The Little Black Book

It's a fact that If you meet a man from Ireland and he tells you he was born in 1980, you have a 10 to 1 shot that his name is John Paul. There’s a club of John Pauls, a nod to the Pope and the weekend he spent touring Ireland in 1979, a time when half of Ireland whisked itself into a frenzy of Pope John Paul II adulation.

 I was sixteen when I left school that summer; my father was a jockey, and from the day I was born I wanted to be a jockey too, so to finance my training I got a job with a local company refitting trucks. On the first morning my boss Matt asked could I keep a secret? I assured him I could.

 Matt told me Ford Motors had commissioned him to make the Popemobile. He said Ford had provided the chassis and he had designed the rest.  His vision was a bright yellow custom-built bus with shatterproof glass and an open-air balcony that allowed thousands of people to see the Pope waving as he was driven through the crowds. Back then the Pope was a bigger deal than any rock star.

 We were a team of twenty guys and we worked night and day. We added deep red carpet and a big velvet chair; behind that, fifteen red velvet seats. The pressure was on; we had five weeks to build it. I knew every nut and bolt of that Popemobile.

 We were almost done when we received instructions that a secret compartment was required. There was an Archbishop in the entourage and he liked to carry a gun. They called him “The Gorilla.”

 Matt himself built the compartment under the Pope’s seat, but because it was a rush job added after the seats were already bolted in place, the sliding lid was awkward, tricky to get at because there was so little room to maneuver.  

 Being the smallest, I was responsible for opening and closing the compartment, so I was sent up to Dublin with the Popemobile. Matt wanted no trouble, and he reckoned that the Pope and his team, being middle-aged and dressed up in their finery, mightn’t be able to get down between the seats to open the compartment.

 Up in Dublin I kept a low profile. I’d say I never spoke at all. But when the Gorilla wanted the compartment opened, he would beckon to me. I’d slip in between the seats and slide the cover. Then when he beckoned me again, I’d get in and slide it back. I never saw any gun.

 Two days later the show was over. They were gone. Back to Rome I suppose.

There was no more need for the Popemobile, Matt said it was to be stored in Dublin. I climbed in for the last time and I checked the compartment, hoping maybe the Gorilla left his gun behind! No, he hadn’t, but I could see something in there. I reached in; it was a small black notebook. There was no-one else on the bus, so I dropped it in my jacket pocket.

On the train back to Waterford, I flicked through the notebook. A few pages of immaculate handwriting, neither English nor Irish, maybe Italian? Then five pages of diagrams drawn in black ink and pencil, followed by several pages of lists.  Nothing great, I was better off watching the fields go by from the window.  

When I got home, I put the black notebook in my Dad’s filing cabinet; it was the only safe place in the house. He kept a file labelled “Ed” and I dropped it in there.

 I never went back to the truck fitting job. I did become a jockey. 

 Later on I got a Donnelly visa, which allowed me to live and work in America.  Jockeys get hurt frequently. I’m glad I did because that’s how I met Annie, a nurse at the ER near the track. 

 I rode here for twenty years. I had many great wins; you get a bit institutionalized. It was time to stop, so I took a job at the track close to home.

 My sister was back in Ireland looking after Dad; she called a couple of years ago, Dad was not good.

 After the funeral, we helped her sort through Dad’s things.  She gave me his watch, his glasses, and some photos of his glory days. She gave me my file from his filing cabinet, mostly scrap and a few letters from myself from when I'd left for California. The small black notebook was there too.

 Back in Pasadena, life was soon back to normal.  At least it was normal until 2020.

 Annie died last September. I won’t go into that now.

 The evenings are so long, I never was into TV except for racing. I don’t drink, but I wish I did.  I often sit and look through Annie’s phone. I read our texts and look through all the photos. I can lose a whole evening just scrolling through.

 A few days ago I picked up Dads “Ed” file.  The small black notebook reminds me of the summer of ‘79 and the times we had working on the Popemobile. My first ever job.

 I type the Gorilla's real name into Google. He comes up immediately. He died in a retirement home ten years ago.  So I guess the black book is mine then! 

 I type a few of the words into Google Translate. I try Italian to English. Well, the translation makes the diagrams look more interesting. A blueprint for a machine.

 I consider throwing the book out along with my pony club  certificates and other dross, but it’s a lovely old notebook and the diagrams so intricate, they could be of interest to someone if they could decipher them.

