by Blanca Miosi
“That will be up to him. When I die, he’ll have to make his own decisions.”
Mengele sat behind the desk with his eyes half closed. His face relaxed into the ease of someone remembering happy times.
“It’s like it was yesterday.... I remember the day they named me research assistant of the Third Reich Institute for Heredity, Biology, and Racial Purity at the University of Frankfurt. Then I joined the team of one of the premier geneticists, professor Otmar Freiherr von Verschuer. He took a special interest in twins. He’s the one who got me placed at Auschwitz, and I would share with him the results of my experiments. One day he sent me the artificial isotope. It had been developed in a secret laboratory for research into atomic physics and nuclear fusion. The isotope had not proved useful for preparing the atomic bomb, so they got rid of it and sent it to Dr. von Verschuer. In the final days of the regime, orders came down to destroy the secret laboratory, and, just in case, they killed off the scientists so they couldn’t fall into enemy hands. There was no trace or sign of how they had obtained the isotope nor, in fact, any evidence that it ever existed, except for what I hid in Armenia. By then I had already tested the properties of this extraordinary element. Cells exposed to its radiation would undergo spectacular mutations. I hid it in a safe place hoping to go back for it someday and continue my research. The isotope has nearly miraculous properties and acts as a catalyst when the formula is exposed to its radiation for a certain time.”
“And I found it.”
“Exactly. I owe these last few years of my life to you, Claudio.”
Claudio did not know how to respond. “You’re welcome” seemed a bit weak. The impact of Mengele’s entire story was so great that it merited much more than a courteous platitude. But he sensed that the old man was waiting for it.
“You’re welcome, Dr. Mengele.”
The doctor nodded, satisfied, and poured all his concentration into his pipe to keep his eyes from watering.
“Sometimes it takes too long to realize what’s right.” His voice was hardly perceptible.
Anacapri, Isle of Capri, Italy
November 22, 1999
Nicholas already knew the rest of what was written because he had lived it. And the manuscript was blank after his arrival in Anacapri. After reflection, he supposed that the rest of the story would appear as the events themselves unfolded in the real world. Or perhaps he would have to write the ending himself.
He slept the sleep of the dead for the greater part of the flight, hugging the manuscript to him along with a little pillow the stewardess had given him. From the airport he took a taxi to the ticket office of Navigazione Libera del Golfo, with just enough time to catch the next ferry to the Isle of Capri. A short time later he disembarked at the tourist port Marina Grande. A taxi took him to Anacapri’s Piazza Vittoria. The Church of San Michelle was just a short walk from the Casa Rossa.
Nicholas had hoped to find Martucci already there, but when he went in and sat on one of the long pews before the main altar, there was no sign of the priest. Two hours later, he left and went to one of the outdoor diners. He was starting to feel cheated. Nicholas had traveled over four thousand miles to meet Martucci, and he was peeved that the priest, coming from Rome, could not get there on time. Nicholas drank a cup of coffee and smoked a few cigarettes before returning to the church. Worry started to eat away at him. He sat down on a pew and flipped through the manuscript again. According to what was written, they would meet up there in the church. There was nothing else written. But what if it did not happen?
Nicholas tried to push his doubts and insecurities away, as if ashamed that the manuscript might discover his lack of faith. Just when he was sure that Martucci was not going to show up, he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was a light touch, as if to say, “I’m here.” Martucci sat beside him and looked at the bundle Nicholas held in his hands.
“Is that the manuscript?”
“What do you know about it?”
“That it was blank.”
“It’s still blank. I keep it on me just out of habit,” Nicholas explained, not exactly sure why he had lied.
“Forgive my tardiness. I had to take care of a few things before I could come.”
For the first time, Nicholas studied Martucci’s appearance. He was wearing a dark brown jacket made of some sort of soft cloth over a black cotton polo shirt, khaki pants, and comfortable tennis shoes. It was a complete eye-opener. Nicholas had expected to see him in his cassock. Who knows how many times he would have seen the priest walk by without even recognizing him.
Martucci understood Nicholas’ surprise and explained, “I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. A priest walking along with a civilian is easy to remember.”
The words were a bit enigmatic for Nicholas. After all, who would care? he wondered.
Martucci continued. “We should leave, signore Nicholas. We need to walk a bit. Let’s go to Monte Solaro. There’s a little house there in a very convenient spot.”
