The Last Cato (17 page)

Dante, his mind clear from the shadows of his dream, continues on with Virgil in the direction Lucia pointed, and they come before three steps. At the top of those steps, behind a door, is the guardian angel of Purgatory, the first of the ministers of Paradise that Cato had told them about.

He said to us: “Speak up from where you are.
What is it that you want? Where is your guide?
Beware, you may regret your coming here.”

“A while ago, a lady sent from Heaven
acquainted with such matters,” said my guide,
“told me: ‘Behold the gate. You must go there.’”
†

Clutching a gleaming sword, the guardian angel invites them to climb to where he stands. The first step was made of gleaming white marble, the second of a rough, black stone, the third of blood-red porphyry. According to a footnote, this landscape was an allegory of the sacrament of the confession: The angel represented the priest and the sword symbolized the priest’s words that move us to repent. At that moment I thought of Sister Berardi, one of my high school teachers, who explained that landscape to us. She used to say, “The white marble step signifies the examination of conscience; the black stone, the pain of contrition; the red porphyry, the satisfaction of repentance.” The mind retains such strange things! After all these years, I could recall Sister Berardi and her soporific literature classes.

Just then, the captain and Farag poked their heads in my door. “How’s it going?” the professor asked sarcastically, wearing a big grin. “Have you overcome your childhood traumas?”

“No, I haven’t.” I flopped back in my chair and rested my glasses on my forehead. “This work is still an unbearable bore.”

He studied me in a strange way I couldn’t put my finger on. Then like someone awakening from a long dream, he blinked and got tonguetied. “Where… where have you gotten to?” He jammed his hands into the pockets of his old jacket.

“The conversation with the guardian of Purgatory, the angel with the sword standing on the steps.”

“Terrific! That’s one of the most interesting parts! The three steps of alchemy.”

“The three steps of alchemy?” I parroted, wrinkling my nose.

“Oh, come on, Ottavia! Surely you know that those steps represent the three steps in the alchemic process: Albedo, Nigredo, and Rubedo. The Work in White, or
Opus Album;
the Work in Black, or
Opus Nigrum;
and…” Seeing the surprised look on my face, he stopped and smiled. “It
must
ring a bell… You’re probably more familiar with the Greek names: Leucosis, Melanosis, and Iosis.”

“Of course it sounds familiar, but I never would have imagined that the steps of Purgatory had anything to do with alchemy. What I remember is that they were a symbol for the sacrament of the confession…”

“The sacrament of the confession? Look what he wrote: The guardian angel’s feet rest on the step of porphyry and he is seated at the threshold of a door made of diamonds. With the Work in Red, which is sublimation, the last step of the alchemic process, one reaches the philosopher’s stone which is made of diamonds, remember?”

“Yes…” I couldn’t shake my astonishment. I would never have suspected it. This interpretation was much more plausible than the one about confession.

“I see you’re bewildered! I’ll leave you to your work. Keep reading.”

“Yeah, sure. See you at dinner.”

“We’ll come by for you.”

But I wasn’t listening to him anymore, I couldn’t do a single thing. I gazed, stunned, at the text of
Purgatory.

“I said, Kaspar and I will come get you for lunch,” Farag repeated from the door, in a really loud voice. “Okay, Ottavia?”

“Yeah, sure… lunch, right.”

Dante Alighieri had just been reborn in my eyes. I was starting to think maybe the Swiss Rock had been right, that the
Divine Comedy
was a book for initiates. But, dear God, how could that be linked to the Staurofilakes? I massaged the bridge of my nose and put my glasses back on, ready to read the rest of the verses with greater interest and new eyes.

Farag interrupted me when Virgil and Dante were at the steps. Once they climbed them, Virgil tells his pupil to humbly ask the angel to open the latch.

Falling devoutly at his holy feet,
In mercy’s name I begged to be let in;
But, first of all, three times I smote my breast.

