The Manuscript I the Secret (21 page)

Martucci stood up and put the covers back on the chairs exactly as they had been. He grabbed the bag with the chest and left, Nicholas following him. His back, which had been straight, was now curved as if the full weight of guilt had beaten him down within a matter of seconds. The wind was picking up outside. The priest turned to Nicholas, and suddenly he was someone else, something foreign and imposing beneath all that asceticism. His dark eyes and the faint wafts of hair blown about by the wind seemed otherworldly; yet his gaze held an unfathomable sadness. Behind him, the sea, the sky, and the turbulent clouds announced a coming storm.

“Have you ever fallen in love, Mr. Blohm?”

The question took Nicholas off guard.

“In what sense?”

“There’s only one way to love.”

“Yes, I’ve been in love; of course I have.”

“Then you know it’s a feeling that stays with us every minute, every second of our existence. There’s no moment in which what we do is not somehow related to that love, and thoughts fly across the ether to rest in the soul of the woman who exists out there, far away; it doesn’t matter where she is, or who she’s with; it doesn’t even matter if she loves you back. She exists, and that’s enough.”

“You loved her like that?”

“‘Loved’ is in the past tense. I
love
like that. Sadly, I could never share this feeling with anyone, much less her, the object of my love. She simply would not have understood, just as I can’t understand why I love her like that. From the first time I saw her, I knew I would be her slave and that I would be capable of doing anything for her. You probably don’t know what it feels like to see the woman of your dreams turn into reality beside you, her soft body as white as ivory, her gentle aroma of woman, her smile that screams for me to put my lips on hers and to adore her; and when she is anywhere near, my body trembles to think it might touch her, that even for a fleeting instant I might have the illusion of possessing her, of making her happy, ah! You have no idea!”

Francesco Martucci was looking at Nicholas but not seeing him. He was talking to himself, seemingly unaware of the heavy tears rising in his eyes and coursing their way with difficulty down his weathered face. “Carlota is one of a kind in this world, and she will never be fully mine, though she thinks she loves me. I know they’re just words, illusions, fleeting feelings that go along with the pity she feels when she sees me, because, after all, who am I?
Appena uno disgraziato sono!
Just a poor fool! I could never give her all that she deserves, surround her with everything she’s used to. I don’t have the elegance of someone like Claudio or the passion of someone like Bruno. All I have is this pain in my chest that eats away at me like a festering wound and won’t let me breathe.... Mr. Nicholas: nor could I give her the youth she thinks is slipping away from her, because I’m incapable of carrying out that wicked deed.... I have sheltered this chest with every intention of putting it to use one day, but I can’t, I can’t go that far, and I know she will despise me. She’ll never want to see me again. And that is a truth I simply cannot face, Mr. Nicholas. I cannot live without knowing that I will see her again and that she’ll lie to me saying that she loves me. I can’t do it this time. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Here, take the chest, and go with God. If someone else sins with it, so be it. I have paid for enough in this life, and I know that hell awaits me for what I’m about to do, but there’s no way around it
.
¡Oh, femina che vendisi come mercanzia mai potrà essere buona
!
She who sells herself as merchandise can never be virtuous! I betrayed my beloved friend Claudio, but when he closed his eyes I realized he had known all along. The whole time! How could I tell all this to Dante, his own son? How could he ever understand his mother? If Claudio himself never wanted to admit he was his father to preserve her honor! What honor? Ah,
signore
Nicholas,
ma l’amore è sempre il massimo sentimento, ed io la ho voluta così.
Love is ever the greatest, and that is just as I would have wished it. God help me!”

The monk was perched at the edge of the cliff when he reached out to hand over the chest. For just a flash, it looked like a trap. The monk tightened his grip ever so slightly in the moment just before letting go, as if having second thoughts. His body was trembling so violently the convulsions could be felt from feet away. Then the monk made a decisive gesture, released the chest, and plunged backward into the deep. He made no cry. A moment later there was a dry thump and a crunching noise muffled by the distance.

