The Manuscript I the Secret (10 page)

Nicholas Blohm was the prototype of the American man, at least the way I saw them. With shocking ease they barge into places they have no business being; they act like the world is free and for the taking and that they can turn it into whatever they want it to be. And all of it is based on an appeal to the famous freedom of expression, which they use indiscriminately and which has spread like a plague over the Western world. Not that I am against said liberty, but it bothers me to no end the way Americans broadcast to the world the intimate secrets of a private individual all in the name of freedom. They are capable of anything as long as the price is right. Rather, I should say, as long as the price and the notoriety are right. And there was zero chance that I was going to allow this American to get rich at my expense. But I needed his “services” and therefore had to conduct myself with diplomacy.

I admit it was a bit painful to see him cringing beside Nelson. Unkempt, he was wearing clothes at least one size too large underneath the black leather jacket from the day before. It was rather well-worn but fit perfectly with his personality. His expression was reminiscent of a dog accustomed to beatings. His dark brows drooped and made him look sad; yet the clear blue eyes underneath were sharp. They were the eyes of a type of intelligence reserved for those who work with their brains, not their hands.

“Have a seat, Mr. Blohm. How are you feeling?”

“Never been better. Could you give me back the manuscript?” Nicholas responded, looking toward the desk.

I handed it to him, and he clutched it to his chest.

“Nelson, tell Fabio to take Mr. Blohm’s suitcase to his room,” I ordered the bodyguard. Nicholas seemed unfazed. “Mr. Blohm, I thought we might reach an agreement.”

“I’m listening.”

“You say that you have the key to finding the missing piece of my Uncle Claudio’s formula. If that turns out to be the case, I give you permission to write your novel using our story. I think that is fair.”

I could sense the excitement growing in him at the prospect. Yet he acted to the contrary. He got up from his chair and paced back and forth in silence. Suddenly he stopped short and put the manuscript on the desk.

“Do you have the sheet of paper, the note?”

I remembered that he knew as much about the documents as he had read in the manuscript. I went to the desk and showed it to him. He held it in his hands as if it were a first edition Old Testament written by God himself. He touched only the corners and placed it carefully back on the desk. He studied Uncle Claudio’s words for a long time.

Dear Dante, keep the documents in the safe. I hope you remember the combination. I wish you all the luck in the world, and I also appeal to your memory: Meester snyt die keye ras / myne name is lubbert das. If that’s not enough, I call upon the Red Book. And remember: letters and prime numbers should be stored like treasure. Trust the people closest to you.

Despite the personal nature of the instructions, I thought it best that he should read them. Perhaps the key lay therein.

“Your uncle certainly places a lot of stock in your memory. He says it over and over. It was in the manuscript, too. I think the key is in the way he taught you to read. I remember he used to sing you a little singsong ditty.”

“Right! That’s how I memorized the letters: ‘A, plus B, plus C, plus D..., is 1, plus 2, plus 3, plus 4...,” I sang, diving into my memory.

“Exactly. That’s just what it said in the manuscript,” Nicholas smiled with satisfaction.

“For real?”

“Do you have the note Brother Martucci gave you from your uncle?”

“Yes, here.”

Nicholas read it carefully and, after a thorough examination, put it side by side with the other note.

My dear Dante,

I have so much to tell you. I want you to know that the happiest moments of my life were when I was with you. I taught you your first letters! And I hope that your first steps without me remind you that there are treasures more lasting than money. Trust Francesco Martucci. He is my closest friend. And above all, trust the ones who have been with you your whole life. I’m writing this now because I know my time is short. I want to leave you my most prized possession, and I hope you will use it well. It is not mentioned in my will. Francesco Martucci will deliver it to you when he knows the time is right. You will know how to recognize the signs in the Red Book. And, please, be careful.

Ciao, mio carissimo bambino.

Claudio Contini-Massera

“It’s the second time he mentions the Red Book. We should look for it. Do you know where it is?”

I shook my head. He grabbed a pen and asked me for a sheet of paper.

“Ok, let’s come back to that later. The words that get repeated are ‘first, letters, treasure, Red Book’.... I remember reading in the manuscript something about how you could remember the letters of the alphabet if you associated them with family members. Do you remember anything about that?”

