The Manuscript I the Secret (2 page)

New York

November 9, 1999

I first met Irene in San Francisco at one of the many parties I was invited to. I recall that among the handful of beautiful women there, Irene stood out as the least noteworthy. In no way do I mean that she was unattractive. She was not one of these woman with waves of highlighted blonde hair and eternally bronzed skin. Nor did she flash a fake smile with lips that were too voluptuous above double-D saline-filled breasts. Irene looked too natural. That was what set her apart. She must have sensed my insistent gaze because she turned in my direction and, despite the ten feet between us; her smile warmed my entire body. She was not flirting; it was a real smile—the kind of smile no one had sent my way in quite some time, the kind that people used to give me when I had gotten into mischief as a child. It was a “
va bene, regazzo
,” and I felt loved.

I went up to her and was relieved to see that her small nose was not the product of surgery and that there was a puffiness under her eyes when she smiled that made her look a bit like a sleepy doll. I have nothing against surgical embellishments, but I prefer natural women with their regular, small breasts, or with the clear effects of gravity if they are naturally large and full. And Irene was natural even in the way she acted. That was what attracted me from the moment I saw her there at the party, at the house of friends I had met in one of my habitual forays into New York’s night life. They had invited me out to spend a few days at their house in San Francisco.

The city’s climate was ideal, much more temperate than Manhattan where the wind blows so hard it could sweep everyone off the streets. I remember that after exchanging a few words we headed for the back yard and sat on a wall atop the cliffs that overlooked the Golden Gate Bridge and a long stretch of the bay. We could hear the waves dashing against the rocks far below. The noise of the voices, the laughter, and the music from the house faded into the background while we stood apart from it all, grinning at each other for no apparent reason. I can call up that precise moment as her lips seemed entirely delicious; her little rabbit teeth gave her a young, mischievous look that was seared into my brain forever. That same night I learned that she, too, lived in Manhattan. I was overjoyed at the prospect of getting to see her again.

My name did not impress her. She had no clue I was one of New York’s most sought-after bachelors. I was sure of that from the beginning, and I got proof when, a few months after meeting each other, she guessed that I needed some help and set me up with an expert financial planner. That broker nearly doubled the capital I gave him. I had further proof when she offered to lend me money once she learned my investments had taken a turn for the worse. It was not that she was crazy about me. I am still not sure about anything when it comes to Irene. But I was totally mortified that she should know about my financial situation; Irene deserved someone better than I, and I swore that if things changed, I would ask her to be my wife. And now I had to turn to her once again; I had no other options.

I went to pick her up at the flower shop where she worked. With imported flowers from Colombia her shop specialized in weddings, baptisms, and all kinds of social events, including funerals. It had never occurred to me that money could spring from something so delicate and ephemeral as a flower. It was just one more thing I admired about Irene.

She saw me arrive and her full lips spread into a smile that disarmed me.
How in the world can I ask her?
I wondered. We went up to her apartment, a modern flat decorated with elegant simplicity, just like her. She kicked off her shoes, flopped onto the couch, and stretched out her legs. She took good care of her feet and always had her nails painted fuchsia. Always.

“I was standing up all day,” she said, gesturing with her hand for me to sit. I did so, and she shifted her legs to rest them over my knees.

“I need to go to Rome,” I said, giving her a quick kiss on the lips.

“When?”

“As soon as I can. Uncle Claudio is very sick, almost at the end, and I’m his only direct nephew.”

“Will you get an inheritance?” I knew she was not asking to be greedy or out of simple curiosity. She was a practical woman who wanted to help me.

“I imagine so. My mother has called twice now saying I really need to be there.”

“Well, of course you should go, sweetie. Whenever you talk about him it’s like he’s your dad. I can help you. I know you’re going through a rough patch.”

I studied her smooth features wondering what in the world I had done to deserve a woman like this.

“I’ll leave you Quentin as collateral,” I offered, kissing her again.

“I’ll settle for having you return,” she answered with a wink. “Promise me that when you come back rich, you won’t go investing in any more sketchy bonds.”

