The Manuscript I the Secret

by Blanca Miosi

  He was right. It was no time for theatrics.

  “I remember that painting. I think Uncle Claudio had it in his study,” I said.

  “He had Extracting the Stone of Madness? That’s impossible. It’s at the Museo del Prado in Madrid.”

  “I don’t mean the original. It was small, a reproduction, barely a foot high. But I haven’t seen it lately.”

  “So what if the psalms and the painting are somehow related?”

  I did not answer. I turned everything over in my mind for the rest of the trip. Our little incursion into Hereford had been relatively fruitful. We had all but ransacked a sacred facility, and I still did not understand the outcome. At the airport, after returning the rental car, I said, “You keep the papers. The man from the restaurant will follow me. Take a flight to Rome and wait for me at Villa Contini.”

  Nicholas nodded, though his mind was clearly elsewhere.

  Inside the airport, I went to the ticket counter and noticed the man from the gray car subtly following me. He was carrying a newspaper or a magazine of some sort and every now and then slapped his left hand impatiently with it. Two people got between us in line.

  I bought a ticket to New York and presumed he would do the same. Shortly after I arrived in the waiting area, he showed up. At the last call, I got out of my seat and lined up behind everyone. He did the same. A large woman started arguing quite loudly with the head flight attendant. I took advantage of the momentary distraction and slipped behind my pursuer. By the time he realized it, he was already on the Jetway, and they were closing the door. I headed away from the gate, making sure he did not follow.

  “I’m sorry, but we are about to depart,” the desk attendant called out. “You need to board!”

  “I can’t travel right now. It’s urgent. I just remembered something really important. I’ll take the next flight!” I spluttered and got away as fast as I could.

  Back at the ticket counter, I bought a return flight to Rome.

  The Clue

  As soon as I walked through the door at Villa Contini, I asked after Nicholas. Fabio said he was in his room and had not come out since he returned.

  I knocked, but there was no answer. I decided to open and was incredibly relieved to see Nicholas sound asleep. He opened his eyes when I shook him awake. The slant of his brows, which seemed nearly ready to fall off the side of his face, told me things were not well.

  He jumped lithely out of bed, pulled a wad of papers out from under the pillow, and began explaining things while pacing back and forth. That seemed to be his method of concentrating.

  “Psalm 15: ‘Rules of Divine Hospitality’; I’ve read it and nothing stands out as a clue. Psalm 21: ‘Yahweh and his anointed.’ Read each psalm and tell me if there’s any special meaning for you.”

  “Weren’t you the one who was supposed to have the key to make it all fit?”

  “It could be that the manuscript didn’t include everything you remember from the time you spent with your uncle, and maybe there’s something special in here that’ll jump out at you when you read them, like they’ll jog your memory,” he said, pointing to the papers.

  Knowing there was nothing to be gained from arguing, I did as he asked. I read both psalms carefully and chose the first. “Of the two, Psalm 15 makes the most sense to me.”

  Psalm 15

  Lord, who shall dwell in thy Tabernacle? who shall rest in thine holy Mountain?

  He that walketh uprightly and worketh righteousness, and speaketh the truth in his heart.

  He that slandereth not with his tongue, nor doeth evil to his neighbor, nor receiveth a false report against his neighbor.

  In whose eyes a vile person is contemned, but he honoreth them that fear the Lord: he that sweareth to his own hindrance and changeth not.

  He that giveth not his money unto usury, nor taketh reward against the innocent: he that doeth these things, shall never be moved.

  “Why that one?” Nicholas inquired.

  “It exhorts you to act ‘uprightly’ and at the end talks about ‘never being moved’ which I think means not dying.”

  “Thinking about it, it doesn’t really fit. It’s like your uncle was encouraging you to act uprightly, but he wasn’t so upright, was he? Profiting off the research of a criminal like Mengele is not exactly ‘working righteousness,’ not to mention other murky waters.... Forgive me for talking about your uncle like this, but it’s the truth. So this psalm wasn’t aimed at him. It’s like he’s giving you instructions.”

