The Last Cato (18 page)

“We don’t want to bother you, Doctor.” I heard Glauser-Röist’s booming voice over the squawk of loudspeakers calling passengers to board various flights. “We will wait until the funerals are over. What time do you think you could meet us?”

My sister Agueda stopped in front of me and pointed insistently to her watch. “I don’t know, Captain. You know how these things are. Maybe noon.”

“Not before?”

“No, Captain, not before!” I got even madder. “If you remember well, my father and brother just died and we are trying to have a funeral here!”

I could just imagine him, on the other side of the line, breathing deeply and trying to hold his composure.

“You see, Doctor, we’ve found the entrance to Purgatory. It’s here, in Sicily. In Syracuse.”

I stood there, hardly breathing. We’d found the entrance.

I
didn’t want to look at my father and brother when they opened the caskets for us to say good-bye. My mother, armed with courage, approached the coffins. First she leaned over to kiss my father on the forehead, but when she tried to kiss my brother, she fell to pieces. I saw her stagger and grip the edge of the casket, grabbing her cane with the other. Giacoma and Cesare were right behind her and rushed forward to hold her, but she fended them off with a threatening look. She bent her head and started to cry silently. I’d never seen my mother cry. Nobody had, but I think that pained us more than what was happening. Disconcerted, we looked at each other, not knowing what to do. Agueda and Lucia started to cry, too, and everyone, including me, started toward my mother to support and console her. The only one who reached her was Pierantonio; he ran around the altar and down the stairs, putting his arms around her shoulders and wiping away her tears. She was comforted by him, and for a moment looked like a little girl. We all realized that the day had produced an irreparable fissure that took its toll on her. She would never recover from the emotional toll of the deaths of her husband and son.

When the ceremony concluded and the burial ended and we were entering the house and they were starting to set the table, I asked Giacoma to lend me her car so I could go to Palermo. I was meeting with Farag and Glauser-Röist, at twelve-thirty, at La Gondola Restaurant on Via Principe di Scordia.

“Are you crazy?” my sister exclaimed, her eyes incredulous. “This isn’t the day to go out to a restaurant!”

“This is work, Giacoma.”

“That makes no difference! Call your friends and tell them to come here. You can’t leave, do you hear me?”

I called Glauser-Röist on his cell phone and explained that I couldn’t leave the villa. He and the professor were invited to have lunch at our home. I explained as best I could how to get there. I detected a note of reticence in his tone of voice that made me impatient.

They arrived just as we were about to sit down to the table. The captain was impeccably dressed as always, a somber look on his face. Farag, who usually dressed like a dignitary from some remote African country, now looked like a brave adventurer and hardened Jeep driver. The minute they walked in, I began the introductions. The professor looked disconcerted and restrained, but in his eyes you could detect the curiosity of a scientist who’s studying a new animal species. Glauser-Röist, on the other hand, was master of the situation. His aplomb and steadfastness were gratifying. My mother received them affably, and to my surprise, Pierantonio greeted the captain in a standoffish manner, as if he already knew him. After the greeting, they scurried apart like the same poles of two magnets.

I had been wanting to talk to Pierantonio since the moment he arrived, but hadn’t gotten the chance. I suddenly found myself corralled in a corner of the garden where we were having coffee, to take advantage of the nice weather. My brother was not his usual good-natured self. He had dark circles under his eyes, wrinkles on his brow. He shot me a piercing look and then grabbed me by the wrist.

“Why are you working with Captain Glauser-Röist?” he said pointblank.

“How do you know I work with him?” I replied, surprised.

“Giacoma told me. Answer my question.”

“I can’t give you any details, Pierantonio. It has to do with what we talked about on Papa’s saint day.”

“I don’t remember. Refresh my memory.”

With my free hand I shrugged, raising my palm and holding it in the air. “What’s wrong with you, Pierantonio? Are you sick in the head or what?”

My brother seemed to wake up from a dream. He looked at me, disconcerted. “Forgive me, Ottavia,” he babbled, letting go of me. “I’m a bit nervous. Forgive me.”

