 a.m.
Though he desperately wanted to keep reading, Nicholas’ drooping eyes could take no more. He left the manuscript on the desk open to the page where he had trailed off. He went straight to bed and fell into a deep sleep. His last fleeting thought was that he should get up early and go photocopy the novel.
Every time she walked down the hallway, Linda saw the light pouring from under Nicholas’ door. She made up her mind to go in once it was dark. Eaten alive with curiosity to know what the book was about, she waited until he was sound asleep. She cared little for literature itself. Her motives were simple: she wanted to know what was so important about this novel that it had become her rival.
Ten minutes later, she turned the knob and crept into the room. He was sleeping like a baby and had not even bothered to pull up the covers. The manuscript was lying open on the desk. She approached cautiously, took it, and went out. She was careful to put a bookmark where Nicholas had left off, and she started reading from the start.
“Untitled.” That was the first thing she saw. It seemed odd, but even more odd was that Nicholas’ name was nowhere on the page.
CHAPTER 1
Once she had left the beach, while alre
ady ascending the wooden staircase, she realized she had left her reading glasses. She retraced her steps huffily but could not locate her “other eyes,” as she referred to her glasses. It annoyed her to no end that she had to use them, but until she had the money for contacts.... When she got to the place where she had been stretched out reading, she was shocked to see a crab burying the glasses under the sand. In the blink of an eye they disappeared, and though she swept the sand away, dug down, and jammed her hand into the hole left by the crab, she could not find them. She sat and wept in frustration. She did not have another pair, and she could not work without them. She could not do anything. She cursed the nasty creature and cursed herself for having gone to the beach to read in the first place.
Linda stopped reading. His great novel was about a burglar crab? She made a herculean effort to control the guffaw rising in her throat. What about Mengele and his formula for eternal youth? Nicholas was so full of shit. So this story was her supposed rival. She had no desire to keep reading. She was, in truth, a terrible reader. Linda preferred TV, going to the movies, or anything besides wasting hours in front of pieces of paper. She thought it was the most boring thing in the world, a complete loss of time, though her habits were hardly any more noble. She wasted time on one trivial activity after another.
She put the manuscript back where she found it and returned to the room Nicholas had assigned to her.
As soon as he awoke, Nicholas looked for the manuscript. He sighed with relief to see it was still open on the desk. He was afraid the story he had been reading would have disappeared; at the same time, he was surprised it had not changed yet since that seemed to be the manuscript’s pattern.
He yawned, stretched, and grabbed the manuscript to keep reading. It was blank. His heart skipped a beat. He flipped the pages back and forth, but there was nothing, not even one line. He closed it, hoping to repeat the ritual from the beginning, but when he opened it again, it remained blank. There was no other story; everything had simply vanished.
He stumbled out of the room and ran into Linda.
“What’s going on?” she asked, seeing him as pale as if a vampire had sucked all his blood.
“It got erased.”
“What?”
“The manuscript got erased.”
“Had you written a lot? Don’t you have it on the computer?”
“No. I don’t have it anywhere. It was the best novel, the novel of a lifetime...”
“About the burglar crab?”
Nicholas stared at her. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, nothing.”
Nicholas grabbed her arm and studied her face. “What are you talking about? What have you done?”
“Me? Nothing. I just went to sleep. I don’t get it. How can you write a novel and not have a copy in your files if it really was, like you keep saying, the best thing you’ve written?”
“I don’t have a copy! The novel got erased! What part of that do you not understand?” He stormed into his room, grabbed the blank manuscript, and waved it in her face. “Look, there’s nothing here!”
Linda took it from him and flipped the pages. “That’s unbelievable. The stuff I read isn’t here. Are you sure this is the same manuscript?”
“Did you say ‘stuff you read’? Linda, if you did something to my novel, I swear I’ll...”
“Nicholas, calm down, it’s ok. Last night I went in your room to get the manuscript. All I read was one paragraph about a crab that hid a woman’s glasses in the sand. It didn’t seem very good to me, so I put it back where it was.”
“Oh, God, so it was you...”
“I swear, Nicholas, I didn’t do anything to it. I left everything like it was,” she insisted.
Nicholas wheeled around and shut himself in his room. He had to, to keep himself from committing some atrocity. He looked at the manuscript on the desk. The sheen of the silver green binding seemed to mock him with a wink. He went up close and studied it. He closed it, opened it again; but nothing changed. He went out and found Linda.
“I need you to leave right now.”
“Nicholas...I don’t have anywhere to go.”
“Please, don’t make me kick you out. I need to be alone, completely alone.”
“Just give me a couple of hours. Let me make a few calls. You can’t do this to me.”
“Oh, yes, I can.” He stood thinking for a moment. “I’m going out, Linda. I don’t want to see you here when I get back. And leave your key.”
