Sphinx (43 page)

I stepped inside and felt instant relief from the late-afternoon heat. The high vaulted ceiling was a mosaic of coloured light. I walked towards the main altar, my footsteps echoing in the profound silence. A man sweeping the marble floor spoke to me in Italian, offering himself as a guide. When I asked for Father Carlotto, he disappeared through a side door. I took the opportunity to wander around the cathedral, recalling how it had looked during the funeral, how dreamlike the altars had seemed to me with their gilded wood and lurid stained glass.

I stopped before one window that showed the figure of Christ, the crown of thorns cutting into his forehead, his limbs emaciated. He was reaching towards an older man who was offering him a set of keys, and it was this older figure who had caught my attention. I stared at the grey-haired man, his peasant’s face infused with benevolence. I knew him from my Catholic childhood - Saint Peter, the gatekeeper. But it was the bird that hovered over his left shoulder that fascinated me. I knew it immediately - a sparrowhawk. Then I remembered Zoë asking me about the bird fluttering around my own left shoulder. Instinctively, my hand went up to touch the space next to my left ear. Nothing. What was I expecting, ghosts?

‘Our Saviour handing the keys to Saint Peter. Beautiful, isn’t it?’

I swung around and recognised the short tanned man in his early thirties from Isabella’s funeral. If he hadn’t been wearing a cassock I might have mistaken him for an insurance salesman.

‘What is the symbolism of the bird?’ I asked.

‘The sparrowhawk was the emblem of Saint Peter. Of course, the early Christians borrowed from the culture around them and so the Copts assimilated some of the Ancient Egyptian symbols - the sparrowhawk was important to them as well. You have an interest in such things, Mr Warnock?’

‘You remember me from the funeral . . .’

‘With some difficulty. With that beard I almost mistook you for one of my Coptic brothers.’ He shook my hand, his palm surprisingly cold. ‘How can I help you?’

I glanced around carefully to make sure we weren’t overheard. The cathedral appeared empty but I wasn’t prepared to take a risk. ‘I wanted to ask you about the body of my wife.’

‘
Scusi?
’ He looked flustered, as if he thought he might have misheard.

‘Francesca tells me she organised for your staff to collect the body from the ambulance before it was delivered to the city mortuary.’

‘Francesca?’

‘Madame Brambilla, my wife’s grandmother. Surely you know her? After all, your church has looked after the family for decades.’

‘No, there has been a mistake.’

‘Madame Brambilla told me herself.’

Father Carlotto guided me to one of the smaller enclaves, a family shrine. ‘Monsieur Warnock, the Brambilla family was excommunicated many years ago,’ he murmured discreetly.

‘Excommunicated?’ I couldn’t hide the shock in my voice.

‘In 1946. I looked it up in the records when Madame Brambilla begged me to hold your wife’s funeral in our cathedral. I had to have a rather difficult conversation with the Bishop, but we concluded that the sins of the father - or, in this case, the grandfather - had nothing to do with the granddaughter. May God rest her soul.’

‘But what about Paolo Brambilla? He died in 1956 - wasn’t he buried by this church?’

‘He is buried, it is true. But not by this church.’

I looked away to disguise my amazement. My gaze fell on a stained-glass depiction of Saint Sebastian stuck with a dozen arrows, his face twisted in a tragic grimace.

‘Why were they excommunicated?’ I asked.

‘That is a private matter between the church and the family.’

I pulled out my wallet. ‘But I am part of the family. And you know, on behalf of the family, I was thinking we should make a donation - say, a hundred dollars. I noticed on the way in that you are in the middle of restoring your roof.’

Father Carlotto hesitated, pursing his lips. Finally, with a certain resignation, he threw up his hands. ‘Indeed, and such a generous donation would be most welcome. But, Mr Warnock, you cannot bribe me into surrendering the secret records of the church.’

I picked up a prayer book that had been left on a pew and tucked two fifty-dollar bills between the pages. ‘Please, Father, for the sake of my wife. I have reason to believe that her spirit is not at peace.’

I pressed the prayer book into his hands. He stared at me as if deciding whether to trust me or not. Finally he took the book.

‘Indeed, I am sure she is most certainly not at peace. Her death was a great tragedy, perhaps an unnecessary one. As to the excommunication, apparently the grandfather had some unfortunate associates - eccentric people who indulged in all sorts of strange pagan rituals. Harmless, really, I suppose, just fanatical historians who got carried away. This country has many echoes; they can creep into your head and make the imagination run riot. My predecessor was prepared to ignore them, but some of the congregation got upset. And then, when Nasser came,’ he lowered his voice, ‘there was a witch-hunt. No one was safe.’

‘And my wife’s body?’

‘I have no idea. We certainly didn’t collect the body. I only ever saw the coffin. I can show you the entry in the record book.’

‘That won’t be necessary. One other thing, Father, the fish is a Christian symbol, isn’t it?’

Father Carlotto smiled, relaxing at last. ‘The fish represents the disciples of Jesus, some of whom, as you know, were fishermen. It was used as a secret symbol in the first century AD by early Christians who maintained their faith against the hostility of the Roman Empire. The tradition has continued over the centuries - it has never been easy being Christian in this part of the world. Even now, some of the young Copts here in Alexandria have hidden tattoos to indicate their faith. The symbol also appears in murals in the tombs at Kom el-Shugafa, a place that some of my congregation still believe is haunted.’

