by Blanca Miosi
My dear Dante,
I have so much to tell you. I want you to know that the happiest moments of my life were when I was with you. I taught you your first letters! And I hope that your first steps without me remind you that there are treasures more lasting than money. Trust Francesco Martucci. He is my closest friend. And above all, trust the ones who have been with you your whole life. I’m writing this now because I know my time is short. I want to leave you my most prized possession, and I hope you will use it well. It is not mentioned in my will. Francesco Martucci will deliver it to you when he knows the time is right. You will know how to recognize the signs in the Red Book. And, please, be careful.
Ciao, mio carissimo bambino.
Claudio Contini-Massera
“It’s the second time he mentions the Red Book. We should look for it. Do you know where it is?”
I shook my head. He grabbed a pen and asked me for a sheet of paper.
“Ok, let’s come back to that later. The words that get repeated are ‘first, letters, treasure, Red Book’.... I remember reading in the manuscript something about how you could remember the letters of the alphabet if you associated them with family members. Do you remember anything about that?”
“Of course. The letters line up with people in my family: A for Adriano, my grandfather; B for Bruno, my dad, the eldest; C for Claudio, my uncle; D for me, Dante; E for Elsa, my sister.”
“And F for Francesco, the priest,” Nicholas continued.
“No, he doesn’t count. He wasn’t part of my family. I’d never seen him until a few years ago and then again now.”
“But who knows, the more possibilities we have the better. From what I read, he was part of the family, maybe even a bastard son...” Nicholas saw the distaste on my face and added, “Well, and each letter has a number. It’s one of the easiest codes in the world: A – 1, B – 2, C – 3, and so on.”
“The answer: 1 + 2 + 3 + 4 + 5 = 15.”
“And 1 + 2 + 3 + 4 + 5 + 6 = 21. If we count Francesco. But what about the rest of the letters? You must have had more relatives.”
“Yes, but I only learned up through E with names. The rest I just memorized from the song. But I don’t think the part about ‘treasure’ is talking about numbers.”
Nicholas crossed his arms and cupped his chin with one hand, straining to recall something. Suddenly he snapped his fingers and exclaimed, “I knew I was forgetting something! There’s a part in the manuscript where you remember a library with chains. What was it called?”
“Hereford?” I suggested, noticing a shift in his tone toward me. Typically American, he was talking to me as if I were just another buddy at the bar.
“Yeah, that’s it. You were thinking about what your uncle had said, something like if he had a secret he would keep it there inside one of those books, and nobody could steal it because they’re all chained up. Does that ring a bell?”
I thought about it. Could Uncle Claudio have hidden such an intimate secret in a place as public as a library? It made no sense. But it was true; he had said that.
“I was a kid when that happened, Nicholas. He might have just been saying something to keep me entertained. I mean, people say things all the time to kids just to fire up their imaginations...” In my answer I matched the tone of close companionship he evidently felt so comfortable using.
“But it fits; it makes sense. For him, the books were a treasure. That’s what he said, isn’t it? Letters, names, family, the books: it’s like he’s pointing us down a path.”
I nodded, noting how firmly convinced he was of his own line of reasoning. It certainly required naiveté. But I went along with it. I had no other potential plans on the horizon.
“Let’s just suppose it all makes sense, as you say. How do the numbers fit in? We got to 15 and to 21. It could be either one. Let’s just say it’s 21. What would that be—a volume number? Of what? What kind of book would have the number 21? Or chapter 21? Or page 21? You see? The possibilities are infinite,” I postulated. Nicholas’ suggestions seemed like a steep uphill climb.
“I’m sure they all connect. I just need to concentrate, to think.”
“Nicholas, for real, do you honestly think you can figure out the solution to this riddle? I need you to tell me the truth.”
“I promise you I can.”
“Well, I hope so. There’s a lot at stake.”
“I just need to think. There’s something I’m forgetting.” He grabbed the manuscript and flipped through the pages as if he might find something there.
“Fabio will show you to your room. Nicholas, you will be my guest until we figure this thing out.”
Alone again, I fixated on the fact that whether or not I could find Mengele’s formula would determine the future of the Business—of the Business and of humanity. If Uncle Claudio had taken such enormous risks to find it, it must be worth even more. He never invested unless he could get five times the return, though inexplicably he had somehow allowed his fortune to disappear.
The next day would be my trial by fire. I had to convince the shareholders to wait before taking action against the Business. If not, it would be complete ruin. I was shocked at the terminology I used as I thought through the matter. Since when did things become so important to me? I could not comprehend the changes occurring in me, a man who just a few days ago could not have cared less about his father’s work.
The Meeting
When the elevator door opened, Nelson theatrically stepped forward and filled the entire space. Then he moved to one side to let me pass. I entered the meeting room I had been in several times before, but always on the other side of the table. The chill that ran up my spine was more like the searing burn of tattoo needles. Though I had never actually had a tattoo, that image of anxious, splayed-out vulnerability came to mind. I took a slow, deep breath to mask my anxiety and walked decisively to the head of the long table, polished to a shine. The gleam from the lights above each of the ten seats bounced off the table’s surface. I felt ten pairs of eyes on me, the same ten pairs that just a few days before had been clouded with sympathy for me at the funeral. Now each was hanging onto my every move. I felt like I was on stage playing the star role without ever having rehearsed.
