The Manuscript I the Secret (11 page)

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?”

“I imagine I’d still have ended up doing what I’m doing now, leading the Business.”

“Are you comfortable in that role?”

“Though it may seem strange, yes. It’s like I’ve been waiting for this moment my whole life, though, as you well know, it’s not what I thought I wanted.”

“Are you extremely wealthy? What does it feel like to have an enormous fortune?”

“I can’t talk about that, Nicholas.”

“Remember our agreement. To write a novel I need to develop the characters.”

“I imagine that being rich is just like being poor. It’s a matter of what you’re used to. Honestly I don’t know what to say about it. If I had known what it’s like to be poor, I could make a comparison, but I actually have no idea.”

“That’s what I figured. You know how when you want something but you can’t afford it you get obsessed with that thing? There were times when I wanted to eat a cheese sandwich so bad...but I couldn’t afford it. When I started cleaning cars and earning my own money —just pocket change—, I stuffed my face with cheese sandwiches. You have no idea how good that felt,” Nicholas said.

His look held disdain. I felt guilty and personally responsible for all the poor kids in the world who could not afford to buy cheese sandwiches.

“This one time I wanted a Formula One car, the kind a kid could actually get in and drive around. I had my eye on a mini Ferrari. Uncle Claudio wouldn’t buy it for me. He said it was too dangerous for me to start thinking of myself as a race car driver.”

“Oh, please! How old were you?”

“Eight, I think. I was born a very serious child, and I knew I was too old for that kind of thing, but I’ve always liked cars.”

“At that age I was in a children’s home scrapping for a place on the ball field.”

“Your childhood must have been very entertaining.”

“No more or less than yours. Maybe you’re right in saying that being rich or poor is all the same. I lived my life within the bounds of the home and didn’t have a clue what went on outside those walls, so I didn’t know what I was missing.”

“And now here you are, searching for a formula and one step away from getting a story line for your novel. If I were you, with all the details you already know, I would’ve gone ahead and written the book. I don’t know what you’re hoping to get out of me.”

Nicholas looked at me pensively. He said nothing and focused on fiddling with the rim of his glass. After a while he looked around at the diners vacating the table to our left and took everyone else in the restaurant in at a glance.

“Do you get the feeling we’re being watched?”

“You think someone’s following us?” I said, moving closer to him.

“There’s a man sitting by himself, three tables to your right. He doesn’t look like a tourist, which is odd, because everyone else here but us seems to be. He’s not dressed like a tourist and doesn’t act like one, so I figure he’s not one.”

I glanced casually at the man at the table Nicholas mentioned. He was staring at his plate, absorbed in trying to decide which bite to take next. He looked to be around forty, and his svelte figure indicated he was in very good shape. His dark hair was disheveled just enough to give him a relaxed air. He was wearing tennis shoes.

“I think he’s a tourist. Look at his shoes.”

“Spies wear tennis shoes.”

“Where do you come up with this stuff?”

“It’s purely logical. They can walk without being heard, run comfortably, climb...”

“I’ve never seen James Bond wearing sneakers,” I retorted.

Nicholas gave me a smile that made me feel like an idiot.

“Well, we’d better be turning in for the night,” I suggested.

“You go right ahead. I’m going to stay up a little later. I’ll be at the bar,” Nicholas said, heading in that direction.

Seated on my bed, I could see the delicate spider webs in one corner of the room. It occurred to me that they might actually be the same webs that had been there the last time I was at this hotel, with Uncle Claudio. I hoped there were poisonous spiders in Nicholas’ room. Could someone really be following us? I had felt pretty good up until when he said that, thinking how close we were to solving Uncle Claudio’s riddles, but now I was getting worried about the men Martucci had warned me about, the ones who had tried to kill Claudio Contini-Massera. Maybe it was true, maybe the man in the restaurant was a hitman hired by whoever wanted to halt the research and stop the formula from being developed. To get their hands on the formula, they needed only to follow my footsteps.

I sat up straighter. I ought to go warn Nicholas. I went down to the bar but could not find him. I had left the restaurant no more than eight minutes ago to go to my room. Where the hell could he have gone? I was peeved and felt betrayed. I remembered he was a smoker and that smoking was prohibited in all eighty-three rooms of the hotel. I found him standing outside the hotel entrance, a cigarette balanced between his lips while he stared at the sky.