 Who? It would need to be a sort of tech-savvy engineer type.  No regular Joe like me could make head nor tail of them. 

 The funny thing about the horse business, you meet every sort there is.  As a jockey I met the owners, so I’ve met millionaires, billionaires, celebrities, scientists, you name it. They love their racing. They live to win.

 I wouldn't call them my friends, but our lives have entwined. During a big race, coming up to the finish, I hold all their dreams in my hands.

 That’s why I think of Gretchen Scott. I rode for Gretchen Scott, I won some big races for her. She’s CEO of TiptimeTech. She walks all over the silicone valley guys. She’d walk all over God himself if she needed to.

 I can't just pick up the telephone and call, but I have an email address for her.  Annie used to email New Year’s cards to everyone. Owners, trainers, the guys on the backstretch, everyone.  It was just the way she was. She didn’t stop sending them when I quit racing either.

 I use the scanner app on my phone; I scan all the pages of the book, diagrams, lists and all.  I email Gretchen, explaining briefly who the black book belonged to; I attach one diagram and one list. I tell her if she's interested, I’ll send on the rest of the pages. 

 Yesterday evening I’m in the kitchen scrolling through Annie’s phone. There’s a knock on my front door. 

 Gretchen Scott is standing on my doorstep. What the ...?  Gretchen Scott here at my house? I haven’t seen her for years and never away from the track. 

 "Hello Ed. Thank you for your email." 

"Hello  ... Come in"

"No I can't stay." 

"Ed, I’m interested in having a proper look at the black notebook you mentioned. May I see it?" 

 I leave her at the door and grab the notebook from the kitchen.  She takes it from me, flipping straight to the diagrams. She's quiet for a minute.

"I’d like to buy this from you."  I’m about to answer that she is welcome to have it when she reaches in her coat pocket and produces a wad of notes.

 “This is $10,000 in $100 notes. Will that work?”  I haven’t made a dime in months. Ten thousand dollars in cash could really help me out.

"Sure."  She hands me the cash and pockets the book. 

"Ed, the pictures you emailed me?" 

"Yes"

"You took them on your phone?"

"Yes"

"There are no other copies?"

"No" 

"You sent them to no one else?"  As she spoke, she reached out and took the phone from my hand.

"I’d like to buy your phone too."  There was no real pretense that she was asking.

 "Another $10,000" she said, handing me another wad of cash.

"Thank you, Ed. It was lovely to see you again."

 She stepped back and walked to a waiting car.  Within seconds she was gone, leaving me standing in the doorway holding $20,000 in cash.  I put the money on the kitchen table, my heart racing, I’ve got $20 grand!  Gretchen Scott was just at my house and she gave me $20 grand! 

 My mouth feels dry, my mind spinning; I'm kind of conflicted because on the one hand I’ve got twenty thousand dollars in cash on my kitchen table.  An hour ago I’d have been happy to find a tenner in my pocket. But I know instinctively this is way too weird to be o.k.

 Then I notice my phone on the table. It takes a moment to sink in that I just sold Annie’s phone to Gretchen Scott, not mine. 

 I never meant to do that. I would never do that. Panic sets in. I need to get hold of Gretchen Scott. I need to swap the phones. I need Annie’s phone back.

 I scroll to the email sent from my phone.  I'd sent it yesterday afternoon.  How did she know where I live?  What the hell did I send to cause this insane reaction?

 I print the email and spread the pages on the kitchen table; now I can read it all properly. It had been the diagrams she seemed most interested in.  But it means nothing to me.

No glaring reason I can see for her to drop everything, fly to LA with pockets full of cash, and hand me $20,000. 

 The diagram is labeled "Cronovisore."  I type it into the translate app on my phone.  The translation is "Chronovisor."

 I Google Chronovisor: 

 The Chronovisor is a device supposedly owned by the Vatican that allows people to view events in the past and future. Evidence for...

 I pick up the page with the scanned list: I knew I had recognized a couple of the dates.

•  Maggio 13 1981.  St. Peter’s Square 
• Settembre 11 2001.  New York

 There are so many lists of dates.  I don't recognize any more.  Many are dates in the future.

 I feel something I haven't felt in a long time.  The feeling is hope. Hope is a good thing.  It means I am not irreparably broken.

 I pick the next date listed.  I type it ...  March 12. 2021 hit return ...