Then with his sword he traced upon my brow
The scars of seven P’s. “Once entered here,
be sure you cleanse away these wounds,” he said.

From beneath his ash- or earth-colored robes, the angel takes out two keys, one made of silver and the other, gold. The angel opens the locks first with the white, then the yellow, explains Dante:

“Whenever either one of these two keys
fails to turn properly inside the lock,”
the angel said, “the road ahead stays closed.

“One is more precious, but the other needs
Wisdom and skill before it will unlock,
For it is that one which unties the knot.

“I hold these keys from Peter, who advised:
‘Admit too many, rather than too few,
if they but cast themselves before your feet.’ ”

Then, pushing back the portal’s holy door,
“Enter,” he said to us, “but first be warned:
to look back means to go back out again.”

Well, I said to myself, if that isn’t a guide for entering Purgatory, I don’t know what is. I had to admit Glauser-Röist was completely right. But we were still missing the main point: Where in the real world would we find the Pre-Purgatory, the three alchemic steps, the guardian angel, and the door with two locks?

At noon as we headed for the cafeteria, I realized I should mention my temporary absence from the team to Glauser-Röist.

“On Sunday, I celebrate my renewal of vows, Captain. I need to go on a retreat for a couple of days. Without fail, I’ll be back on Monday.”

“We’ve really fallen behind,” he muttered angrily. “Couldn’t you take just Saturday?”

“What is renewal of vows?” Farag asked.

“Well,” I answered bewildered. “We in the Order of the Blessed Virgin Mary renew our vows every year.” For a nun, talking about these things was the most private, intimate part of her life. “Other orders take perpetual vows or they renew them every two or three years. We do it every year on the fourth Sunday of Easter.”

“The vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience?” Farag insisted.

“Strictly speaking, yes…” I replied growing more and more uncomfortable. “But not just that… Well, yes it’s that, but…”

“Don’t you Coptics have ordained people as well?” Glauser-Röist came to my rescue.

“Yes, sure. Forgive me, Ottavia. I was just being curious.”

“No, it’s okay, really.”

“I thought you were a nun forever,” Farag added rather inappropriately. “An annual renewal of vows is a good thing. If you decide you don’t want to go on being a nun someday, you can leave.”

The strong sunlight coming through the windows blinded me for a moment. For some reason, I didn’t explain to him that throughout the entire history of my order, no nun had ever quit.

G
od’s designs are so hard to understand! We are immersed in total blindness from the day we’re born till the day we die. During the brief interval we call life, we have no control over what happens around us. On Friday the phone in our apartment rang. I was in the chapel with Ferma and Margherita, reading some passages by Father Caciorgna, the founder of our order, trying to prepare for the ceremony on Sunday. I don’t know why, but when I heard the phone ringing, I knew instinctively that something serious had happened. Valeria answered the phone. Seconds later, the door to the chapel half-opened softly.

“Ottavia, it’s for you.”

I got up, crossed myself, and left. My sister Agueda’s voice wailed on the other end of the phone line.

“Ottavia. Papa and Giuseppe…”

“Papa and Giuseppe?” I asked when my sister had grown quiet.

“Papa and Giuseppe are dead.”

“What do you mean, Papa and Giuseppe are dead?” I was finally able to ask. “What are you saying, Agueda?”

“Yes, Ottavia,” my sister began to cry softly. “They’re dead.”

“My God! What happened?”

“An accident. A horrible accident. They were driving on the highway, and…”

“Calm down, please. Don’t cry in front of the children.”

“They’re not here,” she wailed again. “Antonio took them to his parents’ house. Mama wants everyone to meet at the estate.”

“And Mama? How’s Mama?”

“You know how strong she is… But I’m worried about her.”

“And Rosalia? And Giuseppe’s children?”

“That’s all I know, Ottavia. They’re all at the villa. I’m leaving right away.”

“Me, too. I’ll catch the ferry tonight.”

“No,” my sister scolded me. “Don’t catch the ferry. Get on a plane. I’ll ask Giacoma to send some men to pick you up at the airport.”

