Riddle Me This

By Georgette Gouveia

In the near future, tech whiz Milo Warwick, an MIT grad student, is murdered, and the laptop containing his PhD thesis -- a program and a hearing aid-like device that would think for you and recall your past if you couldn’t -- is missing.

His best friend, rising tennis star and American “prince” Alex Darlington suspects Chinese espionage and interjects himself into the investigation, led by his godfather, CIA China Bureau chief Mitch Abramson.

But the more immersed Alex becomes in the investigation, the more he is drawn into the past and the world of Tamara Chen, the cool Chinese cultural attaché whose staging of Giacomo Puccini’s Turandot for China’s One World Festival may hold the key to why the opera-crazed Milo died and the whereabouts and password of his computer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JMS Books LLC
• Release date: Sep 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781685502805

Book preview

Chapter 1

Nubia, 332 B.C.

It was more like a sarcophagus than a box—a rectangular, marble affair with deep reliefs of hunters on horseback. If it were a sarcophagus, then it was a most peculiar one, designed as much to let the dead out as to let the living in, for there were holes carved into the bottom corners whose significance would soon become apparent.

So heavy was the sarcophagus that it had taken eight of the queen of Nubia’s strongest men to carry it in and four to remove the lid and tip it carefully on its side. Inside were not the bones of a man but a man himself, whose bones were still very much attached to sculpted sinews and muscles covered with a tawny canvas dotted with thick brushstrokes, a warrior’s scars. The fine-boned face, framed by a cloud of thick, dark, blond hair, bore no such markings. It was a familiar one whose likeness preceded it in the queen’s realm and beyond, one that wore no trace of fear—only a slightly quizzical, amused expression as the man attached to it rattled to his feet, clad in armor and chains.

It amused Alexander to appear so: He who was on the cusp of conquering the Persian Empire—conquering the known world—could afford to play at being conquered.

A phalanx of his men, he knew, stood just outside the lapis gates; the main of the army not far off in Memphis, Egypt. There in the city of Ramesses the Great in the fall of the year—surrounded by the almond-eyed, straight-nosed, full-lipped likenesses of the pharaoh who had stamped the world with his visage and now seemed to dare Alexander to outstrip him in doing the same—the Greco-Macedonian conqueror had been proclaimed not only pharaoh but god, the son of Zeus Ammon. Henceforth, his profile would be depicted with small ram’s horns, curling like amulets just above his ears. Surely, this son of Zeus so fetchingly adorned could be indulged an excursion to Meroë in Nubia to meet the descendant of the legendary Queen Semiramis—whose conquests were said to exceed his own.

It was the kind of unnecessary diversion his men had grown used to on their way to vanquishing Persia, particularly as they moved deeper into the empire, led as they were by a king who was as much an explorer as conqueror. Alexander would assume the identity of one of his own emissaries, the better to observe the Nubian queen, called the Candace, the better to impress her when he revealed the truth, like the sun bursting forth from the clouds.

But on the sandy road to the palace, the queen’s men had surrounded them, detaining his companions as they shackled him and led him before her. My army could storm these gates and grind this city into dust just as easily as I could ravish you, Alexander thought. But he had chosen forbearance, mercy, continence even, like the chivalrous Cyrus the Great, founder of the Persian Empire and a hero of his childhood dreams. Yet where was that famous temperance now that he was permitted to gaze at her, for her form was shapely, he thought, her coloring as creamy as the dunes and pyramids that graced her kingdom.

I have come on behalf of Alexander—son of Philip and the Greeks—who has heard of your beauty, your legend, and the blood of a conqueror that flows through your veins, Alexander said, kneeling before her, something he had not done since he was a child acknowledging King Philip of Macedon, his father, and Queen Olympias, his mother. As he addressed her interpreter, the chains weighed heavy on his skirted lap, which hinted at the power that lay beneath. I have come on behalf of my king for your love.

Then you have come a long way to be disappointed, Alexander. You look surprised that I know your Greek tongue and the true identity of its speaker. But we knew it was you and not an emissary as you tried to disguise yourself. We recognized you at once from your portrait. Your fame, your deeds, your virtue precede you—as does your beauty.

Here Alexander looked up to see a smile at play on her lips. A slip of a girl, really, he thought, where did she get the cheek? I could crush you, girl. And yet, I would rather be your servant, if only for one night.

The Candace seemed to be a mind reader as well for she said, It is a pity that all your efforts are in vain, for I have vowed to give my heart and mind to no man. Before Alexander could reply, she added, No, nor my body either.

Here she rose, forcing him to rise. And yet, I would yield to the man who is wise enough to answer three riddles. Do you accept, Alexander? Many have tried and all have forfeited their lives.

What choice did he have? His death would surely spell calamity for the Candace and her desert city for his army would avenge him—and he would not be there to stop it. What had begun as a lark had become a struggle between life and death. What had he gotten himself into?