  “And what about the other psalm?” My question was more reflective than an actual inquiry.

  “Something to throw us off track I’d hazard. By the way, what happened with the man from the restaurant?”

  “At this moment he’s likely somewhere over the middle of the Atlantic.”

  Nicholas snorted.

  “I think the psalms and all religious stuff are so ambiguous they’re open to any interpretation. Do you have the little note you found in the Bible?”

  “Here it is,” I said and handed it to him. It was barely larger than a square inch.

  “What psalm was it in?”

  “I don’t know! It fell out when I slammed the book shut.”

  “Well, there’s still the thing I think is an even clearer clue: the bit about the Red Book. As I started to say on the way to the airport, there are two undeniable coincidences. First, the caption around the painting is the exact phrase your uncle wrote in his note. Second, the Red Book, besides being a really old catalog of Bosch’s works, is also part of the painting itself: the woman has a red book on her head.”

  “The little reproduction was in Uncle Claudio’s office. Come with me,” I said as we left his room. “I remember it because once I heard him arguing with a friend who came to visit. The friend was saying that the surgeon wasn’t removing a stone from the guy’s head but a flower bud, which represented the guy’s reproductive organs, and so the title of the painting was wrong and the entire meaning totally changed.”

  In the office, I went straight to where I had always seen that picture. In its place was a framed picture of my mother, my sister, and me.

  “Ask Fabio. Butlers always know where things are,” Nicholas suggested.

  Obediently, I pressed the button on the console and Fabio appeared within seconds.

  “You called, sir?”

  “Fabio, do you remember a little painting that used to be here? It looked like this,” and I showed him the page from the Red Book.

  “Yes, signore Dante, I remember it. But around two years ago, one day it just disappeared out of the blue. Ever since then this picture frame has been here.”

  “Thank you, Fabio, that will be all.”

  Nicholas waited until the butler had closed the door. “We’re in trouble,” he said.

  Yes, we were. Or rather: I was in deep shit and ready to throw in the towel.

  “I think it’s time you went home, Nicholas. I don’t think you’re going to be able to help me, but I give you permission to write your novel based on what you know up to now, as long as you change the names, of course.” I sighed in dismay.

  Nicholas bore a hole through me with his inquisitive eyes, so like those of a cat poised to strike its prey.

  “No, Dante, I want to stay and help you straighten this mess out. Some strange force dropped me into your life...and it’s rather exciting...”

  “Do you still not get it? This isn’t just a game!” I interrupted. I was starting to get really angry.

  “I don’t see what you’re getting so worked up about. You just inherited a massive fortune. Whether you have the damned formula or not doesn’t change anything.”

  I shook my head. How little he knew! If he had just kept reading the damned manuscript we would have a lot more to go on! Even as I thought these things, I knew they sounded even more insane than everything that had happened to me in the last few days.

  “Nicholas...I didn’t inherit a thing. I didn’t tell you befo
re because I thought that if I found the formula all my problems would disappear, but now I’m in a hell of a fix. Uncle Claudio didn’t just lose all the Business’ capital: he made me the heir to all his debts, which are over four billion dollars. And that’s not all. I think all the shareholding partners belong to a kind of mafia led by a guy named Caperotti. I promised I’d find a way to pay them within six months, and now I’m a few hours closer to the deadline. So, you see, I’ll probably end up with my feet buried in cement like in the novels you write, except that this happens to be my life, and it is very real.”

  Nicholas’ eyebrows had lowered to their habitual spot in time with the dropping of his jaw. He started to say something and then lost steam. He looked back at the papers scattered over the table in front of him as if my life depended on it.

  “Two years ago...two years ago...two years ago...” he repeated thoughtfully. “You left for the States two years ago...and two years ago the Bosch painting disappeared. What a coincidence.” He started writing frenetically on a piece of paper and burst out, “Psalm 40, that’s it!”