“Why are you nervous? Is it about the captain?”

“I’m sorry. Forget it,” he replied, moving away.

“Come back here, Pierantonio,” I ordered, sternly. He stopped abruptly. “Don’t walk away without an explanation.”

“Is little Ottavia rebelling against her big brother?” he crowed, wearing a very strange smile. But I wasn’t laughing.

“Out with it, Pierantonio, or I’ll really get angry.”

He looked very surprised and took two steps toward me, frowning again. “You know who Kaspar Glauser-Röist is? You know what his job is?”

“I know he’s a member of the Swiss Guard, but he works for the Sacred Roman Rota. He’s coordinating the investigation I’m participating in.”

My brother slowly shook his head several times. “No, Ottavia, no. Don’t be fooled. Kaspar Glauser-Röist is the most dangerous man in the Vatican, the black hand who carries out every single one of the church’s disgraceful acts. His name is associated with… This is great. Why is my sister working with the person most feared by heaven and earth?”

I was frozen and couldn’t react.

“What do you have to say for yourself? Can you not give me an explanation?” my brother insisted.

“No.”

“Well, this conversation is over, then.” He walked away to join some cousins chatting around the table in the garden. “Be careful, Ottavia. That man is not what he seems.”

When I recovered from my shock, I glimpsed over at my mother and Farag off in the distance, in an animated chat. With a faltering step, I headed their way. Before I could reach them, the captain’s huge mass blocked my way.

“Doctor, we should leave as soon as possible. It’s getting very late, and soon there won’t be any light.”

“How do you know my brother, Captain?”

“Your brother?”

“Look, don’t put on an act. I know you know Pierantonio. Don’t lie to me.”

The Rock looked around, nonchalant. “I gather Father Salina didn’t tell you, so neither will I, Doctor,” he looked down at me. “Can we please go?”

I nodded and rubbed my face in consternation.

I said good-bye to everyone, one by one, and got in the car that the captain and Farag had rented, a silver Volvo S40, with tinted windows. We crossed the city and got on Highway 121 headed for Enna, in the heart of the island. From there, we took the A19 to Catania. Glauser-Röist really enjoyed driving. He turned on the radio and played music till we left Palermo. Once we were on the highway, he turned the volume down, and Farag, who was sitting in the backseat, leaned forward over the front seats and rested his arms close to each of our shoulders.

“Actually, Ottavia, we don’t know why we’re here. We came to check out a hunch, but we may be completely mistaken.”

“Don’t pay any attention to him, Doctor. The professor has found the entrance to Purgatory.”

“Don’t pay any attention to the captain, Doctor,” the professor interjected, “I seriously doubt that we’ll find the entrance in Syracuse, but the captain is hell-bent on verifying it in situ.”

“Okay.” I sighed. “At least give me a convincing explanation. What’s in Syracuse?”

“Santa Lucia!” celebrated Farag.

I turned toward him, annoyed. “Santa Lucia?”

I was so close to the professor that I could feel his breath. I was paralyzed. A terrible feeling of shame suddenly suffocated me. I made a superhuman effort to turn back around to watch the highway in an attempt to hide my distress. Boswell had to have noticed, I told myself fearfully. It was an awkward situation. His silence was unbearable. Why didn’t he continue telling his story?

“Why Saint Lucia?” I finally asked.

“Because…” Farag cleared his throat, dumbstruck. “Because…”

I couldn’t see his hands, but I was sure they were trembling.

“I can explain, Doctor,” intervened Glauser-Röist. “Who takes Dante to the door of Purgatory?”

I ran through my memory of the text. “Saint Lucia. She transports him through the air from Pre-Purgatory while he’s asleep and leaves him by the sea. What does that have to do with Sicily? Okay, Saint Lucia is the patron saint of Syracuse, sure, but…”

“Syracuse looks out onto the sea,” the professor observed, seemingly recovered from our momentary awkwardness. “Also, after setting Dante on the ground, Saint Lucia looks in the direction to the door with the two keys.”

