The Ancestor

by Danielle Trussoni

  THE BEAST OF NEVENERO

  First documented in the nineteenth century in the village of Nevenero, this pale-skinned Alpine monster is believed to reside in the caverns below Mont Blanc. The Beast of Nevenero, as it has been called, was thrust into the spotlight in the early twentieth century, when British naturalist James Pringle published a series of articles about the creature. Pringle argued that the beast was a distinct cross between man and ape, and thus proof of Darwinian evolution. Pringle was en route to photograph the beast when he was killed in an avalanche below Mont Blanc. The Belgian-French cryptozoologist Bernard Heuvelmans, who came to the village of Nevenero in 1962, built upon this theory, claiming that the Beast of Nevenero was the creature popularly known as the Abominable Snowman. His claim was ridiculed by zoologists and paleoanthropologists alike, whose published refutations effectively ruined Heuvelmans’s credibility. No evidence of the creature’s existence has emerged since.

  I looked again at the black-and-white photo, taking in the beast’s white hair and wide, jutting jaw, its large blue eyes and heavy brow. It was exactly as Nonna Sophia had described. Luca wasn’t going to believe it. I closed the book and was about to go back to the hotel to show Luca my discovery when I heard the sharp rhythm of shoes coming up behind me. I turned to find Enzo Roberts, a perplexed expression on his face.

  Seven

  “What on earth are you doing here?” I said, jumping up and dropping the phone on the sidewalk.

  Enzo smiled, elegant and apologetic, much the way he had smiled when he’d surprised me at my house the day before. He was gracious, well-mannered, even chivalrous. Yet, there was something inscrutable and persistent about him. I wasn’t sure what he was thinking or, more important, what he wanted from me.

  “Luca checked out of the hotel,” he said, bending down to retrieve my phone.

  I felt my heart sink. Luca must have been really angry, and really hurt, to pack up and leave.

  “Where is he now?” I asked, as Enzo placed the phone back in my hand.

  “That I don’t know,” he said. “But I thought you might need some company.” His voice was casual, as if there were nothing more natural in the world than running into me in this out-of-the-way spot.

  “But how did you know I was here?”

  He gave me a sheepish look and then lifted his phone to show me the screen: there was a map with a flashing dot. Of course. My phone had tracking turned on.

  “The estate would kill me if you got lost or hurt,” he said. “I hope you understand.”

  I shouldn’t have been surprised. Enzo needed to keep me from leaving Italy before the meeting, and what better way to do so? It would have been careless to give me too much freedom, and Enzo did not appear to be careless.

  “I need to call Luca,” I said. “This works for international numbers, right?”

  “Plus-zero-zero-one then the number,” he said.

  I tried Luca’s number, but my call went straight to voice mail. “He’s not picking up.”

  Enzo looked at me with concern. “You must be cold.”

  He was right. After walking through the snow, then sitting on a wet bench, I was freezing.

  “I know a bar around the corner,” he said, taking me by the arm. “Let’s warm you up.”

  Two minutes later, we squeezed into a narrow wine bar filled with the sound of laughter and music. Enzo flagged the waiter and ordered two glasses of cognac. There was some back and forth between them—I imagined it to be about the cognac, but it could have been about politics or the weather for all I knew. I was more interested in Enzo’s congenial expression than what he was actually saying. He was so charming as to be unreadable.

  The waiter delivered two snifters filled with golden liquid. I lifted my glass and smelled burned caramel swirled with alcohol.

  Enzo looked me over. “An argument with your husband?”

  “I needed to be alone,” I said. “I ended up walking all over the place.”

  “I’ve had my share of spousal disagreements,” he said, smiling kindly, and I felt a sudden warmth toward him, as if I could confide in him. “Most revolving around family situations.”

  “I doubt your situation has ever been as complicated as this,” I said.

  “No doubt you are entirely correct.”

  “Who are the Montebiancos anyway?” I asked, feeling the cognac warming me. “What do you know about them?”