  “What about Psalm 40? That number doesn’t fit with our calculations.”

  “It’s the letter Q. From Quentin, someone close to you, who’s been with you all your life, remember? Look: the letter Q is the number 17, which in Roman numerals is XVII. So in Roman numerals it goes: I + II + III + IV + V + VI + XVII. If you add it this way you get 40: I + I + I + I + I + I + I + V + V + V + I + X + V + I + I = 40.”

  He ran his fingers over the pages ripped out of the Bible and read,

  Psalm 40

  ...Sacrifice and offering thou didst not desire:

  (for mine ears hast thou prepared)

  burnt offering and sin offering hast thou not required.

  Then said I, Lo, I come:

  for in the roll of the book

  it is written of me.

  I desired to do thy good will, O my God:

  yea, thy Law is within mine heart.

  Nicholas rearranged the phrases:

  for in the roll (tube) of the book it is written of me (Claudio)

  burnt offering and sin offering hast thou not required

  yea, thy Law (decision) is within mine heart.

  “For the first time everything kind of makes sense in a way.... It talks about burnt offerings, sin offerings, books.... The Bosch painting has a clear reference to a red book; there’s a guy being operated on voluntarily while from his head they remove the symbol of reproduction...” I mused aloud.

  “Yeah, and get this: these notes in the margin say that the original words for ‘burnt offerings’ and ‘sin offerings’ mean ‘holocaust’ and ‘victim,’” Nicholas pointed out. “He’s leaving the decision up to you.”

  “Why does it have to be so complicated?”

  “I think your uncle wanted to teach you a lesson, a really big lesson, Dante.”

  I stared at him, wondering if Nicholas himself were part of this lesson. Had Uncle Claudio arranged for him to come?

  “I get it now. You’re part of the plan. Uncle Claudio hired you to show up with the jig about the manuscript so we could see just how big an idiot I am for following along with you. I have no idea what he was aiming for. I think I’m going to lose it.”

  “No, no, no...Dante, you’re wrong. I have nothing to do with your deceased uncle. Everything I’ve told you up to now is completely true. This,” he waved the blank manuscript in his hand, “is why I came here. Your life was written here, or at least part of it, and your uncle’s, too. If it hadn’t gotten erased, you never would have met me, I never would have come because I would’ve published it thinking it was just a novel. So forget the idea that I’m just part of some big ruse.... Please, let me help you.”

  Nicholas seemed so sincere. He was wrapped up in my problems and, in all honestly, even though he was just a couple years older than I was, I somehow felt comforted by his presence. When you are in trouble, it is best to have an ally, and he was a good person. He was proof that friends do not always skip town when luck runs out. I was actually quite touched. I reached out and gave him a big hug. I kissed his cheeks twice in our Italian way and thanked him from the bottom of my heart.

  “You’re a true friend, Nicholas.”

  He made no response. I got the impression he was not used to such physical demonstrations, and my exuberance caught him off guard. His eyes were shining when he finally answered, “No problem, man. I’m having the time of my life!”

  He slipped out of the library, perhaps to hide how disconcerted he felt.

  Step by step, I went back over everything that had happened since I got my mother’s call about Uncle Claudio’s illness. So much had happened—too much—more than I could digest. Yet I knew there was more to come. The important thing at that moment was to talk with Quentin. And with the investors, if there actually were any, since nothing seemed to be what it had been. I also decided not to let Martucci know what I was about to do. If my life were in danger, it would be better not to get him involved. The main problem was that I had no clue how to track down the elusive investors whose names I did not even know. I emptied the contents of the safe. Other than some cash, the only other thing inside was the thick envelope with the original copies of Mengele’s research. I pulled it out and for the first time actually read some of it. Luckily for me, Latin had been required for my humanities degree. The writing was very clear, and there were additional notes in German in the margins that were almost entirely incomprehensible to me.

