by Blanca Miosi
“I need to speak with Mr. Dante Contini-Massera. I’m from the United States. I work for the New York Times,” Nicholas explained to the guard.
“Do you have any ID?”
Nicholas pulled out his Times badge and passport. After scrutinizing them, the guard looked squarely into Nicholas’ face as if to memorize his features.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No. But could you ask if he will see me? I need to return to the States tonight.”
“Just a minute.”
The guard returned to the sentry box, and Nicholas saw him talking on the telephone. After a long while, the man returned to the taxi.
“All right. Mr. Contini-Massera will see you. Wait just a moment.”
He returned to the guard house, and soon the metal gate opened.
They wound down the tree-lined drive, and there before them rose up Villa Contini, the mansion Nicholas had seen in his mind’s eye so often over the last couple of days. The driveway ended in a roundabout, and in the center there was a large stone sculpture of a woman pouring water from a jug. The statue gave the place a picturesque air. The taxi paused at the front door.
“Would you mind waiting? I have no idea how long I’ll be, but it will be quite difficult for me to get out of here without a car.”
The driver glanced at the taximeter and then looked back at Nicholas. “Va bene, signore.... I’ll wait for you here.”
“Thank you,” Nicholas replied, climbing out of the car and heading toward the entrance. The enormous carved front door opened before he even rang the bell.
“Good afternoon, please come in. The master will see you in a few moments. Please follow me.”
The luxury of the house overwhelmed Nicholas. He followed the butler into a parlor that seemed more like a museum than a normal part of family life. He sat in one of the armchairs and waited for what felt like an eternity. Nine minutes later, Dante appeared at the door.
“Hello, Mr. Blohm. Tell me, how may I be of assistance?”
Nicholas was paralyzed for a few seconds. There standing before him was the very real character from the manuscript. He stood and held out his hand. He needed to touch this man.
“Mr. Contini-Massera, I write a column for the society page of the New York Times. First and foremost, I want to offer my condolences. Your uncle, Count Contini-Massera, was well known in the financial and social circles in my country,” Nicholas hazarded to say.
“Oh, I had no idea. Thank you for your kind words. Would you like a statement about my deceased uncle?” Dante responded, offering him a seat.
“Actually, I came to interview you.”
“Interview? And what in the world about?” Dante asked, perplexed.
“Upon your uncle’s death, you will inherit a large fortune, correct? Everyone wants to know. Will you also inherit his title?”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer those questions, Mr. Blohm. Those are personal matters.”
“I understand completely, Mr. Contini, but since I’m here, is there anything you can tell me, anything at all, so I don’t go home empty handed?”
Dante was quiet for a moment, and a nearly imperceptible smile flickered across his face. From one moment to the next he had become a distinguished person. Three days ago he could not even scrounge together enough money for a plane ticket. The guy asking him questions was by no means like the slick, professional journalists Dante had seen in the press conferences Uncle Claudio used to hold. Blohm must be a newbie, just like Dante. He seemed nice enough. If there were one thing Dante liked about North Americans, it was the candor of the common man.
“I lived in your country for a while. I got a master’s in economics at Yale. When I returned to Rome, I was met with the sad news of losing the person I loved most in this world. You can put in your column that his death has been a great grief to me, and I still don’t know if I’m the primary inheritor. We have a large family, and I don’t know what my uncle’s will says. Nor does it really matter very much to me.”
“Yes, of course. I’m not interested in spreading family secrets, especially financial ones. But it’s my job, and I have to write about something. So we could talk about your time in the States.”
“Mainly I went to study and get to know life in America.”
“Did you leave anyone behind? I just mean that two years is a long time...”
“...and the nights get long, you’re right,” Dante said with a smile that drew Nicholas in. “But my mind was on my studies. Of course I had a few lady friends, but nothing serious.”
“And do you think you’ll come back? Your return to Rome was rather sudden. Surely you have loose ends to tie up?”
“I can take care of everything from here. I don’t think I’ll be back any time soon.”
Irene’s face flashed before Dante’s eyes. He had to pay her back. Then a shadow spread across his face, and he gave Nicholas a scrutinizing look. Who was this guy? Martucci had warned him about Irene’s nefarious business dealings.
“Well, your life seems pretty clear-cut, Mr. Contini,” Nicholas prodded.
Dante had stopped paying attention to Nicholas’ words. Something about him seemed familiar. It was a fleeting sensation but grew clearer by the moment. The profile of the man at the cemetery flitted through his mind.
“You’ve been following me, haven’t you?”
“Yes, please forgive me. But I saw you talking with the priest, and I didn’t want to interrupt you in the cemetery,” Nicholas said. It was the only thing he could think of to say, and it seemed better than denying it.
“What exactly do you want from me, Mr. Blohm?”
Nicholas sighed and bit his lip. He decided to talk.
“You see, Mr. Contini, I’m a writer as well as a journalist. Your uncle, Mr. Claudio Contini, has always fascinated me. I wanted to meet you. I was hoping you might be willing to tell me some about your family. I want to know the secrets...and I know your uncle left you one.” Nicholas caught Dante’s slight shudder.
