Unknown 9 by Layton Green (e reader txt) 📗

off the dining room led to a patio enclosed by palms and flowering shrubs. A parrot chattered from a freestanding birdcage, and the creak of a hammock could be heard from a neighboring property.

“I don’t mind the unexpected arrival,” Alvaro said, “but you’ll have to give me a moment to prepare the refreshments.”

“Oh, please don’t go to the trouble—”

“Tsk, tsk. This is Colombia. Hospitality is not optional.”

As the old man shuffled inside, Dr. Corwin watched in frustration, knowing Hans wouldn’t be far behind. To his left, a banana tree shaded two chairs and a small wooden table. Dr. Corwin took a seat and swatted at mosquitoes until Alvaro returned with a tray of coffee and pastries.

Dr. Corwin took a sip of the strong, delicious coffee. “Thank you.”

“But of course. Is the patio too warm?”

“I’m Jamaican. It feels nice.”

“Ah, a fellow caribeño! You understand me then.”

Since time was of the essence, Dr. Corwin laid it all out as quickly and politely as he could: the conversation with Waylan Taylor, his search for Ettore Majorana, and his desire to meet with the elusive source called X, who claimed to have known the Italian physicist. As he spoke, Alvaro interjected here or there, but mostly he listened with the calm attentiveness of an experienced psychiatrist. Dr. Corwin found his background as a curandero fascinating, and wished they had time for a longer discussion.

A sudden noise from the street—shouting, followed by the sound of broken glass—interrupted them. Dr. Corwin rose, suspecting what had occurred, but Alvaro did not look alarmed. “I fear Cartagena is not as flawless as it appears on the surface,” he said.

Dr. Corwin tensed, waiting for the sound of someone breaking through the door, but the street quieted, replaced by the languorous harmonies of the city: birdsong, the hum of insects, and the occasional cry of a street vendor. He leaned forward in his seat. “I was hoping you could pass on this physicist’s name and where to find him. I’d be happy to meet him anywhere he likes, under any condition.”

Alvaro refilled his coffee. “I’m happy to provide a name,” he said, “but I’m afraid your other request is quite impossible.”

“Is it a matter of money? I’m willing to pay a handsome sum for a moment of his time.”

Alvaro chuckled. “It isn’t money, and the name is Nataja Tromereo.”

Despite the overwhelming percentage of male physicists, Dr. Corwin felt ashamed by his presumption. But at least he had a name! “Ah. Forgive me. The name—do I have it right?” He spelled it for Alvaro, earning a nod of approval. “It’s unfamiliar,” he mused. “Perhaps a Slav who married a Colombian?”

“I’m unsure, but that sounds reasonable.”

“And my other request?” Dr. Corwin pressed as Alvaro reached for a pastry. Fearing the worst, he prepared for the news that Nataja was deceased, and the trail lost forever.

“I fear Waylan might have given you the wrong impression. I did not meet with Señora Tromereo recently, but many years ago, when she came to Cartagena on a short visit. I have no idea where she is now, and if she once told me where she was from, I’ve long forgotten. We met at the restaurant of her hotel—I believe it was the Los Claustros—and talked for several hours. That was the extent of our acquaintance.”

“How many years ago was this?”

Alvaro’s face scrunched as he thought. “Perhaps thirty?”

“Thirty!” Dr. Corwin said in dismay, leaning back in his chair. He pressed a hand to his temple, feeling ill at the setback. Anything could have happened in the last thirty years. Ettore could easily be dead. He blew out a breath, mollifying himself with the consideration that, even if Ettore had passed, his research might be tucked away in a trunk in some forgotten attic, waiting to change the world. “Forgive me. I assumed the meeting was more recent.”

“May I ask why finding Ettore Majorana is so important to you?”

“Ettore disappeared at a young age, and left behind so little of his work. If he is still alive, then finding him could be an incredible boon to the scientific community.”

“You assume, of course, that he wishes to be found,” Alvaro said calmly. “Is it not more reasonable to assume that a man who has withdrawn from society for over three decades might, in fact, not desire such a thing?”

Dr. Corwin gave a tight smile. “It’s very reasonable. But we don’t know the circumstances. Maybe he needs protection from someone, or is mentally ill.”

Alvaro’s frown conveyed his thoughts on that line of reasoning.

And perhaps, Dr. Corwin thought, a man such as Ettore Majorana should not be the one to choose whether the world needs his theorems. Perhaps it is an act of extreme selfishness to keep one’s intellect to oneself, at the expense of human progress.

“In any event,” Dr. Corwin said, after failing to learn anything else useful, “I’d love to speak to anyone who once knew Ettore, and who might be able to shed light on the mystery.” Dr. Corwin gripped his cane as he stood to leave, all too aware of how long the visit had taken. “If there are other details about Ms. Tromereo you can recall—a city or a name she mentioned, where she worked or what university she attended—please get in touch. I’ll be at the Casa San Márquez for the next few days. It could be very helpful.”

Alvaro rose with him. “I’ll see you out.”

“Thank you for your time. I’m sorry to cut the discussion short.”

The mischievous gleam was brighter than ever. “You mentioned on the phone you were seeking my opinion. Was Ettore your sole concern, or was there something else?”

Dr. Corwin hesitated, unable to help himself. “Waylan mentioned experiments concerning the existence of the soul. I’m curious as to your thoughts on the matter.”

“I am often asked this question. Both Dr. Taylor and Ms. Tromereo seemed quite preoccupied by it. Are you seeking my opinion as a curandero or as a psychiatrist?”

Dr. Corwin shrugged. “As a man.”

“Whose closest companion is a parrot