The Name of This Book Is Secret

by Pseudonymous Bosch

  “Right. We can always make a new one,” said Grandpa Wayne, at last catching the message of Larry’s story. “In fact, I have an old set of test tubes I found, and I’ve been wondering what to do with them. We could start collecting scents to put in the tubes—”

  “What we’re trying to say is that human beings are more important than things,” said Larry, interrupting Wayne.

  “At least, Cass is more important,” Wayne qualified.

  “Cass, your appearance in our lives has been the greatest gift we could have asked for,” Larry continued, as if Wayne hadn’t spoken. “No matter how many boxes Gloria delivers to our doorstep, nothing inside them could match you. We love you very much.”

  As he said this, he put his arms around Cass, and Cass snuggled gratefully against him. “I love you, too,” she said.

  But she never said a word about what happened to the Symphony of Smells. Or about anything else.

  Moments later, after her grandfathers had bid her good night, Cass picked up her backpack and placed it again by her pillow.

  Just in case.

  For most people, Monday mornings are a source of dread. Although Cass was unconventional in many ways, including her attitude toward most days of the week, she, too, often felt a sense of doom on Monday mornings, when she faced the prospect of the long school week ahead.

  But on this Monday morning, on the school bus, Cass could hardly think about school. She was too excited.

  That afternoon the investigation would resume.

  Slipping down low in her seat, out of view of the other student pass engers, she pulled the magician’s notebook out of her backpack and examined it in her hands. The notebook was larger than the common, school variety, and it was flatter. It had no rings and was more like a binder than what you usually think of as a notebook. The leather cover was brown and shiny and embossed, Cass noticed now, with a familiar Art Nouveau design: the same swirling vines and flowers that decorated the Symphony of Smells. But Cass was certain the notebook was not nearly as old. The magician must have had it made to match. Maybe, when her investigation was over, she could ask her grandfathers about that.

  As she flipped through the pages of the notebook, she accidentally discovered something about them: all the pages were double pages, folded over on themselves. After a little fiddling, she released the pages from their binding and they opened up like an accordion.

  She stared in amazement.

  Unwittingly, she had figured out what “UNDERNEATH” meant. The answer wasn’t buried underground; it had been right in front of them all along. The magician’s story was written on the reverse sides of the notebook pages—underneath them.

  The rest of the bus ride was pure torture. All she could think about was what was written on the undersides of the notebook pages. She wanted nothing more than to start reading but she knew that wouldn’t be fair to Max-Ernest. As annoying as he was, she reminded herself, they were collaborators. She had to wait.

  Hoping to catch Max-Ernest before he went to class, Cass started looking for him as soon as she got to school. Unfortunately, she couldn’t walk very fast; something was standing in the middle of the hallway, impeding traffic.

  When she got closer, she saw that that something was Benjamin Blake.

  Oblivious to the crowd of students around him, Benjamin stared at the paintings on the wall, as though he couldn’t quite believe they were real. The funny thing was: the paintings were his. As was the plaque next to them, declaring him the winner of the Young Leonardos Contest. As were the congratulatory letters from the mayor and the governor. As was—well, you get the idea.

  As Cass tried to pass him, Benjamin mumbled unintelligibly; it sounded like he said, “I smell a hint—dip your ice cream.”

  “I don’t have any ice cream—does it look like I do?” responded Cass, who hated mumbling even when she wasn’t in a hurry. “By the way, in case you haven’t noticed, you’re in everybody’s way. Besides, you probably shouldn’t stand in front of your paintings like that. It looks kind of conceited.”

  Benjamin reddened—and rushed off in the direction Cass had come from. Cass continued down the hall, knowing she had been a little insensitive—it wasn’t Benjamin’s fault he was the way he was—but she didn’t have time to worry about his feelings. She had to find Max-Ernest.

  She hadn’t made it much farther when her path was blocked by Mrs. Johnson, who was talking to some other grown-ups and showing them around the school. Cass was about to push past them when she stopped cold, her heart beating a mile a minute.

