The Manuscript I the Secret Read online

  “Dearly beloved friends and family gathered here, this is a sad day for us all. We have lost the most distinguished member of the Contini-Massera family. I know that from this day forward many of us will forever mourn the loss of his ever-comforting presence and the love and tenderness he gave.” My voice threatened to crack, but I steeled myself with the thought that Uncle Claudio would not have wanted me to show any weakness. “We are gathered here as a sign of our undying loyalty and to pay back in whatever measure possible all that he gave to us in life. Let us pray for his soul.”

  I felt all eyes on me as I bowed my head to pray the Lord’s Prayer, and I knew that not all the looks were sympathetic or willing to bear the sadness with me. Some present were enemies of the dead man, and I would, therefore, inherit them as such. Strangely, Italians pull together at funerals, even for our enemies, or at least we act like we do. A funeral might be the only occasion that can call us all together, friends, enemies, future partners. I knew that among the grieving masses there had to be a handful who would have preferred to be elsewhere. But being there was a matter of honor. And honor for Italians is no small thing; it is as important as funerals.

  But all that had happened yesterday. The subsequent night’s wake by Uncle Claudio’s side gave me plenty of time for reflection. What if I were not the recipient of his inheritance? He might have changed his will since I stayed away during his illness. And had he known that the reason I did not come home was that I had no money for a ticket, he would certainly have disinherited me, and with good reason. Asking my mother for money would have been the worst mistake I could have made. The debt would have become eternal and unpayable. And I had not wanted to admit to my sister that I was good for nothing. All these thoughts swirled around in my head as I watched the mourners pass by one by one. It was a long night. Either because of the trauma of the event or because of my accumulated weariness, the only thing my eyes really registered were people’s looks: some curious, some contemptuous, some condescending, and others envious. There were also some inquisitive and, finally, a few full of enough compassion that they could qualify as an authentic and final goodbye. Everyone walked by me in a protocol I could only recall having observed when my grandfather died.

  The priest that had been in Uncle Claudio’s room officiated the final prayer for the dead over the closed coffin inside the mausoleum. Only those of us closest to the deceased were present. Everyone else stayed outside. When the black marble slab finally sealed Uncle Claudio below ground, I could not help letting out a sigh of relief knowing that I could get back up outside and breathe again far from the heavy air of the crypt. As a matter of protocol I went last. As I was starting to leave, I felt a bony hand grab my wrist. Stifling my terror, I turned and saw the friar. He put a finger to his lips and slipped a piece of paper into my pocket.

  Nicholas Blohm

  Manhattan, New York

  November 10, 1999

  The diabolical invention known as the telephone, with its customary bad habit of ringing at the worst possible moment, fulfilled its mission. Nicholas grabbed the receiver with something like rage, without taking his eyes off the manuscript.

  “Nick?” He could not believe it. He had been waiting for this call all summer.

  “Linda? What a surprise to hear your voice!” He cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder and walked to the window, still holding the manuscript.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

  Nicholas racked his brain to figure out what she meant. He had said so many things! Especially to her.

  “Oh, great! So, what do you think?” he answered, trying to get a feel for the subject.

  “I think you’re right. I shouldn’t have come to Boston. I’m going back to New York.”

  “Now?”

  “Aren’t you happy?”

  “Yeah, sure, of course...thrilled! When will you be here?”

  “In a few hours.”

  Linda had been the love of his life until she left. He had blamed his lack of inspiration, his bad luck, losing his job, and everything else going wrong in his life on her leaving, and at the time he would have done anything to get her back. Yet now he felt like things had changed. Linda had dropped to second tier or had at least become less important in his life. The last thing he wanted was to have her coming around again and demanding more than she was ever willing to give. Right then the curtain was pulled back in his brain, and he realized he did not miss her anymore. He had gotten used to solitude. He decided he would rather keep reading than go get her.

  “Listen, I can’t come pick you up at the airport...”

  “That’s fine, Nick; I’ll take a taxi,” she interrupted.

  It infuriated him that she would just assume she could walk back into his life like nothing had happened. But he did not have the balls to tell her not to come around.

  “OK, we’ll talk when you get here.”

  “Something in particular? Have you written anything new?”

  “Uh, yeah, actually, that’s it. I’m just giving the manuscript a final read.”

  “Oh, that’s great, Nick! I can’t wait to hear what it’s about. See you soon!”

  And she hung up.

  Nicholas looked at the manuscript’s black cover feeling like something inside of him had broken. His desire to keep reading dissipated, and, instead, the image of Linda filled his mind. He would have to tell her she had to find somewhere else to live; this time he would not let her just do whatever she wanted. Not this time. He threw his leather jacket back on, gripped the manuscript under one arm, and headed back to Trinity Cemetery in a near catatonic state. When he got to his favorite bench, the same little man from earlier that morning was there. A kind of panic overtook Nicholas. He flexed his elbow more tightly into the manuscript.

