The Manuscript I the Secret Read Online Free PDF Page B

know that the happiest moments of my life were when I was with you. I taught you your first letters! And I hope that your first steps without me remind you that there are treasures more lasting than money. Trust Francesco Martucci. He is my closest friend. And above all, trust the ones who have been with you your whole life. I’m writing this now because I know my time is short. I want to leave you my most prized possession, and I hope you will use it well. It is not mentioned in my will. Francesco Martucci will deliver it to you when he knows the time is right. You will know how to recognize the signs in the Red Book. And, please, be careful.
    Ciao, mio carissimo bambino.
    Claudio Contini-Massera
     
    The monk stood there waiting, and I could feel his penetrating gaze. My face probably showed a degree of distrust. I have never been able to pull off a poker face. People can always tell what I am feeling. Perhaps Brother Martucci was wondering what in the world Uncle Claudio had seen in me to want to leave me his most highly-valued possession. Yet as bad as I am at covering my own emotions, I am quite skilled at reading other people’s expressions. My gut said this man was hiding something even though every outer appearance indicated sincerity.
    “When did you receive this note from my uncle?”
“A year and a half ago.”
    “A year and a half?” I asked, perplexed.
    “Your uncle felt he could go at any moment.”
    “Was he sick that whole time and I never knew about it?”
“There are many things you never knew about,” was his evasive reply.
    “True enough,” I said, guiltily.
    We kept walking, and as I realized he had no further intentions to speak, I wondered what in the world I was doing there in a Protestant cemetery with an obviously Catholic cleric.
    A few minutes later he paused and stared up to the top of the Pyramid of Cestius. I took the opportunity to look hard at him. He had a sharp profile. From my perspective, his pointed nose sliced across the sky with a hieratic flare. My patience was running thin, and just as I was about to speak, he glanced at the note still in my hand and said, “Years ago I worked at the Matenadaran in Armenia, one of the largest depositories of manuscripts in the world. At that time it had around 1400 samples, some of which I helped translate. Countless books, treatises, and essays from antiquity passed through my hands. I am a restorer. I have a doctorate in dead languages. I worked there for nearly thirty years and earned the trust of everyone there. I had the opportunity to conduct archeological research wherever I wanted in Armenia and the surrounding countries. And your uncle was an antiques aficionado. On several occasions he traveled to Armenia on business. On one of those trips we found something he considered very valuable.”
    “But wouldn’t it have been illegal to take documents or archeological remains out of the country?”
    “It depends....It wasn’t illegal for the documents that interested your uncle. They weren’t relics or anything of ancient historical value. They were put there after World War II.”
    “By whom? And what were these documents about?”
    “Let’s say that more than documents they were more like notes on scientific studies regarding genetics, studies carried out by one of the most sought-after Nazis.”
    “I don’t see why someone would leave such apparently important documents in a place as obvious as a library.”
    “Ah, well, it wasn’t that simple. Let me explain. It was in the Noravank complex, which includes the main church Surb Karapet, of the Holy Precursor St. John the Baptist; Surb Grigor, the chapel of St. Gregory; and the church of Surb Astvatsatsin, the Holy Mother of God. The three are connected by tunnels and catacombs. The main sanctuary was built in the thirteenth century over the ruins of the original church built in the ninth century. As I said, I’ve spent a long time in Armenia, ‘on loan,’ as it were,