The Manuscript I the Secret (14 page)

“Do you think I should call for a doctor?”

“Wait, Quentin, I think he’s starting to come to.”

It was true. I could hear them talking but felt like I could not answer, and, to a degree, that was the case. My tongue did not want to work. It felt sluggish, like I was waking up from anesthesia.

“I’m okay,” I said, unsure if I actually were. I said it mainly to reassure them.

“
Signore
Dante, you fainted. Forgive me for saying more than I should have.”

Nicholas’ eyes were wide in surprise, and in my delirium it looked like his eyebrows were dancing around in front of his face. I saw him draw Quentin aside and whisper something in his ear. Were they plotting against me? I felt more alone than ever. If I could not trust my father, if Martucci had become suspect, and even Irene, who I had thought was the woman of my dreams, had lied to me, what could I hope to gain from this life? And now Nicholas and Quentin were talking in secret.... I wished for death. I closed my eyes with no desire to open them again ever.

Awhile later—I have no idea how much time had passed—I felt someone touching me. I opened my eyes and saw it was a doctor.

“How do you feel?” he asked with a paternal smile.

“Fine, thanks,” I answered, though I wanted to say I felt like complete shit.

“Have you been having headaches lately?”

“No.”

“What have you eaten?”

“Nothing.”

The doctor finished taking my blood pressure and gave a satisfied nod.

“I think what’s happened is the product of accumulated stress. Apparently you’ve had to deal with some difficult things lately; the organism has ways to protect itself. No cause for worry. Everything seems to be normal now. Your blood pressure is ideal. Just to be on the safe side, I recommend you get a full physical. It’s possible you may have an underlying diabetes.”

He wrote something on a pad of paper, ripped off the sheet, and left it on the nightstand.

“I’ve written out the name and address of a place where you can get the tests run.”

Nicholas came in with a glass of sugar water and a pill. I sat up and tried to stand, but he stopped me.

“Dante, friend, rest. This is a sleeping pill. I think you need to rest. This has all been too much for you. It’s worn you down, and you need to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up,” he said, glancing at the armchair.

It may not make sense to anyone else in the world, but hearing him talk like that made me want to cry. I choked back a sob, gulped down the pill with the water, and pulled the covers up around me.

“I’ll be right here, Dante; don’t worry,” Nicholas said from the recliner.

When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was Nicholas. He had fallen asleep, and from the shadow of a beard on his chin, I gathered that at least twenty-four hours had passed. Still drowsy from the Librium, I stood up and went to the bathroom. I turned on the shower and let the water pound into me for a very long time. I wanted to wash off the despicable muck of the world, as if the liquid flowing through the drain could also wash away the shit of the people I had believed in and who were now nothing more than that: dirty water headed straight for the sewers of New York.

Finally, I decided I had felt sorry for myself long enough. Now I either had to face things or just forget about the world and let it all go to hell. Since I had learned by then that the world would still be there even if I tried to forget it, I decided to face things. The sound of the shower had put Quentin on the alert. He was waiting for me with a fresh change of clothes laid over the bed while Nicholas snored away.

“How long has he been there?”

“He hasn’t moved since yesterday,
signore
.”

“Let him rest. Come with me, Quentin.”

We went to my office, and I sat behind my desk. Quentin sat in front and looked at me, expectantly.

“Uncle Claudio, that is, my father, left me nothing. Did that sink in? Absolutely nothing. I inherited several billion dollars of debt. I made the mistake of thinking I could find a formula that Uncle Claudio supposedly hid some place, but that wasn’t the case. Nicholas is a writer who offered to help me. One of these days I’ll tell you the whole story.”

“There’s no need,
signore
Dante. He already told me. And
veramente
, it is surprising.”

It suddenly occurred to me to ask Quentin, “Have you ever heard of someone named Giordano Caperotti?”

“Don Giordano? Of course! He was your uncle, excuse me, your father’s right-hand man for business.”

“Saying ‘uncle’ is fine, Quentin; don’t worry. How do you know?”

