The Manuscript I the Secret Read online

  “Good evening, Mr. Contini,” he rasped out with his dry, sleepy tongue while holding the door open.

  “Good evening, Boris,” Claudio answered, grinning from ear to ear. He stumbled forward and steadied himself with too tight a grip on Boris’ shoulder.

  “Careful now, Mr. Contini,” the doorman warned gently. He gave him an understanding smile and helped him to the reception desk. He tapped the arm of the snoozing employee who stretched, shook himself awake, and finally recognized the guest.

  “Mr. Contini...good evening,” he said.

  “Forgive me for how late...I’ve come at a bad time.”

  “Oh, no, not at all, sir!” The clerk opened the register and added his name then handed him a key. “Your customary room,” he said with a slight smile.

  “Oh, Micha, thank you,” Claudio drawled, slipping Micha a bill with such dexterity that not even the bellhop noticed.

  “Comrade, please, see our guest to his room.”

  The bellhop made to take the canvas bag, but Claudio held onto it.

  “Don’t you worry about that; I’ll get it. You can get the suitcase.”

  “As you wish!” the bellhop answered gratefully.

  The elevator was not working. They went up two flights of stairs and down a hall with six doors on each side. One of them was Claudio’s room.

  After dismissing the bellhop with a tip, he carefully laid the canvas bag on the carpeted floor. He desperately needed to sleep. Later he would look at what was in the tube. He would need all his senses alert and at the ready, but his eyelids were drooping at the moment. He had not slept since he left Rome. He polished off the tiny sampler bottle of vodka which he had gargled before entering the hotel, kicked off his shoes, and fell into bed fully clothed. He was out like a light.

  When Claudio awoke, the first thing his eyes sought out was the canvas bag. He wasted no time in opening it and checking the contents once more. It was all there: a box shaped like an antique chest and a tube. He pulled the box out and set it on the small table in front of the mirror. He opened it and studied what was inside. It was a piece of metal, or something similar, but it did not shine in the daylight. Stuck with tape to one side of the chest was a long, small bundle wrapped in thick cloth. With the utmost care, Claudio removed the tape and unrolled the soft cloth. Inside was a capsule made of something like heavy glass, through which Claudio could see a thick liquid. The capsule was sealed. He placed it carefully on the bed and then turned to the metal tube still lying in the canvas bag.

  As he drew it out of the bag, he noticed a groove in the middle. He pulled gently, and the tube parted with ease. The rolled-up papers inside were covered in handwritten Latin. They seemed like notes, calculations, and formulas. There were other notes in German along the edges, with arrows pointing to certain words, but he could make nothing of it. He knew very little Latin. Claudio spoke German, but the annotations were beyond him. He sighed, slid the papers back into the tube, and placed it beside the still-open chest. He gently replaced the glass capsule.

  Before shutting the little box, he closed the curtains. In the dim light, the piece of metal that had at first seemed like an unevenly shaped rock began to glow again. He suddenly felt uneasy about it all but hoped to be wrong. He quickly snapped the chest closed and observed its exterior. It looked like the kind of thing commonly sold in tourist markets, a knick-knack imitation of an antique: wooden slats held together by strips of metal. But its weight did not fit its appearance. Maybe the documents in the metal tube would explain the disparity. He would wait for Francesco to arrive.

  Claudio Contini-Massera’s athletic body slowly emerged as he peeled off the dirty, earth-covered clothes from the day before. The pounding of cold water in the shower shocked him fully awake. He lathered up vigorously and could not stop thinking that this discovery might turn out to be valuable, much more valuable than the relics and artwork that the offspring of the pre-Soviet “purged” elite had sold him for next to nothing. It was basic pillaging: valuable objects for which, unbeknownst to the monk, Francesco Martucci had been the key connection happened to end up in Claudio’s hands instead of their intended destination. Claudio smiled remembering his good friend. There were so few people as honest as Francesco. If only he knew.... Yet at the same time, Claudio feared that the object inside the chest was dangerous. He began scrubbing his hands feverishly, as if attempting to erase any sign of contamination. After a long, long time, he turned off the water.