Horrified, the one left standing peered over the edge of the precipice. Despite the growing dark, he could make out a shapeless form on one of the silvery rocks below. He was overcome by a wave of pity, a mixture of compassion, infinite grief, and gratitude. He held in his hands the very thing he had come to find. Through the thick weave of the backpack he could feel the metal strips holding the wood together. He turned and strode away: the deed was done, and there was nothing he could do about it. The cold wind whipped his face, and he realized that, though no rain had yet fallen, his cheeks were damp. Nestling the bundle beneath his leather jacket, he swallowed back a sob and walked as quickly as possible the long way back to the piazza. The fluorescent hands of his watch showed he had just enough time to make it to the dock and board the last ferry.

That is when Nicholas realized the first page of the manuscript had just taken place.

November 22, 1999

The accumulated physical and moral weariness I carried vanished the moment I walked through the door. Nelson and Quentin stood next to each other waiting for me, making quite the bizarre couple. The anxiety on their faces screamed for me to ask what was going on.

“
Signore
Dante, everything has been taken care of.”

“Really? What do you mean by ‘everything’?”

“Everything,
signore
. Mr. Nicholas will soon be back at Villa Contini with the chest, and the manuscript seems to be revealing its secrets again.”

“Hold on, back up. Let’s take it slowly. What’s been going on with you, Nelson?”

“I went after the man from the taxi but didn’t get much of anywhere. According to the driver, the man who came out of the Rodríguez house didn’t say a word the entire ride. What I do know is that the driver dropped him off at the airport. So I went to talk with some contacts where I used to work and we agreed to tap the Rodríguez widow’s phones. It was easier than bugging her house. She called Irene and told her you’d come to visit and so had the FBI. She said her brother had come to say goodbye because he was heading back to Venezuela. She said, ‘The hard drive to Jorge’s computer was gone, which was a total surprise to me, but I thought something up and told them a man had come by on behalf of Claudio Contini and had taken it. Now I’m not sure if I did the right thing. I even gave them a card my husband had in his desk.’ Irene asked, ‘Why did you have to make something up?’ She answered, ‘I’m afraid, Irene. I know that Jorge was murdered. I think he was wrapped up in some dirty business. He had been handling huge sums of money in the weeks before he died. I’m thinking about moving to Venezuela. I’ve got a few connections there with people in government, and, you know, if you’ve got money you can do whatever you want in that country.’ ‘You probably shouldn’t talk about your plans over the phone, Teresa,’ Ms. Irene said, and they agreed to meet up later.”

“Which means,” I mused aloud, “the widow doesn’t actually know anything, and the hard drive was taken by someone interested in its contents but which might have absolutely nothing to do with me.”

“Precisely my conclusions,” Nelson agreed.

“May I speak,
signore
Dante?”

“Of course, Quentin.”

“Young Nicholas went to meet with Francesco Martucci on the Isle of Capri. He said he had to be the one to do it, because that’s how it was written in the manuscript. He went to retrieve the chest and said he would be taking it to Villa Contini and that you should meet him there because he feared he would not be able to get through customs with it due to the radioactive contents. He should be in Capri by now.”

Nicholas never ceased to amaze me.

“You said it was written in the manuscript?”

“I myself saw it with these very eyes. The problem is that the manuscript was not totally finished. That is, young Nicholas said it only mentioned that he was the one who retrieved the chest.”

“Quentin, I’ll leave for Rome today.”

“Right away,
signore
.”

My body nearly groaned at the thought of another trip, but I could not put it off. Besides, I was eaten alive with curiosity to see the manuscript. I could sleep on the plane.

“You’ll come with me, Nelson. I imagine that the Jorge Rodríguez business isn’t going to get us anywhere. Make a reservation for two in first class.”

It was the least I could do given Nelson’s bulk. He might get cramped up in coach, and I needed him to be in good shape. And I desperately needed to sleep. All throughout the flight back from Illinois I had been spooked thinking about everything the blessed Jews might be planning. I would have to deal with them later. Right then, getting the chest was the most important thing.