“Not a day went by without at least a phone conversation between the two. Mr. Claudio apparently trusted him a great deal and...well, you know, some of the dealings were not quite above board.... Forgive me, sir, but Mr. Claudio occasionally spoke with me and asked my advice. I would simply listen and ask questions, and perhaps one of my questions would lead him to an answer, because he would always say, ‘You’re a genius,
mio caro
! You’re worth your weight in gold.... Too bad you’re so skinny!’ and then he’d let out a peal of that delightful laughter of his.”

I never would have guessed Quentin could be the Pandora’s box shaping up before my eyes. I understood in a flash that the most unsuspecting people can become the guardians of the best-kept secrets.

“You were that close with Uncle Claudio?”

“
Signore
Dante, I had known him practically from his earliest days. Just imagine someone you had had daily dealings with for nearly sixty years... He knew everything, absolutely everything, about me. He knew I would never betray him. He was far more than just an employer to me. He was like family, the family I never had. Mr. Adriano was very good to me, but Mr. Claudio was special. He truly loved me. I promised him I would take care of you, and only on that condition did he allow you to come to America.”

All these years thinking Quentin was just a flower vase when really he was the bouquet inside
, I thought. Life certainly is full of surprises, and for nearly a solid week it had thrown one surprise after another at me.

“Quentin, Francesco said that Uncle Claudio had no faith in me. Is that true?”

“Don Claudio loved you like only a father can. It was not certain that he was going to leave his fortune to Martucci. He did leave him something, because that’s how your uncle was, but Francesco was not telling the truth. There’s no denying that you gave no signs of being a trustworthy person. A few times I suggested that he tell you the truth, that it would have been better for you to know you were his son, but on that issue he never listened to me. He loved Donna Carlota ‘til the day he died and could not bear the thought of tarnishing her image.”

I shook my head several times. I was aghast that love could be so blind.

“I need to know who Giordano Caperotti is, Quentin. Do you think he would be capable of making an attempt on my life?”

“Mr. Giordano is capable of many things—oh, yes!—but an attempt on your life..., I just don’t think so,
signore
Dante. Why would he?”

“If I don’t find the formula my uncle hid, I won’t be able to recover the money he took from the Business. And I promised Caperotti I’d do it in six months.”

“Maybe Quentin has the key,” Nicholas said, coming into my office. “I couldn’t help but overhear you. Surely, Quentin, you know something we don’t know.”

Over the desk Nicholas spread his notes, the psalms, and the little song of numbers and letters Uncle Claudio used to sing.

“Ah! I remember that song!” Quentin exclaimed.

“You do?” I asked, a thousand thoughts racing through my mind.

“Of course, how could I forget?! It’s about a secret you have to protect like treasure.”

Nicholas and I looked at each other. His eyes were nearly jumping out of their sockets. Quentin started singing to himself:

“A, plus B, plus C, plus D,

is 1, plus 2, plus 3, plus 4

E, plus F, plus G, plus H, plus I

is 5, is 6, is 7, is 8, is 9,

and then J, K, L, and M

is 10, 11, 12, and 13

and N, O, P, then Q

is 14, 15, 16, 17–

These are all the letters that lead to Quentin,

who has the treasure that hides the
bambino
.

R, S, T, and U

come next; now sing them to me true...

and it kept going...”

Quentin trailed off and stared at us. From the way his gaze traveled back and forth between us, I knew we must look like a pair of idiots. We had been listening closely as if our very lives depended on it, and perhaps it was the first time Quentin had held an audience so captive.

“These are all the letters that lead to Quentin, who has the treasure that hides the
bambino
?” Nicholas and I both sang in unison, mimicking Quentin’s cadence.

“Your uncle came up with that song so you’d remember it, but he always got hung up on ‘O’—he was such a distracted man. Even so, you learned the primer very well, and your uncle was
veramente
proud of you.”

Nicholas showed him the page with the image of the Bosch painting.

“Do you remember this painting?”
“Of course. It’s in Villa Contini, in the library of the deceased
signore
Claudio’s office.”

Nicholas and I exchanged glances. Evidently Quentin had not been informed that the little reproduction’s whereabouts were unknown.

“Quentin, think hard. Did Uncle Claudio ever give you something to keep for him?”
“He gave me many things,
signore
.” Quentin was starting to get anxious. He thought for a long time while we held our breath for whatever might come out of his mouth next. “Wait just a minute, please,” he said.

