The Last Cato (64 page)

“Yes, and so I can kill him,” I agreed. “I always said he was a very disagreeable man.”

EPILOGUE

F
ive years have passed since we left
Paradeisos.
During those five years— as I foresaw—we were interrogated by police forces from the countries we traveled through, by those in charge of security at various Christian churches, and especially by the Rock’s replacement, one Gottfried Spitteler, also a captain in the Swiss Guard. He didn’t buy a single word of our story and quickly became our shadow. We spent a few months in Rome, to put an end to the investigation and so I could wrap up my affairs with the Vatican and my order. Afterward, we traveled to Palermo to stay with my family for a few days. But things didn’t go so well with my family, so we left earlier than planned. Although, on the surface, I loved my family as before, the abyss that opened between us was no longer reconcilable. I decided the only thing I could do was put distance between them by moving a safe distance away, no matter how much pain it caused me. We returned to Rome and then caught a plane for Egypt. Despite his reticence, Butros received us with open arms, and a few days later, Farag returned to his job at the Greco-Roman Museum in Alexandria. We wanted to attract as little attention as possible, adopting a low-key way of life, just as the Staurofilakes recommended.

Months passed. Meanwhile, I dedicated myself to studying. I appropriated Farag’s office and contacted old friends and acquaintances in the academic world who immediately started to send me job offers. I only accepted those investigations, publications, and studies I could do from home, from Alexandria, which didn’t force me to leave Farag. I also learned Arabic and Coptic. My new passion was the Egyptian hieroglyphic language.

We were happy in Alexandria from the start. But during the first months, the constant presence of the charming Gottfried Spitteler, who followed us from Rome and rented a house in the Saba Facna neighborhood right next to our house, became a real nightmare. After a while, we discovered that the trick was not to pay any attention to him; we ignored him as if he were invisible. It will soon be a year since he completely vanished from our lives. He must have gone back to Rome, to the Swiss Guard’s barracks, convinced at last—or not—that the story about the Oasis of Farafrah was true.

One day, soon after we settled down on Moharrem Bey Street, we received a strange visit. An animal dealer brought us a beautiful cat. According to the note that came with it, it was “a gift from the Rock.” I still don’t understand why Glauser-Röist sent us this cat with enormous pointy ears and dark brown, spotted fur. The dealer told Farag and me, as the animal with enormous, wary eyes studied us, that it was a very valuable Abyssinian cat. Since then, this tireless creature roams around the house as if he owns the place. He has conquered the
didaskalos’
heart (but not mine) with his games and demand for affections. We named him Rock in Glauser-Röist’s honor. Sometimes between Tara, Butros’s dog, and Rock, Farag’s cat, I feel like I’m living in a zoo.

Recently we have started to prepare for our trip to Turkey. It’s been five years since we left
Paradeisos,
and we still haven’t collected our “present.” Now it’s time to do so. We are planning a way to “accidentally” come upon Constantine’s mausoleum without having to pass through the fountain of ablutions at Fatih Camii. This project has monopolized all our attention until this morning. The same merchant who brought us Rock, the cat, has brought us—finally—an envelope with a long letter from Captain Glauser-Röist. Farag was at the museum, so I put on my shoes and jacket and went to the museum to read it with him.

From what we could deduce from his missive, the Rock was up to date on all we had done. He even knew we hadn’t gone to Constantinople. He urged us not to wait any longer “since things have completely calmed down.” He told us he’s been living with Khutenptah for five years now, and that sadly, the elderly Cato has died. Cato CCLVII left this world fifteen days ago now, and the new Cato, number two hundred fifty-eight on the list, has been selected and will be officially installed in a month in the Temple of the Cross in Stauros. The Rock extends a thousand million pleas for us to come to
Paradeisos
on that day. According to him, Cato CCLVIII would be more than delighted and more than happy to have us there. That day, he added, needs to be the most complete in the life of Cato CCLVIII, and it won’t be complete if we don’t attend the ceremony.

I looked up from the paper—the same thick, rough paper the Staurofilakes used for the clues during the tests—and looked questioningly at Farag.

“Well, of course we’re interested, whoever it may be.” I observed, very puzzled. “But who do you think will be the new Cato? Ufa, Teodros, Candace…?”

“Look at the signature,” Farag stuttered, his eyes wide, an amused smile on his lips.

The letter from Captain Glauser-Röist, written in Captain Glauser-Röist’s hand, with the name Captain Glauser-Röist on the envelope was signed Cato CCLVIII.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

T
o create worlds, characters, and stories using words as only tools is an activity that can only take place in solitude and, in my case, in silence and at night. During the day, however, I need all those people who accompany me in the beautiful and incredible process of writing a novel. Therefore, it would be quite selfish of me to publicly ignore their collaboration and make readers believe that I am the only one behind the book they now hold in their hands. First and foremost, I would like to thank Patricia Campos for her constant support and for reading—
every single day
— the few pages I wrote, and for rereading the text as many times as was necessary, never complaining, and always offering me wonderful insights, comments, and suggestions. Second, I would like to thank José Manuel Baeza for his precious help on the Greek and Latin translations, and for being the best researcher in the world: he is capable of finding the oddest information from the oddest of all books. Third, I would like to thank Luis Peñalver, the most conscientious and meticulous copyeditor an author can have. I will not tell here how far he is willing to go, but all those who appear on this page have countless anecdotes that have made us laugh out loud. Fourth, I would like to thank a group of people who read the book in installments, and who served as an experimental laboratory, of constant support (if they were unable to figure out certain things, neither would the reader): Lorena Sancho, Lola Guilas, and Olga García (from Plaza y Janés). Thank you also to Cristina Mora for going over the English translation of the book.

It would be impossible for me to finish writing this page without mentioning my favorite editor, Carmen Fernández de Blas. People say that the two most personal things an author can have is her agent and her editor, and that’s true. Carmen has been my editor since I published my first novel, and I have always considered her to be
my
editor, even though the comings and goings of the publishing world have led her to take care of, cherish, and protect other authors, just as she once took care of, cherished, and protected me during her stupendous time at Plaza y Janés. I plan on calling her “my editor” for years and years to come. Amen.