They walked down to Via Axel Munthe and then started climbing up a long, narrow path that wound to the top of the mountain. Martucci said nothing throughout the slow walk. Every now and then he took out an immaculately white handkerchief and delicately mopped his face and brow. They would pause awhile and then start again. Nicholas breathed deeply with delight to imbibe the fragrance of the place, and Martucci smiled.
“That lemony smell is the erba cetra, the Melissa plant that perfumes the entire mountain.” He paused a moment and pointed. “The hermitage of Cetrella is that way. I’d take you but I’m afraid my strength would give out. And this is La Crocetta.” He pointed to a little grotto with a statue of the Virgin Mary. The priest crossed himself and led Nicholas on a path that was hardly distinguishable among the vegetation.
Bearing right, they continued the ascent. Some fifteen minutes later, as the afternoon just started to wane, they came to an imposing promontory with a spectacular outcropping of rock from which they beheld the ocean, the tiny white houses of Anacapri, the splendid hotels along the coast, and the ships. Nicholas took in the sights in a rapture. Rarely had he had such an opportunity. Manhattan was not exactly known for hills and mountains. But he recalled feeling a similar way looking down from the Empire State Building.
They descended a set of steep steps carved into the mountain rock to a small stone house that suddenly appeared before them. Martucci took out a set of keys and unlocked the heavy door. They entered a room with furniture covered by cloths that at one time had been white but were now gray under a thick coat of dust. Francesco Martucci closed the door and lit an old kerosene lamp. He pulled the covers off two chairs and offered one to Nicholas, taking a seat himself. His exhaustion was apparent.
“Please don’t touch anything,” Martucci warned.
“Ok.” Nicholas sat and clasped his hands behind his head, leaving the manuscript resting on his lap.
“You must be wondering what we’re doing here.”
Nicholas nodded.
“Claudio could think of no better place to hide the chest than right here. Far away from everything and everyone. There’s no looting here, no risk of someone coming and ransacking things. It was his little refuge. A lifetime ago he would come here with...” without finishing the sentence, Francesco got up from his chair and went to a narrow door. “Wait just a moment.” From the handful of keys he finally chose the one that opened the padlock. He passed through and soon returned with a bundle.
“It’s sealed in a special case. The chest is actually a safe with two coverings, and the case is also made of a material that resists radioactivity, the same that is used to make protective suits. It’s been sized as a backpack to be easier to carry.” He placed the bundle on one of the covered pieces of furniture.
“So here at last is the famous chest...” Nicholas said, more to himself, remembering what he had read so many times in the manuscript.
“Yes. And now it’s all yours. You can take it and give it to whomeve
r you want.”
“To Merreck, of course.”
“Or to Dante Contini-Massera.”
Nicholas studied the marked features of Martucci’s face. In the lamplight he looked to be made of granite.
“Give me the account number for the transfer.”
“Forget the farce, Mr. Nicholas. You and I both know everything ends here. I’m not going to keep this up. It’s not worth it. No..., it’s not worth it.”
“I don’t understand. We agreed on the phone...”
“You called at just the right time. Take the box and do whatever you want to with it. I’m not going to keep pretending anymore. It doesn’t make sense. Don’t you see that? A lifetime of deceit was enough. I can’t keep it up anymore.” He let out a sigh and looked at Nicholas with his strange eyes that seemed to take the entirety of Nicholas’ being in all at once. “I’m going to tell you what I never dared talk with Dante about. All my life I’ve been in love with his mother, Carlota, even though my friend and practically brother Claudio also loved her. I took comfort in the thought that she never really loved him. Actually, I don’t know who she ever loved, if she’s ever really loved at all. Everything would have stayed that way. After all, no man is the master of his emotions. You fall in love, and that’s it. But Carlota was not a one-man woman. Her latest was more than a mere slipup. Irene Montoya, a friend of Claudio’s, came to Rome accompanied by a man named Jorge Rodríguez. He was an unscrupulous man. Carlota showed up unannounced one day to Villa Contini, the very day that the Colombians were visiting, and she set her sights on Rodríguez. You do not know Carlota. She’s a young woman still. She wears her forty-six years very well, and at the time she was even younger, of course. But she’s got a little problem. She’s too passionate. Though now I wonder if it’s actually a health problem. I don’t think any normal man could keep up with her. I think her husband, Bruno, died in the attempt. Jorge Rodríguez and Carlota slept together on several occasions. I know he was in Rome at other times and they continued seeing each other. Claudio did not suspect what was going on between them, and I don’t think he would have cared, because he had cut things off with Carlota long before. Even so, I...well, Mr. Nicholas, you know how love is. She is my life. One day, about a year ago, Carlota called and told me she had something to tell me. It was about how Rodríguez was blackmailing her for a lot of money. That disgraziato figlio di zoccola had put cameras in the hotel where they had last seen each other and had filmed the whole thing.” Martucci’s voice grew weak. He was clearly uncomfortable speaking of the matter, but he continued. “Oh, Mr. Nicholas! You have no idea of the obscenities that occurred! I don’t think the most hard-core pornographic films could come close to staging such atrocities.... At first I just accepted what Carlota told me, but Rodríguez himself later gave me a copy of the video, and I saw it with my own eyes. He threatened to make it public. His primary motive was revenge.”
