The Manuscript I the Secret Read online

  The Manuscript

  I. The Secret

  Blanca Miosi

  © 2015 Blanca Miosi

  Originally published in Spanish as El manuscrito: 1. El secreto

  © 2008 Blanca Miosi; © 2012 Ediciones B, S.A.

  Published by Ediciones B, S.A., www.edicionesb.com

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the author.

  All Scripture quotations in this book, except those noted otherwise, are from the Geneva Bible, 1599 Edition. Published by Tolle Lege Press. All rights reserved.

  Translation: Gretchen Abernathy

  Contents

  Preface

  Nicholas Blohm

  1

  2

  3

  4

  Nicholas Blohm

  5

  6

  Nicholas Blohm

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  The Deal

  The Will

  The Key

  The Meeting

  The Plan

  The Chained Library

  The Clue

  Quentin Falconi

  Francesco and Carlota

  Unexpectedly

  John Merreck

  Questions

  Investigations

  The Past

  Jorge Rodríguez

  Exchange

  The Manuscript

  Newark Airport

  13

  Anacapri, Isle of Capri, Italy

  New York

  The Last Chapter

  Epilogue

  Preface

  Anacapri, Isle of Capri, Italy

  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.

  Much to his regret, Nicholas stopped reading. He turned toward the little man but saw he was gone. He had been so engrossed in reading that he had not realized when the man left. Two wrinkles creased his forehead and quickly became deep crevices between his eyebrows. He thought hard and reassembled the pieces of the day that had led him to this moment.

  Nicholas Blohm

  Manhattan, New York

  November 10, 1999

  That morning, like so many others, Nicholas scoured the room looking for inspiration as soon as he opened his eyes. All he needed was one damn idea, something good, but absolutely nothing occurred to him. He got up and went straight to the computer. Of course he had plenty of ideas but none that could become the novel that would rocket him to the top of the charts. All he had to show for himself were a few half-hearted novels, things that garnered neither praise nor critique, since that moment when he thought he would die of happiness: when a publishing house actually said, “We’re interested in your novel and would like to publish it.” Good God! He would have done it for free, but then came the pleasant surprise of the advance. It actually seemed to be more symbolic than anything else, but, still, it was money, and unexpected. He looked at the screen and highlighted what he had written the night before. Garbage. He deftly clicked “Enter,” and the page turned white again.

  Three years had passed since that one happy day, and still nothing had really happened. He had not changed the world. He was just one more washed-up aspiring writer. And the worst part was that he was sitting on several unpublished novels that before had seemed so fabulous; yet after reading Charlie Green’s latest bestseller, Nicholas felt farther than ever from his dream.

  The air in his apartment was stifling. He threw a leather jacket over his t-shirt and went out. He wandered aimlessly, though of their own accord his legs followed his typical route. He wound up at what he had come to think of as his bench in Trinity Cemetery. He was annoyed to find someone already sitting there. It felt like an invasion of privacy. It was a man, a short man, who smiled broadly as if he recognized Nicholas. This only made the matter worse. Nicholas was in no mood to be chatty or listen to anybody, and it seemed like this man was eager to talk. Nicholas’ instincts did not let him down.

  “Do you come here often?” the man asked.

  “It’s on my route.” Nicholas kept his response brief and did not return the smile stretched across the man’s wrinkled face. The stranger’s voice did not match his persona.

  “Where to?”

  “Where to what?”

  “You said it was on your route.”

  “Oh! Uh, nowhere.”

  “I see.”

  Nicholas turned his gaze from the trees in front of the bench and took the man in with a sideways glance. I see? What the hell does he see? he wondered, peeved. Nicholas could not stand people who thought they knew it all, like the authors of behavior modification books and self-help manuals. The idiots had an answer for just about everything.

  Nicholas opened his mouth to speak but then snapped it shut. It would be better to keep quiet. Maybe the guy would move along and leave him in peace.