  August 16, 1943

  Subject: Jonas Coen, age 10

  Day 1: Subject injected with morphogenetic osteal protein. Desired result is rapid fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva.

  Day 30: Big toe on both feet has begun to curve.

  Day 39: Lump has appeared on the back. Patient reports excruciating pain.

  Day 60: Swelling throughout the body has caused deformity in the legs. Patient can no longer stand straight. Walks completely doubled over.

  Day 70: I have opened the subject’s feet. Tarsal bones have fused with metatarsals. Phalanges are no more. Everything has become one huge, solid, deformed bone.

  Will order an injection to eliminate the subject.

  October 10, 1943

  Steinmeyer Twins

  Day 1: Separated the twins into different cubicles. Made a 6-inch incision in the Alfa twin’s forearm. Surprisingly, Beta twin felt pain in the same spot.

  Day 2: Open wound of Alfa twin is getting infected. Am applying penicillin to a small area of Beta twin’s forearm.

  Day 3: No improvement in Alfa twin.

  Day 4: So as not to lose these monozygotic twins, will cure Alfa twin’s wound.

  On another page:

  November 24, 1943

  This is unacceptable. Typhus is threatening to spread. Today there are 6,458 sick women in Birkenau. They are useless for experiments. 587 will never recover. We will have to eliminate them.

  November 25, 1943

  Have ordered a complete cleaning and disinfecting of the barracks where Jewish Gypsy women were formerly housed. Tubs will be placed between the barracks, and I will order all women to be disinfected.

  November 30, 1943

  Typhus has been brought under control. Dr. Wirths says my current physical discomfort warrants medical examination.

  December 3, 1943

  I have typhoid fever. Hope to be well in a few weeks.

  And toward the end:

  October 30, 1944

  There is a pattern in the genetic information of each human being, according to the confirmation of the results of my research I have just received from professor von Verschuer. It is like a chain containing thousands of pieces of information. What I have just discovered might prove Darwin’s theory of evolution, the law of the fittest. The Aryan race is the most perfect. Am close to proving it. Just hope I have enough time.

  On the last page:

  January 16, 1945

  My last day here. Tomorrow I leave
at first light. These past eighteen months have gone too fast for me to accomplish everything I wanted to do. If I had just had more time, my genetic research would not have been interrupted in such a stupid way. The loss of this war can fully be blamed on inept, incompetent leaders. What a shame for the Aryan race.

  Nauseated by such detailed atrocities, I started flipping through the pages hoping to find some clue or at least the name of the laboratory in the margin. But there was nothing there besides Mengele’s notes.

  That same night we left for New York, to find Quentin.

  Quentin Falconi

  We saw him—the man from the restaurant—as the last call announcing that our flight was about to leave the Leonardo da Vinci Airport was blaring through the speakers. Apparently he had just landed. He saw us, too, just as we entered the Jetway. For a moment I thought he was motioning as if trying to say something.

  I grew up a very solitary child. My only playmates were some distant cousins I saw at family gatherings. At school I had a buddy I thought of as my “best friend,” but when I figured out I was the one keeping the friendship going, I realized that having friends is one of the hardest things in life. My mother had the tendency to buy friends for me, which is one reason I distanced myself from her more and more. Long before the separation was physical, our emotional ties were practically null.

  And now I had the chance to rely on a true friend who had showed up out of nowhere apparently by magic, like in the stories I read as a boy. But this one was real flesh and blood, sitting beside me. I did not know what role he would play in my life, but having him on my side made me feel less alone, particularly in those moments when I was facing a life I had not chosen.

  We took a taxi from Newark Airport to Nicholas’ apartment. He wanted to drop off his suitcase and see if his friend Linda had really left his life for good. I carried no luggage beyond a portfolio with all the documents. That is a perk of living in more than one place. Nicholas’ apartment was empty besides his belongings, of course, though they were not much. There was no sign of Linda.