  “Probably less than you do.”

  “The estate must have information about them. They work for the Montebianco family, after all.”

  “To be honest,” Enzo said, “the estate hasn’t been entirely forthcoming with me about the details of your situation.”

  “But how can that be?” I asked. “They sent you to bring me here. They gave you my medical records.”

  “The messenger doesn’t need to understand the message to deliver it,” he said, sipping his cognac. “You can ask the lawyers anything you want tomorrow. They work for you.”

  This caught me off guard. “They do?”

  “Of course,” he said, smiling slightly. “You have just inherited them.”

  “Oh,” I said, “I guess you’re right.” The reality of my position hit me. I wasn’t some powerless person being hauled into a legal meeting. The lawyers of the Montebianco Estate worked for me.

  “The estate is composed of three lawyers. The head lawyer is a man named Francisco Zimmer. Swiss. Speaks very good English. He’s been the Montebianco family’s primary attorney for forty years. He knows the family very well, and can surely give you whatever information you want. The other lawyer, Murray Smith, has been part of the team for less time than Zimmer. He handles the daily problems and responsibilities. Bills and taxes and so on. I was hired last year, to oversee the more personal elements of the estate.”

  “Personal elements,” I said. “Like me.”

  “When I first began working for Zimmer, I was curious about Nevenero,” Enzo said, putting his snifter on the table and giving me a look of complicity. “I tried to look it up. There is very little information out there. You’ll find a Wikipedia page with the name Nevenero, and you’ll learn that it is a town in the Aosta Valley, but that’s about it. If you look hard, you’ll find a reference to the castle, which once belonged to the House of Savoy. You’ll find a line or two about how the village was abandoned around the time of the Second World War. Maybe two hundred people on the planet have ever been there, and I am not one of them. I can’t tell you more than that.”

  As Enzo spoke, I couldn’t stop seeing the Beast of Nevenero, its pale skin and ferocious eyes. I couldn’t ignore the fact that everything Nonna Sophia had said was proving true. Maybe I should have taken her advice and stayed home. A tight ball of fear and suspicion formed in my stomach. I reached into my purse and pulled out the book of Alpine monsters, turned to the photo of la Bestia di Nevenero, and set the book between us. “I found this earlier this evening.”

  He took the book in hand and read the photo’s corresponding passage. After a minute or so, he closed the book and gave it back to me. “Stories like this aren’t unusual in northern Italy. The Alps are one of the least-accessible geographical areas on the planet. All those frozen, unexplored mountains have an effect on the imagination. There are reports of abominable snowmen in practically every ski village between here and Chamonix.”

  “That’s what I thought,” I said, tucking the book into my purse. Although his confidence reassured me, and I knew that the mostri delle Alpi were nothing more than old superstitions, I couldn’t help but feel the shadows of Nevenero creeping over me, the icy Alpine winds coming ever closer, leaving a foreboding in my heart as dark as black snow.

  Eight

  The next afternoon, I met with the lawyers of the Montebianco Estate.

  Three men stood in unison as I walked into the room, Enzo Roberts and two men I had never seen before. They sat in a windowless conference room, some folders piled between them. An enormous bouquet of lilies domin
ated a side table, filling the air with a heavy, funereal scent. Aside from the morbid odor of the flowers, the atmosphere was antiseptic—impersonal, businesslike. Lawyerly.

  The first lawyer, an elegant gentleman with silver hair who appeared to be somewhere in his early seventies, held out his hand. “Countess, my name is Francisco Zimmer. It is a delight to finally meet you.” He gestured to a short man wearing a bright yellow tie. “That is Mr. Murray Smith. You know Mr. Roberts already. We’re so very pleased you have come to Turin to meet with us.”

  I shook each man’s hand and then took a seat. They sat across from me, hands folded on the table, an air of anticipation in their manner.

  “I believe you received the estate’s letter,” Zimmer said. “And the list of assets.”