“They warned me about the risks before I invested, and I did it anyway. I’m the idiot, and I know it.”

“It was an expensive lesson! Two million dollars!” she exclaimed.

“They told me it was a somewhat risky endeavor, but I looked into it and learned about how bonds for the Argentine public debt paid really high short-term dividends. The problem was I got hasty and didn’t listen to Jorge Rodríguez’s advice.”

“He’s a trustworthy person, but I’m afraid he’s not so convincing. I regret having introduced you.”
“It’s not your fault, Irene. You shouldn’t feel responsible for my actions.”

Without answering, she drew her legs in and rested her feet on the carpet.

“Come here,” she said with that tone that held out a promise.

I followed her to the little study-library. She took out a checkbook that was far thicker than any of mine and began to fill one out in her round script. After signing it, she deftly ripped it out. That sound has always fascinated me, as if I were programed to feel euphoria at the sound of paper ripping, especially the smooth, thick paper of a check. She reached across the desk and handed it to me.

“You’re not even going to look at it?” she asked when I slid it immediately into my jacket pocket.

“No, but I’ll pay you back double.”

“I know, love.” The surety of her tone put me slightly on edge, and for a brief second an alarm went off in my head. But I was just being suspicious. A lack of money sharpens one’s senses, and lately I had been extremely sensitive.

The following hours made me forget whatever resentment I might have attributed to my recent sensitivity. I gave myself to Irene body and soul, and I believe she did the same. This time the long scar that ran from her left buttock up to her waist did not even phase me. The first time I saw it I confess I was a bit put off, but I got used to it.

“What happened there?” I asked her once.

“I’ll tell you later,” was her answer. And we never went back to it.

When I saw her naked for the first time, I admired her even more because I realized she was older than what she looked. That was another secret. But I think that all women get to a point in their lives when they just decide to not get any older. She was at least thirty-eight, likely older, but it was not her muscles, which were taught, nor any defect in her body with its smooth, firm skin that let me know. It was her breasts. I have learned that women show their age in that telltale curve more than anywhere else. That is why it is so jarring to see an older woman with breasts as perky as a teenagers’, because they do not fit with her body, her face, her gestures. Nor with her experience. Irene’s breasts were full and slightly sagging. Their volume could only be appreciated when unclothed. They disappeared almost entirely under clothing, hidden in that mysterious way that only nature can pull off. She was a passionate lover, and I realized from the get-go that she needed a young man like me to satisfy her desires, though she would never have admitted it. She used to say she was very selective. She would rather go for months without sex than sleep with just anybody. And I believed her.

I left on the first flight to Rome the next day.

Rome, Italy, Villa Contini

November 10, 1999

I felt like I had arrived back in Villa Contini as soon as I saw the two stone lions at each side of the entryway to the long wooded drive up to Uncle Claudio’s mansion. Some wrote him off as eccentric because he held onto customs that most of the family now considered absurd, like having all the villa’s servants stand in line to greet him at the front door when he returned from somewhere, and how he greeted each servant by name. But things had changed. Before I left for America, I found out that Uncle Claudio preferred to live in his apartment in Rome. He explained that it kept him closer to his work; I think the real reason is that the villa felt too big for just one man.

When I entered the great hall where part of the family was gathered, I realized that the inevitable had already occurred. My mother’s face could hardly have been more eloquent. She was beautiful, more beautiful than my sister Elsa, despite her age. When my mother was sad, her eyes took on a different hue and saw as if from a distance, the way famous actresses expressed their grief in the old movies I used to watch with Uncle Claudio. Everyone agreed she looked strikingly like Ava Gardner. Today, her typically pale skin was tinged with blue under the eyes. As soon as she saw me, she came up and hugged me as she had not done since long before I left for America, and I felt the depth of her pain. But I could not divine its exact cause.