He hesitated, then, after checking that the church was still empty, went on in a nervous whisper, ‘But there is something else you should know . . . your wife came to see me before she died.’

I tensed. ‘About what?’

‘She came to me and asked to be baptised so that she could make confession. She was terrified. I baptised her there and then with holy water, then took her confession. Mr Warnock, I believe she had found herself involved in things beyond her control. She told me of the existence of an object, the significance of which would shake up the religious and historical worlds. She asked me whether the church would provide sanctuary if necessary. I reassured her that it would, but I’m afraid I was slightly sceptical. She wasn’t the first Egyptologist I’d taken confession from who had spoken of such matters. There was another young Egyptologist, about twenty years before, also a woman . . .’

As I listened I suddenly remembered Demetriou al-Masri’s story about the other corpse he’d examined who had also been missing her organs. I shivered as a sudden chill passed through the stone walls of the church. Who was she?

‘You knew about the existence of the astrarium?’ I asked him directly.

Visibly startled, Father Carlotto crossed himself, ‘Please, it is dangerous even to speak the name out loud. But yes, I had heard rumour of such an object. There is a monk I know - not Catholic, he is of the Coptic order - who once told me of ancient documents in his care, both from the time of the Pharaohs and also from the time of Napoleon’s invasion, that spoke of the existence of such a device. Father Mina, he is at Deir Al Anba Bishoy at Wadi El-Natrun. I can make a few discreet enquires on your behalf, if you wish - I owe your wife that much. I don’t know if you know the story but there is an account by an early bishop, a Saint John, who claimed that Hypatia herself used both an astrolabe and witchcraft to entice the Roman governor of Alexandria back to the pagan ways. Perhaps this was the very same device - who knows?’

‘Isabella was convinced that the only thing Hypatia had been guilty of was being more intellectual than her male counterparts,’ I retorted.

Father Carlotto smiled. ‘She was a strong-willed woman, your wife. Perhaps if I had suggested she left Egypt . . . But she was almost hysterical, she wasn’t really making much sense. I’m deeply sorry now that I didn’t take her more seriously.’

‘When was this?’

‘About two weeks before her death.’ He stepped closer. ‘Come back to me in a few days - I’ll see what I can find out for you. But listen, my friend, if you should need sanctuary at any time, we can help you. My Coptic brothers at Wadi El-Natrun will take you in for as long as necessary. They have helped others this way, and, despite your loss of faith, you are still a Catholic, no? And with that beard you would be almost invisible.’

I examined his open face cautiously, wondering how much he actually knew about the circumstances of Isabella’s death. All I could see was someone burdened by a confession and worried that he had somehow played a part in a premature death.

He placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Please, sometimes in life one must simply trust. Remember my offer.’ And he left, the prayer book clasped in his hands.

I stood beside the huge pipe organ that sat beneath a stained-glass window depicting the trials of Saint Cecily. What terror had compelled Isabella to resort to confessing to a priest? I knew she’d occasionally gone to church but I’d never known her to go to confession. What had she been running from?

The sound of a familiar voice murmuring in English broke my reverie. It was coming from a side chapel: a woman’s voice asking about candles. I walked towards it, and entered an alcove with a marble relief depicting a martyred female saint against the far wall. Photographs of children and small offerings of flowers had been placed at the saint’s feet. There was even a rusting, unopened can of Pepsi. The woman had her back to me, but I still recognised her. She kneeled and placed a small bunch of gardenias with the other offerings.

‘Saint Sabine - isn’t she the patron saint of children?’ I asked.

Startled, Rachel Stern rose to her feet. ‘Do I know you?’

I realised I must have looked fairly intimidating, cuts and bruises slowly fading but still a horrible patchwork on my face, my beard long, my hair tousled.

‘Rachel, it’s Oliver.’

She regained her composure. ‘Oliver! I didn’t recognise you with all that hair on your face. What a surprise.’

‘A pleasant one, I hope. I’m sorry, I’ve disturbed you in prayer.’

‘Shh, don’t tell my rabbi. The offerings are for my sister - she’s been trying to conceive for years. Apparently if you genuflect enough, the saint will come to the rescue, although I hope it isn’t an immaculate conception - there are enough martyrs in the family as it is.’

She hauled her bag over her shoulder and began walking out of the chapel. I followed.

The sun blinded us for a moment as we stepped out of the cathedral. A young boy in rags slipped out from the shadow of a doorway, stretching out the stump he had for an arm. I pressed a few coins into his other hand.

Rachel armed herself with a huge pair of sunglasses, then assessed my crumpled linen jacket and jeans.

‘I heard about your friend Barry,’ she said, ‘I was so shocked. He didn’t seem the type to commit suicide.’

‘He wasn’t.’

A group of boys in uniform leaving the courtyard of the cathedral school ran past us laughing and I found myself relishing not being alone. The same loneliness I’d felt when I’d put the telephone down on my family came rushing back. I needed company. ‘Look, would you like to go for a drink?’

‘A drink? Last time we spoke I had the strong impression you didn’t even like me.’

‘I was drunk and belligerent. I apologise.’

Rachel studied me quizzically. ‘No, I don’t think so. Sorry, Oliver.’ She walked away.

I followed her. ‘Please, I just need to talk to someone who knows my history, someone I trust . . .’

She stopped. ‘Are you in trouble?’

‘Please, Rachel, you can’t image how alone I’ve been . . .’

She hesitated, searching my face for something, perhaps a trace of the idealistic student she’d known, and then linked her arm through mine.