  At thirty-five years of age, Claudio Contini-Massera was one of Italy’s youngest businessmen. The postwar years were a landmine of opportunity for him. His father, Adriano Contini-Massera, had made the wise decision to retire to his residence in Bern and wait out Mussolini’s reign, thus safeguarding the family’s fortune during the tumultuous years of the dictatorship. Claudio’s older brother, Bruno, the primary inheritor, had his father’s tendencies. He only knew how to get by, as if that were enough. He seemed content to wait until Adriano Contini-Massera succumbed to one of his many ailments—which Claudio attributed more to his sedentary lifestyle than to anything else—to claim the estate which, Bruno believed, was rightfully his.

  Adriano, the family patriarch, may have been useless in terms of earning money, but he had a keen nose for safeguarding what he already had. He had no intention of leaving the future of the Contini-Masseras to the whims of his eldest son. And to the surprise of many, including Bruno’s young wife, the lion’s share of the inheritance went to Claudio. By 1974 his wealth had burgeoned with import businesses, massive quantities of works of art, and relics of inestimable worth derived from questionable and undisclosed sources; yet for Claudio it was just divine justice. Was it not better for these objects to end up in his hands than at the mercy of the communist regime that had taken over a large part of Europe? Luckily for him, the representatives of said regime were quite susceptible to bribes and all sorts of “legal fraud.”

  Claudio had thrown scruples out the window when it came to making money once he learned that the Roman Catholic Church itself was wrapped up in dirty “agreements” to get certain Nazis off the hook for war crimes. Francesco, on the other hand, was crushed by Claudio’s laissez-fair ethics. This good and honorable friend was like family to him. They had known each other from birth. Francesco was the son of Claudio’s nursemaid. There was a rumor that he was the bastard son of Claudio’s father, Adriano, but Claudio never could prove it. They were exactly nine months apart. Claudio had always treated Francesco like a brother, not because he actually thought they were, but because he truly loved him. They had been playmates and, if it had not been for the inexplicable priestly vocation Francesco’s mother drove into him, they would have continued their studies together. Claudio always blamed his nanny for their separation. Over time he came to realize that one can hardly be coerced into the priesthood; there must be a seed somewhere inside the person. By the time Claudio was ready to admit he had been wrong, the nursemaid had already died, and Francesco had entered the Order of the Holy Sepulchre, where he pursued the humanities and specialized in dead languages. News of his skills quickly spread, and the Armenian Apostolic Church, having unearthed important documents that required an expert’s eye, solicited his services to work clandestinely in a scriptorium. In his free time, Francesco dabbled in archeology. Knowing that Armenia was one of the first centers of developed human civilization and the first Christian country in the world, he was overjoyed at the opportunity. At the height of Soviet occupation, he had access to the ancient ruins of the earliest religious constructions, dating back to 301 a.d.

  When Francesco told Claudio he enjoyed relative freedom to travel around Armenia, Ukraine, and the surrounding countries due to the uniqueness of his profession, Claudio also developed an interest in archeology. His just happened to be from a practical point of view, a perspective shared by certain Soviet officials of the day.

  Francesco’s harmless appearance and unassuming nature won him the regime’s trust. He could go in
and out of Armenia and procure bureaucratic permissions to dig wherever he wished. After a few years, they stopped sending inspectors since they caught on that ruins were made more of dirt and rock than anything else. Or so it seemed.

  9

  Non-Catholic Cemetery, Rome, Italy

  November 12, 1999, 10:34 a.m.

  Francesco Martucci’s hand on my wrist seemed more a measure of desperation than a threat. He was grimacing with anxiety, and I was momentarily tempted to give him a reassuring hug. He released his grip and lowered his eyes.

  “Forgive me, signore. I overstepped my bounds.”

  “I think we’re both a bit on edge, Brother Martucci. Now, please, speak very clearly and tell me once and for all what was in the chest and what the documents you found were about.”

