The Manuscript I the Secret

by Blanca Miosi

  ”‘So you know the truth.’

  ”‘I know that I love you, Francesco, and that we could be happy.’

  ”‘You love money and to such a degree than many men pass through your bed.’

  ”‘That’s wrong. It isn’t true! Just a few...and it wasn’t love. I’ll show you I still love you, Francesco. Come with me, come, like we used to. Let’s go somewhere nobody knows us.’

  ”I suppose they went to ‘somewhere.’ I never knew for sure, but knowing Donna Carlota, it’s more than likely she got her way. I had to leave because I had finished my raviolis. I emptied my cup and left. I never knew what role Francesco played in Claudio’s life except for the obvious friendship they had always had; nor could I swear he would have acted against Claudio. But there’s something in the man I never could like. I have a right to my own opinion I suppose. But being a butler means I can feign things I do not feel. I have often thought that diplomats should have a turn as butlers. It would improve international relations drastically,” Quentin said with a light-hearted laugh.

  “For your sake I am sorry, Mr. Dante, for my lack of affection for Francesco. Though you have spent the greater part of your life ignoring me, I know you are a good person. The last few weeks have confirmed that, and I want you to know it. Forgive me for speaking poorly of your mother, but you wanted to know, and that is what I have done, told you everything.”

  I was speechless. Uncle Claudio, that is, my father, never believed in me. My mother loved me. Of everything I had just heard, that is what stuck. It is true my father’s business never interested me, but I think that if I had known I was his son, everything would have been different. On the other hand, what fortune was he talking about? I had inherited a huge empire of debt and had to face the likes of Caperotti and his henchmen. Why would my father do this to me? Day after day a veritable tornado came along devastating one layer after another of my life as I learned new aspects of this crazy story. I felt like I was in one of those dreams you cannot wake up from no matter how hard you try. I could sense Quentin’s concern. Words were beyond me, but I gestured with my hand that I was ok. I needed to be alone. I was starting to realize that the world around me, and the people around me, were not what they seemed. I could no longer trust in Martucci the priest. Quentin had told me the part he knew but not the rest. And I was coming to understand that each person has many different faces. The more I thought this, the more I believed it, until everything grew dark, and I knew nothing more.

  Unexpectedly

  “Do you think I should call for a doctor?”

  “Wait, Quentin, I think he’s starting to come to.”

  It was true. I could hear them talking but felt like I could not answer, and, to a degree, that was the case. My tongue did not want to work. It felt sluggish, like I was waking up from anesthesia.

  “I’m okay,” I said, unsure if I actually were. I said it mainly to reassure them.

  “Signore Dante, you fainted. Forgive me for saying more than I should have.”

  Nicholas’ eyes were wide in surprise, and in my delirium it looked like his eyebrows were dancing around in front of his face. I saw him draw Quentin aside and whisper something in his ear. Were they plotting against me? I felt more alone than ever. If I could not trust my father, if Martucci had become suspect, and even Irene, who I had thought was the woman of my dreams, had lied to me, what could I hope to gain from this life? And now Nicholas and Quentin were talking in secret.... I wished for death. I closed my eyes with no desire to open them again ever.

  Awhile later—I have no idea how much time had passed—I felt someone touching me. I opened my eyes and saw it was a doctor.

  “How do you feel?” he asked with a paternal smile.

  “Fine, thanks,” I answered, though I wanted to say I felt like complete shit.

  “Have you been having headaches lately?”

  “No.”

  “What have you eaten?”

  “Nothing.”

  The doctor finished taking my blood pressure and gave a satisfied nod.

  “I think what’s happened is the product of accumulated stress. Apparently you’ve had to deal with some difficult things lately; the organism has ways to protect itself. No cause for worry. Everything seems to be normal now. Your blood pressure is ideal. Just to be on the safe side, I recommend you get a full physical. It’s possible you may have an underlying diabetes.”

  He wrote something on a pad of paper, ripped off the sheet, and left it on the nightstand.

  “I’ve written out the name and address of a place where you can get the tests run.”

  Nicholas came in with a glass of sugar water and a pill. I sat up and tried to stand, but he stopped me.

  “Dante, friend, rest. This is a sleeping pill. I think you need to rest. This has all been too much for you. It’s worn you down, and you need to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up,” he said, glancing at the armchair.

  It may not make sense to anyone else in the world, but hearing him talk like that made me want to cry. I choked back a sob, gulped down the pill with the water, and pulled the covers up around me.

  “I’ll be right here, Dante; don’t worry,” Nicholas said from the recliner.

  When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was Nicholas. He had fallen asleep, and from the shadow of a beard on his chin, I gathered that at least twenty-four hours had passed. Still drowsy from the Librium, I stood up and went to the bathroom. I turned on the shower and let the water pound into me for a very long time. I wanted to wash off the despicable muck of the world, as if the liquid flowing through the drain could also wash away the shit of the people I had believed in and who were now nothing more than that: dirty water headed straight for the sewers of New York.

