The Manuscript I the Secret (8 page)

Nicholas Blohm

Non-Catholic Cemetery, Rome, Italy

November 12, 1999 – 10:30 AM

The taxi dropped him off right at the cemetery entrance. Nicholas went inside and passed the time studying the unkempt graves and the hordes of cats that seemed to have taken over the place. He glanced at his watch and headed back to the entrance. Any minute now the silver Maserati would show up and park as close as humanly possible to one of the walls. Nicholas had come straight from the airport to be able to catch Dante and Martucci. He had to fight down a shout of triumph as he heard the soft purr of Dante’s car approaching. He was staring right at the people in
his
novel. Everything was exactly as he had imagined when reading it. They got out of the car and walked into the cemetery; he stayed about twenty steps behind but avidly studied and took mental notes on the two men ahead of him.

“Now they’ll stop under a tree, talk, and after a while Dante will back away from Martucci. He’ll sit on a tombstone and grab his head with his hands. Then the monk will go up to him,” Nicholas murmured. And, at that precise moment, the tall, thin Brother Martucci slowly approached Dante.

Nicholas waited, letting himself do no more than watch. He knew step by step exactly what they were going to do, even what they were saying and what each was feeling. He waited for them to walk back up toward the mausoleum, and he moved further into the brush to follow without being so obvious. He studied Dante, who was a bit taller than Martucci, with light brown hair and an athletic build. Nicholas admired his elegant demeanor, his body language so clearly Mediterranean, just like the monk’s. In his curiosity, Nicholas blew his cover. Then he realized that when Dante saw him, he would take him for just another American tourist. He left the shelter of the trees and went straight to the cemetery exit. He had to be ready to follow Dante, had to find a way to approach him. But how? Dante was one of the most powerful men in Italy.
Or he soon will be. I’ll be a journalist
, Nicholas decided. He still had his
New York Times
ID from his stint as a columnist until two months ago.

He hailed a cab. “Please, wait just a moment,” he told the driver, hoping to be understood. The taxi driver apparently understood English. He started the meter and waited patiently. “Follow the Maserati, please. From a distance.”

Nicholas felt the driver’s gaze. For a moment he thought the man would refuse, but he complied. The Maserati headed toward downtown Rome and stopped on a narrow street. The monk got out, and the car proceeded. It did not stop until they came to Villa Contini, on the outskirts of the city. After passing through the entrance with the stone lions, Nicholas saw from a distance that an iron gate closed behind Dante’s car. He wondered where it, as well as the watchtower he now observed, had come from. The manuscript had not mentioned them.

“I need to speak with Mr. Dante Contini-Massera. I’m from the United States. I work for the
New York Times
,” Nicholas explained to the guard.

“Do you have any ID?”

Nicholas pulled out his
Times
badge and passport. After scrutinizing them, the guard looked squarely into Nicholas’ face as if to memorize his features.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No. But could you ask if he will see me? I need to return to the States tonight.”

“Just a minute.”

The guard returned to the sentry box, and Nicholas saw him talking on the telephone. After a long while, the man returned to the taxi.

“All right. Mr. Contini-Massera will see you. Wait just a moment.”

He returned to the guard house, and soon the metal gate opened.

They wound down the tree-lined drive, and there before them rose up Villa Contini, the mansion Nicholas had seen in his mind’s eye so often over the last couple of days. The driveway ended in a roundabout, and in the center there was a large stone sculpture of a woman pouring water from a jug. The statue gave the place a picturesque air. The taxi paused at the front door.

“Would you mind waiting? I have no idea how long I’ll be, but it will be quite difficult for me to get out of here without a car.”

The driver glanced at the taximeter and then looked back at Nicholas. “
Va bene, signore
.... I’ll wait for you here.”

“Thank you,” Nicholas replied, climbing out of the car and heading toward the entrance. The enormous carved front door opened before he even rang the bell.

“Good afternoon, please come in. The master will see you in a few moments. Please follow me.”

The luxury of the house overwhelmed Nicholas. He followed the butler into a parlor that seemed more like a museum than a normal part of family life. He sat in one of the armchairs and waited for what felt like an eternity. Nine minutes later, Dante appeared at the door.

“Hello, Mr. Blohm. Tell me, how may I be of assistance?”

Nicholas was paralyzed for a few seconds. There standing before him was the very real character from the manuscript. He stood and held out his hand. He needed to touch this man.

“Mr. Contini-Massera, I write a column for the society page of the
New York Times
. First and foremost, I want to offer my condolences. Your uncle, Count Contini-Massera, was well known in the financial and social circles in my country,” Nicholas hazarded to say.

“Oh, I had no idea. Thank you for your kind words. Would you like a statement about my deceased uncle?” Dante responded, offering him a seat.

“Actually, I came to interview you.”

“Interview? And what in the world about?” Dante asked, perplexed.

“Upon your uncle’s death, you will inherit a large fortune, correct? Everyone wants to know. Will you also inherit his title?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer those questions, Mr. Blohm. Those are personal matters.”

“I understand completely, Mr. Contini, but since I’m here, is there anything you can tell me, anything at all, so I don’t go home empty handed?”

Dante was quiet for a moment, and a nearly imperceptible smile flickered across his face. From one moment to the next he had become a distinguished person. Three days ago he could not even scrounge together enough money for a plane ticket. The guy asking him questions was by no means like the slick, professional journalists Dante had seen in the press conferences Uncle Claudio used to hold. Blohm must be a newbie, just like Dante. He seemed nice enough. If there were one thing Dante liked about North Americans, it was the candor of the common man.

