The Manuscript I the Secret

by Blanca Miosi

  “You could do that without his help.”

  “Yes, but I have no idea where to start.”

  “And the American thinks he can help you?”

  “He said he remembered everything that was written down and that the keys were there.”

  Francesco Martucci rubbed his chin as he paced the room and stared hard at the floor.

  “You realize that if the American helps find the keys he will also have access to the priceless formula?”

  “Yes, but he wouldn’t necessarily be able to make use of it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t think he knows the ending of ‘the novel,’” I said, trying not to sound too ironic. “I get to write my own ending. I don’t mean literally, of course, but I’m the one who makes things happen.”

  “You are not a character in a novel, Dante,” Martucci hammered home, impatiently.

  “I know, I know. I’m just putting myself in his shoes. He’s read part of a manuscript where I show up. After that, I make the things happen. It’s like being free, don’t you see?”

  “From what I’m hearing, you’re going to let the American help you.”

  “When I think about it like that, yes. It’s actually kind of exciting.”

  “You’re starting to talk like Claudio, andiamo! But this is no game, Don Dante!”

  “Calm down, Martucci. I think I know how to handle this. The American might turn out to be useful. In any case, I need you to go along with it. For the sake of my father, your good friend Claudio, you must promise me you’ll follow through on the deal we’re about to make.”

  Martucci looked at me with those strange eyes, sizing me up. But there was something underneath his apparently conscientious air that he could not conceal. I sensed fear as he shrugged in intended indifference.

  “A deal...”

  “Are you scared to give your word?”

  “That’s not what I’m afraid of.”

  “What, then?”

  “I’m afraid of dying before I can follow through,” Martucci said somberly.

  “Nonsense! We’re all going to die some day!”

  “I know. But I have reason to believe that it might happen before I would wish.”

  “You mean because of the radiation?”

  “I had much less exposure to it. Claudio had a great deal more, and more than once.”

  “Where is the chest now?”

  “I have it in safe keeping. Believe me, for your safety, it’s better for you not to know.”

  That was all I needed to know. I explained my plan to Brother Martucci and he, as I had anticipated, agreed. He crossed himself three times, looked up toward the sky, and shocked me by blurting out, “Oh, what the hell!”

  I took him back downtown and left him at a street corner.

  The Will

  “Your mother called. She said it was urgent.” Fabio gave me the message as soon as I walked into the room.

  As usual, my mother was having an emergency. I predicted she wanted to talk about the reading of the will and was soon proven correct. I dialed her number and almost immediately heard the deep inflections and elegant tones of the voice she reserved for giving commands.

  “Don’t forget the reading is tomorrow at ten. The lawyers told everyone involved to be at their office. You know where it is, right?” she inquired as if I were incapable of following directions.

  “Yes, mother. I’ll be there.”

  My anxiety returned. After the reading of the will, I knew that sooner or later I would have to face the Business’ board of directors, this time as the representative of Claudio Contini-Massera. What could he have been thinking when he decided to put me in charge of everything? The weight of the responsibility and of how much it must have meant to him overwhelmed me. I longed to be able to fill his shoes. At that moment, that was my most sincere wish.

  Fabianni, Estupanelli & Condotti, the firm that held Uncle Claudio’s will, was on the top floor of a building adjacent to the Piazza Navona. At ten o’clock we all gathered in a meeting room with Fabianni at the head of the table. Estupanelli, Condotti, and two other men I thought I recognized as part of the Business were at his side. My sister and my mother were seated facing me.

  “Mr. Bernini and Mr. Figarelli are members of the law firm representing the Business, and they’ve brought the company’s financial review.” Fabianni made the introductions. “We’ll begin with the reading of the will.”

  My mother nodded impatiently, and Fabianni opened the huge folder on the table before him. It was labeled, “CLAUDIO CONTINI-MASSERA. LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT.”

  An assistant distributed copies “so we could all be on the same page,” Fabianni explained.

  I read along while listening to him. The will clearly stated that I would inherit the totality of my uncle’s goods, including his title of nobility. There were small legacies for my mother and my sister that would allow them to live well, though not quite as comfortably as they had up to now. I think that was why my mother screwed her face up and arched her eyes as if to ask if there had been some mistake.

  There was hardly time to pay attention to the will. As soon as Fabianni finished reading, he said that Bernini would explain the Business’ financial situation.

  “The Business, the company led by Mr. Claudio Contini-Massera as founder and chief shareholder, has assets valued at approximately three billion dollars. However...the Business is over four billion dollars in debt.”

  I thought I must have misheard. I was glued to my chair, unable to lift a finger. Paralysis set in. My mother, on the other hand, jumped up immediately.

  “What kind of joke is this? That can’t be!”

  I hoped with all my heart that it was a joke, but something told me it was the truth. I could feel Uncle Claudio’s marble gravestone sliding closed above my head.

  “Mother, calm down,” my sister said.

  “Elsa, I cannot calm down. This just can’t be. There must be some explanation.”