  Finally, I decided I had felt sorry for myself long enough. Now I either had to face things or just forget about the world and let it all go to hell. Since I had learned by then that the world would still be there even if I tried to forget it, I decided to face things. The sound of the shower had put Quentin on the alert. He was waiting for me with a fresh change of clothes laid over the bed while Nicholas snored away.

  “How long has he been there?”

  “He hasn’t moved since yesterday, signore.”

  “Let him rest. Come with me, Quentin.”

  We went to my office, and I sat behind my desk. Quentin sat in front and looked at me, expectantly.

  “Uncle Claudio, that is, my father, left me nothing. Did that sink in? Absolutely nothing. I inherited several billion dollars of debt. I made the mistake of thinking I could find a formula that Uncle Claudio supposedly hid some place, but that wasn’t the case. Nicholas is a writer who offered to help me. One of these days I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  “There’s no need, signore Dante. He already told me. And veramente, it is surprising.”

  It suddenly occurred to me to ask Quentin, “Have you ever heard of someone named Giordano Caperotti?”

  “Don Giordano? Of course! He was your uncle, excuse me, your father’s right-hand man for business.”

  “Saying ‘uncle’ is fine, Quentin; don’t worry. How do you know?”

  “Not a day went by without at least a phone conversation between the two. Mr. Claudio apparently trusted him a great deal and...well, you know, some of the dealings were not quite above board.... Forgive me, sir, but Mr. Claudio occasionally spoke with me and asked my advice. I would simply listen and ask questions, and perhaps one of my questions would lead him to an answer, because he would always say, ‘You’re a genius, mio caro! You’re worth your weight in gold.... Too bad you’re so skinny!’ and then he’d let out a peal of that delightful laughter of his.”

  I never would have guessed Quentin could be the Pandora’s box shaping up before my eyes. I understood in a flash that the most unsuspecting people can become the guardians of the best-kept secrets.

  “You were that close with Uncle Claudio?”

  “Signore Dante, I had known him p
ractically from his earliest days. Just imagine someone you had had daily dealings with for nearly sixty years... He knew everything, absolutely everything, about me. He knew I would never betray him. He was far more than just an employer to me. He was like family, the family I never had. Mr. Adriano was very good to me, but Mr. Claudio was special. He truly loved me. I promised him I would take care of you, and only on that condition did he allow you to come to America.”

  All these years thinking Quentin was just a flower vase when really he was the bouquet inside, I thought. Life certainly is full of surprises, and for nearly a solid week it had thrown one surprise after another at me.

  “Quentin, Francesco said that Uncle Claudio had no faith in me. Is that true?”

  “Don Claudio loved you like only a father can. It was not certain that he was going to leave his fortune to Martucci. He did leave him something, because that’s how your uncle was, but Francesco was not telling the truth. There’s no denying that you gave no signs of being a trustworthy person. A few times I suggested that he tell you the truth, that it would have been better for you to know you were his son, but on that issue he never listened to me. He loved Donna Carlota ‘til the day he died and could not bear the thought of tarnishing her image.”

  I shook my head several times. I was aghast that love could be so blind.

  “I need to know who Giordano Caperotti is, Quentin. Do you think he would be capable of making an attempt on my life?”

  “Mr. Giordano is capable of many things—oh, yes!—but an attempt on your life..., I just don’t think so, signore Dante. Why would he?”

  “If I don’t find the formula my uncle hid, I won’t be able to recover the money he took from the Business. And I promised Caperotti I’d do it in six months.”

  “Maybe Quentin has the key,” Nicholas said, coming into my office. “I couldn’t help but overhear you. Surely, Quentin, you know something we don’t know.”

  Over the desk Nicholas spread his notes, the psalms, and the little song of numbers and letters Uncle Claudio used to sing.

  “Ah! I remember that song!” Quentin exclaimed.

  “You do?” I asked, a thousand thoughts racing through my mind.

  “Of course, how could I forget?! It’s about a secret you have to protect like treasure.”

  Nicholas and I looked at each other. His eyes were nearly jumping out of their sockets. Quentin started singing to himself:

  “A, plus B, plus C, plus D,

  is 1, plus 2, plus 3, plus 4

  E, plus F, plus G, plus H, plus I

  is 5, is 6, is 7, is 8, is 9,

  and then J, K, L, and M

  is 10, 11, 12, and 13

  and N, O, P, then Q

  is 14, 15, 16, 17–

  These are all the letters that lead to Quentin,

  who has the treasure that hides the bambino.

  R, S, T, and U

  come next; now sing them to me true...

  and it kept going...”

  Quentin trailed off and stared at us. From the way his gaze traveled back and forth between us, I knew we must look like a pair of idiots. We had been listening closely as if our very lives depended on it, and perhaps it was the first time Quentin had held an audience so captive.

  “These are all the letters that lead to Quentin, who has the treasure that hides the bambino?” Nicholas and I both sang in unison, mimicking Quentin’s cadence.

