The Manuscript I the Secret

by Blanca Miosi

  “Could you give me their names and addresses?”

  “For what reason?”

  “I’m the missing link for continuing the experiments. If they think I have Mengele’s final notes, my life is in danger.”

  After thinking it over, I decided to be frank.

  “Mr. Merreck, I have what is missing. It is in safe keeping and for the time being I have not offered it to anyone else. Think it over, and give me a call. You have my offer and my demands. Without those names, there’s no deal,” I handed him my card.

  “Just one more question, Mr. Merreck,” Nicholas added. “Besides the research to cure diseases, what else goes on here? Your facilities are quite impressive.”

  “This is one of the few existing structures that can withstand any nuclear attack. It can even stand up to an asteroid should one be traveling toward Earth. We could survive for fifty years without coming up to the surface. The deal with Mr. Contini included a spot in the case of any eventuality. What’s more, right now plans are in the works for constructing a space station, in partnership with several governments, in which he, or the owner of his shares, would doubtless have a guaranteed place.”

  An answer that impressive merited an equally impressive silence. And that was our response. It started getting through to me what kind of place we had butted into, and I think Nicholas was feeling the same thing.

  The helicopter took us back to Peoria, and we returned to New York.

  Questions

  We spoke little on the return flight. I had learned that apparently harmless places like an airplane seat are potentially dangerous. You never know who the person beside you is, or the person behind you. We tried speaking in code, but it was tiresome, so we followed Nelson’s example and were quiet until we got home.

  “Something really weird is going on in that ‘laboratory!’ Did you see the facilities? Ten floors underground! I’m picturing an entire underground city. And to think that only a select few will be chosen from among the billions of Earth’s inhabitants. What I can’t understand is why Uncle Claudio hid the formula,” was the first thing I said when we finally got to the safety of my kitchen.

  “And why he left it to you. If he didn’t like the way Merreck was managing things, he could have just done away with it all.”

  “Maybe he thought it would save the Business. And it might, in fact.”

  “There’s something not right about all this, something dark, something he must have figured out toward the end.”

  “I hope Merreck gets me the names of the Jews who used to be shareholders.”

  “And that he accepts your offer. Twenty billion dollars is a pretty penny,” Nicholas recalled with a guffaw. “Doesn’t it seem a bit over the top?”

  “Too much? No, it’s probably too cheap. This is a product that has never before existed and would have fascinating sociological effects; at first it would be available only to the rich. How much do rich people make?”

  Nicholas shrugged his shoulders. “You should know that better than anybody,” he jabbed.

  “Billions of dollars. I know it not because I’ve made them but because my foray into studying business gave me a general idea. Let’s start from the premise that the formula would only be available to people on the Forbes billionaire list. Would any of those people pay $400 million for an eternal youth treatment? Of course they would. You have to recover the years spent in research: if I add my age to the time it took Mengele to conduct the studies on the formula, the research has been going for roughly sixty years. Something along the lines of penicillin.”

  The hint of admiration in Nicholas’ look pleased me greatly.

  “Well, well, look who actually paid attention in school,” he said, taking mental note of everything I was spouting.

  “And that’s not all: if the company has shareholders or gets quoted on the stock exchange, the partners know that with a product like that, their stocks are just going to keep rising, because there will always be potential clients; and we’re not even getting into long-term projects like what NASA would be interested in. But obviously we need to ask for a sum that Merreck and his company can pay, that meets their needs. If I asked them for more, there wouldn’t be enough money to finish out the work, and I’m not interested in charging them comfortable monthly payments. What I can arrange is a share of the earnings.”

  “Besides the twenty billion, I presume.”

  “Naturally.”

  There was nothing to do now but wait for Merreck to make his decision. Nicholas started searching his pockets frantically, and I handed him the cigarette case from the box where Quentin had hidden it.