I knew her too well to believe she was grieved by the loss of Uncle Claudio. Children know the dark sides of their parents. I think the real reason for her anguish was that she had no way of knowing if Uncle Claudio had included me in his will. I was not happy to see her. Dark memories I had tried to bury through every available means reared up and invaded my already dampened spirits. As if sensing I needed support, my sister came over. She was two years younger yet had always been a refuge for me. Elsa was the exact opposite of my mother. Her serene gaze was reminiscent of a Boticelli Venus. She squeezed my hand in greeting and moved to stand beside me as mother gave a half-turn and tended to two older gentlemen in the family with whom she seemed overly comfortable, probably because of their lascivious glances. I preferred to avoid the inevitable flirtation to come. Mother was like a queen bee attended by solicitous worker bees. I had never liked the way she acted. Sometimes I think she does it on purpose, just to show us she is still young and desirable. Since my father’s death, she had always treated me like the man of the family, and the constant pressure pushed me ever farther from her.

Elsa dragged me by the hand toward the private rooms in Uncle Claudio’s mansion and stopped at his bedroom. I was scared to go in. I have never been brave, and facing death was the last thing I wanted to do at that moment, or ever. Yet I knew there was no getting around it. I whiffed my mother’s signature perfume and knew I would be making this transition toward death with her. The click of her heels was as unmistakable as her fragrance. She sidled up to me and rested her head on my shoulder. And thus, like two individuals thrust together in a painful embrace, we encountered the cadaver of Uncle Claudio.

For a moment it felt like looking at myself as an old man. Everyone said I was his spitting image. I guess my dad looked a lot like him, too. But Uncle Claudio had been the one to inherit my grandfather’s title and fortune, a fact which became the bone of contention between them until my father’s death, three years after I was born. Thus I looked to Uncle Claudio as a father figure, even after he stopped coming by the house.

I studied his peaceful face and simply could not believe he was dead. Suddenly I was lost in a memory from a few years prior when he had said, “Dante, my son, one day all this will be yours.”

At the time it meant nothing to me since I had grown up in his world.

I answered, “I’d rather it just stay yours, uncle, because then it means you’ll still be alive.”

“
Mio caro bambino
, you need to be making preparations. Finish your economics degree. It’s of vital importance.”

“Why do I need to study?”

“To defend yourself. Being rich isn’t easy. You’ll face situations that demand wise decisions. I want you to come to the Business and soak it all up, everything you see.”

“Uncle, seriously, it’s okay; please don’t leave anything to me. I appreciate it; I really do. But I don’t deserve it.”

Uncle Claudio shook his head as if refusing to accept that I did not have his entrepreneurial spirit. I wondered if I seemed to him like my father.

“Poor Dante, you have no choice. This is just the way things are.”

“Couldn’t one of your partners take over?”

“The Business has to stay in the family. Sure, I have partners, but each of them only has a minute share in all that I do.”

“Uncle Claudio, I’d really just like to go to America. Give me a couple years to study and get trained. I need some time alone, away from all this.”

“Done. You have my blessing. I hope that by the time you return you will have doubled the capital I’ll entrust to you. And promise me you won’t abandon your international business studies.”

“Don’t you see, uncle? I want to go with no strings attached. I don’t want your money. I have no clue how to double it...”

Probably in response to the pain on my face, he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “All right. Just promise you won’t get into any trouble. The family name is at stake. Go, study, have a good time, and come back. Someday you will have to understand that work is another kind of fun.”

And here I was, back without a dime and with no one to have to explain anything to, deep in debt and weighed down by being the head of a family over a financial emporium I had zero interest in running. And Uncle Claudio was not here to train me. I had lost the opportunity to learn from him directly. I remembered the times I had gone with him to board meetings and watched him in awe. He was like a fish in water. His word always ended up being the final decision, and everyone seemed relieved to follow his suggestions since he always knew just what to do or what decision to make. Yet I knew I needed his money. I could not leave my debts unpaid. How short-sighted I was at the time!

Uncle Claudio seemed to be sleeping peacefully.

“Mother, death smoothes out the wrinkles,” I murmured.

