by C T Cassana
“Alright. We’ll show the poem to Dad. From what I can tell, they’re only clues, not an exact description of the place where it’s hidden. I don’t think it should be too compromising.”
The children went downstairs together to the library, where they found Marcus working.
“Hi Dad,” said Lisa as they entered. “Are you really busy?”
“No, darling,” replied Marcus, tapping away on his computer. “What do you need?”
“Well, we wanted to ask you if you could help us translate this,” she replied, handing him the paper while looking over to Charlie.
The boy returned her gaze and then turned his eyes on his father. Marcus stopped typing to take the piece of paper from Lisa. After examining it for a few moments, he asked the dreaded question.
“Latin!” he exclaimed. “Where did you get this from?”
“We found it lying around,” said Lisa in a distracted tone as she sat down on the couch, “but we don’t know what it means.”
“Hmmm, I see,” replied Marcus. “And you want me to translate it.”
“Well, Dad,” said Charlie, “only if you’re not too busy and if your Latin isn’t too rusty.”
“Alright, let’s give it a try,” their father answered with a smile. “I think I still remember a thing or two...”
Without raising his eyes from the paper or pausing to think, Marcus began improvising a translation.
“It’s a poem:
‘Of all places, my most beloved,
where so much of my life I have spent,
in my childhood, my youth and my old age.
A thousand faces it has,
all of them beloved.
Many lost forever
and only a few recovered.
Therein lie my treasures,
my life, my history.
But only one is my most private refuge,
my dearest refuge’.”
“Very nice, Dad,” said Charlie. “And what does all that mean?”
“It’s a poem,” explained Marcus. “A kind of ode to a place that the poet has an affection for.”
“But if it’s about a place, why does he say that it has a thousand faces, and all that about so many being lost forever?” the boy asked.
“I don’t know,” replied Marcus. “Maybe it’s not referring to a specific place, but to something more general. For example, instead of talking about a particular park, you talk about what a park means to you or all the parks you’ve been to in your life. Or you don’t talk about your school in particular, but about what school has meant in your life.”
“Thanks, Dad,” said Lisa, picking up the paper discreetly. “Well, we don’t want to bother you. We’ll head upstairs...”
“Alright, but only for a little while,” said Marcus. “It’s almost bath time for you both of you.”
“Okay, Dad,” replied Lisa as she left the room, followed by her brother.
The two children went back up to their headquarters. When he looked at his sister, Charlie noticed that her eyes were shining and he realized that she had worked out a clue.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I’ll bet you anything that the poem is talking about libraries.”
“How do you know?”
“It all fits. The poem says that it’s where he keeps his treasures and the treasure we found was in the library. I think he’s trying to say that he keeps all his treasures in libraries, but also, in this case, he’s talking about the one that’s dearest to him, the most private one of all: his personal library.”
“And what about all that stuff about a thousand faces?” asked Charlie.
“Think about what Dad said. It refers to a place which, at the same time, is a lot of places. The professor was a scholar. He probably spent a lot of hours of his life in the library, in a lot of libraries.”
“And why does he say that thing about so many being lost forever?”
“The cape is a time-travel device. Obviously, a man like him wouldn’t have missed out on the chance to visit some of the legendary libraries of the past, like the one in Alexandria or the one in Pergamon.”
“And how are we going to search the library with Dad working in there all day? The truth is Dad himself could have written that poem.”
“We have two options. We could go downstairs tonight while Mum and Dad are asleep, or wait till Friday when Mrs. Davis comes.”
“Till Friday?” protested Charlie. “But today is Tuesday! We’ll lose the whole week.”
“Fine, then we’ll do it tonight. I’ll put my alarm on for two o’clock and I’ll come to your room to wake you up. Have your torch ready.”
“Roger!” replied the boy eagerly.
“But let’s get one thing clear, little brother,” said Lisa, changing her tone of voice so that she sounded more like her own mother. “No pretending you’re sick tomorrow. If you’re tired, grit your teeth and bear it. If you don’t, they’ll end up finding us out.”
“Alright!”
“Now let’s go have our showers,” ordered Lisa. “We have to get to bed early tonight.”
Charlie obeyed his sister, although he doubted that he would be able to get to sleep before she came to wake him up.
. . .
Thousands of miles away, Max Wellington entered a post office in Manhattan and marched directly over to the post boxes. In a swift motion he removed the soft black leather gloves that protected his hands from the cold and took out a key chain upon which hung a single key. Without hesitation, he inserted it into a lock right in front of him and opened the little silver door of the post office box. He then reached in and felt inside.
It was empty.
No letter had been received in that post box in 137 weeks. And he was beginning to grow impatient.
. . .
Lisa woke up Charlie as promised, although the boy was slow to rouse himself and get out of bed.
“Come on, Charlie,” urged his sister. “If you don’t get up, we’ll leave it for Friday.”