  The truth was that I was at a crossroads. I had to do the right thing, but in this case I knew that whatever decision I made would not be right. On the other hand, I needed to talk with Irene, and I was feeling really weird about it. She had not accepted my repayment of her loan, and it was not a matter I could just drop. I knew it would be wiser to simply transfer the money directly into her account, but I secretly wanted to see her again. Very much against my will, I was more interested in Irene than I was willing to admit. And I wanted to hear it from her if what the priest Martucci had said was true. I went to see her that night.

  Irene opened the door, and it was as if no time at all had passed. Her frank, girlish smile and direct gaze captivated me once again. I shelved my suspicions. At that moment the only thing I wanted was to be in her arms. I needed a bit of affection, and I did not care if it were a pretense. I needed it. A long embrace took precedence over thought, and for a few hours I felt like life had returned to normal. I really needed a woman. My body, which for the past ten days had done nothing more than run around chasing a damned formula and looking for answers, craved sex. The arms of a woman made me feel like I was a man capable of any daring deed. I have always thought that self-esteem is directly proportional to the amount of satisfaction one can give and receive in romantic relationships. Thus, when Irene’s smooth body pressed against mine, I forgot about everything that was not happy. Later I could worry about finding all the unhappy things again.

  The clock on the nightstand said it was 1:05 in the morning when I remembered I ought to call Quentin. I cursed my lapse in judgement. Nelson would call it a “security flight” with his inflexibly linear logic. Did the man ever relax? Yet again I thought that it takes all kinds to make the world go round and that Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité were abstract and therefore unreal concepts. Or, who knows, maybe the ideologues were thinking about their lovers when they came up with the slogan. I left Irene sleeping peacefully and got out of bed. I grabbed my cell phone and went to the living room so as not to wake her.

  Quentin answered at the first ring.

  “Sono io, Quentin. Everything’s fine. I won’t be back home tonight. Tell Nelson I’m sorry for not letting him know first.”

  “He thinks he ought to be with you, signore.”

  “Next time, I promise, Quentin. I needed to get out. I’m at Irene’s.”

  I was starting to take security seriously now. At any other time in my life it never would have occurred to me to specify where I was going, but Nelson had laid on thick how they always needed to know where to find me.

  I studied the outline of Irene’s body beneath the sheet and wondered how much of our encounter had been real. She had seemed sincere, and I was, too. Was sex enough? I have no doubt that there is something sincere in a physical encounter. The body begs for it, the mind demands it, and it happens, and you give yourself over, and the climax is for real. Unless one of you is faking, but I figure that kind of pretense is the result of wanting to please your partner. And more than an insult, I consider it a delicate way of increasing the other’s pleasure.

  The doubts corroding my mind made me look at Irene objectively. She had deceived me, and there must be a reason why. In the half-light I waited patiently for dawn, but sleep overcame me.

  The smell of coffee, surely Colombian, brought me to my senses. I wished so
badly for all the complications to disappear.

  “I made you breakfast,” Irene said with her pixie grin.

  “Thanks. This looks exquisite.” Irene always saw to the little details. There had to be a red rose, of course, especially because it was the hallmark of her company.

  “You seem a bit uptight. We haven’t gotten to talk.... Why did you send your butler with a check? I would’ve preferred you to give it to me.”

  “I was in Italy.”

  “A call would’ve been fine. Do you realize you didn’t even call?”

  “Irene, my uncle’s death opened up a major can of worms for me. For a start, I’ve inherited no small amount of debt. The truth is, the only money I’ve got is what my Uncle Claudio recovered from the swindler you set me up with.”

  “Who are you talking about?” Irene asked. Her ignorance was convincingly sincere.

  “Jorge Rodríguez, obviously.”

  “Jorge’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “He got run over two months ago. I only just found out last week.”

  “Who killed him?”

  “Nobody knows. A car steamrolled him and then drove away.”

  “I thought he was in jail for fraud.”

  “He was never in jail, Dante. Where are you getting this stuff?”

  “From someone I trust. He said you were involved and that your flower business is a front.”