He stood and left the office. Neither Nicholas nor I dared break the silence, afraid to undo the spell. A short while later we heard the approach of Quentin’s odd gait, as if he were constantly on guard against tripping.

“Perhaps this is what you’re looking for.” He handed me a sealed envelope that was about sixteen inches long.

I ripped into it with desperation. I could not yet believe it might be the thing we were after. I pulled out what was inside. It was the small painting.

I looked to the most obvious place: the back. I slid out the cardboard that held the reproduction in place and found what we had so long sought: five sheets with handwritten notes in German and a message:

Dante:

This is the formula.

I love you,

Claudio Contini-Massera

And there was a card with an address:

Merreck & Stallen Pharmaceutical Group

Park Avenue 4550, Peoria, Illinois

There was also a phone number.

Nicholas and I whooped for joy and hugged each other, then hugged Quentin who was still acting a bit worried, but I gave it no thought; in that moment I was holding the thing that would change everything.

“If I had known, I...forgive me,
signore
. I had no idea that what you were looking for was in that envelope.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Quentin. This very day I’ll get in touch with the pharmaceutical group.”

I was truly happy. My troubles were over, and I wanted to pay Quentin back in some way. It seemed fitting to directly ask him how.

“Quentin, ask me for anything you want. Anything at all. It’s yours.”

“That’s not necessary,
signore
....”

“Please, Quentin, it’s the least I can do.”

“Very well,
signore
Dante. I would like to wear Reeboks instead of my service shoes.... Black, if possible.”

I doubled over laughing at his request.

“I’m starving!” I said.

“Quentin, can I trust Nelson?”

“Yes, sir, Nelson never left your uncle’s side. He’s the one who saved him in the two murder attempts.”

From one day to the next, Quentin had become my advisor. I will be the first to admit I saw him as such. His experience and the years he spent with my father made him the ideal informant. I needed to call Nelson. I could not risk being attacked or having the formula stolen. So that was the first thing I did. He was at the apartment the very next day, and just having him there made me feel so much safer. We went to the bank together and placed the formula and the documents in a safety deposit box.

“Mr. Dante,” he said, “if I’m going to be in charge of your safety, I need you to take some advice.”

“I’m listening.”

“I was trained by the CIA as a bodyguard for high-level politicians. I met Mr. Claudio Contini-Massera when I was on an assignment in the US embassy in Rome. I was assigned to go with him everywhere he went, since your uncle was a special envoy of the Italian government here in the United States.”

It did not seem like the time to ask what Uncle Claudio had done to convince Nelson to join his ranks, but Nelson was an intuitive person.

“Working for the state means being subject to constant changes in government. Every president prefers things a different way, which means there isn’t room for all of us. I had a great deal of respect for your uncle, and I hope to be of service to you as well.”

“I’m continuing with the family traditions, Nelson. I haven’t made personnel changes because I know how careful my uncle was in choosing people. It’s quite probable that, just like with Uncle Claudio, somebody is out to get me. I suspect it might be some Jews, people involved with the laboratory we’ll visit tomorrow.”

“I think I know what it’s about. I’ve been with your uncle to that lab before. You must stop thinking about coincidences. Coincidences don’t exist. Usually, it means danger. If you run into the same person more than once, if you see a car twice, if the waiter’s face in a restaurant you’ve never been to before looks vaguely familiar—immediately take cover, if you aren’t with me. And even if you are with me, it’ll make things much easier if you’re observant.”

So Nelson already knew where the laboratory was, and here I had been breaking my skull over it. I could not stop thinking about the man from the restaurant.

“When we were in Hereford, there was a guy following us. He was Italian; I’m sure of it.”

“What did he look like?”

“He was thin, with black hair that was a little disheveled...”

“I think I know the one.”

“Is he dangerous?”
“I think it’s one of Caperotti’s men. As far as I know, Caperotti won’t do you any harm. In all likelihood the man from the restaurant, as you call him, was protecting you.”

“What?!”

“Caperotti stands to lose a lot if something bad happens to you. However, in all likelihood you were also followed by someone else, doubtless with a completely unsuspecting guise.”