“Did you find out who the guy was?” I asked with no preamble.

“He’s a hotel guest. He arrived almost the exact time we did and is Italian, according to the bellhop.”

“So how did we not see him? He must’ve followed us from Rome on the same flight.”

“He’s the kind of person you easily overlook. Besides, we weren’t thinking about people following us. An inexcusable mistake.”

“So what do we do?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been followed before.”

“But you’re a writer. Surely you’ll think of something.”

Nicholas caught the irony. He studied me through eyes scrunched up against the strong wind and chuckled.

“I think we should go through with our plans. We’ll go to the cathedral, look for whatever signs your uncle left, and we’ll get back to the airport as fast as we can. But we’ll split up on the flight home. I’ll take one flight, you take another, and we’ll meet back up at Villa Contini. I’ll try to get him to follow me since he thinks we’re together.”

“This is getting complicated. It better be worth it.”

“We’ll find out tomorrow in the library,” Nicholas declared and stamped out his cigarette.

Up to then I felt like I had been dancing the tango on a tightrope but was ever so slowly regaining a measure of equilibrium. But nothing could have prepared me for what I saw that morning. Nicholas showed up at my door dressed like a priest. He wore a black suit and a clerical collar. The suit really could have been just any generic black suit, but the white collar gave it the distinct ecclesiastic touch. Bizarrely, Nicholas’ personality seemed to fit like a glove with the ensemble. His disheveled figure, slumped shoulders, and sad eyes were nuanced just right to achieve the demeanor of a holy martyr. When he saw my face, he smiled a very different smile than the night before in the restaurant.

“You can get all this quite easily in Rome,” he explained, adjusting the jacket over his shoulders. In was useless, though, and would never fit quite right. “I think it’ll help our search go more smoothly.”

“Is the get-up really necessary?” I asked, bemused. “As a journalist you can go nearly anywhere you want.”
“All journalists have a press card, and I’ve got mine, but we don’t want people to know who we are, right?”

I did not bother answering. Obviously, no. I put on a gray sweater, and we set off.

Cathedrals never fail to emanate grandeur. The building’s dimensions are of such a scale that deep spiritual reflection is the natural response of whoever dares cross the threshold, saunter down the main wing, or notice the capitals supporting dome after dome. The capitals of Hereford Cathedral are highly sculpted. Every square inch of the place has been crafted to exude a crushing splendor. I bet that even non-believers, when they walk into a place like that, suddenly and desperately want to believe in something. We wandered around inside just killing time until 10:00, when the library opened. To get to the library, we had to exit the cathedral and go to a building on the southeast corner of the grounds. This building held nothing of the other’s stateliness. A woman who seemed to disappear among the ancient tomes was sitting behind a small desk. When she saw us, she directed her greeting to Nicholas and practically ignored me. I noticed a sign that requested a suggested donation of four pounds per visitor. I put eight pounds sterling on the desk.

“Would you like a tour?” she asked.

“Actually, no, madam,” Nicholas explained. “I’ve come from the United States, a special envoy of the Catechesis of the Holy Bible, to get to read in person the famous holy books held here.”

“This is an exhibition library, Reverend...”

“Reverend Nicholas Blohm. And what is your name, my good lady?”

“Molly Graham. Researchers can only access or consult a book with prior authorization.”

“Of course, ma’am. I recognize we have showed up unannounced, but this is a promise I have waited years to keep. Could I just take a quick peek at the Bibles? I would be ever so grateful. The day you decide to come to my country, you will be received with bells and whistles by our congregation, I assure you. I must return to the United States this very afternoon...”

Nicholas certainly had a persuasive way about him. It seemed like the good woman was believing his story just as I had earlier. She hesitated a moment after seeing Nicholas’ pained expression. When she saw him putting on his latex gloves, she stepped forward and said, “Follow me.”

