by Blanca Miosi
“And so I have to get you this isotope I presume. What about the other missing ingredient?”
“It’s just a matter of a simple blood donation, enough to recommence the studies, and of your availability when we should need you,” Merreck offered.
At times I can be intuitive, and lately the sixth sense that is more often attributed to women had started working in me. I detected something macabre behind Merreck’s lightly-spoken words.
“So I have to come back with the missing ‘ingredient.’ The problem is I don’t know where to find it.”
“The ingredients, plural. There is a liquid mixture in a hermetically sealed capsule. We need it to study the precise quantities.”
The euphoria I had felt up until a few moments ago had completely disappeared. And it seemed to be mutual. Suddenly I felt incredibly tired, discouraged, and at the brink of collapse.
I gathered the papers from Merreck’s desk, put them back in the protective envelope, and headed for the exit while Merreck walked alongside trying to encourage me.
“I suggest you think about some place very secure. We’re talking about a radioactive element.”
When I heard those words, I knew where to find it. The chest.
“Maybe I’ll be able to track it down,” I said, trying not to sound very confident, but it was enough for Merreck to regain the gleam in his eyes.
“I trust you will.”
He bade me farewell at the door to the elevator, and I ascended as one returning from the inferno. Back on ground level, I had to wait for the storm to die down. It was completely dark, and the wind was still strong. I felt my cell phone vibrate.
“Nelson, tell me, where have you been?”
“I was tracking the taxi, remember? I’m sorry, but my battery died. I always carry a backup with me, but this time I didn’t have it. You shouldn’t travel without me. I got back an hour after you left. Why didn’t you wait for me?”
“It’s okay,” I cut him off impatiently. “We’ll talk when I get back. Tell Quentin not to call Caperotti. I don’t know what time I’ll be home. It depends on how long it takes me to get a flight.”
I called Angelo, Caperotti’s man.
“Contini-Massera here. Everything’s fine. I’ll be back at the airport as soon as the helicopter can get off the ground. The weather is really bad.”
“Are you sure?”
What did he mean, was I sure? The overcast night sky and strong winds were right in front of my face. Still, I made the effort to keep my voice relaxed.
“Tranquillo, tutto va bene, hai capito?” I tried to imbue my words with the tone I had heard my father use so often.
“Va bene, signore Dante. But we think that the people following you might be dangerous.”
“Mr. Merreck has nothing to be gained from harming me, Angelo. It would not be in his best interest,” I said with absolute surety.
“It’s not him we need to watch out for. I suggest you make an exhaustive search of the helicopter before climbing aboard. Or, even better, wait for us to come for you. Signore Caperotti thinks there may be some Jews mixed up in all this.”
I grew cold as a rock at his words, and of course I waited for them. Caperotti’s men flew me back to Peoria, and all the way back on the return flight to New York I prayed that nothing would happen in the airplane. But at least now I knew who was with me. I look back on that as one of the worst trips of my life. In the time it took to fly back I struggled between heaven and hell; in the middle of the tribulations around me, for the first time I could think clearly: my father had not wanted to continue the studies not because he was going to die anyhow; rather, he had stopped because I was invariably implicated in them, and he did not want to turn me into a guinea pig. Yet he had left me no other choice. Or had he?
The Manuscript
The words streamed out of him in an unstoppable torrent. Page after page, Nicholas reconstructed what he had read in the manuscript. An inexplicable urgency forbid him to rest, eat, or even drink water as he watched the story take shape, marveling at the frenzy that compelled him through each minute of every hour he spent glued in front of the computer screen. He was determined this time not to let sleep or exhaustion get the best of him, and his body, as if intuiting that it needed to put forth its best effort, cooperated with no signs of growing weary.
Quentin dared not interrupt him. He did not know quite what was going on in the room, but he suspected something important was cooking. Quentin was used to spending hours alone. He clung to the routines that had supported him through the latter days in this strange country where, through the whims of fate, he had ended up as the caretaker of the son of his dearly remembered employer. The young Dante was a complete enigma to him, and he always had been. He seemed to belong nowhere in particular, which was perhaps because Claudio Contini-Massera had never dared tell him the truth. He was going to find out anyhow, Quentin had always thought, and likely in an unpleasant way, which is exactly what had occurred: when his real father was in the grave. Nelson’s call about not getting in touch with Caperotti had come as a relief. Young Dante seemed to be all right and would return from Peoria any minute. Quentin sat down in the kitchen and took out the pack of cigarettes he hid in a box for emergencies. He was sure Dante would be shocked to see him smoke, but he got cravings at times like these. What the hell, one cigarette every once in a while would do no harm. He looked with pleasure at his black Reeboks while exhaling the smoke from his lungs.