But he saw himself in her unadorned arms, her legs wrapped around his thighs, his mighty reed planted at the entrance of her fragrant garden. He had come a long way to conquer an empire and to win her love.

I accept the challenge, great queen.

* * * *

Chapter 2

Milan, 1924

Arturo Toscanini had always loved the study in his villa. It was red, white, and green—the colors of the Italian flag—with hunter-green walls, floral crimson and emerald drapes, white window treatments, and brass appointments. Musical scores, whose covers were illustrated with Art Nouveau divas by Alphonse Mucha, stood at attention on the grand piano and various rich wood music stands. These vied with antique maps and globes, busts of Alexander the Great and Marco Polo and an armoire in red and green chinoiserie that teemed with other scores and, thus, failed to close properly. This room has been around the world, Toscanini thought with a smile. Even as it stands still, it has seen perhaps more than I have.

One of the music stands had been placed before a red- and green-striped velvet chair against which rested a cello. Toscanini felt a twinge of regret and remorse. He had cheated on the cello for so long with his conducting career that whole days went by before he touched it—or rather, her.

Yet, she—it—remained as faithful as Signora Toscanini, Carla, who had just sent in tea along with petite pastries filled with custard and cannoli cream. The repast was offset by a celadon service and a lacquer tray embellished with red and green pagodas. Now as the shadows lengthened in his favorite room at his favorite time of day—sunset—Toscanini was filled with a longing beyond words, beyond dreams, even. A longing for what? Perhaps this is what drove the great Alexander, Marco Polo, and all the dead conquerors and explorers whose busts lined his study—an ever-receding horizon that could not be attained because the longing for it could not be expressed.

Toscanini gazed out at the spires of the Duomo as he heard a car pull up, then turned his attention to the composer slowly making his way out of his Isotta Fraschini with the help of a chauffeur. Toscanini winced. He decided to wait for Giacomo Puccini in the study rather than greet him in the great hall. He wanted to give him time to adjust, to give himself time to adjust.

But nothing, he imagined, would’ve prepared him for Puccini’s appearance—gaunt, stooped, trembling. As if to banish those thoughts, Toscanini smiled and embraced him tenderly. My own body could pass through his, Toscanini thought. It’s as if I’m clasping nothing but air. Toscanini motioned Puccini to a red velvet chair he had set near the tray.

Will you take some tea, maestro?

With pleasure, maestro.

The two old friends and collaborators laughed at the joke that was between just us two. Ever since Toscanini had conducted the premiere of Puccini’s La Bohème at the Teatro Reggio in Turin eighteen years earlier, the pair had taken to calling each other maestro as much as a gesture of affection as of respect. That jocular camaraderie belied what Toscanini saw. Puccini’s skin seemed to sink into his skull. Indeed, as he watched Puccini swallow the tea in pain, Toscanini momentarily saw the composer’s skull protrude through its flesh—the very figure of death. He wanted to recoil. Instead he took a deep breath and smiled again at his friend.

I hope you haven’t been working too hard on the new opera, maestro, Toscanini said. Turandot was Puccini’s biggest work to date, as layered in time as it was richly orchestrated. Toscanini had been working on the orchestrations with him. The story of an icy Chinese princess, Turandot, and the Tartar prince, Calaf, who risks his life to solve the three riddles she poses to win her, the opera was based on a tale by the twelfth century Persian poet Nizami, who had written a romance of Alexander the Great, among other works. As Puccini struggled with a bit of pastry, Toscanini glanced at a jewel-colored illuminated manuscript of the romance that lay open on his desk.

Ah, Puccini said, gesturing as if batting away a fly. I’m having a devil of a time with the final duet, maestro. The death of the slave Liù is such a powerful, poignant moment. She dies protecting her beloved Calaf so he can live to love Turandot. How can Calaf and Turandot’s subsequent encounter compare? And yet it must. Perhaps the time in Brussels will give me inspiration. I will sing my gong-filled Chinese melodies in my head as the doctors consider this tickle in my throat.

Puccini struggled to rise, and Toscanini escorted him to the door, linking his arm in his in the manner of old friends. He is but nine years older than I and yet he seems so old and frail, Toscanini thought. I don’t know how much time he has.

Puccini might’ve had a premonition of the same for as they parted, he embraced the conductor with great emotion, then clasped his arm, saying, "Don’t let my Turandot die."

* * * *

Chapter 3

Cambridge, Massachusetts, the near future

The sounds of Luciano Pavarotti singing "Nessun Dorma" from Turandot—perhaps the tenor national anthem—flooded Milo Warrick’s room in the pink and green Victorian he occupied with four other graduate students not far from the campus of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Even among MIT’s nerdy grad students, Milo was considered something of a super nerd—which he knew, just as he was somewhat aware of the effect he had on others.