  The little man stayed put. He opened a big black trash bag, rummaged around inside, and finally extracted a manuscript with a black cover and an odd silvery green spiral binding. Setting it on the wood in the space between Nicholas and himself, he asked, “Do you know what this is?”

  “No.”

  “You should. Aren’t you a writer?”

  Nicholas turned and looked straight at him for the first time. The man had caught his attention.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I recognized you. I have your second book, and your photo is on the flap. Finding the Road up the Hill: it’s pretty good, just a bit too tame. I’ve also read some of your New York Times articles.”

  “I don’t work for them anymore.”

  The man shrugged as if to say that matter were beyond him and looked ahead to the trees dancing in the wind.

  “So you’re a writer, too?” Nicholas said, glancing at the cover of the manuscript.

  “No, I don’t have the talent. I read. And I consider myself to be a very good reader.”

  “And this manuscript?”

  “It’s not mine. I found it in a box of books I picked up a few days ago. I sell used books.”

  “You sell manuscripts as well?”

  “It’s the first time one has come my way. The box belonged to a writer who died two months ago. Accordin
g to his widow, he never got published. She needed to free up some space in the house and wanted to get rid of all the books; apparently she decided to throw the manuscript in as well. I buy them by the weight.”

  “You mean you buy books by the pound?” Nicholas asked with an incredulous smile.

  “Yes. Maybe she thought that the extra paper would add to the weight.”

  “I suppose you’ve read it?”

  “Yep. You want to have a look?”

  Nicholas eyed the manuscript with distrust. He picked it up—it did not seem very thick—and ran his left thumb along the pages. He flipped to the first page where “Untitled” was printed in the center. That was nothing unusual. He never decided on a title until the very end. He turned to the next page and read the preface.

  He reluctantly pulled himself away from the story, turned back to the little man, and saw he was gone. He had been so engrossed in the reading he had not even realized when the stranger left. Two wrinkles creased his forehead and quickly became deep crevices between his eyebrows. Knowing his tendency to get off track, he wondered if he really had seen the man. But there was no doubt: there in his hands was the manuscript.

  He had liked what he read. It had all the necessary ingredients to pique his curiosity right from the start. He was jealous that this plot idea belonged to someone else. He glanced around once more but saw only the trees that swayed gently, loosing their last leaves of the season in a graceful downward float. The morning was peaceful, with none of the typical gusts that cleared the sidewalks and sent the leaves spinning into golden whirlwinds. He left the bench and, tucking the manuscript under one arm, headed back home. As soon as he arrived, he stretched out on the old recliner and kept on reading. After the preface came...

  1

  New York

  November 9, 1999

  It is difficult for a man like me to admit he has reached the point in his life when he must work in order to live. The days of writing checks without a thought to my balance began to seem like a thing of the past, a dream clouded by dark winter fog that made the world seem ever less hospitable even as I learned to discern the features of its people.

  The rich tend to neglect the sense of sight, not because we are callous toward the sufferings of others but merely out of indolence. It matters not if the person in front of us is old or young, a face shriveled with wrinkles or creased in sadness. I never once stopped to ask others how they were doing, if they were a bit down, how they felt after losing their mother, etc. I got used to treating the servants like they were soulless robots, and I suppose they did the same with me, though I never noticed because it did not matter. But now, as I have nearly forgotten how to write a check—the last one I signed months ago bounced, and the creditors have called so often that I have ordered Quentin not to send the calls through—, now I am likely to be arguing that the reason there was no money in the account is because the bank has horrible customer service; that the money is actually there; that they should wait just a bit until the issue gets resolved; that the amount is so small it is hardly worth getting up in arms about; that I am Dante Contini-Massera, nephew to count Claudio Contini-Massera; that any day now I will be inheriting a fortune so vast it will take me the rest of my life to count it all; and who knows what other excuses to convince them to have a little patience with me, banking on the perception that the word of a man of my rank is as good as my name.