  “The chest held an element, an artificial radioactive isotope. That’s what made it glow in the dark,” Martucci explained as we walked back down one of the cemetery paths surrounded by thick tree growth. The landscape fit beautifully with the artistic tombstones and mausoleums. “The documents in the tube were notes belonging to a war criminal named Josef Mengele, apparently the results of some experiments. He was always interested in prolonging life, what many would call ‘the formula for eternal youth.’”

  “How did Mengele manage to hide it in Armenia? It was held by the Soviets, and I thought communists hated Nazis...”

  “Mengele had a lot of Armenian friends. One was Dr. Paul Rohrbach, with whom, in Hitler’s era, he took it upon himself to prove that the true origin of the Armenian people was Indo-European; thus, they were considered Aryan. In fact, the German defense forces, the Wehrmacht, created the famous Armenian 812th Battalion, which was made up of Armenians. Before he fled to the Americas the first time, Mengele managed to get into Armenian territory. Oddly enough, with his physique he could easily pass as a gypsy. I suppose he disguised himself and pulled it off. The man was luckier than the devil himself. I never discussed these details with Claudio who didn’t learn until years later about everything that went on back then. I did not agree with what Claudio did, but he was my friend—my only friend, in fact. He was more than a brother to me.”

  Francesco Martucci paused. He had been studying the ground as he spoke, but now he looked up.

  Dante asked, “Do you mean that Uncle Claudio had something to do with Mengele?”

  “Yes. Claudio thought he could make good money off of the discovery, and he went to South America to look for Mengele. Through some contacts at the Swiss consulate, he knew Mengele’s whereabouts. Mengele had returned to Europe in 1956. Surprising, isn’t it? He met up with his future wife, Martha, and his son, Rolf, in Geneva.”

  “Nothing surprises me anymore.”

  “We learned that he had not been able to enter Armenia at that point and had to return to South America. The German was by that time one of the most wanted men by the Mossad and by a Nazi hunter named Wiesenthal. Unbelievably enough, they could not track him down even though he lived in relative freedom in Argentina. When we found the chest and the documents, Claudio got in touch with a few folks in Paraguay and from there tracked Mengele to a modest home in Brazil. By that time he was one of the world’s most wanted men! But Claudio had a gift for this kind of thing. Nothing was impossible for him. On the other hand, I think it was rather convenient for the famous Mr. Wiesenthal to still have one of the Nazis most closely linked to Hitler’s regime on the run, since it fueled his cause. When Claudio found him, Mengele had just survived a cerebral embolism. The man was terribly fearful. He lived in hiding from the rest of the world. It wasn’t easy to convince him, but Claudio brought a copy of Mengele’s notes with him and finally persuaded the German to talk with him. Mengele continued his research in a laboratory in the United States where your Uncle Claudio was a partner, and it was there that Mengele channeled all his energies into perfecting the damnable formula. He experimented with Claudio, who volunteered willingly, though really he had no choice. His exposure to the chest’s contents had caused irreparable damage that only Mengele himself could slow down. Claudio was just as obsessed as Mengele was with eternal youth. One of the conditions was that he had to have a child.”

  “Which explains why I was conceived,” I murmured to myself.

  “Claudio had to have a child who would have his same blood type. That’s what he told me. Fortune smiled on him again, because you two were perfectly compatible, which means you could have shared any bodily organs.”

  “It sounds like Uncle Claudio turned me into his organ donor.”

  “Don’t say such foolish things, signore mio! He had the chance to take any of your organs he wanted, but he didn’t do it, don’t you see?”