Nicholas read back over the last part he had written. It occurred to him to glance at the unflappable manuscript on the desk to his left, open as if he expected the pages to come alive at any moment. Before he settled his fingers back onto the keyboard, his eyes flicked over to it. There it was. There were words on the page, the novel. Could it be? Or was his imagination playing a trick on him? He gave a shout that shook the entire floor. He grabbed the manuscript and feverishly started reading everything that had happened. It was as if his and Dante’s lives had been painted all over the pages. He flipped to the current moment and was surprised to read that Dante was sitting in Roseville, waiting for the storm to die down so he could return to New York. So the formula was not enough; they also needed the chest. And who else would have the chest but Martucci? But he was shocked to the core when later on he read that he, Nicholas, had struck a deal with Martucci and gone in search of the chest. Nicholas himself was the Judas. He could not believe it. He flipped farther ahead, but there was nothing more. If he had to go to Capri like the manuscript said, he would do it; that was that, and he had to play his part. But he would not betray his friend. He would find some other way.
Quentin heard a shout and was instantly on the alert. It came from one of the bedrooms. It must have been Nicholas. Quentin was afraid to go in. The young man did not seem to be in his right mind. He took another drag on the cigarette as he thought about what to do. And Nelson was nowhere to be found.
The swinging door to the kitchen crashed open, and Nicholas charged in like a hurricane with his bloodshot eyes shining and waving the manuscript in his hand.
Quentin had no time to extinguish his cigarette, and Nicholas reached for it.
“Let me have one, Quentin. I haven’t smoked in days. I need Martucci’s telephone number.”
Quentin handed him the pack. Nicholas pulled out a cigarette, and Quentin lit it for him, trying to disguise his anxiety.
“Why do you want to call Martucci?”
“I’ve got to do it. Look.”
He showed Quentin the manuscript, the very same one that Quentin had seen countless times without even a single letter in it. Yet here it was with every jot and tittle as if it had always been that way, the way Quentin saw it now with his own eyes.
“I have to try to strike a deal with Martucci, who’s actually just waiting for it. He’ll want me to be the one to make Merreck an offer. He doesn’t know that without Dante it’ll be impossible to carry out the studies. He has the chest, and he’ll give it to m
e. Once I give it to Merreck, Martucci will get a ton of money and will have the option of getting the longevity treatment, and so will Carlota, Dante’s mother. Eternal life, loads of money, love—what more could he ask for? At least that’s his plan. But I have to be the one to go.”
“But why does it have to be that way? Couldn’t young Dante talk with Martucci? I’m sure he wouldn’t object...”
“Because that’s how it’s written here, Quentin. And I believe in this thing. You’re going to think I’m crazy, but I believe it.”
“No, you’re not crazy. I can read it, too. It’s the same manuscript, isn’t it? I would recognize that strange color on the binding anywhere. Besides, from everything you’ve told me, it could be true.”
“So will you give me Martucci’s number?”
“Would you betray young Dante?”
“No! I just want to get the chest to give it to him. I’ll play a trick on Martucci. You believe me, don’t you, Quentin?” Nicholas asked, drawing closer to the elderly butler. “Look at me, Quentin. Look at me. I’m not lying.”
Quentin stared into his eyes.
“Yes, Mr. Nicholas, I believe you. I have his number in my address book. Follow me.”
They went to Quentin’s room and, a few minutes later, Nicholas dialed the number.
“Francesco Martucci? This is Nicholas Blohm speaking.”
After a brief pause, Martucci responded, “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this call? Has something happened to signore Dante?”
“Yes. He’s in Peoria. He went to turn in the formula for a huge amount of money.”
“So he found the damned thing after all.... I’m so pleased to hear it.”
“But you and I both know the formula itself is not enough. They need what’s in the chest.”
“Actually, I didn’t know that, Mr. Blohm. In any case, I’ll wait until Dante himself asks me for it. I made a promise to his uncle, and I intend to keep my word.”
“Mr. Martucci, I think it’s time to take off the mask. We both know what we’re after. The deal is, and you know it, that Dante won’t figure into this transaction. I’ve got copies of the documents and all I need is what’s in the chest. Within a few short hours you could be sitting on ten billion dollars. How does that sound? Just give me the number of your account and the money will get transferred. You’ll also have the option of getting the treatments for longevity and youthfulness, also applicable to a loved one.”
Nicholas could hear Francesco Martucci’s raspy breathing at the other end of the line. He knew the priest would accept the deal. It was what he had always wanted.
“How do I know that this isn’t just a joke?”
“You’ll have to trust me.”
Silence. Eternal silence. Finally, Martucci spoke.
“What do you get out of it?”
“My profit is secured, don’t worry.”
Finally, after a few more minutes of indecision, the other end of the line came to life.
“Ok. Listen. Get a flight to Naples, to the Capodichino Airport. Take the ferry to the Isle of Capri and go to Anacapri, to the Church of San Michelle. I’ll be there.”
“How will you recognize me?”
“I’ll know you, signore Nicholas.”
Quentin looked with uncertainty at Nicholas as he feverishly scribbled Martucci’s instructions on a piece of paper while still clutching the manuscript.