The matter of security was turning out to be far more complicated than I had imagined. Up to that point, I had thought a bodyguard was just a guy with huge muscles who could scare off anyone considering stealing my parking spot.

“To be honest, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t remember anyone in an unsuspecting guise.”

“Exactly, which is why they go that route. It could even be a woman.”

The only woman I remembered was the librarian Molly Graham, unless it were one of the tourists at the library.

“Some Japanese tourists took a few pictures of us in the library, but I don’t think they could have known we were going to be there.”

“Unless someone had slipped into the group that day. Was the photo of any great importance?”

“No. Except for the chains being all in a mess, I don’t think there would’ve been anything in the picture that could serve as a clue. What’s more, now that I think about it, if they managed to find the book I ripped a few pages out of, they’d be following a false trail. I’d like you to teach Nicholas a few precautionary measures, too, Nelson. He’ll be joining me. He can be trusted.”

Nelson scrutinized Nicholas who, up to then, had remained sitting quietly in a chair beside the massive man.

“Do you know how to shoot a gun?” was Nelson’s first question.

“I have a license. I was in the army for two years.”

I gave a start.

“That makes things a bit easier. I’ll give you an automatic pistol. Carry it with you at all times except, of course, to places where they’ll search you because they aren’t allowed, like at the laboratory tomorrow. I think it would be better for you to stay here in Mr. Dante’s house, instead of going back and forth from where you live. We need to avoid all routine movements.”

“So I should go back to get a few things.”

“I’ll go with you tonight.”

I felt a lot better having Nelson around. My mind immediately jumped to John Merreck. I looked at the phone number on the card and got ready to call him.

On the second ring, I was surprised by a soft voice with just a hint of a German accent that answered, “Hello, Mr. Contini-Massera. I’ve been anxiously awaiting your call.”

I had figured he would know who was calling. Surely my number would show up on his caller ID.

“Hello, Mr. Merreck. I would like to speak with you in person.”

“It would be a pleasure. I’ll look for you tomorrow. I suppose you know the address?”

“Yes, I have it. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Merreck.”

That afternoon Nicholas took up residence with us in Uncle Claudio’s enormous apartment in Tribeca. I could not have said it was mine as it was more than evident I owned nothing beyond massive doubts and a few sheets of paper that might be important. My American friend had brought a few of his belongings: a suitcase and a laptop computer. His presence had by now become very familiar to me, with his ever-present blank manuscript under one arm as if he were still hoping at any minute the answer to all of our questions would suddenly appear in writing.

Peoria, about 125 miles southwest of Chicago, is one of the main cities of the state of Illinois. Following Nelson’s directions, we found the laboratory without difficulty. The building looked ordinary, an eight-floored square with absolutely nothing to set it apart architecturally from the surrounding buildings. Nelson, Nicholas, and I walked through the glass door that separated the waiting room from the street, and our presence—whether my physical resemblance to Uncle Claudio or the fact that she recognized Nelson—provoked an immediate response from the young woman behind the desk.

“Hello, Mr. Dante Contini?” she asked.

“Hello, yes, that’s right.”

“Be so kind as to follow me, please.”

We followed her to the elevator and came out directly onto a heliport on the roof where a helicopter was waiting for us. About twenty minutes later we were landing on the grounds of a place located in Roseville, if I heard the pilot correctly. A man in a gray suit welcomed us and led us to “the ranch.” All we saw was an unimposing one-story house with a long stretch of white fence surrounding a yard with scattered trees. It looked like an unassuming house in the middle of an excellently manicured golf course. Careful observation revealed that its walls were neither wood nor stucco but some material covered with sheet metal with a wood grain design.

As we crossed the threshold, we went through a metal detector, and just before entering the elevators we were searched a second time. The level of security surprised me though Nelson had already warned me, “Don’t be taken off guard when they search you. They search everyone, including employees.”

Soon after, bright name badges were affixed to our respective lapels. But what really took me by surprise—and truly impressed me—was that we descended ten stories before the elevator came to a stop. White lights simulating natural daylight lit up everything, I suppose to preclude the sensation of claustrophobia that was bound to shroud a work environment so deep underground.