  A lightning bolt of memories split through my brain, from times when I was just beginning to make sense of the world. Uncle Claudio, or rather, my father, liked to travel with me. Once he took me to the United States to visit a man who, he said, was an old friend. And he really was an old man, or at least he seemed so to me at the time. I have very happy memories of him. After that trip, Uncle Claudio started taking blood samples from me. Sometimes when he would come by the house, he would have a syringe and say he was worried about my health. I never minded the pricks because afterwards he always took me out for juice or ice cream. The servant who often came with him would hermetically seal up the tube of my plasma and take it away, and Uncle Claudio—even now it is difficult to think of him as my father—and I would go for our outing. The last time that happened at our house, he and my mother had a very heated discussion. Afterwards, he never came back. But I would get away with Quentin to see him, and it did not bother me that he kept on drawing blood. I loved him so much I would have done anything to make him happy.

  “How did Mengele get into the USA?” I asked, emerging from my reverie.

  “That was the easiest part of all. The president of Interpol was a former Nazi. He arranged everything. You have no idea how many of those...people...held important international positions in the postwar era.”

  “I think I’m getting the picture. Did Mengele get what he was after?”

  “He was on the verge. Claudio began having lung failure. Even so, I don’t know if you had noticed, but your father—Claudio—looked extremely young for his age, sixty. He could easily have passed for forty. Mengele died, and the research remained unfinished. Claudio stopped receiving treatments, and his illness slowly began worsening.”

  “I thought Josef Mengele died in Brazil in the late 70s. I read that somewhere.”

  “Yes, that’s what was reported. But Josef Mengele actually lived to be eighty-two years old; that is, he died six years ago. Ever since then Claudio’s health began to decline, though it wasn’t obvious at first. He held onto all of Mengele’s research documents since they were partners. And the radioactive isotope that set off this entire wild goose chase is still in the original chest, which they kept for old time’s sake. Claudio wanted to continue the research with the US-based pharmacological group where he was partnered. They were interested in Mengele’s work, and they even studied Claudio since he was living proof of what was possible, but things didn’t work out. Apparently there was a big blow up when two of the partners of Jewish background learned about the origins of the research. Things dragged on and on, unfortunately for Claudio. But believe me, Dante, it is possible. All the studies were based on him and several others. The thing is that none of the other subjects demonstrated such positive results as Claudio did. He had a particular genetic mutation that meant that, in his organism, stem cells regenerated tissue at an uncommon rate. And you are genetically similar to your father. Only you can carry on the work that cost your father his life. Do you understand me now? Do you know what this would mean for humanity?”

  “Of course. Population explosion,” I quipped, though the irony was lost on Martucci.

  “Don’t be naïve, Dante. The formula would only be available to a small, select group. NASA would be keenly interested in it for their long-term space ex
plorations, just to mention one example. The thing is that, before his death, Claudio hid several pieces of essential information, and, according to him, you are the only one who could find them. He told me so himself. It grieves me that he did not trust me with it, but I understand, because I know I’m not long for this world.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, taken aback.

  “I was also exposed to the radiation, though to a lesser degree. That’s why my lungs no longer work as they should.”

  After this conversation I knew without a shadow of a doubt that Martucci was one of the most gullible people I had ever known. He had a blind faith in other people’s honesty. How could he think Uncle Claudio would limit the sale of the formula to just a select few? Knowing my uncle, I was confident that his haste to make it a reality was driven by the desire to turn the formula into a cash cow. Yet perhaps I thought along those lines because I felt cheated. I would rather have been the product of love.

  10

  Non-Catholic Cemetery, Rome, Italy

  November 12, 1999 – 11:00 a.m.

  Francesco Martucci and I had arrived at an imposing mausoleum that reminded me of the one in which Uncle Claudio’s remains now lay. I halted for a moment with the strange sense that I was being watched. Subtly I turned and caught a glimpse of a silhouette between the gravestones and the spindly cypress trees. A man holding a book was walking around enjoying the vegetation—an American tourist. You can spot them a mile away.

  Brother Martucci looked in the same direction with no attempt at subtlety.

  “We had better be going.”

  I smiled like we were having a totally normal conversation, feigning interest in the spotted cat that had recently crossed our path. Still smiling, I said, “I don’t know why, but I feel like someone’s following us. There can’t be many rats around here,” I added, for the sake of banal chatter.