  Irene smiled, perhaps to cover her nervousness or whatever other emotion was going through her mind right then.

  “And what do you think, Dante?”

  “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

  “Let’s suppose it’s true that Jorge Rodríguez was a fraud and he pocketed your money: how do you explain that he’s dead now and you’ve got your money back? Something smells fishy about all this.”

  “If you think I’ve got anything to do with his death, you’re mad. I found out just over a week ago that the two million had been recovered.”

  “Then someone was involved.”

  “What are you implying?” I blurted out harshly. I put the coffee back down on the tray and lost my appetite for anything else.

  “No, how dare you say that my friend Jorge Rodríguez, thanks to whom you made beaucoups of money, cheated you? I’ve known him since we were kids. He was like a brother to me. You can check with the police department to see if he was ever in jail. It’s not true. Someone’s lying to you, and it isn’t me.”

  “If you two were so close, how come you didn’t know he’d died until last week?”

  “He went to Bogotá on vacation with his family. It’s not like we call each other every day. His wife let me know last week.”

  “He was killed in Colombia,” I deduced aloud. Everything is easier there. No one asks questions, and the hitmen abound.

  I tried to make the murder fit in the string of events that had defined my life lately but could make neither heads nor tails of it.

  “I need to go. Irene, forgive me for being so suspicious, but the weirdest things are happening to me, and I can’t trust anyone.” I started getting dressed and fished around in my jacket pockets. I handed her the check. “Thanks a lot, Irene; you really helped me out when I needed it. I’ll never forget that.”

  She looked at me sadly. “No, Dante, I don’t want that money.”

  “It’s yours. I can’t hold onto it.”

  “Just pay me back what I lent you. Otherwise I won’t cash it.”

  “I didn’t bring my checkbook with me.”

  “Then it’ll have to be another day. I don’t want you to leave like this.”

  “I have to get my thoughts straight, Irene. Actually, I need to get my whole life straight.” I kissed her on the lips and left.

  A car parked at the building’s door was waiting for me, Nelson at the wheel. Before he said anything, I charged ahead, “I’m sorry, Nelson. I needed to get away and get some fresh air.”

  “And did it help?”

  I shook my head.

  “Do you know anyone in the government? I mean like the CIA, the FBI, or something like that.”

  “Maybe, I still have some contacts.... What’s it about?”

  “I want you to look into the death of a man named Jorge Rodríguez. Supposedly he died in Bogotá. It was a hit and run, and it’s possible he has a criminal record here for fraud. I need to know if he was ever in jail, if it’s true that he’s dead, and anything else you can find out about him. I’d also like to know about Irene Montoya, owner of the Red Rose Flower Shop. She’s American, and her flowers come from Colombia, just like her.”

  I felt like a real son of a bitch asking Nelson to look into these things, but I was learning I had to be wary of everyone. I decided right then and there that any woman I ever dated would have to be investigated first.

  “Mr. Martucci called. Forgive my interfering, but I think you should keep everything you’ve learned to yourself.”

  “You know he was my uncle’s best friend.”

  “Yes, Mr. Contini, but it’s better for everything to stay with you. That way we can dismiss possibilities as they arise. We were never able to find the mastermind behind the attacks on Mr. Claudio, and it’s dangerous to leave loose ends. I presume you are now the target. It would seem you have something that is of keen interest to a certain person.”

  “I’m confident that Francesco Martucci is an upright man. If he had wanted, he could have kept the documents Uncle Claudio gave him to safeguard. And the money.”

  “As you have said, those documents were of no great import. From everything I’ve seen and heard, all he left to the priest was a few obscure messages and some clues that led to nowhere.”

  “It’s true. But he wouldn’t gain anything with what I’ve got now. He already told me he didn’t want anything, because he thinks he’s got a death sentence. I think he’s got the same disease my uncle died of.”

  I was just playing devil’s advocate. I had learned by now it was better not to show all my cards.

