Unknown 9 by Layton Green (each kindness read aloud txt) 📕

A chorus of birdsong filled the air as Dr. Corwin entered the cab again and tried to think it all through. In the end, he realized he had two suspicions, a question, and a plan of action.

The first suspicion was that Alvaro had indeed met with Ettore himself at some point, very likely to discuss experiments and philosophies concerning the soul. The narrative fit with Ettore’s obsession with this place called the Fold.

Second, he did not think the curandero knew where Ettore had come from, or whether he was still in Cartagena. After eluding the Ascendants and hiding out for so long, why would Ettore reveal his whereabouts?

On the other hand, Dr. Corwin had a hunch—a strange intuition—that the idea for the anagram had come from Ettore himself, planted long ago with the curandero for some unknown reason.

Along those lines, Dr. Corwin questioned why Alvaro had given out this information. If he had kept the knowledge of his meeting with Ettore to himself for such a long time, why divulge it now?

Or had no one ever asked?

Dr. Corwin had decided where he was going next, and informed the cabdriver. In his first conversation with Alvaro, the curandero claimed he had met with Nataja/Ettore at a hotel. He had even dropped a name. Los Claustros. Translation: the Cloisters.

Fearing another anagram, Dr. Corwin had searched for the name and was surprised to find the Cloisters was an actual hotel and still in service.

In fact, it was less than ten blocks away.

A block off the sea, near the family home of the popular novelist Gabriel García Márquez, the Cloisters hotel was a converted monastery whose outer wall had once formed a portion of the city’s ramparts. The arched entrance, accessed through a door flanked by hanging lanterns, sat alone at the base of a high wall that took up an entire city block.

The street view was deceiving. After he pulled on the oversize brass handle and stepped through the recessed doorway, Dr. Corwin entered a sprawling tropical courtyard, so lush it was decadent, ringed by interior balconies where guests lounged with their morning coffee and cigarettes. At least three swimming pools could be glimpsed among the foliage, along with a maze of walkways, private rotundas, and outdoor balustrades. Though opulent at first blush, a closer inspection of the hotel revealed a state of decay—peeling paint on the balconies, chipped stone on the fountains, the forest-green livery of the staff in need of a good tailor—which instead of detracting from the experience, lent a desultory charm.

With a whistle of approval, Dr. Corwin followed the signs to a brick-floored reception with antique weapons on display. Though he found it odd to have weapons in an old monastery, it was refreshingly honest, he supposed, for a city that had once served as a hub of the Inquisition. For true accuracy, maybe they should have included the torture device meant to force the brain out slowly through the ears, or the claw used to rip off a woman’s breasts, or one of the saws that hacked through its victims from groin to sternum while they were hanging upside down.

He doubted the staff kept records from thirty years ago, but he was going to ask. As he waited for the line at reception to dwindle, he browsed the museum of swords, shields, muskets, plate armor, and military uniforms. Wandering closer to the front desk, he noticed a leather-bound book on display. He leaned down and saw that it was a ledger with handwritten notes from guests of the hotel over the years. He flipped to the beginning. It dated back only three years.

When his turn in line came, he claimed he was a historian researching Cartagena and asked if there were older guest ledgers lying around. Why, yes, he was told. In fact there are.

After sweet-talking the attendant, he found himself mopping sweat off his brow in a windowless office behind the lounge, poring over a stack of ledgers covered in dust. It didn’t take him long to find the right time period. With the ledger open in his lap, Dr. Corwin scanned the entries one by one, nervous the enemy would appear at any moment.

Half an hour later, Dr. Corwin found it. He almost couldn’t believe his eyes. It was the same handwriting he recognized from the file on Ettore, the nervous scrawl that spoke volumes about his mental state. The short missive was written in Italian, and Dr. Corwin translated as he read.

A toast to your wonderful hospitality that left me refreshed for the next leg of my journey. Fellow travelers would be wise to explore the hotel, as a secret bounty awaits.

Nataja Tromereo, May 1939

A frisson of excitement passed through Dr. Corwin. Ettore Majorana was still alive in May of 1939, more than a year after his disappearance.

And he had stayed at this hotel and written in this very ledger.

He realized the message could be a fake, the handwriting forged by an expert. But to what purpose? No, this possessed the ring of authenticity. He could feel it in his bones. With a deep breath, he flipped through the rest of the ledger and found nothing else of interest. He returned his attention to the handwritten note.

Ettore had known that very dangerous people were looking for him. So why leave evidence of his passage? Had he left something behind in addition to his signature? Dr. Corwin reread the note, his eyes lingering on the second sentence.

Fellow travelers would be wise to explore the hotel, as a secret bounty awaits.

Before leaving the lounge, Dr. Corwin considered ripping out Ettore’s entry, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. It felt wrong to erase the evidence of his passage from the historical record and deter future seekers. What if Dr. Corwin himself failed and his successor was destined to succeed?

What he did do, however, was hide the ledger from Hans. He couldn’t remove it without someone noticing, so he stuck it