Before we entered Merreck’s office, Nelson was detained. He calmly went to one side and waited in a chair in the hallway.

“He comes with me,” I said, glancing at Nicholas.

“Hello, Mr. Contini. I’m John Merreck.” A thin, pale man greeted us in that American way of dropping the compound last name. He held out his hand.

“Hello, Mr. Merreck. This is Nicholas Blohm, my advisor.”

“Pleased to meet you. Can I offer you some coffee?”

“I’d love some, thanks,” I nodded eagerly. The strong smell of the stuff was irresistible.

“It’s a coffee we grow ourselves, genetically seasoned with cacao,” Merreck explained with pride.

He himself prepared the aforementioned drink for us in a corner of his office and made a great show of the presentation. Then he sat behind his desk.

“I’m very sorry for what happened, Mr. Contini. Your uncle was a great friend of this estate.”

He seemed in no hurry to talk about what had had me tied up in knots recently. He just idly stirred his coffee as if I were not actually there. I felt like I was in the presence of a professional day-dreamer. Nicholas shot me a glance, and I decided to wait for Merreck to speak first.

“Would you like to have a tour of the ranch?” he asked when he had finished his coffee.

“Of course.”

“Follow me, please.”

We left his office by a door next to the one through which we had entered and walked into a sort of dressing room.

“Please, take off your jackets and put these on.” He handed us each a white suit that zipped in the front, gloves, a hat, and disposable shoe covers. “Everything has been sterilized,” he explained.

We followed him. Beyond the door we found ourselves in a long hallway with countless doors at either side; all the walls were made of glass, which allowed us to see what was going on inside. In most of the rather spacious rooms there were personnel engrossed in their work.

“The cures for many diseases come out of these rooms. Sometimes it takes years to achieve just one small step forward, but it’s worth it.”

We came to a room with lots of white rats in different glass containers.

“Animal metabolism does not always equate to humans, in terms of achieving the same results,” he said gravely, “but we do what we can. These rats were injected with a growth hormone. There’s been some progress in their cell regeneration, but, unfortunately, their livers are beginning to excrete an excess of somatomedin. The result is something similar to fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva. In other words, the muscle turns to bone.”

I saw a few rats that could barely move, their bodies horribly deformed. They had truly become monsters. I could not stop thinking about what I had read in Mengele’s notes.

“I’ve read about some similar experiments done on human beings.”

“I have, too, believe me. But that’s not allowed here. Everything we do here,” he answered, looking around, “is legal.”

We got to the end of the corridor and passed into another, where plants seemed to be the primary subjects.

“What you’re seeing is the latest in genetic development, a theory that is finally starting to become reality, though there’s still more work to be done.”

“Are you making genetically modified food here?”

“No, my dear Mr. Contini. We leave that to Monsanto, and they are doing it very well. Occasionally we allow ourselves a little fun, like the coffee you savored, but that is all. Herein may lie the very answer to the question of eternal youth. It may shock you to know that everything you touch, everything around you, is alive.”

He must have understood I had no idea what he meant. He continued, “This.” He grabbed an ashtray and held it up at eye level. “It’s not an inanimate object, though it looks like it. It’s made up of millions and millions of atoms in perpetual movement; an atom is so small that a single drop of water contains roughly five sextillion of them, each in perpetual motion with their protons, neutrons, and electrons like infinitesimal microcosms. And that’s how everything around you is, including you yourself. Every cell in your organism is made up of atoms. And we have already proved that it’s possible to manipulate them to last as long as we want. Plants are alive. They listen, feel, breathe, feed themselves, and some even have cells that reproduce indefinitely.”

I knew then that he was ready to start talking about what I had come for.

“You’re talking about extending life?”

“To unthinkable limits.”

“How long? Maybe two hundred years? Who would want to live that long? I don’t think the length is what matters but rather the quality.”

“It does not seem very important to you, Mr. Contini, because you are young. How old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“And what if I told you I could make you immortal, keeping the same appearance you have,” he glanced at his watch, “at 4:00 p.m. today, Wednesday, November 17, 1999?”

Nice touch
, I thought. The guy should sell encyclopedias.

“It seems highly unlikely. No one can escape death. Anyhow, what would happen to humanity if nobody ever died?”