  It was them. She was positive. She recognized their hair. And the gloves on their hands.

  At her school.

  Cass hung back a few feet, shielding her face with her backpack in case Dr. L or Ms. Mauvais turned around.

  “Well, I guess that’s all the questions we have,” Ms. Mauvais was saying in her terrible tinkle. “We’re glad to see you have such talented students and staff.”

  “Thank you so much for your time,” added Dr. L in his recognizably unrecognizable accent. “You’re very generous.”

  “Not at all,” said Ms. Johnson, beaming at them. “It’s wonderful to see such involved and concerned parents. I’m sure your son will be very happy at our school.”

  Their son? thought Cass. What son?

  Dr. L turned, so Cass had to duck out of sight. When she looked again, they were gone. And Mrs. Johnson was walking toward her.

  Cass waited for the principal, then started walking alongside her. Mrs. Johnson was a fast walker. It was hard to keep up.

  “Those people—did they ask about me?”

  “Cassandra, when you want to speak to me, you should say ‘excuse me, Mrs. Johnson.’ Then wait until you have my attention.”

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Johnson. Do I have your attention now?”

  “Yes, you do. And, no, they did not ask about you. Why would they? They’re parents of a prospective student. They were asking about our art program.”

  “Then they were lying,” said Cass fiercely. “They’re horrible. I don’t even think they’re really parents.”

  “Cassandra! What an awful thing to say about people you don’t even know.”

  “Did you notice how they were wearing gloves even though it’s hot out?”

  “Some people consider it polite to wear gloves in company. Personally, I think it’s a very refined habit. I may just start wearing them myself.” Mrs. Johnson looked hard at Cass from underneath her large turquoise hat. “Is this all because I wouldn’t order that evacuation you wanted? You know, if I shut down the school every time you thought something was wrong nobody here would ever get an education!”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry, Mrs. Johnson. Bye.”

  Cass left Mrs. Johnson shaking her head and hurried down the hall. But it was too late. They were gone.

  Cass spent a good ten minutes—at least five of those minutes being past the beginning of first period—searching the school inside and out. To no avail. Not only couldn’t she find Dr. L and Ms. Mauvais, she couldn’t even find Max-Ernest.

  Just as she was trying to figure out what excuse she could give her teacher for being late, she happened to look through the school’s back gate—

  Across the street, Dr. L. and Ms. Mauvais were slipping into a waiting limousine. The limousine was painted a blue so dark it was almost black, and decorated with tiny, jewel-like stars. Emblazoned in gold across the door were the image of a rising sun and the words:

  The whole vehicle shimmered so brilliantly it looked enchanted.

  As the limousine drove out of sight, a boy’s face was briefly visible, staring out the back window.

  Cass stared back, imagining for a second that she had caught the boy’s eye. Why did he look so familiar? Was Ms. Johnson right? Was that their son? Was it possible they really were parents? Cass dismissed the idea as soon as it popped into her head. She remembered the awful things they had screamed at her and Max-Ernest. No parent would ever say those thing
s to a kid. No real parent.

  By a lucky coincidence, Cass and Max-Ernest both had study hall that morning after first period. As soon as she saw him, Cass pulled Max-Ernest over to the desk that occupied the most private corner of the school library.

  Speaking so fast that all her words blurred together, she filled him in on how “theSymphonyofSmellswasstolenfromthefirehouseonSaturdayandIknow ithadtobeMs.MauvaisandDr.LbecauseSebastianwent totallycrazyandthentheyshowedupatourschoolthismorning,canyoubelieveit?,withMrs.Johnsontakingatour!ShesaidtheywereparentsandthenIsawthemleave withaboyinthebackofthislimousinethathadthe-

  nameMidnightSunonit!”

  Most people wouldn’t have been able to understand her. Max-Ernest was such a fast talker himself he had no trouble.