“I don’t think this conversation should go any further, Mr. Blohm.” Dante went to a side table and pressed something. Immediately the butler appeared. “Fabio, call Nelson, please.”
The butler disappeared, and Dante watched Nicholas carefully. Things were not going well.
“Mr. Contini, I’m begging you to hear me out. I’m not a robber, and I’m not a crook. Just listen, please. If I told you what all had happened to me, you wouldn’t believe it. You’d think I’m crazy.”
Nelson appeared, completely filling the open space between the double doors. Nicholas thought he could fill up any doorway, no matter how large. Well over six feet tall, his height was as imposing as the well-defined muscles outlined beneath the black t-shirt that fit him like a glove.
“Nelson, please escort this gentleman to the door.”
“Mr. Contini, you’re making a mistake...I just wanted...What happened in Armenia with your Uncle Claudio and Francesco Martucci? And the chest, what was inside? Listen! I know a few...”
Dante made a motion, and Nelson loosed his grip on Nicholas’ arm.
“Wait just outside, Nelson. I’ll call you.”
Before withdrawing, the giant man searched Nicholas with rapid professionalism. He was “clean,” holding nothing but a manuscript. Nelson handed Dante everything in Nicholas’ pockets, including his passport and a plane ticket.
“Put it on the table, Nelson, thank you. And you, please, take a seat.”
Dante pointed to a chair and then sat in another. He opened the passport and carefully studied the dates, verified the entrance stamps, checked the flight information, and then put everything back on the table.
Nicholas did not know what to do or say. He had gone to Rome obsessed with a manuscript, and the situation was getting more and more complicated. He was beginning to regret having been so impulsive. If he told the truth, no one would believe it. He had no proof. The manuscript was blank. And he was starting to see that not eve
rything he had read was strictly accurate. There were certain variables, like the metal gate at the entrance to the drive, the mastodon Dante had for a bodyguard, and the personality of the main character before him, who was nothing like the useless, indolent son of a millionaire from the manuscript. His air and mannerisms were those of a self-assured man.
Dante was silent for a few moments. He knew how to make an enemy squirm. He had learned from Uncle Claudio, who had been both teacher and father to him. He sensed that the supposed journalist was just a meddling busybody. How much did he actually know about the things he said? Dante thought of Martucci’s precautions, which now seemed all in vain.
“Very well, Mr. Nicholas Blohm, now it’s your turn to answer my questions. What exactly have you come to find?”
“Mr. Contini, as I said, I’m a writer. In a very odd way, I came upon a manuscript. This one, in fact,” and he held it out to Dante. “In it there was a story with no title. It was talking about a secret that Count Claudio Contini-Massera possessed and which, upon his death, he bequeathed to you through the monk Martucci. I know this sounds unbelievable, but, please, I am telling the truth.”
Dante flipped through the manuscript and saw that it was blank.
“There’s nothing here.”
“I know. The manuscript is...special. I read in it a lot of things about you, your uncle, your family. I thought it was just a novel. But then when the manuscript went blank, in my desperation to rewrite or recover what had been there, I started searching online, and I came across the news of your uncle’s death. That’s when I realized that what I’d been reading about was real, as crazy as it sounds.”
After his recent conversation with Martucci, Dante’s capacity for shock had expanded. A few days ago perhaps he would have reacted differently, but, at this moment, it seemed like the American actually believed what he was saying.
“I’m not going to say that I believe you, Mr. Blohm, but I would like you to tell me all that you supposedly read in this manuscript.”
So Nicholas began talking. The lines were still fresh in his mind. He stayed as close as possible to the script that had so moved him, and Dante listened attentively. At first he was merely curious. The curiosity became shock when the American said, “I know that Claudio Contini-Massera was your father, and I know what the key to finding the formula is.”
When he heard those words, Dante had the surreal sensation that something extraordinary was happening to him, provided that Nicholas Blohm did not turn out to be a vulgar
charlatan, of course.
The Deal
And thus I came to this point. Sitting before me was an American stranger who swore that everything he had told me he had read from a manuscript in which there was not a single word printed. And for some inexplicable reason, I was inclined to believe him. He did not look like a dangerous person, though I had learned not to trust appearances.
It was uncanny how much he knew—more than I had only begun to learn that very day. This gave him an advantage, but I still could not understand why he wanted to help me.
“What do you want in return?” I asked.
“I want to be part of the search for the secret your Uncle Claudio left you.”
“And what makes you think I’ll let you?”
“I don’t think you have a choice. Mr. Contini, I’m not here to blackmail you, if that’s what you’re worried about. You see, I think this amazing story about your uncle would make a terrific novel. I could tell the story without mentioning your names. I just need to be part of what happens. I’m not asking for much.”
“And if I refuse?”