I could relax on the plane thanks to Nelson’s comforting presence. Is this what my father’s life had been like? Only thirteen days had passed since I went to seen Irene to borrow money to get back to Rome, yet it felt like months. Power brought with it too much responsibility, too many enemies...

Sitting in my office at Villa Contini, I studied Merreck’s note with the names of the Jews and their addresses. Why did they want to pit their tribal hatreds against science? Of course Mengele had been a monster, but something good could still come out of all that he had done. When writing out their contact information, Merreck had commented he thought they would no longer be any cause for concern. Still, I could not let the matter rest. While we waited for Nicholas to arrive, I decided to call them. I had all the numbers, and it made no difference if I were in New York or Rome.

“Mr. Edward Moses, please?”

“Who’s calling?”

“A friend from Italy. I’ll be traveling to the United States and would like to see him...”

“I’m sorry, sir. My husband, Mr. Moses, passed away two days ago.”

“I’m so very sorry, my condolences, ma’am. Forgive me.”

I hung up. What a strange coincidence. I dialed the other number.

“May I speak with Mr. John Singer?”

“Who’s calling?”

“A friend from Italy. I’ll be traveling to the United States and would like to see him...”

“What’s your name?”
“Dante Contini-Massera.”
“You can find Mr. Singer in the cemetery in Albany. He died two days ago.”

“I’m so sorry. Forgive my impudence, but may I ask how he died?”

“He was deep sea fishing with a friend. Apparently there was a problem with the motor. It exploded and there was no time for them to get to safety.”

“Who was the other person?”
“Edward Moses.”
I hung up without saying goodbye. I was devastated. Would Merreck have gone to such lengths just to secure the success of the formula now that it seemed to be within reach? I thought of Caperotti. Of Martucci. There was too much money at stake, not to mention the possibility of living nearly forever. Empires had crumbled for less. The sound of Nicholas’ voice called me out of my reverie.

“Here it is!” he announced triumphantly, setting the bundle carefully on my desk.

I got up and came around to the front without taking my eyes off of it.

“Are you sure?” I asked, knowing that Nicholas would not have opened the chest.

“Don’t even think about opening it. It’s wrapped in some special anti-radiation case. The capsule with the mixture and the isotope are both inside. Martucci said so. He’s dead.”

I have no idea what my face looked like at that moment, but after what I had just heard on the phone, I imagine it was pure terror.

“It wasn’t me!” Nicholas swore with his hand over his heart. “I’ll tell you everything.”

As Nicholas spoke, I reworked all the pieces in the puzzle and realized Martucci had been behind the whole Rodríguez mess. I will never understand human nature. At least my mother was not wrapped up in it all, which had actually occurred to me. I am not sure why I would suspect her; after all, I was her son, but after what Quentin had witnessed in that restaurant, I detected conspiracies at every hand.

“And my manuscript is back, Dante. I mean,
the
manuscript,” he corrected himself with his customary chuckle.

“Can I see it?”
“No. I’d prefer you read it after I finish writing it,” he explained, flipping the pages quickly with his thumb so I could get a glance. It was true; there was writing on the pages. “There are certain things that didn’t quite happen like they’re written. See, not everything is exactly the same. For example, at the beginning Nelson wasn’t in the book, or the entry gate...”

For some reason I had the sensation that Nicholas wanted to overwhelm me with a string of explanations I cared nothing about. I only tuned in at the end.

“So, like I’ve been saying, Dante, you have to write the ending, because it isn’t finished.”

“I have to what?” I asked, taken aback.

“Yep. Now, if you want, I could come up with the ending.”

“No, let me. You’re right. It’s something I
ought
to do. Did you make a copy?”

“I don’t need to anymore. I know it by heart. It doesn’t matter if it gets erased again.”

He let out another of his little chuckles, rummaged feverishly through his pockets for a cigarette, and went out to the garden with the manuscript tucked under one arm.