  “Yes, I did receive it,” I said. “But as it was in Italian, I couldn’t read it.”

  “You speak no Italian?” Smith asked, incredulous.

  “‘Ciao,’” I said. “And ‘spaghetti.’”

  Zimmer opened a folder and took out a sheaf of paper. “Let’s start with this,” he said. “It is an English translation of the Italian documents sent to your home. There is a long version and then a more simplified one.” He found the page he was looking for and handed it to me. It had a stamp at the bottom, certifying that the translation was authentic. “This is the simple version.”

  I took the paper and read the following:

  The Montebianco Estate is comprised of the following assets:

  Ancestral title dating from 1260 as granted by Amedeo VI of the House of Savoy to Frederick Montebianco through marriage to Isabelle of the House of Savoy.

  Exclusive use of family coat of arms, described as two black mountains and a castle.

  Exclusive use of the Montebianco family seal.

  Exclusive ownership of family jewels, furniture, silver, artworks, tapestries, and all other movable goods, etc.

  Exclusive ownership of the Montebianco ancestral home, namely a 25,000-square-foot castle in the valley of Nevenero and all of its annexes, including wine cellar, dairy, grain mill, abattoir, and so forth.

  Exclusive ownership of the maison particulière in the third arrondissement of Paris.

  Dividends from the family portfolio of investments, including real estate, forestry business, stocks, bonds, currencies, and precious metals (estimated value to be disclosed in yearly financial report, attached).

  I read the list several times, my eyes climbing up and down the list of treasures. I had known about the title, which was probably little more than a nominal hereditary name, without value in the modern world. And I was aware of Montebianco Castle. But I had not expected family jewels and artwork and dividends. I had not expected a town house in Paris. There was no concrete amount attached to any of these items, but I could see that the Montebianco Estate was worth a fortune. Life-changing money, I remembered Enzo saying.

  “Do you have the financial report?” I asked.

  Smith opened another folder, searched through it, and gave me a fat document. I flipped through the pages until I found the family income for 2015. Scrolling down the endless columns of numbers, I found the total revenue for the previous year. It was negative fifty-three thousand euros.

  “They are in debt?” I asked, stunned. I thought of the private jet, the fancy hotel suite. How on earth was the family paying for these things when they had negative income? “That is surprising, considering . . .”

  “Yes, surprising,” Smith said. “But not so unusual. Like many old families, the Montebiancos amassed wealth for generations. Now there is nobody to take care of their assets. The forestry business, for example, could yield great profits, if it were managed correctly. As it is now, the family is without liquidity. I would suggest you start selling some of the assets in order to raise cash. Aside from the Paris apartment, there are parcels of land. We could begin there.”

  I read the financial report again, unable to fully take it all in. “I don’t know what I expected,” I said. “But this is really . . . it is all really incredible.”

  “It must be quite a surprise,” Smith said, nodding sympathetically.

  “Quite overwhelming,” Zimmer added.

  “You are in an extraordinary situation,” Smith said.

  “What is extraordinary is that you found me at all,” I said. “My name is Monte, not Montebianco. It must have taken more than a Google search to locate me.”

  Zimmer and Smith exchanged a look. They had been waiting for that question.

  “It was not as difficult as one might imagine. Our research team found your location based on your online profile,” Zimmer said. “They looked at photos of you via your social media, pulled up your home address and phone number via the White Pages database online, and determined that you were the person we had been seeking. All told, it took a matter of hours to make a definitive match between you and the Montebianco family.”

  The silence was thick, stultifying, almost as funereal as the odor of the lilies. I could feel the lawyers’ eyes on me, awaiting my response. I didn’t like that they knew so much about me, and I hated that they had hunted me down online. But then, if they hadn’t, I would not be sitting there trying to work out the value of my inheritance.

  “Are you feeling well, Countess?” Zimmer asked. “It is rather hot in here. I could order you something to drink?”

  Countess. I looked at them, all three of them, staring at me from across the table. The countess was me.