They crept down to the library and closed the door as quietly as they could.
“Where do we start?”
“I don’t know,” answered Lisa with a shrug. “While Dad was translating the poem, I wrote down a few words that might help us remember: ‘beloved place’, ‘youth’, ‘a thousand faces’, ‘lost and recovered’, ‘treasures’, ‘life and history’ and ‘most private and dearest refuge’.”
“Right,” said Charlie, as he walked around the room, “we can assume that ‘beloved place’ and ‘youth’ are because all his life the professor always loved going to the library. That was the part where he said he had been there in his childhood, his youth and his old age.”
“The ‘thousand faces’ is what Dad explained. A place that is also a lot of places, like libraries.”
“I’m going to give my stamp of approval to the explanation of ‘lost and recovered’ that you gave today.”
“Why, thank you.”
“The part about treasures and that it’s his most private and dearest refuge is a corny way of saying that this is the library we’re looking for, because it’s his personal library and he probably spent all day in here.”
“That just leaves ‘life and history’. It says that his life and his history were here, but what is that referring to?”
“I don’t know. There are a lot of things of the professor’s here. Maybe he had a diary.”
“Maybe. Let’s look through the books.”
They each went over to a different book case and began reading the titles of the books they found there.
“‘English Grammar’, ‘Latin Etymology of European Languages’,” began Lisa.
“‘Relativity for Beginners’, ‘History of Science’, ‘Animal Life’,” read Charlie.
“They’re ordered by subject. These are the language books, those ones there are science.”
“Look for the history books. In the poem it says ‘history’.”
; Lisa looked over the shelves reading the titles of the books. Charlie watched her from where he stood. Then he noticed that above each book case was a small sign with the name of the subject on the shelves below.
“It’s over there, Lisa!” he pointed. “There’s a sign that shows the subject, like in any library.”
“You’re right.”
They both went over to the history shelves and began looking for a book that might be related to the professor. They were so focused on their task that they didn’t notice that someone had opened the door.
“What are you two doing up?” said a voice.
The children jumped around to see their mother standing before them, with her arms crossed and glaring at them with an expression somewhere between surprise and annoyance. They both gaped speechlessly at her for a few moments.
“I had a nightmare,” blurted out Charlie at last.
Maggie continued glaring at them in the same pose.
“And he was really upset, so we came down to read a story,” added Lisa.
“For God’s sake, children!” their mother said finally. “You have hundreds of books in your bedrooms, and in the middle of the night you have to come down to the library to look for one?”
“The Happy Prince,” exclaimed Charlie. “I wanted Lisa to read me that one, Mum. And I couldn’t find it in my room.”
“The Happy Prince?” echoed Maggie. “That’s not the best story for chasing away a nightmare, darling. The only happy part of it is in the title, and whenever you read it you always say how sad it is.”
Charlie stared at his mother, not knowing what to say. His choice of story hadn’t been the best, although it seemed that his mother had bought the excuse.
“But it’s my favorite...” he said.
“Come on, let’s go back to bed,” replied Maggie. “I’ll stay with you for a bit, and next time, come tell me and let your sister sleep.”
They all climbed back upstairs and Maggie accompanied Charlie to his room.
“Good night, Lisa,” she said to her daughter before she went in. “And thank you for looking after your brother.”
. . .
Although her children had a harder time than usual getting up that morning, Maggie was quite understanding with them.
“Good morning, darling,” she said as she woke up Charlie. “Did you sleep well the rest of the night?”
“Yes, Mum,” he replied. “Thanks.”
“Alright then, you get up and get dressed. I’m going to get breakfast ready.”
Charlie and Lisa bumped into one another at the bathroom door.
“Be quick,” the boy said. “We have to eat breakfast fast so we have time to do a search while Mum and Dad finish getting ready.”
“Are you mad? If they see us in the library again they’ll realize.”
“Realize what? If they ask me, I’ll just say I’m looking for the book again.”
“No, Charlie!” exclaimed Lisa in an urgent whisper.
“Fighting over the bathroom again?” said Marcus, who had just appeared in the hallway. “Come on, Charlie, let your sister go in and you can use ours.”
“Okay, Dad,” responded the boy.
When Lisa came downstairs, her parents were finishing their breakfast.
“Where’s Charlie?” she asked.
“He’s in the library looking for The Happy Prince,” replied Maggie.
Lisa felt her face blush when she heard the answer, as if she had just been caught doing something wrong. But her parents went on eating as if nothing had happened.
“He practically inhaled his breakfast,” added Marcus. “He looked more like a boa constrictor than a boy.”
Lisa ate as quickly as she could, picked up her things and went back upstairs to brush her teeth. While her parents finished getting ready, she slipped into the library, where Charlie was still searching through the books.
“Have you found anything?” she asked.
“Absolutely nothing. These are all real history books. There’s nothing here about the old guy.”