“Good day, gentleman, and thank you for coming. You are all already aware of the company’s circumstances, so I will leave that for now and simply sketch out a plan.”
Complete silence reigned as they waited for whatever was about to come out of my mouth.
“Claudio Contini-Massera was working on a project that he left incomplete and which I intend to finish. The results will be so significant to the human race that I doubt any other discovery will rival it for years to come. I am responsible for seeing it to completion, and when I do, the Business’ capital will be recovered and multiplied with the resulting benefits to each shareholder. I am making you all aware of this so that you do not take any action against the company for a period of six months, which I estimate is the time necessary for wrapping up the negotiations. I will expound no further until our next meeting given that the project in question entails a secret that must remain confidential as a matter of security.”
“Does this explain the bodyguard? Your uncle, may he rest in peace, never saw the need to bring Nelson to meetings,” said Bernini, whose face had transitioned from surprise to skepticism.
“Which is why he is no longer with us,” I said recklessly.
“Oh, come now, young man, your uncle died of a heart attack. Everyone knows that,” Bernini insisted.
I weighed carefully what I could allow to be supposed and responded slowly, “Yes, that is so. But that heart attack could have been avoided had there been greater cooperation from you here in this room.”
The room was abuzz, and for a flash it felt like I was watching an enactment of the Last Supper.
“Young Dante, he was ill while you were gallivanting about the United States.... Why do you show up now to blame us for your uncle’s health?�
�� Bernini argued.
“I was on a special mission. My uncle bore all the responsibility for the discovery that sent the Business bankrupt. His health was deteriorating because of chemical poisoning, as he had volunteered to be the guinea pig for the discovery. On top of that, he survived two attempts on his life. That is all I can say.”
“What you are asking us to do is simply unacceptable. Claudio Contini-Massera made inappropriate use of the capital we entrusted to him...”
“The majority of which was his own,” I interrupted with vehemence. “Sirs, do not think for a moment that the death of my uncle has changed anything. Carry on as if he were alive. Would you take action against him knowing what you know now? Why act now once he’s dead? Is it because I, Dante Contini-Massera, am at the helm? I don’t know what sort of mixed up notions you have of me, gentlemen, but at least give me the benefit of the doubt. I’m not proposing anything absurd. Six months is all I ask. I’m not asking you for money.”
“You were on a special mission?” Bernini let loose. He seemed to have become the representative enemy. “Come on, son, the whole world knows what kind of ‘special mission’ you had!”
I pierced him with as calm a gaze as I could muster. I could not allow him to disrespect me. It was one of the first rules Uncle Claudio had taught me.
“Mr. Bernini, who’s side are you on? I’m getting the impression you work for the competition. It seems I must review your position in this organization.”
“Young Dante! Don’t insult me! I’ve been here for decades...”
“Call me Mr. Contini-Massera, please. That will help us mind our manners.”
I do not know if my physical resemblance to Uncle Claudio was what finally got through to him, but he slowly closed his mouth as if regretting what he had been about to say. It set off a chain reaction. Silence reigned once more, and this time I felt like I had gone up a few notches before the ten pairs of eyes drilling into me.
“I will keep you informed of everything as soon as I am able. I need to know if you are in agreement.”
There were a few murmurs of assent that surfaced with a certain timidity at first, but they grew stronger. One voice in particular stood out, despite being softer than all the rest: “Mr. Dante Contini-Massera, we trust you as we would have trusted your uncle.”
I heard it because when he spoke, everyone else grew quiet.
He came up and shook my hand and then, with a slight bow of the head, handed me a card. After him, all the rest followed, one by one, as if it were a ceremonial ritual. At the end I was left with nine cards on which I read names I never would have guessed.
“You know, Don Dante, you can count on me for whatever you need. Do not hesitate to call, please,” said that first man to approach me, Giordano Caperotti, with his cavernous voice. “I hope you’re doing the right thing. Don’t forget, you have six months.” He turned, and the blackness of his suit and the curve of his spine made me think of a buzzard.
As if by tacit agreement, they all filed out of the room. The last was Bernini, who offered me his languid hand and said goodbye. I was left alone with Nelson, who stood erect as a totem pole and contemplated me with the beginnings of admiration. Caperotti’s final words had been a clear threat. I had passed the first test, and it was only the beginning.
The Plan
I was not ready to go straight home and face reality. We drove slowly, taking the long way that let me watch the tourists invading Rome’s streets. They came in droves, in pairs, and alone. Camera in hand, they burst into the churches, stormed through the plazas, lolled about the innumerable fountains, and snapped photos of any speck of seeming antiquity. Yet everything in Rome was ancient, and we were proud of that fact. Until very recently, I had belonged to one stratum of that heterogeneous, cosmopolitan society that simultaneously represented staunch tradition and cultural vanguard. Yet now I was at a crossroads. I was weighed down by a burden that, as unwanted as it was, I was nonetheless inevitably destined to bear. It was not at all what I would have expected. And I no longer knew where I belonged in society.