  “All of this has happened really fast,” I said. “It’s a lot to take in.”

  “Your feelings are perfectly understandable,” Zimmer said. “As Smith said, such news can be quite overwhelming. A shock to the system. But I daresay, this will all feel less unusual with time. Once you visit Nevenero, and take control of the estate, you will become more comfortable with your situation.”

  “I’m not sure about that,” I said.

  “You would be surprised,” Smith said, adjusting his yellow tie, “how well one adapts when a fortune is at stake. Now, if you don’t mind, we will move forward with the legal formalities.”

  Something about his tone—so smug, so confident—irritated me. Who did he think I was, a treasure hunter? “I really need some time to think about this,” I said, digging my nails into the palms of my hands and wishing Luca was there. Having an ally on my side of the table would have made it all easier to take in. But he hadn’t returned my messages. I could only assume he was back in Milton.

  “It is only natural that you are a bit turned around,” Smith said. “Perfectly normal.”

  “Smith is right. Such things don’t happen every day,” Zimmer said.

  “They don’t ever happen,” I said, leaning back in my chair.

  Smith and Zimmer exchanged a look. “Countess,” Zimmer said. “You are young, and—forgive me for saying so—rather too naïve to navigate such a complicated situation alone. Of course you need time to think. Of course we will give you as much time as you require. But I think it will relieve you to know that you will have some guidance from a member of the Montebianco family.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “The Montebianco family has died out. I’m the last one. Isn’t that why I’m here?”

  “The letter you received regarding your inheritance stated that you are the sole living heir. That is true. You are the last surviving legal heir to the Montebianco title. But there is, in fact, one other member of the Montebianco family still living. She is quite ill and will not be around for much longer, I’m afraid, which is why we sought you so urgently. She is the wife of your grandfather Giovanni’s late twin brother, Guillaume Montebianco, your great-uncle. Not a blood relative, but a relation by marriage. Her name is Dolores. She is not strong, but healthy enough to meet you.”

  I stared at him, sorting out the relationships. My grandfather Giovanni had a twin brother. And this twin brother, Guillaume, was the great-uncle who had remained in Nevenero.

  Zimmer, seeing me struggle, said, �
��When Giovanni left for America, Guillaume stayed behind. He took over the responsibilities of the family. He died last summer, leaving no heirs, at the age of eighty-four.”

  “It was his DNA you matched with mine,” I said, remembering what Enzo had told me the other day.

  “Exactly,” Zimmer said. “Your great-aunt by marriage gave us that sample. She has managed things at the castle for the past six months. She and Guillaume had no living children, but she knew that Giovanni may have had descendants. It was Dolores who hired professionals to find you.”

  “And my great-aunt by marriage,” I said. “Dolores. She is in Nevenero now?”

  “She is there,” Zimmer said. “Waiting for your arrival.”

  Nine

  It was late afternoon, the light draining from the sky, when we arrived at the land of my ancestors.

  As the helicopter swept over the Alps, lifting and falling in currents of air, I pressed close to the window, straining to see the panorama of mountains in the distance. There were glaciers and gorges, snow-filled valleys, waves of ice lapping against granite, mountain peaks as high as skyscrapers. At the edge of my vision, a range of frosted cones cut into the sky, forming a barrier between this wild, frozen world and the orderly one we’d left behind. How desolate it all seemed from above, with the endless angularity of crags, the expanses of white so vast and uninhabitable. And yet, I knew there were villages deep in the ice, villages where human beings had been born, had lived and died without ever stepping beyond the shadow of the mountains.

  We hit a gust of wind and the helicopter fell. I gasped and grabbed hold of Zimmer, who barked at the pilot to be careful. The pilot steadied the helicopter, and the largest mountain of all filled the windscreen: Mont Blanc. It loomed before us, monstrous in its size, the peak so high it seemed to prop up the sky. Its wide, massive body was brown and clumpy, a mound of sculptor’s clay scored by a knife, so many cuts and grooves jeweled with ice.