“Revenge? Because of the two million dollars of Dante’s money he lost and that Claudio recovered?”
“Precisely, Mr. Nicholas. Claudio had his ways, and the Colombian had no choice but to hand over the money. But Rodríguez found out that Claudio had been in love with Carlota, and the blackmail was directed against him. But I was the one to communicate with Rodríguez after Carlota came forward with the story.”
“Perhaps Irene figured it out and mentioned it to Rodríguez. Women have a sixth sense about who a man is in love with.”
“I had not stopped to think how he learned of it. But the fact is that he hit the nail on the head with the blackmail scheme. Claudio would have paid any price to keep the video from coming to light.”
“So...why didn’t you let him take care of everything? He might have figured something out.”
“Signore, Claudio...my friend, my brother was in very bad health. He was bed-ridden. I bore on my conscience the secret of loving the woman of his life. I didn’t want him to find out about anything. Seeing her that way, he would have suffered just as I...”
“I understand. You’re a good guy, Martucci.”
“I’m a murderer. And a fake. Before all that happened, Carlota and I had planned to keep the documents and the formula and strike a deal on our own with Merreck. Yes, I knew about everything. The only thing I didn’t know was where Claudio had hidden the formula. Now I see that all along he suspected everything I was planning. Oh, my shame! He knew all along!”
Nicholas was speechless. The lengths to which Dante’s mother would go were beyond imagination. He tried to justify the unjustifiable.
“How can you be sure he knew?”
“Just before he died, he told me, ‘I would have shared it with you, Francesco. You could live forever and love Carlota.’ At that point I regretted everything, but later she regained her hold over me, and I went ahead with our plans.”
“I’m sure you must have loved Claudio a great deal, Martucci. Otherwise you wouldn’t have kept the video thing secret from him,” Nicholas tried to console Martucci though the priest was rapidly transforming before his eyes into no more than a puppet controlled by the whims of a shameless woman. “At least you spared him the grief of seeing her on film,” he added.
“I hated Rodríguez, a vulgar, low-down shark. It wasn’t enough for him to rip off the boy; he had to go for the mother, too. His demands came in more and more often, and I knew there was no way around it but to get rid of him. Maybe I saw a bit of myself in him, Santa Madonna! How many ideas were flooding through my mind. But the man was very dangerous. On two separate occasions he hired a couple of Colombian hitmen to take Claudio down. He did it to intimidate me. I knew he had sent them, but I couldn’t say anything. I decided I’d take matters into my own hands and kill him. And that’s what I did. I overheard Claudio talking on the phone with Irene about how Rodríguez was going to Colombia, and I went there with a few trusted friends.”
“Were they perhaps Caperotti’s men?”
“Well, yes. No point in denying it. Giordano was always absolutely faithful to Claudio. I went to him because I had no other options. I implored him not to say anything. He understood the situation and helped me out. Claudio was terminally ill, and we didn’t want to make things any worse for him. You cannot begin to imagine the lengths of that woman’s ambition and depravation. Mr. Nicholas, if you ever come across a woman like that, flee as if from the devil! I took money from the abbey, I had to repay it, I became a murderer, and my life has turned into a living hell. Caperotti’s men got Rodríguez to talk. He went to the bank with them and got the video. They destroyed the evidence and the copies that might have been on his computers. After that, once he thought he was in the clear, I mowed him down with a van. I wanted to do it myself.”
