The Manuscript I the Secret by Blanca Miosi, Gretchen Abernathy Read Free Book Online Page B

away from you, I’ve realized that I love you, and I want to live with you. Why don’t we give us another chance?”
    “Meanwhile, in the past few months I’ve learned that I can live on my own. I don’t want to go through it all again. I was trying to tell you on the phone, but you hardly let me get a word in. I need peace, and that’s the truth; there’s not another woman, and I’m not dating anyone else.”
    “I’ll stay out of your way, Nicholas; you won’t even know I’m here.”
    “That’s not true. I know you, Linda. Of course I’ll know you’re here. You should’ve thought about it more before you left.”
    Linda dropped her chopsticks onto the plate and studied the remaining noodles as if they could give her the right words to say. Her forehead creased in a slight wrinkle. She pulled the robe tighter to cover her chest, aware that flashing her breasts was no longer appropriate.
    “Ok, I’ll leave tomorrow morning,” she said. She picked up their plates and took them to the kitchen.
    Nicholas knew her well enough to imagine she would be washing the dishes in tears, but he felt no compulsion to go comfort her. He felt no trace of pity or wounded pride; he simply did not want her around.
    “You can sleep in the next room,” he said before shutting his bedroom door. Then he opened the door again and set Linda’s suitcase in the hall. He went to the desk and opened the bottom drawer. There it was, nearly smiling at him with its strange silvery green spiral binding. The thing seemed alive. He pulled it out and put it on the desk under the lamp. His hands trembled despite his efforts to the contrary, but they steadied as he found the line where he had left off.

7
    Yerevan, Armenia
    1974
     
    Claudio Contini-Massera waited patiently for his passport to be examined. It was not his first trip to the Zvartnots airport. Everyone waiting in the interminable lines was subjected to the same remarkable apathy by the customs officials. The agent examined Claudio’s photo one more time, checked over the previous entries and exits, made a nearly imperceptible gesture with his lips, and turned on his heels. He went straight toward a man that was apparently a supervisor. After glancing at the passport, the supervisor looked up, saw Claudio, and approached with a solicitous air.
    “Mr. Contini, I beg you to forgive my colleague. He is new to the job,” he said in Russian. He quickly and silently stamped and returned the passport.
    “Thank you, comrade Korsinsky,” Claudio said to the supervising official.
    “Welcome to Armenia, comrade Contini. Please, be so good as to greet our comrade Martucci for me,” the Soviet replied, escorting Claudio toward baggage claim.
    “But of course, comrade,” Claudio replied, offering his hand, in which was concealed an envelope.
    With miraculous agility the envelope disappeared into a pocket in Korsinsky’s uniform.
    Count Claudio Contini-Massera made a special point to travel with a passport on which his title, a risky and problematic matter in that country, did not appear. The communist regime installed in Armenia ruled with an iron fist not only over its own inhabitants but also over any representative of the class they most desperately despised: nobility. As a warning to all who entered Armenia, Stalin’s statue presided over Victory Park, a bastion to remind one and all exactly who held the power. Claudio had to pass for an archeologist, a scholar of religion and ancient languages, and an Italian sympathizer to the communists. Though no one would have believed his story, as long as there was money to grease the wheel, things usually marched along just fine. The reigning corruption in Armenia had washed away the differences between the factions that had so recently and violently been divided into proud supporters of the Aryan race theories and communist sympathizers. Now both sides were forced to pay homage to the Soviets. The long-suffering Armenian populace knew