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

a carbon blade forged by an expert swordsmith in Kyoto. After lowering his blue trilby, Dr. Corwin gripped his bladed cane and ducked into a café down the street from the bookshop. He ordered an espresso and a croissant slathered with dulce de leche and laid the map of the neighborhood on the square wooden table. The café had a checkerboard tile floor, a brass bar, and mahogany walls. It smelled of warm caramel and freshly roasted coffee, and no one paid him any attention.

San Telmo was not a huge neighborhood, about nine square blocks. He spent the next two days walking it, from the waterfront to the antique market in the center to the iconic, two-hundred-foot Obelisk of Buenos Aires that stood in the massive Plaza de la República. He showed old photos of Ettore to every business in San Telmo that the physicist might have had cause to visit: cafés, bars, laundromats, furniture shops, candle sellers, tobacconists, too many restaurants to count. He even talked to the priests at the Catholic churches.

The only success was a flower seller who thought she remembered the shy man in the photo. Located on a street that translated to “the Illuminated Block”—which Dr. Corwin found fitting—the florería was owned by a cheery blond woman with elegant cheekbones and a birthmark below her left eye.

Some of the shop owners had glanced at Dr. Corwin’s black skin and treated him with contempt, to which he responded with ingratiating politeness. The florist didn’t seem bothered by his race, and even complimented his excellent Spanish. When asked about Ettore, she wagged a finger and said, “I can’t be certain from the photo, but this man you’re looking for—is he by chance Italian? Sicilian, to be precise?”

Dr. Corwin felt a tingle of excitement. “He is indeed. How did you know?”

“You said the photo was taken forty years ago. A much older man with a similar face came in here often, for many years. He preferred oleander, caper, and lantana, particularly white prickly pear. What a wonderful aroma they have! Where are you from, sir?”

“Jamaica, by way of New York City.”

“Well, you might know most of us Porteños come from Italy. I can often tell which region my customers immigrated from by their flower preferences. Oleander and caper, and especially prickly pear: those are Sicilian favorites.”

“What an astute observation. How well did you know him? What did you talk about? Do you know what name he went by?” Dr. Corwin asked. “I apologize for all the questions—it’s just that I’ve been looking for him for a very long time.”

The proprietress was plucking the leaves off a bouquet of roses, unconcerned by the mystery. “Why, I didn’t know him at all. Not even his name. But I did see him entering the apartment building across the street quite often. I do believe he might have lived there.”

In his rush to investigate the apartment, Dr. Corwin barely remembered to tip his hat and thank the flower seller for her time.

The five-story building made of light-gray stone and divided into apartments with wrought-iron balconies, while very handsome, was a common sight in San Telmo. A little digging produced the name and phone number of the superintendent, a woman named Valentina Peralta. Dr. Corwin met with her on the afternoon of his fourth day in Buenos Aires, but suffered another setback. Though the age difference made it hard to be certain, she had no memory of the man in the photo. It was apparent the woman had neither the observant eye of Diego Quiroga nor the kind attentiveness of the flower seller.

The outside of the building was quite grand, but it was a hovel on the inside, a step above a slum. He persuaded Valentina to examine the rental records over the last decade, but she found no one named Ettore Majorana or Nataja Tromereo. Valentina was a vain woman, and after a little sweet-talking, she allowed Dr. Corwin to scan the list himself. None of the names jumped out at him. She admitted many of the renters chose to pay cash every month, since no documentation was required for a short-term rental. In fact, after letting an apartment, Valentina professed to desire as little contact as possible with the renters. Most slipped a check or an envelope full of cash into the lockbox outside her office.

The anonymity of the building made it a perfect hiding spot. Dr. Corwin felt in his bones that Ettore had once lived there, and vacated about two years ago. But why? Had something happened to spook him? Where had he gone?

Fearing the worst, he asked Valentina if anyone had died in one of the apartments around that time, but she was adamant that had not occurred.

His earlier excitement dimmed. After another few days spent in vain trying to uncover a new lead, he was forced to admit failure. He had to return to New York, and would have to find another way to continue the search. His last evening before flying out, he strolled down the cobblestone street outside his hotel to drown his sorrows with a carafe of red wine at his favorite parrilla. The all-male waitstaff hustled around the room in bow ties and white aprons as the cooks tended to the sweetbreads, blood sausage, and slabs of beef sizzling on a wood-fired grill dividing the dining area from the kitchen.

With a full glass in front of him, and a sizzling cut of bife de chorizo with chimichurri on the way, his mood turned contemplative. His thoughts roamed from his childhood to his time at Oxford to the gaping enigmas of the cosmos that defined his life’s work, and which had drawn him to the Leap Year Society.

What did you smuggle out of Italy all those years ago, Ettore?

What have you been doing in the interim?

What doors have you unlocked?

After his meal, he sipped an amber vin santo and watched a tango show in the street, outside the large bay window to his