“Mr. Nicholas. I know how important all of this is to signore Dante. Allow me to help in some way.”
He turned and left the room, returning with a wad of cash.
“Please take this. I know you will need it.”
“Thank you, Quentin. I’ll head out at once for Naples. I’ll pay you back when I return.”
“Signore Dante will take care of it. I still think it would be best to wait for him...”
“No, Quentin, read it; read the manuscript. It’s all written here. I have to be the one to make this thing happen.”
“Very well, young Nicholas. I believe in you. Allow me at least to fix you something to eat. You haven’t had a bite in twenty-four hours.”
Nicholas was famished, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins had masked the hunger. He shrugged, and they went to the kitchen. With lightning speed Quentin served the torta caprese he had recently baked. Nicholas devoured it and downed a glass of red wine in a flash under the watchful eye of the elderly servant.
“You were right, Quentin. I feel much better after that. Now listen: In Capri, I’ll be getting a chest with radioactive material inside. I won’t be able to bring it back to the States because it would be confiscated in the airport. So I’ll rent a car in Naples and go directly to Rome, to Villa Contini. Please call them so they know to let me in.”
“Young Nicholas, at least take a carry-on. Someone traveling with no bags looks suspicious, and we don’t want to raise any red flags, right? I’ll bring you the small suitcase I always keep packed and ready for signore Dante. I think you two wear the same size, so you’ll find whatever you need in there.”
“No, no, Quentin, don’t worry about it. I’ve got this,” he pointed to his black leather jacket and the manuscript, “and that’s enough. I’ll need a hand to carry the chest. Besides, what would I do with a suitcase in a church? I’ve got to get going. Please explain everything to Dante. I’ll buy my ticket at the airport. Tell him to go to Rome and wait for me at Villa Contini!” he yelled as a final instruction as the elevator doors closed.
Newark Airport
November 21, 1999
As he waited in the airport, Nicholas searched in the manuscript for the place he had stopped reading when it got erased. By experience he knew he could not waste a single second of having it in his hands. Before him chapter 13 appeared:
13
Roseville, Illinois
Josef Mengele
1992
Claudio Contini-Massera looked worriedly at Josef Mengele’s tense face. Mengele hardly seemed to have the energy to breathe after his recent and violent coughing attack. Claudio wondered what would become of him when the inevitable happened. Mengele tapped a button in the wall and threw away the paper towel with which he had dried his meticulously washed hands.
“I don’t have much time left, Claudio, my friend. And there’s so much left to do!”
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to start thinking in plural, Dr. Mengele.”
“It’s too bad, isn’t it? After so much work, we’ll both end up in the grave, just like everyone else. But I have a request: I want to be cremated.”
For a moment he was back in Auschwitz. The acrid stench of the crematoriums flooded his senses. The distinct odor, with its unique combination of formaldehyde and chlorine, was impossible to confuse with any other smell. Who would have thought that he would end up just like the hundreds of wretches he had sent to the crematoriums? And of his own accord. He shrugged. Anyhow, everyone already thought he was dead.
“It will be however you wish it to be, but I still think it’s a bit premature to discuss it.”
“It’s unavoidable. Our organisms have received too much radiation. If not for that, you would be the living proof that my theories were correct. I fear, Claudio, that though your appearance reflects a youthfulness that is actually real, the cancerous cells in your body have taken over the marvelous effects of longevity. In short, the cancer cells, which are the only truly immortal cells, have come out on top.”
“What happened with the other subjects?”
“They’ve all died one after the other at a shocking pace. The last died three days ago, his body covered in pustules. The disease shows up in any form it wants to and is completely unpredictable. The extraordinary thing is that in your case, the cancer cells have been extremely local, and, subsequently, controllable, to a degree. But the zygote inoculations are no longer effective. Slowly, your body will grow weaker, and, when I die, I fear you will not be able to continue treatment.”
“What will happe
n with my son?”
“We’ll just have to see. Being inoculated with the formula in the early stages of his life seems to have had a very beneficial effect. You share many genes. Only time will tell. Creation seems to occur very slowly, while destruction takes but a moment,” Mengele mused philosophically. “For his own security, no one must know he has these marvelous qualities.”
“The few people who know he is my son know nothing about our experiments.”
“Very good, very good, and that’s how it must stay. If they decide to continue the studies, let them have a hell of a time with it, don’t you think?” Mengele suggested, showing his yellowed teeth. “You’ve put enough into this. The isotope we use to catalyze the compound—you should get it out of here. The mixture as well. I keep it in a sealed capsule, but, as you know, its contents are highly radioactive.”
“They can’t do me any more harm than they already have.”
“Yes, they could. But I’ll get them to you ‘well-packaged,’ shall we say. The important thing is to get them out of here without raising suspicion.”
“I doubt I’ll have any trouble with that. Remember I’m one of the primary shareholders.”
“And if your son decides he wants to continue the experiments?”