  The short man looked up with his inquisitive little eyes.

  “Hello. Did you get a chance to read it?” he asked, gesturing with his beard toward the manuscript.

  “I’m in the middle of it now. I’m sorry I took it with me, but you just disappeared, like magic.”

  “I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

  “You can take it with you if you want.... I just came back to...”

  “No, what would I do with a manuscript? I already read it. You keep it. It might come in handy.”

  “For real? I don’t know how to thank you. I’m dying to know what’s inside the chest. I’m right at a really interesting part. The character Dante Contini-Massera has really drawn me in.”

  The old man’s eyebrows knitted together. “I don’t remember reading that name,” he said.

  “He’s the nephew of Claudio Contini-Massera, the one who died and they buried in Rome...” Nicholas trailed off.

  “Young man, are you sure? I recall it being about the Gallic wars, from the very first page. The main character was Gaius Julius Caesar.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  Nicholas opened the manuscript and saw that following the “Untitled” first page came the following chapter:

  Meeting in Northern Gaul

  55 BC

  General Julius Caesar sat in his tent awaiting the group of Celts who, together with their chief, would lay out their demands. He knew that very difficult days lay ahead of him, but the success of the expedition in Gaul would depend largely upon the help of these savage tribes that looked like blue demons, their bodies painted with woad. They were excellent charioteers, and the general hoped that once they wrapped up the interminable war stories of which they were so fond of boasting they could come to a concrete agreement and...

  Nicholas dropped the manuscript onto the bench like a burning ember.

  “That’s not what I was reading earlier!”

  “What were you reading about?”

  “Well, first, there was the part about the chest.... That was the preface. Then chapter 1 was all about Dante Contini-Massera...”

  “Yes, I remember you mentioned him,” the bookseller said. “
Mr. Nicholas Blohm, I’m going to shoot straight with you. I have wanted to get rid of this manuscript ever since it came to me. I’m no writer, but I’m a devoted reader, as I already told you. The first time I read the manuscript, it seemed like a great novel. It was a genre I love: a detective story. As you can imagine, I couldn’t finish it all in one sitting, so I put it down and planned to get back to it after work. When I opened it to keep reading, I found a completely different novel. I thought I was going crazy, that I had just imagined it. But then I figured, ‘I read so many books! My head can’t keep track of all the stories.’ So I started reading again and got lost in a passionate romance novel, which, in all honesty, is not my preferred genre, but it was devilishly well written. I stuck a goose-feather bookmark, a gift from a client, at the spot where I stopped reading, intending to pick it back up later...”

  “And I suppose you never learned the end of the story.”

  “Exactly. And that’s what’s kept on happening the entire time I’ve had the manuscript. I don’t want it any more. Can I be honest? The thing terrifies me. I saw that you come here a lot, and I knew you were a writer, so I thought it might be more useful to you than to me.”

  “The thing is, to get to the end of whatever novel is written here,” Nicholas thumped the manuscript with his index finger, “you have to read it all at once. I see it, but I don’t believe it. No, I just can’t believe it.”

  “Well, the manuscript is yours. Take care of it. I’m sure at least it’ll give you some inspiration.”

  Nicholas picked it back up cautiously. For an unsuperstitious person, he was afraid. Ambivalent emotions overwhelmed him. On the one hand, he wanted it; on the other, it was spooky. Yet it was a precious treasure, perhaps diabolic, but valuable: a source of eternal inspiration. Even so, he feared that he would open it again only to find that “Meeting in Northern Gaul” had become a vampire novel or something worse. He closed his eyes, held the manuscript to his chest, and mentally willed the first novel he had read to return. He pulled back the cover slowly and, heart racing, glanced down. There it was. Dante Contini-Massera, Uncle Claudio, the monk, the mausoleum. He hugged the open manuscript in a lover’s embrace and stayed like that until his heart resumed its normal pace. He knew the little man on the bench would have left. And that made sense. He had the manuscript, and he needed nothing else. He turned and opened his eyes: no sign of the man.

  Nicholas turned his focus back to the manuscript and read greedily, taking advantage of the sun’s last rays.

  5

  Rome, Italy

  November 11, 1999

  That night my mother, sister, and I stayed in Villa Contini. Old Donna Elena practically forced me upstairs to the room where I had always stayed when I visited the villa. I sensed Donna Elena’s neediness and her obvious pride in me, for what reason remained unknown, and it was touching. It seemed like she felt compelled to tend to me as she had done for Uncle Claudio, and I acquiesced if only to keep her from weeping. I could tell that she needed to take care of me.

  Once I was alone, the first thing I did was dig out the paper from my jacket pocket. I opened the friar’s note and read:

  I will be waiting for you at 10:00 a.m. in the doorway of a small trattoria called La Forchetta, behind the shooting range. I have a message for you from your Uncle Claudio. Please, do no fail to arrive.