“Well, sure, but…”

“You know, of course, that Lucia is the patron saint of sight?”

“What a question! Naturally!”

“All images of her show her carrying her eyes on a small plate.”

“She ripped her eyes out when she was martyred. Her pagan fiancé, who denounced her as a Christian, adored her eyes, so she ripped them out and had them delivered to him.”

“May Saint Lucia preserve our sight,”
recited Glauser-Röist.

“Yes, that’s the popular refrain.”

“Nevertheless, the patron saint of Syracuse is always depicted with her eyes wide open. On the tray, she seems to be carrying an extra pair.”

“Well, that’s because no one is going to paint her with empty, bloody eye sockets.”

“You think so? In my opinion, Christian iconography never seems to have shied away from emphasizing the blood and physicality of pain.”

“Well, that’s another matter. Where are you going with this?”

“It’s simple. According to all the Christian martyrologies that describe the saint’s torture, Lucia never plucked out her eyes nor lost them in any way. The truth is, Roman authorities who served Emperor Diocletian tried to rape her and burn her alive; but because of divine intervention, they were unable to, so they finally stabbed a sword in her throat to kill her. That was December 13, 300. But there was nothing about her eyes, nothing at all. Why, then, is she patron saint of sight? Could it be another type of sight—not of the body, but a vision that leads to a higher knowledge? In fact, in the language of symbols blindness symbolizes ignorance, and vision equals knowledge.”

“That’s just an assumption,” I answered. I didn’t feel well. Farag’s long-winded commentary burdened me deeply. My father’s and brother’s deaths were still very much on my mind, and I didn’t feel like listening to enigmatic subtleties.

“Just an assumption? Listen to this: The celebration of Saint Lucia honors the supposed day of her death, December 13.”

“Yes, I know. It’s my sister’s saint day.”

“Maybe you don’t know that before the ten-day adjustment introduced by the Gregorian calendar in 1582, her day was celebrated on the winter solstice, December 21. Since ancient times, the winter solstice was when light’s victory over darkness was commemorated, because the days started growing longer.”

I didn’t say a word. I couldn’t grasp any of that rigmarole.

“Ottavia, please, you’re an educated woman. Use all your knowledge and you’ll see that what I’m saying is not some foolish notion. Dante made Saint Lucia his mysterious porter all the way to the entrance of Purgatory. After she left him on the ground, still asleep, she points out
with her eyes
the path to the door where they find the three alchemic steps and the guardian angel with the sword. Isn’t that crystal clear?”

“I don’t know. Is it?”

Farag remained silent.

“The professor isn’t sure,” murmured Glauser-Röist, pushing down on the accelerator. “That’s why we’re going to check it out.”

“There are many Saint Lucia sanctuaries in the world,” I grumbled. “Why the one in Syracuse?”

“Besides being the saint’s birthplace, where she lived and was martyred, there are other facts that make us suspect Syracuse is the correct place,” the Swiss Rock emphasized. “Cato of Utica suggests to Dante that, before appearing before the guardian angel, he wash the dirt off his face and gird his waist with rushes growing around a little island near the shore.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“The city of Syracuse was founded by the Greeks in the eighth century,” continued Farag. “At that time it went by the name Ortygia.”

“Ortygia?” I replied, trying not to turn around to look at him. “But isn’t Ortygia the island across from Syracuse?

“Aha! Right! Across from Syracuse there’s an island named Ortygia. The famous papyruses and rushes still grow there abundantly.”

“But today, Ortygia is a suburb of the city. It’s totally developed, and joined to land by a huge bridge.”

“True. That doesn’t take away one iota from the importance of the clue Dante put in his work. And you still don’t know the best part.”

“Really?” I had to admit they were beginning to make sense. As I listened to that string of theories, I was putting off the pain I felt over the tragic deaths in my family and, little by little, without realizing it, was getting back to reality.