“I lived in your country for a while. I got a master’s in economics at Yale. When I returned to Rome, I was met with the sad news of losing the person I loved most in this world. You can put in your column that his death has been a great grief to me, and I still don’t know if I’m the primary inheritor. We have a large family, and I don’t know what my uncle’s will says. Nor does it really matter very much to me.”

“Yes, of course. I’m not interested in spreading family secrets, especially financial ones. But it’s my job, and I have to write about something. So we could talk about your time in the States.”

“Mainly I went to study and get to know life in America.”

“Did you leave anyone behind? I just mean that two years is a long time...”

“...and the nights get long, you’re right,” Dante said with a smile that drew Nicholas in. “But my mind was on my studies. Of course I had a few lady friends, but nothing serious.”

“And do you think you’ll come back? Your return to Rome was rather sudden. Surely you have loose ends to tie up?”

“I can take care of everything from here. I don’t think I’ll be back any time soon.”

Irene’s face flashed before Dante’s eyes. He had to pay her back. Then a shadow spread across his face, and he gave Nicholas a scrutinizing look. Who was this guy? Martucci had warned him about Irene’s nefarious business dealings.

“Well, your life seems pretty clear-cut, Mr. Contini,” Nicholas prodded.

Dante had stopped paying attention to Nicholas’ words. Something about him seemed familiar. It was a fleeting sensation but grew clearer by the moment. The profile of the man at the cemetery flitted through his mind.

“You’ve been following me, haven’t you?”

“Yes, please forgive me. But I saw you talking with the priest, and I didn’t want to interrupt you in the cemetery,” Nicholas said. It was the only thing he could think of to say, and it seemed better than denying it.

“What exactly do you want from me, Mr. Blohm?”

Nicholas sighed and bit his lip. He decided to talk.

“You see, Mr. Contini, I’m a writer as well as a journalist. Your uncle, Mr. Claudio Contini, has always fascinated me. I wanted to meet you. I was hoping you might be willing to tell me some about your family. I want to know the secrets...and I know your uncle left you one.” Nicholas caught Dante’s slight shudder.

“I don’t think this conversation should go any further, Mr. Blohm.” Dante went to a side table and pressed something. Immediately the butler appeared. “Fabio, call Nelson, please.”

The butler disappeared, and Dante watched Nicholas carefully. Things were not going well.

“Mr. Contini, I’m begging you to hear me out. I’m not a robber, and I’m not a crook. Just listen, please. If I told you what all had happened to me, you wouldn’t believe it. You’d think I’m crazy.”

Nelson appeared, completely filling the open space between the double doors. Nicholas thought he could fill up any doorway, no matter how large. Well over six feet tall, his height was as imposing as the well-defined muscles outlined beneath the black t-shirt that fit him like a glove.

“Nelson, please escort this gentleman to the door.”

“Mr. Contini, you’re making a mistake...I just wanted...What happened in Armenia with your Uncle Claudio and Francesco Martucci? And the chest, what was inside? Listen! I know a few...”

Dante made a motion, and Nelson loosed his grip on Nicholas’ arm.

“Wait just outside, Nelson. I’ll call you.”

Before withdrawing, the giant man searched Nicholas with rapid professionalism. He was “clean,” holding nothing but a manuscript. Nelson handed Dante everything in Nicholas’ pockets, including his passport and a plane ticket.

“Put it on the table, Nelson, thank you. And you, please, take a seat.”

Dante pointed to a chair and then sat in another. He opened the passport and carefully studied the dates, verified the entrance stamps, checked the flight information, and then put everything back on the table.

Nicholas did not know what to do or say. He had gone to Rome obsessed with a manuscript, and the situation was getting more and more complicated. He was beginning to regret having been so impulsive. If he told the truth, no one would believe it. He had no proof. The manuscript was blank. And he was starting to see that not everything he had read was strictly accurate. There were certain variables, like the metal gate at the entrance to the drive, the mastodon Dante had for a bodyguard, and the personality of the main character before him, who was nothing like the useless, indolent son of a millionaire from the manuscript. His air and mannerisms were those of a self-assured man.

Dante was silent for a few moments. He knew how to make an enemy squirm. He had learned from Uncle Claudio, who had been both teacher and father to him. He sensed that the supposed journalist was just a meddling busybody. How much did he actually know about the things he said? Dante thought of Martucci’s precautions, which now seemed all in vain.

“Very well, Mr. Nicholas Blohm, now it’s your turn to answer my questions. What exactly have you come to find?”

“Mr. Contini, as I said, I’m a writer. In a very odd way, I came upon a manuscript. This one, in fact,” and he held it out to Dante. “In it there was a story with no title. It was talking about a secret that Count Claudio Contini-Massera possessed and which, upon his death, he bequeathed to you through the monk Martucci. I know this sounds unbelievable, but, please, I am telling the truth.”

Dante flipped through the manuscript and saw that it was blank.

“There’s nothing here.”

“I know. The manuscript is...special. I read in it a lot of things about you, your uncle, your family. I thought it was just a novel. But then when the manuscript went blank, in my desperation to rewrite or recover what had been there, I started searching online, and I came across the news of your uncle’s death. That’s when I realized that what I’d been reading about was real, as crazy as it sounds.”

After his recent conversation with Martucci, Dante’s capacity for shock had expanded. A few days ago perhaps he would have reacted differently, but, at this moment, it seemed like the American actually believed what he was saying.

“I’m not going to say that I believe you, Mr. Blohm, but I would like you to tell me all that you supposedly read in this manuscript.”

So Nicholas began talking. The lines were still fresh in his mind. He stayed as close as possible to the script that had so moved him, and Dante listened attentively. At first he was merely curious. The curiosity became shock when the American said, “I know that Claudio Contini-Massera was your father, and I know what the key to finding the formula is.”