“Of course. The letters line up with people in my family: A for Adriano, my grandfather; B for Bruno, my dad, the eldest; C for Claudio, my uncle; D for me, Dante; E for Elsa, my sister.”

“And F for Francesco, the priest,” Nicholas continued.

“No, he doesn’t count. He wasn’t part of my family. I’d never seen him until a few years ago and then again now.”

“But who knows, the more possibilities we have the better. From what I read, he
was
part of the family, maybe even a bastard son...” Nicholas saw the distaste on my face and added, “Well, and each letter has a number. It’s one of the easiest codes in the world: A – 1, B – 2, C – 3, and so on.”

“The answer: 1 + 2 + 3 + 4 + 5 = 15.”

“And 1 + 2 + 3 + 4 + 5 + 6 = 21. If we count Francesco. But what about the rest of the letters? You must have had more relatives.”

“Yes, but I only learned up through E with names. The rest I just memorized from the song. But I don’t think the part about ‘treasure’ is talking about numbers.”

Nicholas crossed his arms and cupped his chin with one hand, straining to recall something. Suddenly he snapped his fingers and exclaimed, “I knew I was forgetting something! There’s a part in the manuscript where you remember a library with chains. What was it called?”

“Hereford?” I suggested, noticing a shift in his tone toward me. Typically American, he was talking to me as if I were just another buddy at the bar.

“Yeah, that’s it. You were thinking about what your uncle had said, something like if he had a secret he would keep it there inside one of those books, and nobody could steal it because they’re all chained up. Does that ring a bell?”

I thought about it. Could Uncle Claudio have hidden such an intimate secret in a place as public as a library? It made no sense. But it was true; he had said that.

“I was a kid when that happened, Nicholas. He might have just been saying something to keep me entertained. I mean, people say things all the time to kids just to fire up their imaginations...” In my answer I matched the tone of close companionship he evidently felt so comfortable using.

“But it fits; it makes sense. For him, the books were a treasure. That’s what he said, isn’t it? Letters, names, family, the books: it’s like he’s pointing us down a path.”

I nodded, noting how firmly convinced he was of his own line of reasoning. It certainly required naiveté. But I went along with it. I had no other potential plans on the horizon.

“Let’s just suppose it all makes sense, as you say. How do the numbers fit in? We got to 15 and to 21. It could be either one. Let’s just say it’s 21. What would that be—a volume number? Of what? What kind of book would have the number 21? Or chapter 21? Or page 21? You see? The possibilities are infinite,” I postulated. Nicholas’ suggestions seemed like a steep uphill climb.

“I’m sure they all connect. I just need to concentrate, to think.”

“Nicholas, for real, do you honestly think you can figure out the solution to this riddle? I need you to tell me the truth.”

“I promise you I can.”

“Well, I hope so. There’s a lot at stake.”

“I just need to think. There’s something I’m forgetting.” He grabbed the manuscript and flipped through the pages as if he might find something there.

“Fabio will show you to your room. Nicholas, you will be my guest until we figure this thing out.”

Alone again, I fixated on the fact that whether or not I could find Mengele’s formula would determine the future of the Business—of the Business and of humanity. If Uncle Claudio had taken such enormous risks to find it, it must be worth even more. He never invested unless he could get five times the return, though inexplicably he had somehow allowed his fortune to disappear.

The next day would be my trial by fire. I had to convince the shareholders to wait before taking action against the Business. If not, it would be complete ruin. I was shocked at the terminology I used as I thought through the matter. Since when did things become so important to me? I could not comprehend the changes occurring in me, a man who just a few days ago could not have cared less about his father’s work.

When the elevator door opened, Nelson theatrically stepped forward and filled the entire space. Then he moved to one side to let me pass. I entered the meeting room I had been in several times before, but always on the other side of the table. The chill that ran up my spine was more like the searing burn of tattoo needles. Though I had never actually had a tattoo, that image of anxious, splayed-out vulnerability came to mind. I took a slow, deep breath to mask my anxiety and walked decisively to the head of the long table, polished to a shine. The gleam from the lights above each of the ten seats bounced off the table’s surface. I felt ten pairs of eyes on me, the same ten pairs that just a few days before had been clouded with sympathy for me at the funeral. Now each was hanging onto my every move. I felt like I was on stage playing the star role without ever having rehearsed.