  “They have a kid? I don’t believe it,” he said.

  “Exactly! That’s what I’m saying,” said Cass, slowing down only because she had exhausted herself. “I think the parent thing was just a lie, you know, a cover story, so they could look for us. But then who was the kid in the limousine?...Hey, I almost forgot. I figured out what ‘UNDERNEATH’ means—it means underneath the pages. All the writing is in the notebook, it’s just hidden!”

  “Wow. Did you read it?”

  “No, I waited for you.”

  Cass didn’t say “I waited because we’re collaborators.” And Max-Ernest didn’t say “Thanks, that means a lot to me.” But each could tell what the other was thinking.

  “You know,” Cass said after a moment. “You don’t always talk so much. Every once in a while, you’re quiet. Like now.”

  “You’re right,” said Max-Ernest, amazed. “And I wasn’t even trying. How ’bout that?”

  “So what did that new doctor say your condition was, anyway?”

  “He said he wouldn’t know for sure as long as my parents were living together, because my family situation was too stressful.”

  “Really? So are your parents going to stop living together?”

  “No, they just got into a big fight about it. But at least they were talking to each other!”

  Cass and Max-Ernest had to be quiet for a minute because they got a warning look from the librarian, but when the librarian left—study hall always operated on the honor system—they wasted no time in opening the notebook.

  They could now see that, far from being blank, the entire notebook was full of the magician’s handwriting; it was just that the notebook was inside out, or rather outside in. Judging by the slant of the letters, he had written very fast. Whatever he was writing about must have been very important.

  While Max-Ernest leaned in close, Cass read to him in a whisper, her face growing increasingly grave with every sentence.

  Dear Reader,

  If you are reading these words, I know about you two things.

  You are brave enough to hold in your hands this notebook, a notebook for which all over the world the villains are searching. And you are clever enough to decipher a riddle, the riddle on the other side of these pages.

  Both these qualities you will need in the days ahead.

  My life is in danger. For this reason, I write.

  No, I do not fear the death—I am an old man and I have survived worse things—but I do not want to die without I first make right an ancient wrong.

  Do you know the expression, The ignorance is the bliss? Think on it well. Some secrets are not meant to be known—but once known you can never forget them.

  If certain people discover you have learned the things I am about to tell you—Let me just say this, that it is the safest for you to stop reading now and to leave this notebook far away from the place you call home. If instead you keep reading, please, I beg you, repeat to no one my story.

  Here Cass put the notebook down and looked at Max-Ernest. He was still being unusually quiet.

  “Well?” Cass prompted him.

  “Well, what?” Max-Ernest asked.

  “Well, should I keep reading?”

  “He has a weird way of writing,” Max-Ernest said, as if in answer to her question. “I think maybe he’s foreign.”

  “That means, no, you don’t want me to keep reading?”

  “No, it doesn’t mean ‘no.’”

  “So then it means ‘yes’?”

  “Yes. I guess.”

  “Oh. Well, I think I should keep reading, too,” said Cass. “I just thought, you know, if you thought it was too dangerous—”

  “I’m not scared!” said Max-Ernest. “I just think he sounds foreign.”

  “I’m not scared, either.”

  “So keep reading then.”

  “OK, then, I will.”

  Cass picked up the notebook again and coughed just the way Grandpa Larry did before he started a story—for some reason, her throat felt dry—and then she began to read—

  Although I am reluctant for obvious reasons, I think I must also continue recording the magician’s story. You see, the magician’s story goes straight to the heart of mine. It is not too much to say my story would not exist without his.

  You and I, then, will read over the shoulders of Max-Ernest and Cass. Before we do, I suggest you take a break. If you need to go to the bathroom, this is a good time. If you’re sleepy, go to bed and save the next chapter for tomorrow. For the magician’s story, you must have all your wits about you. No wandering minds allowed.

  Are you ready? Rested? Alert?

  Or did you just skip ahead because you couldn’t wait?

