The Manuscript I the Secret Read Online Free PDF

pulled back the cover slowly and, heart racing, glanced down. There it was. Dante Contini-Massera, Uncle Claudio, the monk, the mausoleum. He hugged the open manuscript in a lover’s embrace and stayed like that until his heart resumed its normal pace. He knew the little man on the bench would have left. And that made sense. He had the manuscript, and he needed nothing else. He turned and opened his eyes: no sign of the man.
     
    Nicholas turned his focus back to the manuscript and read greedily, taking advantage of the sun’s last rays.

5
    Rome, Italy
    November 11, 1999
     
    That night my mother, sister, and I stayed in Villa Contini. Old Donna Elena practically forced me upstairs to the room where I had always stayed when I visited the villa. I sensed Donna Elena’s neediness and her obvious pride in me, for what reason remained unknown, and it was touching. It seemed like she felt compelled to tend to me as she had done for Uncle Claudio, and I acquiesced if only to keep her from weeping. I could tell that she needed to take care of me.
    Once I was alone, the first thing I did was dig out the paper from my jacket pocket. I opened the friar’s note and read:
     
    I will be waiting for you at 10:00 a.m. in the doorway of a small trattoria called La Forchetta, behind the shooting range. I have a message for you from your Uncle Claudio. Please, do no fail to arrive.
     
    The note was unsigned, and it certainly did not say much. Common sense told me I should not go, but the friar seemed trustworthy, despite his strange eyes with abnormally large irises. His pupils were enlarged as if he had used nightshade drops like the women of old. I lay awake until the early hours of the morning, and, when I eventually drifted off just before 4:00 a.m., it was the sleep of the dead. I finally opened my eyes and looked toward the old rococo clock above the carved marble nightstand: it was ten past nine in the morning. I had less than an hour to slip out of the villa and get to Rome.
    I flew through showering and getting dressed and shot out of the villa in the Maserati, a gift from Uncle Claudio, like almost everything else we had, toward Rome. Two minutes after ten I parked a few feet down from a modest restaurant. The sign above the door was so disproportionately large that it threatened to fall at any minute. I had made it to La Forchetta. Clearly the monk thought I needed all the help I could get to find the place. My self-esteem took a dive. I saw a shadow emerge from the doorway of a nearby store, and the monk walked toward the car. I unlocked it, and he got in and closed the door with surprising agility.
    “ Buongiorno, mio caro amicco. My name is Francesco Martucci.”
    “ Buongiorno , Brother Martucci,” I answered, shifting the car into gear and accelerating slowly with every intention of wandering through Rome’s complex allies and cross streets. Yet the friar pointed with his thin gnarled finger where he wanted me to turn.
    “ Signore , your car will attract attention. It is too recognizable.”
    I drove down a street that took us toward the Via di Caio Cestio, and after a short while we were at the entrance of the Non-Catholic Cemetery. I parked as close to the wall as possible, and we entered through one of the many paths. We stopped under one of the cypress trees lining the walk.
    Brother Martucci held out a small envelope. I recognized the family seal: two lions crowned with laurel wreaths facing each other and encircled by a snake. It was sealed. I ripped it open and pulled out a sheet of paper I recognized immediately, with the family seal letterhead, written with small, tight lettering as if the author did not wish his message to be comprehended all at once. It was Uncle Claudio’s handwriting. I would have known it anywhere. He had taught me my letters. Yet on the other hand, it might be a forgery.
    To my dismay, the message was nothing profound:
     
    My dear Dante,
    I have so much to tell you. I want you to