  And if it were not for the fact that my butler—whom my Uncle Claudio insisted I bring with me—has nowhere else to live, I imagine he would have left me already and I would be picking out my own clothes every day. And fixing breakfast, which just magically appears on the table every morning. Lately Quentin is showing signs of aging, more than what I recall from even six months ago. Although it is also true that I am only now learning to actually see him. I study him discreetly, and what I see disturbs me somewhat. I would be mortified if he thought I actually cared. Even so, he seems like a well-dressed old statue, always standing at the ready. I have known him since I was born yet I have never seen the man sit down. With his peculiar gait, the slap of his shoes makes it sound like he could slip at any moment. I only hear him speak when he is asking something: “Shall I draw your bath? Perhaps you should call Mr. Claudio? Will you dine with your mother today? Will it be a strawberry pie for your birthday?” He perpetually wears the look of a puppy waiting to be patted for a job well done, and I rarely offer accolades.

  And now I am shocked to find myself wondering if this old man standing before me with his perfect posture might deserve even more than I do to be treated better.

  “Quentin, I’ll be out all day today. Don’t worry about dinner. You seem a bit weary; are you well?”

  Quentin stared at me as if I were a ghost. The typically docile expression in his eyes transformed his face into a question mark that gave me an unfamiliar sense of joy.

  “Me, signore?”

  “You don’t have to stand up all day. Come, have a seat.”

  Quentin remained standing as if he truly were made of stone. My words must have stunned him.

  “Quentin, how long have you been with me?”

  “For twenty-four years, young Dante. Before that I served your uncle, Claudio, and before that, your grandfather, Don Adriano.”

  My whole life.

  “That’s a pretty long time, huh?”

  Quentin’s face darkened. The shock gave way to grief. Suddenly I realized he thought I was going to fire him.

  “Things have changed a lot, Quentin. You’re the ideal employee, and you know I’m in no condition to pay your salary. But I don’t want you to leave. I’m asking you to stay on but to stop acting like a servant. I just need you to help me get along in life.”

  Quentin relaxed so much it seemed his legs would give way. He sat on the edge of the chair I had offered him a few moments before and for the first time looked at me without his servant’s expression.

  “There is no need for you to pay me, signore Dante. I am happy to attend to your needs as always,” he said in a measured tone.

  “Thank you, Quentin. But from here on out please don’t act like a butler anymore, at least not when we’re alone.” I was smiling as I watched him, and the only thing missing from the grin he turned back to me was a wink of the eye. “I want you to feel like one of the family and, come to think of it, you really are the only family I’ve got.”

  “No, signore Dante, you have your mother and your sister. And your Uncle Claudio.”

  “Not really, Quentin, not at all. My mom and sister live their lives, and I live mine. And that’s how it should be.” After a few seconds of silence, I continued, “Uncle Claudio is really sick. I need to get back to Rome.”

  “Your uncle is a fine man. I hope he recovers.”

  For a fraction of a second I thought about his will and then immediately felt ashamed.

  “Of course, Quentin, that’s why I’d like to go see him.”

  “You always loved him like a son,” he murmured.

  This was the longest conversation we had ever had, and the words he had just spoken bore the weight of all my convoluted hopes. I looked at him but held my peace. He had read my thoughts, and I had no defense. He knew me better than my own mother.

  “What did you do with the cook? And Mary?”

  “I told them you would be returning to Italy and no longer needed their services.”

  “What about their pay?”

  “You need not worry about their emolument. I arranged everything.”

  Quentin had always been an excellent administrator, though I suppose that during my present season of bad luck he was having to use his own money.

  “Thank you, Quentin. Things are going to change soon.” I could say no more. Even that much had sounded forced. His eyes told me he understood.

  “When will you set out for Rome?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “I will get your luggage ready,” he said, standing.

  “Don’t
worry about it, Quentin. I can do it.”

  “Please, signore, I would rather tend to it myself.” It was almost an order. And I had to turn my mind toward figuring out a way to learn what Uncle Claudio had set aside for me in his will. I needed to breathe. The oppressing air of the house was crushing my lungs. I would go see Irene. I despised having to borrow money, but the truth was I did not even have enough for the flight, and my credit cards were useless.

  2

  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.