  “There is, signora,” Bernini said emphatically. Then he looked at me. “In the past, Claudio Contini-Massera earned millions in the stock market; however, he also contracted significant debts. When interest rates started to rise, he thought it would pass and that they would soon go back down, and he kept buying long-term bonds. The banks gave him credit based on his reputation, but he continued investing in high risk ventures, and the loans became impossible to repay after refinancing. You must not forget there were also earnings, extremely high earnings. But they did not pass through the Business...which would indicate that he was embezzling from his own company. In short: he financed the purchase of securities using as a guarantee the securities he had already bought; that is, he was operating illegally. Unfortunately, interest rates spiked in one of the highest increases in financial history, and his loans could not cover the accumulated debt.”

  “And where exactly did these extremely high earnings you mentioned end up?”

  “We don’t know, Donna Contini.”

  I knew. I knew without a shadow of a doubt that all that money went to financing the research into Mengele’s damned formula.

  “What you’re saying is that we’re not going to get a single cent.”

  “You and your daughter will, yes, signora. There is a separate bank account for you, held in trust and administered by the lawyers. You will receive a monthly sum. Do not worry.”

  “Oh, of course not,” my mother responded with a sarcastic smile. She stood, gave my sister a loud glance, and left without saying goodbye. Before following, Elsa put a hand on my shoulder. “It’ll be ok, Dante. We’ll figure something out.” She kissed my cheek and left.

  I turned to Fabianni. His good-natured features gave me a look not unlike condolence at a funeral. And I had already had enough of that to go around.

  “Mr. Contini-Massera, you might want to know that your uncle mortgaged Villa Contini, but he made a deal with the bank, and you can continue to occupy it for one year.�
��

  I paid little attention to what he said. I only registered that I could at least stay for now. I sought out Bernini, who seemed to shrink from my gaze.

  “Mr. Bernini, tomorrow at nine o’clock in the morning I would like to talk with the Business’ board of directors. I’d like everyone to be present.”

  He looked at me as if I were a ghost.

  “May I inquire regarding the purpose of the meeting?”

  “I need to tell them we’re bankrupt.”

  “They already know. And they are taking the necessary precautions...”

  “With your help, I suppose.”

  Bernini stayed silent when he saw my face. Perhaps I reminded him of Uncle Claudio.

  “I do not believe a meeting will be necessary, sir...”

  “I’m not asking your permission, Mr. Bernini. I want everyone there tomorrow, including you gathered here. I have something very important to tell you all.”

  I did not wait for their response. I bid farewell and marched out, a la Uncle Claudio.

  On the way back to the villa, I called Martucci. He was literally speechless when I told him I was more broke than before.

  “Martucci, you said that the two million my uncle had recovered from the stock broker were in safe keeping.”

  “They are, Dante. And at your disposal, in my account.”

  “At least they’ll get me through what I’m planning to do.”

  “Is it what I think?”

  “I’m going on a treasure hunt!” My joke was a desperate attempt to lighten the mood.

  “Do you know anyone you can trust to keep the money? Remember you can’t have much cash in your accounts. It will be confiscated.”

  I thought of Quentin, good and faithful Quentin who had stayed in the apartment in New York.

  “Yes. I’ll call you later today to give you the account number, Brother Martucci. You can make the transfer tomorrow.”

  That night I had to get in touch with Quentin, and Nicholas Blohm would be contacting me. He just might be the man to help me save the Business. But I could not let him know that, or else his demands would surely become impossible to meet.

  Finally I had time to sit and study the documents Martucci had given me. I opened the tube and smoothed out the sheets carefully. They were written chronologically in Latin with notes in German. The first sheet, though, was a rather cryptic note in Uncle Claudio’s handwriting:

  Dear Dante, keep the documents in the safe. I hope you remember the combination. I wish you all the luck in the world, and I also appeal to your memory: Meester snyt die keye ras / myne name is lubbert das. If that’s not enough, I call upon the Red Book. And remember: letters and prime numbers should be stored like treasure. Trust the people closest to you.

  I realized then just how much he believed in me. I was not qualified to judge him. He must have had very compelling reasons to run the Business into the ground, and it was my duty not to run away and hide from it all. I read his words again, but my memory was no help. Why did he leave everything in clues instead of just telling me plainly what he wanted? We had talked so much, so often! What Red Book was he talking about?

  Obviously, my mind was not clear enough to think through a riddle. Martucci thought I would know it, but I drew nothing but blanks. I left the documents in the safe and put Uncle Claudio’s note on the desk, within view. I called my apartment in New York. At the third ring, Quentin’s calm voice answered.

  “Quentin?”

  “Don Dante, how wonderful to hear from you.”

  “Uncle Claudio died.”

  “I’m so sorry, Don Dante...” His voice seemed ready to crack.

  “Thank you, Quentin. I don’t know when I’ll be back to New York. I’ve got several fires to put out here. Please, could you tell me the number of your checking account so I can make a transfer?” He gave me the details, and right then, for the first time, I learned his last name. After all these years, I learned I was talking to Quentin Falconi.