  The note was unsigned, and it certainly did not say much. Common sense told me I should not go, but the friar seemed trustworthy, despite his strange eyes with abnormally large irises. His pupils were enlarged as if he had used nightshade drops like the women of old. I lay awake until the early hours of the morning, and, when I eventually drifted off just before 4:00 a.m., it was the sleep of the dead. I finally opened my eyes and looked toward the old rococo clock above the carved marble nightstand: it was ten past nine in the morning. I had less than an hour to slip out of the villa and get to Rome.

  I flew through showering and getting dressed and shot out of the villa in the Maserati, a gift from Uncle Claudio, like almost everything else we had, toward Rome. Two minutes after ten I parked a few feet down from a modest restaurant. The sign above the door was so disproportionately large that it threatened to fall at any minute. I had made it to La Forchetta. Clearly the monk thought I needed all the help I could get to find the place. My self-esteem took a dive. I saw a shadow emerge from the doorway of a nearby store, and the monk walked toward the car. I unlocked it, and he got in and closed the door with surprising agility.

  “Buongiorno, mio caro amicco. My name is Francesco Martucci.”

  “Buongiorno, Brother Martucci,” I answered, shifting the car into gear and accelerating slowly with every intention of wandering through Rome’s complex allies and cross streets. Yet the friar pointed with his thin gnarled finger where he wanted me to turn.

  “Signore, your car will attract attention. It is too recognizable.”

  I drove down a street that took us toward the Via di Caio Cestio, and after a short while we were at the entrance of the Non-Catholic Cemetery. I parked as close to the wall as possible, and we entered through one of the many paths. We stopped under one of the cypress trees lining the walk.

  Brother Martucci held out a small envelope. I recognized the family seal: two lions crowned with laurel wreaths facing each other and encircled by a snake. It was sealed. I ripped it open and pulled out a sheet of paper I recognized immediately, with the family seal letterhead, written with small, tight lettering as if the author did not wish his message to be comprehended all at once. It was Uncle Claudio’s handwriting. I would have known it anywhere. He had taught me my letters. Yet on the other hand, it might be a forgery.

  To my dismay, the message was nothing profound:

  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

  The monk stood there waiting, and I could feel his penetrating gaze. My face probably showed a degree of distrust. I have never been able to pull off a poker face. People can always tell what I am feeling. Perhaps Brother Martucci was wondering what in the world Uncle Claudio had seen in me to want to leave me his most highly-valued possession. Yet as bad as I am at covering my own emotions, I am quite skilled at reading other people’s expressions. My gut said this man was hiding something even though every outer appearance indicated sincerity.

  “When did you receive this note from my uncle?”

  “A year and a half ago.”

  “A year and a half?” I asked, perplexed.

  “Your uncle felt he could go at any moment.”

  “Was he sick that whole time and I never knew about it?”

  “There are many things you never knew about,” was his evasive reply.

  “True enough,” I said, guiltily.

  We kept walking, and as I realized he had no further intentions to speak, I wondered what in the world I was doing there in a Protestant cemetery with an obviously Catholic cleric.

  A few minutes later he paused and stared up to the top of the Pyramid of Cestius. I took the opportunity to look hard at him. He had a sharp profile. From my perspective, his pointed nose sliced across the sky with a hieratic flare. My patience was running thin, and just as I was about to speak, he glanced at the note still in my hand and said, “Years ago I worked at the Matenadaran in Armenia, one of the largest depositories of manusc
ripts in the world. At that time it had around 1400 samples, some of which I helped translate. Countless books, treatises, and essays from antiquity passed through my hands. I am a restorer. I have a doctorate in dead languages. I worked there for nearly thirty years and earned the trust of everyone there. I had the opportunity to conduct archeological research wherever I wanted in Armenia and the surrounding countries. And your uncle was an antiques aficionado. On several occasions he traveled to Armenia on business. On one of those trips we found something he considered very valuable.”

  “But wouldn’t it have been illegal to take documents or archeological remains out of the country?”

  “It depends....It wasn’t illegal for the documents that interested your uncle. They weren’t relics or anything of ancient historical value. They were put there after World War II.”

  “By whom? And what were these documents about?”

  “Let’s say that more than documents they were more like notes on scientific studies regarding genetics, studies carried out by one of the most sought-after Nazis.”

  “I don’t see why someone would leave such apparently important documents in a place as obvious as a library.”

  “Ah, well, it wasn’t that simple. Let me explain. It was in the Noravank complex, which includes the main church Surb Karapet, of the Holy Precursor St. John the Baptist; Surb Grigor, the chapel of St. Gregory; and the church of Surb Astvatsatsin, the Holy Mother of God. The three are connected by tunnels and catacombs. The main sanctuary was built in the thirteenth century over the ruins of the original church built in the ninth century. As I said, I’ve spent a long time in Armenia, ‘on loan,’ as it were, from the Catholic Church to translate books and manuscripts. As a researcher, I had free reign to explore the nooks and crannies of the monastery, and, believe me, there were places I wish I had not gone.”