The Last Cato (28 page)

In a corner of the living room, next to the drapes, I found the telephone book and the captain’s address book. On the same table, in a silver frame, was a photograph of a smiling girl. The girl was very pretty; she wore a brightly colored ski cap and had black hair and dark eyes. She couldn’t be the Rock’s blood relative; they looked nothing alike. Maybe she was his fiancée? I smiled. What a surprise that would be!

When I opened the address book, a stack of papers and loose cards slipped to the floor. I gathered them up and quickly looked for the number of the Vatican’s health services. Doctor Piero Arcuti was on call, someone I was acquainted with. He assured me he’d be right over. I was surprised when he asked if I thought he needed to notify the secretary of state, Angelo Sodano.

“Why should you call the cardinal?”

“There’s a note in Captian Glauser-Röist’s file that says, in a situation like this, we’re to notify the secretary of state. If he can’t be reached, we’re to call the archbishop secretary of the Second Section, Monsignor François Tournier.”

“I don’t know what to say, Dr. Arcuti. Do what you think is right.”

“In that case, Sister Salina, I’m going to call His Eminence.”

“Very well, Doctor. We’ll be expecting you.”

I’d just hung up when Farag appeared in the hall with his hands in his pockets and a quizzical look. He was as dirty and unkempt as a homeless man who had just rummaged around in the garbage.

“Did you talk to the doctor?”

“He’ll be here right away.”

He searched through his pockets and pulled something out. “Look, Ottavia. It’s the paper you found in the captain’s jacket.”

“How’s Glauser-Röist?”

“Not very well,” he said, walking toward me with the note in his hand. “I’d say he’s unconscious, not resting. He keeps passing out. What drugs do you think they gave us?”

“Whatever it was, it only affected him. You’re okay, aren’t you?”

“Not entirely. I’m starving. Look at this first, then I’ll go to the kitchen to see what I can find.”

I examined the piece of paper. It wasn’t normal paper. Even though it was soaking wet, it was still thick and rough, with jagged edges, definitely not cut by a machine. I flattened it out on my palm and I saw some sentences in Greek scarcely blurred by the Tiber River.

“From our friends, the Staurofilakes?”

“Of course.”

τί στενὴ ἡ πύλη καὶ τεθλιμμένη ἡ ὁδὸς ἡ ἀπάγουσα εἰς τὴν ζωήν, καὶ ὀλίγοι εἰσὶν οἱ εὑρίσκοντες αὐτήν.

“‘How narrow is the door and how narrow the path that leads to life.’” I translated, with a lump in my throat. “‘And how few are those who find it.’ It’s from the Gospel of Saint Matthew.”

“Everything in the Bible sounds the same to me,” Farag whispered. “The meaning is what scares me.”

“It means that the brotherhood’s next initiation test has to do with narrow doors and narrow paths. What’s this below it?…”

“Agios Konstantinos Akanzon.”

“Saint Constantine of the Thorns…,” I murmured, pensive. “It can’t refer to Emperor Constantine, although he is also a saint, because he has no title after his name, much less
Akanzon.
Could it be the name of some important Staurofilax patron or perhaps the name of a church?”

“If it’s a church, it’s in Ravenna. The second test takes place there, the sin of envy. And that part about the thorns…” He raised his glasses and ran his hands through his filthy hair, then looked down. “I don’t like the part about the thorns one bit. In Dante’s second cornice, the bodies of the envious souls are covered with hairshirts and their eyes are sewn shut with wires.”

Suddenly, a cold sweat covered my forehead and cheeks, as if my blood had instantly drained from my face.

“Please!” I begged, scared of the thought of what was to come. “Not tonight!”

“No… Not tonight,” Farag agreed, coming over and putting his arm around my shoulders. “Tonight let’s attack Kaspar’s refrigerator, then sleep for several hours. Come with me to the kitchen.”

“I hope Dr. Arcuti gets here soon.”

The captain’s kitchen was a sight. The moment we entered it, my first thought was for poor Ferma. With only a third of space and a tenth of the appliances, she took great pains to prepare delicious meals. What would she do with the captain’s household version of NASA? An amazing stainless-steel refrigerator, with a water and ice dispenser in its door; next to that, a computer panel. When we opened the door, it beeped softly and told us it was time to buy more veal.