We followed as she clicked with rapid, short steps toward a locked door, opened it, and proceeded to the section of sacred texts. It was smaller than I remembered. I have seen so many libraries, and this one could hardly compare with any of them in size or beauty. It was just...different, not least because of the rusty old chains hanging from each of the library’s nearly two thousand extremely valuable original works and many other manuscripts from the Middle Ages. We see things differently as children, of course, but the constant between my two experiences of the place was the sense of mystery floating in the austere ambience. The collection of books has an ancient, worn-out appearance. The pages are not crisp and straight like in most books we read. Instead, in some cases they are no more than a mismatched fistful of vellum sheets sticking out every which way from the covers.

Without wasting a moment, she pointed and scanned the books in front of her until she stopped at a voluminous, important-looking tome that was, naturally, chained. Nicholas handed me a pair of gloves.

“Please, be very careful with it. It’s a rare copy with hand-drawn illustrations from the seventeenth century. There’s only one other like it, held at the British Library in London. But you haven’t told me what kind of Bible you’re looking for...”

“Protestant Bibles, naturally.”

“Then this would be the one,” the woman nodded, satisfied. “Though we do have others.”

Nicholas’s face lit up with joy as he received the Bible. He held it like treasure and made a little bow. I suppose that only the threat of contamination stopped him from kissing it.

“Thank you, sister. May God reward you richly.” Suddenly he fixed his pleading eyes on her and asked, “Do you happen to have a Red Book here?”

“You want to see the Red Book?”

“I would love to.”

“It’s in the aisle just on the other side of this bookcase. I beg you to watch out for it and be extremely careful.”

“I promise to care for it as for my own life.”
Molly Graham gave Nicholas a puzzled look. “In just a minute a group of Japanese tourists will be arriving. Please, don’t tarry in your reading.”

Nicholas placed a hand on his chest and bowed his head in assent. The woman withdrew, seemingly pleased with herself for having done a good deed.

At the end of each row of bookshelves there was a long table, a kind of shelf to rest the books on so the chains did not have to move very much. We sat down facing the disconcerting volume and started to look for the book of Psalms. Supposedly it came after Job, but it was not there.

“This must be an extremely rare edition. I can’t believe Psalms isn’t here,” Nicholas murmured. “Molly was right to tell us to watch out.”

“There’s no point going on about it,” I snapped and then added, “We better look for a different one.” I was starting to get used to how easy it was for Nicholas to earn people’s trust.

“The spines are all facing the opposite direction...” he mumbled, stupefied as he looked over the rows and rows of books stretching before us. “How the hell are you supposed to know which book to get?”

I put my finger to my lips as a warning about his language.

We put the Bible back in its place, and Nicholas took down the one next to it. The chains rustled loudly. The Bible was in Aramaic. Uncle Claudio had told me this language, indecipherable to me, was read right to left. I recognized it because in his office he kept a copy of a targum, a compilation of Aramaic annotations and commentaries on the Hebrew Scriptures. Nicholas put it back and then took out the next one, trying to make as little noise as he could, but it was impossible to be quiet. In the silence of the library, the chains rang out like bells chiming for mass. Getting desperate, Nicholas opened yet another book: the Torah, which of course held nothing for us either. By that point, we were in such a rush that even if we had found a Bible in Italian we could not have located the book of Psalms.

“Dante, I’m going to go to the other side of the bookcase. I need to see the Red Book.”

I nodded and, trying not to crisscross the chains, took out a book within my reach. It was antique, and its fine pages were very different from the other books that had rough, uneven edges. On the cover I saw in English:
Holy Bible
. Finally, something I could read! Desperate, I opened it. Fortunately, Molly Graham was busy with the tourist group that was just arriving. The book of Psalms was there. I started to let out an involuntary whoop of joy but then immediately remembered I had to keep quiet, so the shout turned into a long, awkward groan. Miss Graham poked her head forward to look at me from the far end of the aisle of shelves, as did Nicholas opposite me from behind some books on the other side of the case. I flipped to Psalm 15 and Psalm 21 but got nothing out of them. There were no marks or signs there or on the pages before or after them. I felt all around in the slot where the Bible had been. Nothing.

“Dante, I think I found something!” Nicholas hissed while looking at me from across a row of books.