  “When it clears, Quentin, I need you to write a check and deliver it in person.” I gave him instructions about finding Irene and could breathe easy on that point at least. She had loaned me five thousand dollars, and I would repay her ten, as I had promised. I know I was in no state to go throwing money around, but I had given my word, and I did not want any trouble with Irene.

  “Very well, Don Dante. I’ll await the transfer and follow your instructions.”

  I felt I owed him an explanation. Old Quentin was there all alone, practically abandoned in a foreign country, and who knew how much longer he would have to stay.

  “Quentin, it’s very important that you stay there. I’m going to need to be moving money through your bank account, you see? It’s nothing under the table, just a measure of security.”

  “As you say, Don Dante. Don’t worry; I’ll take care of your money as I always have.”

  “And, please, pay yourself what I owe you. I know you’ve been covering expenses with your savings.”

  Knowing Quentin, I was sure he would feel horrified by my suggestion. I was so grateful to have him in my service—another thing Uncle Claudio got right.

  When Martucci called that night, I gave him the routing number to wire the two million. Quentin would send me money in small transfers through Western Union as I needed it, to keep it out of my bank accounts. I checked the time. It was after seven, and Nicholas Blohm was sure to call at any moment. I had no sooner thought it than the butler appeared and announced, “Mr. Nicholas Blohm for you, Mr. Dante.” He handed me the phone.

  “Good evening, Mr. Blohm.”

  “Mr. Contini, how long are you going to keep me kidnapped in this hotel?”

  “You’re free to move about as you please. Surely you have a key to the room...”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “What hotel are you staying in?”

  “The Hotel Viennese.”

  “What’s the address? I’ll send someone for you.”

  “It’s on Via Marsala, right by the Roma Termini station.”

  “Very well. Please wait in the lobby for Nelson and bring your bags. We have much to discuss.”

  “My suitcase is in a locker at the airport.”

  “He’ll take you wherever you need to go.”

  The Key

  Nicholas Blohm was the prototype of the American man, at least the way I saw them. With shocking ease they barge into places they have no business being; they act like the world is free and for the taking and that they can turn it into whatever they want it to be. And all of it is based on an appeal to the famous freedom of expression, which they use indiscriminately and which has spread like a plague over the Western world. Not that I am against said liberty, but it bothers me to no end the way Americans broadcast to the world the intimate secrets of a private individual all in the name of freedom. They are capable of anything as long as the price is right. Rather, I should say, as long as the price and the notoriety are right. And there was zero chance that I was going to allow this American to get rich at my expense. But I needed his “services” and therefore had to conduct myself with diplomacy.

  I admit it was a bit painful to see him cringing beside Nelson. Unkempt, he was wearing clothes at least one size too large underneath the black leather jacket from the day before. It was rather well-worn but fit perfectly with his personality. His expression was reminiscent of a dog accustomed to beatings. His dark brows drooped and made him look sad; yet the clear blue eyes underneath were sharp. They were the eyes of a type of intelligence reserved for those who work with their brains, not their hands.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Blohm. How are you feeling?”

  “Never been better. Could you give me back the manuscript?” Nicholas responded, looking toward the desk.

  I handed it to him, and he clutched it to his chest.

  “Nelson, tell Fabio to take Mr. Blohm’s suitcase to his room,” I ordered the bodyguard. Nicholas seemed unfazed. “Mr. Blohm, I thou
ght we might reach an agreement.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You say that you have the key to finding the missing piece of my Uncle Claudio’s formula. If that turns out to be the case, I give you permission to write your novel using our story. I think that is fair.”

  I could sense the excitement growing in him at the prospect. Yet he acted to the contrary. He got up from his chair and paced back and forth in silence. Suddenly he stopped short and put the manuscript on the desk.

  “Do you have the sheet of paper, the note?”

  I remembered that he knew as much about the documents as he had read in the manuscript. I went to the desk and showed it to him. He held it in his hands as if it were a first edition Old Testament written by God himself. He touched only the corners and placed it carefully back on the desk. He studied Uncle Claudio’s words for a long time.

  Dear Dante, keep the documents in the safe. I hope you remember the combination. I wish you all the luck in the world, and I also appeal to your memory: Meester snyt die keye ras / myne name is lubbert das. If that’s not enough, I call upon the Red Book. And remember: letters and prime numbers should be stored like treasure. Trust the people closest to you.

  Despite the personal nature of the instructions, I thought it best that he should read them. Perhaps the key lay therein.

  “Your uncle certainly places a lot of stock in your memory. He says it over and over. It was in the manuscript, too. I think the key is in the way he taught you to read. I remember he used to sing you a little singsong ditty.”

  “Right! That’s how I memorized the letters: ‘A, plus B, plus C, plus D..., is 1, plus 2, plus 3, plus 4...,” I sang, diving into my memory.

  “Exactly. That’s just what it said in the manuscript,” Nicholas smiled with satisfaction.

  “For real?”

  “Do you have the note Brother Martucci gave you from your uncle?”

  “Yes, here.”

  Nicholas read it carefully and, after a thorough examination, put it side by side with the other note.