He grabbed the manuscript and left.
He hoped to find the little man at the cemetery, though he had no idea why. That man had no powers over the manuscript. But he could not think rationally right then. He just wanted to talk with the man, tell him about it, share his woes.
No one was there when he arrived. The bench was empty except for a pigeon who took off as soon as Nicholas approached. He sat down, and his eyes looked in vain for some sign in the spiral-bound sheets in front of him. Suddenly he knew what he had to do. He would write the novel himself. After all, I’m a writer, aren’t I? he thought. But it would be difficult to emulate whoever had invented the story about the chest. Italy...Claudio Contini-Massera, Armenia and the catacombs.... Where could he find the information? Online, of course, but where else? He had to get information. He hoped Linda would not be there when he got home. She had done enough damage already. He felt no remorse for throwing her to the curb. She was the cause of his problems, both before and now.
He was relieved to see no sign of Linda’s presence when he let himself in the apartment. He went straight to the computer and did the first thing that occurred to him: he typed “Claudio Contini-Massera” in the search engine.
To his surprise, an entire page of results flashed up.
“Count Claudio Contini-Massera, renowned millionaire entrepreneur, died yesterday, Wednesday, November 10, 1999. His remains will be buried in a private mausoleum, in Villa Contini. His nephew, Dante Contini-Massera, whom many consider to be the deceased’s heir, is currently in Rome and...”
Nicholas could not believe his eyes. The people in the novel that had been written more than three months ago were real; and what was more, they were doing the very things he had read in the manuscript. In other words...the idea flashed loud and clear like a giant neon sign in his head: everything in the manuscript was true. The secret, the formula, the catacombs, Mengele’s research into the formula for eternal youth...
With his heart nearly beating out of his chest, Nicholas kept reading and found more information about the life of the deceased Claudio Contini-Massera.
He had to go to Rome. He had to meet Dante and Brother Martucci; he had to finish writing their story. How much did he have in his bank account? He checked online and saw the balance: $3,400. It was not much. And in Europe, it would be even less. He had a few credit cards. He would leave that very night if he could. He could not lose Dante’s trail. He recalled the important date: November 12, in the Non-Catholic Cemetery in Rome.
Nicholas Blohm
Non-Catholic Cemetery, Rome, Italy
November 12, 1999 – 10:30 AM
The taxi dropped him off right at the cemetery entrance. Nicholas went inside and passed the time studying the unkempt graves and the hordes of cats that seemed to have taken over the place. He glanced at his watch and headed back to the entrance. Any minute now the silver Maserati would show up and park as close as humanly possible to one of the walls. Nicholas had come straight from the airport to be able to catch Dante and Martucci. He had to fight down a shout of triumph as he heard the soft purr of Dante’s car approaching. He was staring right at the people in his novel. Everything was exactly as he had imagined when reading it. They got out of the car and walked into the cemetery; he stayed about twenty steps behind but avidly studied and took mental notes on the two men ahead of him.
“Now they’ll stop under a tree, talk, and after a while Dante will back away from Martucci. He’ll sit on a tombstone and grab his head
with his hands. Then the monk will go up to him,” Nicholas murmured. And, at that precise moment, the tall, thin Brother Martucci slowly approached Dante.
Nicholas waited, letting himself do no more than watch. He knew step by step exactly what they were going to do, even what they were saying and what each was feeling. He waited for them to walk back up toward the mausoleum, and he moved further into the brush to follow without being so obvious. He studied Dante, who was a bit taller than Martucci, with light brown hair and an athletic build. Nicholas admired his elegant demeanor, his body language so clearly Mediterranean, just like the monk’s. In his curiosity, Nicholas blew his cover. Then he realized that when Dante saw him, he would take him for just another American tourist. He left the shelter of the trees and went straight to the cemetery exit. He had to be ready to follow Dante, had to find a way to approach him. But how? Dante was one of the most powerful men in Italy. Or he soon will be. I’ll be a journalist, Nicholas decided. He still had his New York Times ID from his stint as a columnist until two months ago.
He hailed a cab. “Please, wait just a moment,” he told the driver, hoping to be understood. The taxi driver apparently understood English. He started the meter and waited patiently. “Follow the Maserati, please. From a distance.”
Nicholas felt the driver’s gaze. For a moment he thought the man would refuse, but he complied. The Maserati headed toward downtown Rome and stopped on a narrow street. The monk got out, and the car proceeded. It did not stop until they came to Villa Contini, on the outskirts of the city. After passing through the entrance with the stone lions, Nicholas saw from a distance that an iron gate closed behind Dante’s car. He wondered where it, as well as the watchtower he now observed, had come from. The manuscript had not mentioned them.