“I could write the novel with what I already know, because it’s already got plenty of great secrets. Your uncle’s relationship with Mengele, the formula that will be of interest to many more people than just a pharmaceutical company, all the dirty laundry in the family...”
“And you don’t call that blackmail...? You’re rather bold, Mr. Blohm. I can’t make a decision right now. I need to think it over. I promise you’ll get an answer. Contact me tomorrow night, and I’ll tell you what I’ve decided,” I said with an air of finality. Nicholas Blohm kept looking at me as if waiting for more. “Do you understand what I said?”
“Yes. I’ll call you tomorrow night. Can I have your number?”
“Isn’t it in the manuscript? Oh, of course, it got erased...” I smirked. I wrote my number on a pad of paper from the side table and tore the sheet off. I did not want him to have one of my cards. I handed it to him and called for Nelson.
“What about my passport?”
“Your passport will stay with me, as will your plane ticket. But you can have your wallet. Oh, wait a minute.” I opened the wallet and removed the credit cards and every card, paper, or document that could have identified him. I returned only his money and some keys.
“But you can’t do that! I can’t leave here without ID. Every hotel in the country will ask me for ID. That’s illegal...my credit cards...I’ll go to the American embassy!”
“Go right ahead; you would be doing me a huge favor. Or you can tell the taxi driver to take you to a hotel where they won’t even ask your name. I suggest you follow Nelson, Mr. Blohm. I’ll be waiting for your call.”
“At least give me the manuscript,” he begged.
“The manuscript will stay with me until we see each other again.”
Nicholas Blohm stared at me and shook his head. I saw the bewildered disbelief in his eyes as Nelson with his insistent silence made it clear that it was time to leave me be. I watched him disappear through the door then scooped up his passport, plane ticket, and the rest of his things and carried them to my room. I needed to talk with Martucci right away. Nicholas Blohm had butted into my life, and it was going to cost him. I knew he could easily order replacement credit cards, claiming to have lost his, but at least it would be an extra obstacle. One thing was for sure: he had no identification. On the other hand, his look of sheer terror gave me a deep sense of satisfaction. I do not know what he thought I could do to him, but, regardless, he would have something to keep his mind occupied.
I got in touch with Martucci by calling the private number he had given me a little less than an hour ago.
“Abbot Martucci, something big has come up. I don’t think it’s wise to talk about it on the phone. Could you please make your way to somewhere where I can pick you up?”
“I’ll be a hundred yards up from La Forchetta in,” he paused, “half an hour.”
I really liked Martucci. I could understand why Uncle Claudio trusted him. He did not ask pointless questions, did not hesitate, and always spoke directly. In some way it was comforting to have him beside me. What would Uncle Claudio have done in my situation? Play the American’s game? Make him disappear? Disappearance was not a bad idea. But I could not allow myself such a luxury. On the other hand, how much damage could Nicholas Blohm do to me? The way I saw things, he was just a guy trying to write a novel however high the stakes.
I went to the garage and selected a navy blue car, the only ordinary one. It was a Fiat that the servants used for going shopping. It had dark windows and did not stand out.
Martucci was standing at a corner. I recognized him though he was no longer wearing his habit.
“Just wait ‘til I tell you. You’re never going to believe this,” I said as soon as he got in.
“Believe me, signore mio, I’ve heard it all. Here, take this.”
“What is it?”
“This tube has the documents. The instructions are on the first page.”
“We’d better go back to the villa. I don’t want to be driving around Rome. We’ll be safe there.”
“I thought la sua mamma would be staying there.”
“She prefers her house in Rome. I’m at the villa because I don’t want to stay with her.”
He nodded, and on the drive I told him everything that had happened with the American. He seemed thoughtful, his mind feverishly working things
out.
“You never came across this American in the States?” Martucci asked.
“I’d never seen him before in my life. The worst part is, I believe him. I have no idea why, but it really seems like he’s telling the truth. I kept hold of the manuscript, as well as his passport and credit cards.”
I noticed that Martucci smiled slightly, and he realized I had seen.
“I think Claudio would have done the same,” he said. “It’s a shame he could not see you now.”
When we got to the villa, we went straight to my room. I showed him the manuscript, which was no more than a block of empty sheets with a black cover and a spiral binding.
“The thing itself certainly doesn’t seem extraordinary. Have you considered the possibility that the man is mad? There are many types of insanity in this world, and Americans are particularly susceptible to madness.”
“Well, he’d be a clairvoyant lunatic. He told me in great detail what you had told me, and even more. How could someone know all that?”
“Let us suppose that the American is telling the truth and that this,” he rested his hand on the manuscript’s cover, “is a sort of book of life. I will not question it right now. The point is: why? Why did it happen with this man in particular? For what reason would the life of Claudio Contini-Massera appear here in this manuscript? What does this man want? To write a novel whose plot line is part of some real people’s lives? He does not seem very intelligent. With what he knows, he could have started writing already and just made up the rest. Clearly he is not a good writer. That much is certain.”
“He said he wanted to help me find the secret that Uncle Claudio left me.”