  If so, I’d like to point out that reading by flashlight under a blanket is always a good way to tackle the most difficult and dangerous parts of a book. I’d also suggest you have a snack handy. Or some gum to chew. Otherwise you might find yourself biting your fingernails until they bleed.

  OK. Have all your reading supplies at hand?

  Here it is, then, the magician’s story in his own words:

  LA STORIA DELLA MIA VITA

  “THE STORY OF MY LIFE”

  by

  Pietro Bergamo

  Never trust a magician. We use words only to divert your attention. Look at my pretty scarf, we say, so you do not see our sleight of hand when the rabbit disappears.

  But I write now as a man, not a magician, and I promise my story is true. How I wish it were not! For it is the story of the tragedy of my childhood, and of a terrible secret that has brought nothing but the misery and the death.

  My brother, Luciano, and I, we were born in a small town in Italy, in the time between the Wars.

  We were twins—what they call in English the “fraternal” twins, not the identical twins. A distinction that is very useless, I think. Yes, if you looked at us closely, there were many differences between us—like the birthmark on the back of Luciano’s neck that resembled so perfectly a crescent moon. But Luciano and I, we were identical in our hearts.

  When we turned nine years old, our lives, as they say, turned upside down. A terrible man rose to power in Italy, and our whole family it was in danger.* Our parents, they were being watched, but they managed to find the passage for Luciano and me on a boat to America. They promised to join us as soon as they could, but we knew that would not be very soon. Or maybe ever.

  It was an awful thing to leave our home at such a young age, but at least we had each other. During the time we were making the crossing of the Atlantic Ocean, we never left each other’s sides. As a parting gift, our father, he had given to us an old book of the magic tricks, and we spent all our days practicing the card tricks and amusing the crew on the boat. Every night, as we went to sleep, we fantasized about our new lives in America, and how we would become world-famous magicians.

  Our mother, she had a cousin in Kansas City. We were very excited to be going there because we had heard the story of the Wizard of Oz and we knew Kansas was full of the tornadoes and the adventure. What we did not know (until it was too late) was that her part of Kansas City was in Missouri, over sixty miles far from the capital of Kansas, Topeka, where we happened to get off the train.<
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  It was the nighttime and we were cold and tired and we’d been wandering through the streets of Topeka for several hours when we saw a marvelous spectacle lit up in front of us: a circus.

  Alas, having no money, we could not enter the circus tent, the Big Top, as it is called.** But we found a flap in the tent through which we could watch the horses galloping, the clowns juggling, and even a mangy old tiger jumping through a hoop of fire.

  What most impressed us was the Ringmaster, so magnificent in his top hat and tails. We didn’t speak much English but we could tell what he was saying by the tone of his voice, and by the screams and the cheers of the crowd. At one point, I could have sworn he saw us and he winked at us. It was like as if he knew us and, although we were outside and we had not paid for the tickets, we were the most important audience members of all.

  When the show ended, we followed with the rest of the circus audience out into the Midway. This was an old-fashioned traveling circus with all the great sideshow attractions like a fire-eating strong man, a fat lady with a beard (which we later learned was fake), and a “fakir” (actually a white man dressed up to look like an Indian swami). Being amateur magicians, we wanted to look inside all the booths, but the carnival workers—the carnies—they were watching us like as if they were the hawks.

  We had such a great hunger that the smell of all the cotton candy and the popcorn and the peanuts was almost too much to suffer. Then we spied a food cart that had been left unattended. A row of red candy apples glistened under a string of lights, ripe for the taking. Quickly, we each grabbed an apple and darted into the shadows behind the cages of the animals. What luck!

  But as soon as we sank our teeth in, those apples they were ripped out of our hands. Shocked, we looked up to see grinning down at us a tough old carny. He was missing most of his teeth and, believe me, that grin was a scary thing to see.

  “Nice of you to help feed the animals,” he said, tossing our apples into the cage of the tiger.