“So you’re saying that the Jewish shareholders had nothing to do with the attacks on Claudio.”
“No, Mr. Nicholas. I wanted to give a dramatic touch to the whole issue of the Jews, because Claudio did tell me once he was suspicious of them. The truth is I thought Dante might be in danger, but not from the Jews—God only knows where they are now. From Jorge Rodríguez’s men. I feared they wouldn’t rest easy at his death and that they’d think of some way they could take advantage of Dante, like kidnapping him and holding him for ransom. But Rodríguez wasn’t aligned with any group in particular. He just hired the hitmen. So if Dante realized someone was following him, the most likely explanation is that it was Caperotti’s men that he didn’t know and who were actually watching out for him.”
Martucci stood up and put the covers back on the chairs exactly as they had been. He grabbed the bag with the chest and left, Nicholas following him. His back, which had been straight, was now curved as if the full weight of guilt had beaten him down within a matter of seconds. The wind was picking up outside. The priest turned to Nicholas, and suddenly he was someone else, something foreign and imposing beneath all that asceticism. His dark eyes and the faint wafts of hair blown about by the wind seemed otherworldly; yet his gaze held an unfathomable sadness. Behind h
im, the sea, the sky, and the turbulent clouds announced a coming storm.
“Have you ever fallen in love, Mr. Blohm?”
The question took Nicholas off guard.
“In what sense?”
“There’s only one way to love.”
“Yes, I’ve been in love; of course I have.”
“Then you know it’s a feeling that stays with us every minute, every second of our existence. There’s no moment in which what we do is not somehow related to that love, and thoughts fly across the ether to rest in the soul of the woman who exists out there, far away; it doesn’t matter where she is, or who she’s with; it doesn’t even matter if she loves you back. She exists, and that’s enough.”
“You loved her like that?”
“‘Loved’ is in the past tense. I love like that. Sadly, I could never share this feeling with anyone, much less her, the object of my love. She simply would not have understood, just as I can’t understand why I love her like that. From the first time I saw her, I knew I would be her slave and that I would be capable of doing anything for her. You probably don’t know what it feels like to see the woman of your dreams turn into reality beside you, her soft body as white as ivory, her gentle aroma of woman, her smile that screams for me to put my lips on hers and to adore her; and when she is anywhere near, my body trembles to think it might touch her, that even for a fleeting instant I might have the illusion of possessing her, of making her happy, ah! You have no idea!”
Francesco Martucci was looking at Nicholas but not seeing him. He was talking to himself, seemingly unaware of the heavy tears rising in his eyes and coursing their way with difficulty down his weathered face. “Carlota is one of a kind in this world, and she will never be fully mine, though she thinks she loves me. I know they’re just words, illusions, fleeting feelings that go along with the pity she feels when she sees me, because, after all, who am I? Appena uno disgraziato sono! Just a poor fool! I could never give her all that she deserves, surround her with everything she’s used to. I don’t have the elegance of someone like Claudio or the passion of someone like Bruno. All I have is this pain in my chest that eats away at me like a festering wound and won’t let me breathe.... Mr. Nicholas: nor could I give her the youth she thinks is slipping away from her, because I’m incapable of carrying out that wicked deed.... I have sheltered this chest with every intention of putting it to use one day, but I can’t, I can’t go that far, and I know she will despise me. She’ll never want to see me again. And that is a truth I simply cannot face, Mr. Nicholas. I cannot live without knowing that I will see her again and that she’ll lie to me saying that she loves me. I can’t do it this time. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Here, take the chest, and go with God. If someone else sins with it, so be it. I have paid for enough in this life, and I know that hell awaits me for what I’m about to do, but there’s no way around it.¡Oh, femina che vendisi come mercanzia mai potrà essere buona! She who sells herself as merchandise can never be virtuous! I betrayed my beloved friend Claudio, but when he closed his eyes I realized he had known all along. The whole time! How could I tell all this to Dante, his own son? How could he ever understand his mother? If Claudio himself never wanted to admit he was his father to preserve her honor! What honor? Ah, signore Nicholas, ma l’amore è sempre il massimo sentimento, ed io la ho voluta così. Love is ever the greatest, and that is just as I would have wished it. God help me!”