But we were out of time. The librarian was coming with the pack of tourists, giving a series of explanations; soon she would be heading in our direction. She would see the mess we had made of the chains. I closed the book and a little piece of paper floated out. It said, “C.C.M.” My heart leaped. Right then I realized I had no choice. I tore out the pages from Psalm 10 to 50, eight pages in all. I snapped the Bible shut and shoved it back into its niche. Molly Graham arrived with the visitors just as I was smoothing down the pocket of my pants where the pages now bulged and Nicholas sidled up. She gave us a strange look when she saw the chains all jumbled and the books facing with their spines out.

“I can explain, madam...” Nicholas began while parsimoniously removing his gloves.

I heard several clicks. I knew the moment would remain forever preserved for posterity in some Japanese photo album.

Nicholas took advantage of Molly Graham’s momentary distraction to reiterate his invitation. “Please do visit us when you come to the United States, Ms. Graham. Remember, it’s St. Patrick’s Cathedral of New York, and the congregation is the Catechesis of the Holy Bible,” he insisted.

“Thank you so much, Ms. Graham, you have been such a help. We’ll be going. Have a wonderful day,” I said with my politest voice, and we nearly sprinted out of there.

Outside, I could finally breathe again. We walked as fast as we could back to the hotel, Nicholas doffing the collar and unbuttoning his jacket en route. I let the front desk know we would need the bill, and we went up to our rooms. We retrieved the bags we had already packed and returned to the lobby with every intention of getting out of Hereford as soon as possible. If Molly Graham realized that several pages were missing from a Bible, there would surely be trouble, and I imagine she knew right where she could find us.

In the car, Nicholas fiendishly compared the pages I had ripped out with the notes he had made. I drove as fast as safety allowed. After a few moments, he pulled from his pockets a piece of paper with a drawing on it.

“Look,” he said, holding it out for me. It was the reproduction of a painting that looked familiar to me.

“Good God, did you tear that out of the book?”

“From the Red Book. And it matches this—” as I glanced, I got momentarily distracted. The car made a strange little swivel, and the motor cut off.

I noticed then that the gray car that had been about a hundred yards behind us since we left Hereford had slowed down. Until that moment, I had not been overly cautious. I had taken Brother Martucci’s words as a somewhat implausible warning. But I began to realize it was more than likely that I was in danger. The gray car passed us. The man from the restaurant was driving.

“He’s been following us since we left,” I told Nicholas.

“Are you sure?”

“I am now. So what did you find?” I asked, starting the engine again.

“Do you remember the strange words in your uncle’s message? I copied them and brought them with me. They match up with the inscription of a Bosch painting:
Meester snyt die keye ras / myn name is lubbert das
, written in Flemish from what I could gather. It means, ‘Master, cut away the stone, my name is Lubbert das.’ The Red Book is a catalog of all of Bosch’s works, published in 1730.”

“Good God...and you ripped a page out!”

“Oh, and what about you? You nearly cleaned out an entire Holy Bible!”

He was right. It was no time for theatrics.

“I remember that painting. I think Uncle Claudio had it in his study,” I said.

“He had
Extracting the Stone of Madness
? That’s impossible. It’s at the Museo del Prado in Madrid.”

“I don’t mean the original. It was small, a reproduction, barely a foot high. But I haven’t seen it lately.”

“So what if the psalms and the painting are somehow related?”

I did not answer. I turned everything over in my mind for the rest of the trip. Our little incursion into Hereford had been relatively fruitful. We had all but ransacked a sacred facility, and I still did not understand the outcome. At the airport, after returning the rental car, I said, “You keep the papers. The man from the restaurant will follow me. Take a flight to Rome and wait for me at Villa Contini.”
Nicholas nodded, though his mind was clearly elsewhere.

Inside the airport, I went to the ticket counter and noticed the man from the gray car subtly following me. He was carrying a newspaper or a magazine of some sort and every now and then slapped his left hand impatiently with it. Two people got between us in line.

I bought a ticket to New York and presumed he would do the same. Shortly after I arrived in the waiting area, he showed up. At the last call, I got out of my seat and lined up behind everyone. He did the same. A large woman started arguing quite loudly with the head flight attendant. I took advantage of the momentary distraction and slipped behind my pursuer. By the time he realized it, he was already on the Jetway, and they were closing the door. I headed away from the gate, making sure he did not follow.