Lisa walked over to the professor’s portrait and searched it for a new clue, something they hadn’t noticed before.
“There’s nothing here that could help us,” she said, studying the canvas. “I have no idea where on earth that annulus could be.”
Just then, Maggie came in with a book in her hand and a big smile on her face.
“Here it is,” she said, handing the book to Charlie. “I told you it was in your room.”
The boy recognized it as soon as he saw it. The Happy Prince by Oscar Wilde. His favorite book.
“Thanks, Mum,” he said. “The search is over.”
And the Wilfords left the house together, like any other cold and damp autumn morning.
. . .
Although he was an extraordinarily powerful man, Max Wellington was completely unknown to most people. Unlike other big men of business, he prized anonymity and discretion above all else. He didn’t seek popularity or public recognition, making an effort instead to remain largely anonymous in spite of being the owner of one of the biggest business groups in the world.
He tended to move in a very small circle for a man of his position, quite outside the world of New York City’s high society. Whenever possible he kept discreetly in the background, hiding behind his huge corporate organization and behind a select group of directors who represented him at events to which he was invited.
Even his appearance seemed intended to enable him to go unnoticed, while at the same time allowing him access to the most exclusive places in Manhattan. He was a tall, good-looking man who dressed in an elegant but conventional manner, in designer clothes that were nevertheless always simple and free of any showy or ostentatious detail that might call attention to him.
His routine was meticulously planned and he always followed it strictly, leaving no room for unexpected changes.
Furthermore, Mr. Wellington did not seem to need anybody and nobody knew much about him. Not even Simon Bennet, his personal assistant, for whom the enigmatic behavior of his boss had become an almost perverse obsession.
Despite his efforts and the fact that he had been working for him for eleven years, Max Wellington’s private life remained a mystery that Simon had not been able to unveil. In all that time, he had been unable to identify a single personal relationship of any kind; if Max Wellington had friends or lovers in this world, he took care of all his dealings with them himself. Simon had never been ordered to send flowers to a woman, or to make reservations at romantic restaurants or hotels. Nor had he ever heard about any parties or private trips with friends; in fact, he didn’t even know the name of any of Max’s friends.
But worst of all was the firmly disciplined manner that his boss maintained to keep his life a secret. His conduct was flawless, almost as if he were a character from one of the many spy movies that Simon so enjoyed watching. He never let slip a single detail, however insignificant it might be. Not once had he committed an indiscretion like leaving a scrap of paper with notes on it in the wastepaper basket, or accidentally mentioning some personal engagement. There were no compromising charges on his credit card accounts, and he never received any calls that might have revealed the tiniest piece of information about his private life. Simon never even found a single forgotten object in his overcoat, in his office or in the rooms of his house to which he had access.
Max Wellington was an utterly inscrutable man, almost like a ghost.
And Simon Bennet had the misfortune of working for him.
. . .
Much to Lisa and Charlie’s frustration, that afternoon Marcus was working at his desk with his usual dedication and constancy. While Lisa sat in the library pretending to study or read a book as she so often did, Charlie managed to call their father away from time to time on the most outlandish pretexts, such as getting down objects for him in high places out of his reach, or helping him find his scooter. Marcus agreed resignedly to these requests, but Lis
a had no luck finding a single new clue during his brief absences.
By the end of the afternoon, the two children were sitting on the brown leather couch together, looking up at all the books on the shelves, wondering whether the annulus they sought might be hidden in one of them.
“There’s at least a thousand,” said Charlie as he stared at the books.
“A thousand what?” asked Marcus, without lifting his eyes from his work.
From his desk he couldn’t see which way the boy was looking, but Lisa could and immediately understood her brother’s real meaning.
“A thousand different things you can do when you’re bored,” replied Charlie.
“But there’s only one that I think is worth doing,” answered Lisa.
Marcus assumed that this was one of the many senseless conversations that his kids liked to engage in from time to time, so he continued working in silence. His intervention was unnecessary unless their conversation turned confrontational.
“And how am I supposed to know what it is?” asked Charlie.
“Maybe you should pay a little more attention,” responded Lisa.
“Yes, maybe I should pay more attention to the details,” said the boy.
“Exactly,” nodded Lisa. “It’s probably right in front of your nose but you’re not seeing it, just like last time.”
The conversation didn’t sound very friendly and Marcus was surprised that by this point neither of the children seemed to be getting angry.
“Yes, but this time I think we’ll have to consider the subject,” said Charlie.
“What subject?” asked Lisa, failing to grasp her brother’s meaning.
“The subject that is right in front of your nose,” answered Charlie meaningfully.
Marcus went on working in silence; he would wait a little longer, but if the children continued talking to each other like this he would have to tell them off. Lisa looked to the top of the book case in front of her, to where the word “History” was written.
“And what’s so special about my subject that makes it different from the others?” asked Lisa.
“Just that a screw’s missing,” replied Charlie. “Or several.”