W
e spent the entire night holding a wake and praying the Rosary in the living room, by the light of tall wax candles set on tables and the hearth. My father’s and brother’s bodies were still in the forensic offices in Palermo, although the judge assured my mother that, first thing the next morning, they would bring them to us so they could be exhumed in the cemetery at our villa. My brothers Cesare, Pierluigi, and Salvatore, who went to the depository at dawn, told us that Papa and Giuseppe were very disfigured and it wouldn’t be wise to have open caskets in the candlelit chapel. My mother called the funeral home—it turns out we own it—to tell the makeup artists to compose the bodies as much as possible before bringing them home.

Giuseppe’s wife, Rosalia, was shattered. Her children clung to her, inconsolable, worried something would happen to her. She couldn’t stop crying, a blank look in her unfocused eyes, like that of a crazy woman. My sisters, Giacoma, Lucia, and Agueda, stayed with my mother, who led the Rosary, her brow furrowed, her face a waxen mask. My other sisters-in-law, Letizia and Livia, attended to the numerous family visitors who, despite the late hour, came to extend their condolences and join in the prayers.

And me? I drifted around the mansion, going up and down the stairs, my heart in such pain. I couldn’t stay still. When I got to the rooftop terrace, I was surprised to see the sky through the attic window. I turned around and went back down to the reception, letting my hand trail along the soft, shiny wood banister we’d slid down so many times as kids. My mind kept going back to childhood memories of my father and brother. I repeated to myself that my father had been a good father, an unbeatable father, and my brother Giuseppe, despite becoming taciturn over the years, had been a good brother. When I was little, he’d tickle me and hide my toys to make me mad. The two of them had spent their lives working, maintaining and enlarging a family patrimony we were deeply proud of.

The condolences and weeping kept up till the next day. Villa Salina was filled with sadness and pain. Dozens of vehicles were parked by the garden. Hundreds of people took my hand, kissed my face, and hugged me. Only the Sciarra sisters were missing, which pained me deeply, for Concetta Sciarra had been my best friend for years. However, I can’t say I was surprised that Doria, the youngest, was not there. The last thing we’d heard was that she’d left Sicily before she turned twenty and wandered here and there in who knows what foreign country. Now she was working as a secretary in some remote embassy. But I knew Concetta loved my father at least as much as I loved hers. Despite business squabbles between our families, I never thought she’d stay away.

The funeral took place on Sunday morning; Pierantonio couldn’t get home from Jerusalem until late Saturday night, and my mother was determined to have him celebrate the Mass. I don’t recall much until Pierantonio arrived. My brother and I hugged each other tight, then other mourners took him aside, kissed his hand, and paid him the reverences required by his position and circumstance. When they left him in peace, he grabbed a bite to eat, then shut himself away with Mama in her bedroom. As for me, I fell asleep on the sofa where I had sat down to pray.

Very early Sunday morning as we entered our church for the funerals, I received an unexpected phone call from Captain Glauser-Röist. Heading for the nearest phone, I grumbled, annoyed, wondering why he could possibly be calling me at such a bad time. I told him what happened and said good-bye before I left Rome. His call seemed disrespectful and woefully awkward. Given the circumstances, I wasn’t one for courtesy.

“Is that you, Dr. Salina?” he asked when he heard my curt hello.

“Of course it’s me, Captain.”

“Doctor,” he ignored my unpleasant tone of voice. “Professor Boswell and I are here in Sicily.”

“Here? In Palermo?”

“Actually, we’re at the airport in Punta Raisi, thirty miles outside the city. Professor Boswell is renting a car.”

“What are you doing here? If you’ve come for my father and brother’s funeral, you’re a little late. You won’t get here in time.”

I felt uncomfortable. On the one hand, I appreciated his goodwill and his desire to be with me during such a sad time; but on the other, his gesture was unwarranted and somewhat inappropriate.