“How do you think he manages to pay for all this?” I asked Farag, who was taking out a loaf of bread and a pile of cold cuts.

“It’s none of our business, Ottavia.”

“Why not? I’ve worked with him for over two months and all I know is he has the emotions of a stone and he reports to the Sacred Roman Rota and Tournier. Go figure!”

“He no longer reports to Tournier.”

Leaning on the red marble counter, Farag fixed mouth-watering sandwiches.

“Fine, but he still has the emotions of a stone.”

“You’ve always seen him in a bad light, Ottavia. Deep down, I think he’s just unhappy and lonely. I’m convinced he’s a good person. Life has dragged him into the unsavory place he now finds himself in.”

“Life doesn’t drag you along if you don’t let it,” I pronounced, convinced I’d said a great truth.

“Are you sure?” he asked, sarcastically, as he cut the crusts off the bread. “I know someone who wasn’t very free when it came time to choose her destiny.”

“If you’re talking about me, you’re wrong.” I was offended.

He laughed and brought two plates and a couple of brightly colored napkins to the table. “Do you know what your mother told me on Sunday after the funeral?”

Something poisonous was twisting around my heart by the second. I said nothing.

“Your mother said that of all her children, you were the brightest, the smartest, and the strongest.” Without missing a beat, he sucked hot sauce off his fingers. “I don’t know why she talked so frankly to me. In any case, she said you would only be happy living the life you’re living, giving yourself to God, because you were never made for marriage and could never have borne a husband’s demands. It seems like your mother measures the world according to the values of her day.”

“My mother measures the world however she pleases,” I replied. Who was Farag to judge my mother?

“Please, don’t get mad. I’m just telling you what she told me. Now, let’s eat these greasy, spicy sandwiches. They have a bit of nearly everything there was in the refrigerator on them. Dig in, empress of Byzantium, and you’ll experience one pleasure in life you’re not familiar with.”

“Farag!”

“Sorry,” he said. With his mouth so full, he could barely close it when he chewed. He didn’t seem the least bit apologetic.

How could he be so wide-awake when I was so dead on my feet? Some day, I told myself as I chewed the first bite and admired how good it was, someday I’d commit to some type of healthy exercise. The days of spending long hours in the lab, never moving my legs, were over. I would walk, I’d work out in the mornings and take Ferma, Margherita, and Valeria with me for a run through the Borgo.

We’d almost finished eating when the doorbell rang. “Stay here and finish,” Farag said, getting to his feet. “I’ll get the door.”

I knew the minute he headed for the door I’d fall asleep right there, right on top of that table, so I gulped down the last bite and followed him. I greeted Dr. Arcuti as he walked in. While he examined the captain, I headed for the living room, to stretch out for a few minutes on the sofa. As I passed by a half-closed door, I couldn’t resist temptation. I turned on the light and found myself in an enormous office, decorated with modern office furniture that somehow went perfectly with the antique mahogany bookshelves and the portraits of Captain Glauser-Röist’s military ancestors. On the table was a sophisticated computer that looked like it could run circles around the one in my lab. To its right, next to a window, was a stereo with more buttons and digital screens than an airplane control panel. Hundreds of CDs were stacked in strange, tall, twisted cabinets; from what I saw, there was everything from jazz to opera, including folk music (there was a CD of music by actual pygmies) and Gregorian chants. The Rock was quite a music lover.

The portraits of his ancestors were another story. With slight variations, Glauser-Röist’s face was repeated over the centuries in his greatgreat-grandparents or his great-uncles. They were all named Kaspar or Linus or Kaspar Linus Glauser-Röist. They all had the same stern expression the captain often wore—serious, grave faces; soldiers’ faces; the faces of officers or commanders of the Vatican’s Swiss Guard who dated back to the sixteenth century. I noticed that only his grandfather and father—Kaspar Glauser-Röist and Linus Kaspar Glauser-Röist— appeared in the fancy uniform designed by Michelangelo. The rest wore metal armor, breast- and backplates, as was the custom of armies in the past. Was it possible that the famous colorful uniform was actually a modern design?