  “Your uncle came up with that song so you’d remember it, but he always got hung up on ‘O’—he was such a distracted man. Even so, you learned the primer very well, and your uncle was veramente proud of you.”

  Nicholas showed him the page with the image of the Bosch painting.

  “Do you remember this painting?”

  “Of course. It’s in Villa Contini, in the library of the deceased signore Claudio’s office.”

  Nicholas and I exchanged glances. Evidently Quentin had not been informed that the little reproduction’s whereabouts were unknown.

  “Quentin, think hard. Did Uncle Claudio ever give you something to keep for him?”

  “He gave me many things, signore.” Quentin was starting to get anxious. He thought for a long time while we held our breath for whatever might come out of his mouth next. “Wait just a minute, please,” he said.

  He stood and left the office. Neither Nicholas nor I dared break the silence, afraid to undo the spell. A short while later we heard the approach of Quentin’s odd gait, as if he were constantly on guard against tripping.

  “Perhaps this is what you’re looking for.” He handed me a sealed envelope that was about sixteen inches long.

  I ripped into it with desperation. I could not yet believe it might be the thing we were after. I pulled out what was inside. It was the small painting.

  I looked to the most obvious place: the back. I slid out the cardboard that held the reproduction in place and found what we had so long sought: five sheets with handwritten notes in German and a message:

  Dante:

  This is the formula.

  I love you,

  Claudio Contini-Massera

  And there was a card with an address:

  Merreck & Stallen Pharmaceutical Group

  Park Avenue 4550, Peoria, Illinois

  There was also a phone number.

  Nicholas and I whooped for joy and hugged each other, then hugged Quentin who was still acting a bit worried, but I gave it no thought; in that moment I was holding the thing that would change everything.

  “If I had known, I...forgive me, signore. I had no idea that what you were looking for was in that envelope.”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore, Quentin. This very day I’ll get in touch with the pharmaceutical group.”

  I was truly happy. My troubles were over, and I wanted to pay Quentin back in some way. It seemed fitting to directly ask him how.

  “Quentin, ask me for anything you want. Anything at all. It’s yours.”

  “That’s not necessary, signore....”

  “Please, Quentin, it’s the least I can do.”

  “Very well, signore Dante. I would like to wear Reeboks instead of my service shoes.... Black, if possible.”

  I doubled over laughing at his request.

  “I’m starving!” I said.

  John Merreck

  “Quentin, can I trust Nelson?”

  “Yes, sir, Nelson never left your uncle’s side. He’s the one who saved him in the two murder attempts.”

  From one day to the next, Quentin had become my advisor. I will be the first to admit I saw him as such. His experience and the years he spent with my father made him the ideal informant. I needed to call Nelson. I could not risk being attacked or having the formula stolen. So that was the first thing I did. He was at the apartment the very next day, and just having him there made me feel so much safer. We went to the bank together and placed the formula and the documents in a safety deposit box.

  “Mr. Dante,” he said, “if I’m going to be in charge of your safety, I need you to take some advice.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I was trained by the CIA as a bodyguard for high-level politicians. I met Mr. Claudio Contini-Massera when I was on an assignment in the US embassy in Rome. I was assigned to go with him everywhere he went, since your uncle was a special envoy of the Italian government here in the United States.”

  It did not seem like the time to ask what Uncle Claudio had done to convince Nelson to join his ranks, but Nelson was an intuitive person.

  “Working for the state means being subject to constant changes in government. Every president prefers things a different way, which means there isn’t room for all of us. I had a great deal of respect for your uncle, and I hope to be of service to you as well.”

  “I’m continuing with the family traditions, Nelson. I haven’t made personnel changes because I know how careful my uncle was in choosing people. It’s quite probable that, just like with Uncle Claudio, somebody is out to get me. I
suspect it might be some Jews, people involved with the laboratory we’ll visit tomorrow.”

  “I think I know what it’s about. I’ve been with your uncle to that lab before. You must stop thinking about coincidences. Coincidences don’t exist. Usually, it means danger. If you run into the same person more than once, if you see a car twice, if the waiter’s face in a restaurant you’ve never been to before looks vaguely familiar—immediately take cover, if you aren’t with me. And even if you are with me, it’ll make things much easier if you’re observant.”

  So Nelson already knew where the laboratory was, and here I had been breaking my skull over it. I could not stop thinking about the man from the restaurant.

  “When we were in Hereford, there was a guy following us. He was Italian; I’m sure of it.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “He was thin, with black hair that was a little disheveled...”

  “I think I know the one.”

  “Is he dangerous?”

  “I think it’s one of Caperotti’s men. As far as I know, Caperotti won’t do you any harm. In all likelihood the man from the restaurant, as you call him, was protecting you.”

  “What?!”

  “Caperotti stands to lose a lot if something bad happens to you. However, in all likelihood you were also followed by someone else, doubtless with a completely unsuspecting guise.”

  The matter of security was turning out to be far more complicated than I had imagined. Up to that point, I had thought a bodyguard was just a guy with huge muscles who could scare off anyone considering stealing my parking spot.