He knew, for instance, that they pitied him for never dating, never having many friends to hang with, for always being the person they invited to a party as an afterthought, out of sympathy and perhaps a sense of superiority. They made fun of his attempt at a retro Steve McQueen look, particularly the aviator sunglasses that were always perched absentmindedly on his close-cropped head; his nuclear bunker-style stash of nut and grain snacks and flavored water (hey, you never knew when there might be a crisis); his sheer Milo-ness. He didn’t care. His friends may be few but they were choice, including his former Harvard roommate, tennis star Alex Darlington, who remained like a brother to him—and not like Cain and Abel, Milo would say as a joke, guffawing in a way that showed off his chronic sinus problems. And though his world was small, it was filled with big ideas—none bigger than the one he was working on in MIT’s Media Lab.

It seemed simple enough—a device that looked like a hearing aid, no bigger than an ear bud. But it didn’t help you hear—or at least not the outer world. Rather, it connected you to all your life’s memories, thought patterns—in short, your you-ness—stored on a secure computer account. It could make you a genius by linking your brain to the computer. More importantly, it could think for you when you no longer could.

The potential was transcendent, a favorite Milo word. With no cure for Alzheimer’s on the horizon, this would obviate its dread. Milo stretched, luxuriating in the moment, then pumped up the volume on his elaborately devised sound system for Pavarotti’s triumphant cry of "Vincerò. He wasn’t an opera buff or even a huge fan of Lucianissimo at first, but something about the recording made in 1990 for the World Cup—the premier event in their favorite sport, soccer—touched him like few things did. Maybe it was the unsettled opening that resolved itself into the title words of the aria—Nessun Dorma," Let No One Sleep. Or perhaps it was the character who sang it, Calaf, the tenor-hero, an outsider willing to risk all for love.

That was what he was—someone willing to risk all for love, only it wasn’t for love of a formidable princess like Turandot but rather for the love of science and invention, service to mankind and, maybe, just maybe, enough fame and fortune for himself that he could live the life he saw in his head without the world interfering.

Wouldn’t that be something, Puccini? he said to the red and green parrot that was now his closest companion.

Aw, Puccini squawked, something.

Milo had taught the parrot to do many things, not the least of which was to turn on the computer, record his former roommate’s matches, even to type his name. Such show-stopping skills required a great deal of training. Parrots in general required a lot of attention, but Milo didn’t mind. He had rescued Puccini as it were, coming upon a group of boys who were poking the bird in a cage by the Charles River during one of Milo’s late-night runs.

Hey, leave him alone, Milo yelled. He didn’t know where he got the strength—the whole thing was like an out-of-body experience, perhaps one conjured by the way he had been bullied as a dummy genius when he was a child—but he took off after them as they dropped the birdcage and ran. Milo even called the police and traced the kids to a local boys’ school, which disciplined them. He didn’t want to see them expelled, just forced to volunteer at a local animal shelter, that would teach them. With no one to claim Puccini, Milo took him home and, with no knowledge other than Google, proceeded to rehabilitate and train him.

Rooms, you amaze me— he and Alex always called each other Rooms —The way you’ve parented Puccini while continuing your research.

I sometimes think he’s parenting me. As for my research, well, it’s still a work in progress. But soon, very soon, Allie. I’m on the cusp of something that will revolutionize the world.

Well, Einstein, while you’re busy serving the rest of us, just remember to stop and smell the roses now and then.

I will, Allie, I will. But I’m so close, so close I can taste it. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything so much. Maybe it’s like when you’re at match point in a tournament: You just want to see it through and cradle that trophy and own it. It’s not enough to create something. You’ve got to see it out there.

And you will, Milo. Just take it one step at a time.

It was a running source of concern: Alex thought he was too eager and naïve, too trusting, Milo knew, and he was right. Alex wasn’t as smart intellectually—or as smart in the same ways as Milo—but he had a kind of street-savvy that Milo didn’t possess. As a result, Milo was often taken advantage of by people like Scott Rosenberg, one of their housemates at Harvard who always had an eye to the main chance. How many times had Milo been humiliated by Scott—at cards, on the soccer field? Geez, for someone who’s so smart you’re really dumb, Scott would say. But he also said, Hey, if you ever need capital for one of your big ideas, let me know, will ya?

Milo, promise me that you’ll consult an attorney—mine or one he can recommend—before involving Scott in anything, Alex had said.

I will, Allie, Milo said. But what he didn’t say was that he had already set up a meeting with Scott and some of his businessmen friends. Hey, it didn’t hurt to meet with people, did it?

Right away, though, he had an uneasy feeling. They met at Toscano, an Italian restaurant that overlooked Harvard Square. For Milo, it was a real treat. He didn’t go there often. He didn’t eat out often, because when he did, he tended to eat the same thing he made at home—Caesar salad and penne with butter and grated Parmesan cheese.