She pulled away brusquely. The reproach in her eyes told me she had taken it as a back-handed critique.

I noticed a slight movement in one corner of the room. A man in a cassock sat as if in a trance. His eyes were lowered though I had the feeling he had been watching me. He must have been the one to administer extreme unction. It took me a while to place him, but, a few minutes later, after leaving Uncle Claudio’s room, I remembered having seen him several times at Villa Contini, which would have been around four years prior.

The relatives gathered at the house were the ones closest to my mother. She had probably sent out the summons. She had become the de facto “lady of the house,” given the closeness we had always had with Uncle Claudio. To me they were like birds of bad omen, black-suited crows circling for the kill. My mother loved being surrounded by people; thus, her non-stop social life and constant search for a husband. And as odd as it may seem, despite how beautiful she was, it proved very difficult for her to find the right man. That was the story of her life. The main problem was that she had a weakness for very young men, first off, and then for married men.

Uncle Claudio’s head physician had confirmed his death an hour before I arrived. He explained that the strange illness my uncle had battled for years had taken a severe turn for the worse in the last six months. The diagnosis was myocardial infarction. A heart attack seemed too simple a way to go for someone like him. I have known plenty of people who survive heart attacks, and it was hard to believe Uncle Claudio lay dead in his chambers for something so basic. Later, alone and staring at the walls in the room I had stayed in so many times, it hit me that I would never hear from him again, never see him drive away; that this house was inextricably linked to my uncle and that he had meant the world to me; that beyond his help and his money, I
loved
him. That is when the desolation came. It stormed into my soul and stripped me bare like a baby bird ripped from under its mother’s wings. And I cried. I cried like I had not cried in years. Through the tears I recalled a little song he always used to sing to me, “A, plus B, plus C, plus D..., is 1, plus 2, plus 3, plus 4...” He sang the little ditty so often I memorized it, and, when I started school, I was the only boy who already knew the alphabet and how to count to ten.

“Just think about people in our family and people close to you, and you’ll remember the letters, Dante. A book is a world of knowledge,
mio caro bambino
. A long time ago books were as valuable as treasure, and people would keep them under lock and key.”

He took me to the Hereford Cathedral library when we went to England once for him to attend some big event at which the royal family would be present. During the event itself I stayed with Quentin in Uncle Claudio’s London apartment. I have wonderful memories of those times, before the fallout between my uncle and my mother. After three days, we went to Hereford and toured the enormous cathedral and its library. All the books had chains long enough to stretch to a table where you could read them. There were so many chains I was worried they would all get tangled up.

“Do you like it?” my uncle asked, but I did not know how to answer. I was inclined to say no; yet I wanted to please him, so I answered that I loved it.

“If I had a secret to keep, I’d hide it here in one of these books. Nobody could steal it because they’re chained up!” he quipped as we left, letting out a peel of that frank, boisterous laughter that always made me happy.

The memories flooded back in my desolation, as if my heart were trying to keep Uncle Claudio nearby just a little longer.

The wake would be in the little chapel at Villa Contini, just a stone’s throw from the main house, and he would be buried in the family cemetery, a gray-walled mausoleum with life-sized granite angels flanking the entrance. I could only recall having entered it once, and it was with Uncle Claudio. For no apparent reason, he had come up to me as I was running around the grounds of the chapel and asked if I wanted to see where our forefathers were. Though I had no idea what he was talking about, my curiosity answered in the affirmative.

“We’ll all end up here,” he said, pointing to the walls etched with bas-relief markings and inscriptions. We went down the stairs and into a larger room. He continued, “Here are the remains of your grandparents and your father.”

My hair stood on end. I knew he was about to say, “And one day mine and yours, too.” What else could he say? I remember so clearly wanting to flee from that place. It was dimly lit with a few dying rays coming from who knows where. I could not bring myself to look up and face death. I was surrounded by it, and the shadows all about seemed like dark arms stretching out to drag me under. Sensing my turmoil, Uncle Claudio put a hand on my shoulder and pulled me back. We left the mausoleum.