“Good day, gentleman, and thank you for coming. You are all already aware of the company’s circumstances, so I will leave that for now and simply sketch out a plan.”

Complete silence reigned as they waited for whatever was about to come out of my mouth.

“Claudio Contini-Massera was working on a project that he left incomplete and which I intend to finish. The results will be so significant to the human race that I doubt any other discovery will rival it for years to come. I am responsible for seeing it to completion, and when I do, the Business’ capital will be recovered and multiplied with the resulting benefits to each shareholder. I am making you all aware of this so that you do not take any action against the company for a period of six months, which I estimate is the time necessary for wrapping up the negotiations. I will expound no further until our next meeting given that the project in question entails a secret that must remain confidential as a matter of security.”

“Does this explain the bodyguard? Your uncle, may he rest in peace, never saw the need to bring Nelson to meetings,” said Bernini, whose face had transitioned from surprise to skepticism.

“Which is why he is no longer with us,” I said recklessly.

“Oh, come now, young man, your uncle died of a heart attack. Everyone knows that,” Bernini insisted.

I weighed carefully what I could allow to be supposed and responded slowly, “Yes, that is so. But that heart attack could have been avoided had there been greater cooperation from you here in this room.”

The room was abuzz, and for a flash it felt like I was watching an enactment of the Last Supper.

“Young Dante, he was ill while you were gallivanting about the United States.... Why do you show up now to blame us for your uncle’s health?” Bernini argued.

“I was on a special mission. My uncle bore all the responsibility for the discovery that sent the Business bankrupt. His health was deteriorating because of chemical poisoning, as he had volunteered to be the guinea pig for the discovery. On top of that, he survived two attempts on his life. That is all I can say.”

“What you are asking us to do is simply unacceptable. Claudio Contini-Massera made inappropriate use of the capital we entrusted to him...”

“The majority of which was his own,” I interrupted with vehemence. “Sirs, do not think for a moment that the death of my uncle has changed anything. Carry on as if he were alive. Would you take action against him knowing what you know now? Why act now once he’s dead? Is it because I, Dante Contini-Massera, am at the helm? I don’t know what sort of mixed up notions you have of me, gentlemen, but at least give me the benefit of the doubt. I’m not proposing anything absurd. Six months is all I ask. I’m not asking you for money.”

“You were on a
special mission
?” Bernini let loose. He seemed to have become the representative enemy. “Come on, son, the whole world knows what kind of ‘special mission’ you had!”

I pierced him with as calm a gaze as I could muster. I could not allow him to disrespect me. It was one of the first rules Uncle Claudio had taught me.

“Mr. Bernini, who’s side are you on? I’m getting the impression you work for the competition. It seems I must review your position in this organization.”

“Young Dante! Don’t insult me! I’ve been here for decades...”

“Call me Mr. Contini-Massera, please. That will help us mind our manners.”

I do not know if my physical resemblance to Uncle Claudio was what finally got through to him, but he slowly closed his mouth as if regretting what he had been about to say. It set off a chain reaction. Silence reigned once more, and this time I felt like I had gone up a few notches before the ten pairs of eyes drilling into me.

“I will keep you informed of everything as soon as I am able. I need to know if you are in agreement.”

There were a few murmurs of assent that surfaced with a certain timidity at first, but they grew stronger. One voice in particular stood out, despite being softer than all the rest: “Mr. Dante Contini-Massera, we trust you as we would have trusted your uncle.”

I heard it because when he spoke, everyone else grew quiet.

He came up and shook my hand and then, with a slight bow of the head, handed me a card. After him, all the rest followed, one by one, as if it were a ceremonial ritual. At the end I was left with nine cards on which I read names I never would have guessed.

“You know, Don Dante, you can count on me for whatever you need. Do not hesitate to call, please,” said that first man to approach me, Giordano Caperotti, with his cavernous voice. “I hope you’re doing the right thing. Don’t forget, you have six months.” He turned, and the blackness of his suit and the curve of his spine made me think of a buzzard.

As if by tacit agreement, they all filed out of the room. The last was Bernini, who offered me his languid hand and said goodbye. I was left alone with Nelson, who stood erect as a totem pole and contemplated me with the beginnings of admiration. Caperotti’s final words had been a clear threat. I had passed the first test, and it was only the beginning.