  Nelson made a face, which I could see through the rearview mirror. Then he shrugged and his features hardened into impenetrability, as if his facial muscles had ceased to function. The only movement came from blinking, and that was only when absolutely necessary.

  “I think we’re being followed,” he said. “It’s the black Chevrolet in the right lane, behind the gray car. I’ll try to lose them.”

  Nelson waited until the light was about to turn red and then crossed the intersection and turned right at the first street. The Chevrolet got stuck at the light, and we entered a building’s public parking lot. We slipped out on foot through a different exit and took a taxi.

  “Are you sure they were following us?” I asked. That had not at all been like what I imagined a chase would be.

  “Yes. I’d seen the car when I was waiting for you. And it turned both times I changed directions.”

  “You think it was waiting for me to leave Irene’s house?”

  “Probably.”

  “Don’t forget to look into the matters I asked you about, Nelson.”

  Things were getting complicated. I needed answers, and fast. I also needed to figure out what to do with Merreck.

  When we got home, I told Nicholas about everything, and in his habitual way of organizing the facts, he began listing things out: “Let’s see. Irene shows up in your life when you went to a party in San Francisco. But it just so happens that she, too, lives in New York. First coincidence. Remember what Nelson said? Well, then she presents you to some dude who’s a stock broker. What was his name?”

  “Jorge Rodríguez.”

  “Who at first helps you make money, all the while gaining your trust. You take a bit more risk, despite his warnings, and two million dollars disappear. Jorge Rodríguez himself disappears, and you’re in a real bind. Then Irene Montoya shows up again and offers you five thousand dollars so you can go bury your uncle. Second coincidence.”

  “I went looking for her. She didn’t c
ome around offering me the money.”

  “Same difference when you look at the results. Jorge Rodríguez, it turns out, is Colombian, just like Irene. Third coincidence.”

  I nodded and let him keep going.

  “Now, Jorge Rodríguez, according to Irene, is dead. She hasn’t seen him dead with her own eyes, but his wife told her. That’s really convenient, don’t you think? Whatever the case, she can always say ‘they told me’ he died.”

  “I hope Nelson can find the answers. I’ve already thought of everything you said, but it’s really hard for me to believe Irene is wrapped up in some conspiracy.”

  “And to top it all off, there was someone following you coming out of her house. What for? Who would benefit from knowing your movements?”

  “Obviously someone who doesn’t know my plans. I think that’s what I’d do, Nicholas, if I wanted to know what somebody was up to. The first thing I’d do is follow them to know who, what, when, where, why, and how; what they’re doing and what their habits are...”

  “Nelson’s lessons seem to be sinking in.”

  “He’s schooled us both!” I said, with a good hard laugh. “You think like a detective. Have you considered giving up writing and opening an agency?”

  The jovial smile that had lit up his face seconds ago suddenly vanished. “I’m writing. I started today. Dante, writing isn’t just a cute hobby for me. It’s my passion. If it weren’t for writing, I wouldn’t be here right now.” His eyebrows did that jumpy thing I had gotten used to by now, and with his hand cupping his chin he paced back and forth a bit before stopping again. “I think I’ve been chosen by the gods,” he said gravely. “I have absolutely no other explanation for what is happening to me.”

  “For what is happening to us,” I clarified.

  “Dante, you have to understand each person is an individual. We go through the world with our own existential problems, and we look at each other like everyone else is just playing a side role in a play in which we are the main character. Everyone else is a bit player that moves and exists but is hardly more than a glorified decoration. That’s how I see the world. And surely you do, too. Quentin sees things from his perspective, and you see him like a piece on a chess board. You put him where it best suits you. And most of your life you’ve acted like that, not because you’re good or bad, but just because that’s how it has to be for you. So when I say I’ve been chosen by the gods, I have my reasons for thinking I’m right. It’s my world, my way of looking at life. One fateful day I met a little man who presented me with a manuscript in which part of your life, and the life of your uncle, or father, was written.”