My hands had stopped shaking, but they were still cold.
Caperotti’s words echoed in my head. His smooth, calm demeanor was too smooth and calm. His deep, raspy voice needed no volume to make itself heard: it expected the listeners to do the hard work because their very lives might be at stake. That was the unpleasant taste he left in my mouth. Now everything depended on the memory and imagination of an American author who had burst into my life unasked. In fact, can anything in life happen that was thoroughly planned beforehand? I had not asked to be here, but here I was, in the back seat of a huge black car driven by a military giant named Nelson, in a pathetic attempt to emulate my father. Or rather, my Uncle Claudio.
A blank manuscript was all the proof Nicholas had needed to convince me that my destiny was written therein. And I believed him.
When we arrived home, I saw the American sitting in one of the uncomfortable white metal chairs on the terrace overlooking the inner gardens. He was holding a cigarette stub, several others scattered about his feet, and staring at a sheet of paper lying on the table in front of him. I stood behind him for several moments, but he remained engrossed in his thoughts. When I cleared my throat, he glanced up and answered my questioning look.
“I think I have the answer,” he said, looking at me from under those sad, dark brows. He had a trace of Mediterranean in his blood.
“I’m listening.”
“Do you know what a psalm is?”
“You mean like from church?” I answered, unsure.
“‘Psalm,’ originally a Greek word, means ‘song.’ A psalm is, therefore, a poetic composition that is sung. It’s psalmus in Latin, and psalm in English. Centuries ago, some of the very first books people owned were psalters, collections of the psalms from the Bible. People used them to teach children to read, and since the psalms were set to music, people easily committed them to memory through rote repetition. Just like how you memorized the alphabet with your uncle’s song. So I’m wondering if there’s a connection between the book of Psalms and the little song you memorized. I’m guessing it would be Psalm 15 or Psalm 21, if we include the ‘F’ from Francesco Martucci. And probably if we look in the Hereford library we’ll find some clue in one of those psalms or some sign that’ll give us the answer we’re looking for.”
“Couldn’t we just read those psalms here and see what they’re about? There’s a Bible in my room.”
“We could. But logic tells me it has to be there in that place, where your uncle would’ve stored a treasure if he had to hide something, remember? Maybe it’s written in one of those psalms, or maybe there’s something hidden behind the book...”
It was exciting to get closer to the answer, and I was ready to head for England at once. In any case, there was no time to waste getting sidetracked. Six months was the deadline I had set for myself, and I had to meet it.
Nicholas wanted to go shopping for some things he claimed were necessary before leaving. I sent Nelson with him. I had picked up on a sense of camaraderie between these two Americans. I took the chance to call Martucci and bring him up to speed on the latest.
Hereford had seemingly stood still in time. The same old hotel, The Green Dragon, at one time a coach house, reared up with its impressive facade just a short walk from the cathedral. The cathedral remained a majestic example of Norman architecture and was something like the Eiffel Tower of this quiet little town. Its spires dominated the entire landscape and stretched endlessly upward, seeming to clamor for heaven’s attention.
We drove up at dusk in a rental car from the Birmingham airport. I found my way as if I had traveled those streets just yesterday with Uncle Claudio. The hotel was by no means the pinnacle of comfort, but it retained the antique charm that had so enthralled my uncle. All of that was beside the point, however. The important thing was that the cathedral was walking distance from the hotel. We ate in the old hotel restaurant, the Shire,
enjoying the excellent yet cool English service. I was able to test how civilized my unexpected travel partner was by allowing him to choose the drink pairings for the meal. To my surprise, he chose sherry to go along with the consommé and red wine for the wild boar stew. I suppose being a writer has its advantages.
“So why are you interested in finding the formula?” Nicholas asked out of the blue.
“I want to finish my Uncle Claudio’s research. I’d love to make his dream come true of isolating eternal youth.”
“Do you really think that’s possible?”
“I don’t think he would have embarked on such a venture without very good cause. I’m confident it’s possible.”
“And the implications? Does it mean nothing to you that the main guy behind it all was one of the worst Nazis and is completely despised for his atrocious crimes?”
“Don’t think that it doesn’t matter to me. But science always requires sacrifices. There are researchers who have infected their own bodies with viruses to be able to study the effects and find a cure.”
“Yeah, but not Mengele.”
“Look, Nicholas...it’s just really important for me to find the missing links. If not, all those deaths were for nothing, don’t you think?”
“If you say so.”
“Do have a clue what we’re looking for in the library?”
“Yes,” he answered, “a Bible. There’s bound to be several. We’ll start by looking up Psalm 15 and Psalm 21. We’re taking into account whether or not to include Francesco.”
I nodded, thinking we were rather near the end of our search.
“Can I ask you some questions?” Nicholas inquired.
“You probably know more about me than I do,” I said, suddenly feeling like I had been spied on while undressed. There is nothing worse than being around someone who supposedly knows more about you than you can even remember.
“If your uncle were still alive, what would you be doing? What would your line of work be?”