A photograph much larger than the rest stood between the computer and a splendid iron cross resting on a stone pedestal. I walked around the desk to get a better look and came face to face with the same brunette whose framed picture I’d noticed in the living room. Now I was sure she was his girlfriend. Nobody has so many photographs of a friend or a sister. So, the Rock had a delightful house, a beautiful girlfriend, a noble family; he was a big fan of music and also a book lover, for there were many books in every room, not just in that office. You would have expected to find the typical collection of antique weapons that all military men value, but the Rock didn’t seem interested in that. Except for the portraits of his ancestors, that home said its owner was anything but an army officer.

“What’re you doing, Ottavia?”

I jumped and turned toward the door. “My God, Farag, you scared me!”

“What if I had been the captain? What would he have thought?”

“I didn’t touch anything. I was just looking around.”

“If I’m ever in your house, remind me to ‘look around’ in your room.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Get out of there right now—let’s go,” he said to me, ushering me out of the office. “Dr. Arcuti needs to examine your arm. The captain is going to be fine. They must have given him a very strong sleeping pill. He, too, has a nice cross on his upper right forearm. You can see it now. His and mine are a Latin design, framed by a vertical rectangle with a little seven-pointed crown on its upper half. Maybe they gave you a different model.”

“I don’t think so…,” I murmured. To tell the truth, I’d already forgotten about my arm. It had stopped bothering me quite a while ago.

We entered the Rock’s bedroom, where he was fast asleep, and still as dirty as when we left the Cloaca Maxima. Dr. Arcuti asked me to lift up the right sleeve of my sweater. The upper inside part of my forearm was a bit swollen and red, and you couldn’t see the cross because they’d put a bandage over it. For a thousand-year-old sect, they were very upto-date in the practice of tribal scarifications. Arcuti carefully pulled off the bandage.

“It’s fine,” he said, looking at my new tattoo. “It’s not infected and it’s clean, despite this greenish coloration. Some herbal antiseptic, perhaps—I couldn’t say. It’s a professional job. Would it be too much to ask…”

“Don’t ask, Dr. Arcuti,” I replied, looking at him. “It’s a new fashion trend called body art. David Bowie is one of its most ardent followers.”

“And you, Dr. Salina?”

“Yes, Doctor, I too follow the trend.”

Arcuti smiled. “I suppose you can’t tell me anything. His Eminence Cardinal Sodano told me not to be surprised by anything I see tonight, and not to ask. You must be on an important mission for the church.”

“Something like that,” Farag mused.

“Well, in that case,” he said putting a new dressing on my cross, “I’m done here. Let the captain sleep until he wakes up. You both should get some rest, too. You don’t look so good. Sister Salina, I think you’d better come with me. I have a car downstairs, and I can take you to your community.”

Dr. Arcuti was a numerary member of Opus Dei, the religious organization with more power inside the Vatican since the election of the current pope. He didn’t look favorably upon my staying overnight in a house with two men. To make matters worse, those men weren’t priests. They say the pope doesn’t do anything without Opus Dei’s blessing. Even the strongest, most independent members of the powerful Curia Romana avoided openly opposing the politico-religious directors of that conservative institution. Its members, such as Dr. Arcuti or the Vatican’s spokesman, the Spaniard Joaquin Navarro Valls, were omnipresent in every branch of the Vatican.

I looked at Farag, disconcerted, not knowing how to answer the doctor. There were plenty of bedrooms in that house. It was late, and, as tired I was, it hadn’t occurred to me that I needed to go back to the apartment at the Piazza delle Vaschette to sleep. But Dr. Arcuti insisted.

“You want to get out of those dirty clothes, right? Don’t give it another thought! How could you take a shower here? Oh no, sister.”

I realized it would be crazy to resist. Besides, if I refused, the next day or that same night my order would be severely reprimanded. And I couldn’t risk that. So I said good-bye to Farag, who was more dead than alive, and left with the doctor. He let me out at the Piazza delle Vaschette, smiling like someone who has done his duty. Ferma, Margherita, and Valeria were scared to death when they saw the state I was in. I know I showered, but I have no idea how I got to bed.