The Last Cato (34 page)

“Fine, so why hasn’t anything happened?” I asked.

“What’s supposed to happen?” Glauser-Röist argued.

“We’re supposed to get out of here, Captain, remember?”

“Well, let’s sit down and wait. They’ll come and get us out.”

“Why can’t I convince you two that this musical scale isn’t totally correct?”

“It’s correct,
Basileia.
You’re the one who’s insisting it’s not.”

Upset on account of the pain in my head and their pigheadedness, I flopped down on the ground, leaned against the anvil, and closed myself off in a stormy silence they ignored. Minutes turned into a half hour. They started to look chagrined, thinking I might be right after all. With my eyes closed, and taking slow, measured breaths, I thought back and realized that taking some rest was doing us good. When you listen to noises all day, noises that were supposed to sound like musical notes, there comes a time when you simply can’t hear a thing. After silence had refreshed their ears, maybe Farag and the Rock would change their minds if they listened to their precious musical scale one more time.

“Try again,” I encouraged them, without getting up.

Farag didn’t move a muscle, but the captain, irreducible, tried again. He played the seven notes, and a slight error was clearly detectable in the
fa
tone.

“The doctor is right, Professor,” the Rock admitted grudgingly.

“I heard it,” Farag replied, shrugging his shoulders and smiling.

The captain went down the line until he found the hammers immediately before and after the defective
fa.
Once again, there was an error, and once again, he tried and tried until he came up with the right tool, the one that sounded right.

“Play them all again, Kaspar.”

Glauser-Röist struck the anvil with the seven definitive hammers. Night was falling. The sky was dimming with warm, golden light. All was harmony and quiet in the forest when the silence returned. I felt sleepy. I realized it wasn’t my normal way of falling asleep; something seemed to be off. An immense lassitude was taking over my body, carrying me slowly into a dark well of lethargy. I opened my eyes and saw Farag, glassy-eyed, and the captain who was leaning against the anvil, his arms as taut as ropes, trying to stay on his feet. There was a soft aroma of resin in the air. My eyelids fluttered closed again, against their will. I began to dream. I dreamt about my great-grandfather Giuseppe directing the construction of Villa Salina, which surprised me. The part of me that was conscious warned me that the dream wasn’t real. I struggled to open my eyes, and a delicate cloud of white smoke filtered into the circle from under the wall, rising off the ground. I watched Glauser-Röist fall to his knees, murmuring a soliloquy I couldn’t make out. He clutched the anvil, trying not to lose his balance, and shook his head to stay awake.

“Ottavia…,” Farag called out. I roused myself enough to stretch my hand toward him, although I couldn’t answer. My fingertips brushed his arm, and immediately his hand found mine. United again, our joined hands were the last clear memory I had.

I
awoke to an intense cold and a strong white light shining in my eyes. I felt as if my essence were all that existed, and that I had no past, no memories, not even a name. I returned to life slowly, floating like a bubble rising in a sea of oil. I wrinkled my forehead and noticed how rigid my facial muscles were. My mouth was so dry that I couldn’t unglue my tongue from the roof of my mouth or separate my jaws.

The noise of a nearby car and an intense cold helped make me lucid. I opened my eyes wide, and still with no identity or conscience, I saw before me the facade of a church, a street lit up by lampposts, and a paltry bit of green under my feet. The white light shining on me in fact came from one of those tall lampposts. I could have been in New York or Melbourne. Instead of being Ottavia Salina, I could just as well have been Marie Antoinette. And then I remembered. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs, and it all came back to me—the labyrinth, the spheres, the hammers, and
Farag!

I quickly sat up and searched around me. There he was, to my left, fast asleep between me and the captain, who was also still asleep. Another car came down the street. The driver didn’t shine his light on us. If he had, he probably would have thought we were three bums sleeping on a park bench. The grass was wet with dew. I told myself I had to wake the sleeping beauties next to me so we could figure out where we were and what had happened. I shook Farag’s shoulder gently, but was hit by a pain on the inside of my left forearm, like the one I felt when I woke up in the Cloaca Maxima. I pulled up my sleeve and found another bandage covering a new, cross-shaped tattoo. In their strange way, the Staurofilakes had certified that we had passed the second test. We had conquered envy.

Farag opened his eyes. He looked at me and smiled. “Ottavia…,” he murmured and ran his dry tongue over his lips.

“Wake up, Farag. We’re out.”

“Out of what? I don’t remember. Oh, yeah! The anvil and the hammers.”

He glanced around him. Still groggy, he brushed his palms over his shaggy cheeks. “Where are we?”

“I don’t know,” I said, my hand still on his shoulder. “In a park, I think. We have to wake the captain.”

Farag tried to stand up, but couldn’t. His face registered surprise. “Did they hit us very hard?”

“No, Farag, they didn’t hit us this time—they put us to sleep. I remember some white smoke.”

“White smoke?…”

“They drugged us with something that smelled like resin.”

“Resin? I swear, Ottavia, I don’t remember a thing after Kaspar struck the anvil with the seven hammers.”

He was puzzled for a moment and then started to laugh, raising his hand to his left forearm. “They marked us, right?” He seemed delighted.

“Yes. Now, please wake up the Rock.”

“The Rock?” he asked, puzzled.

“The captain, I mean. Wake the captain up.”

“You call him the Rock?” he asked, utterly amused.

“Don’t even think about telling him.”

“Don’t worry,
Basileia,”
he said, dying of laughter. “He’ll never hear it from me.”

Poor Glauser-Röist was once again the worst off. We had to shake him hard and slap him a couple of times to get him to come around. We were thankful no police happened by right then, or we would have ended up in the jail for sure.

By the time the Rock came to, the traffic had picked up, although it was only five in the morning. Fortunately, nearby was a sign pointing to the Gala Placida Mausoleum. That confirmed we were in downtown Ravenna. Glauser-Röist made a call on his cell phone and talked for several long minutes. When he hung up, he walked over to where we were patiently waiting and looked at us, bewildered.

“Want to know something funny? Turns out we are in the gardens of the National Museum, near the Gala Placida Mausoleum and the Basilica of Saint Vitale, between the church of Saint Mary Maggiore and this church right here.”

“Why is that so funny?” I asked.

“This is the Church of the Holy Cross.”

We were getting used to those kinds of coincidences. And we’d get even more accustomed to it, I told myself.

Time passed very slowly while we tried to clear our heads. I paced back and forth, looking down at the grass.

“Hey, Kaspar! Look in your pockets, let’s see if they left us a clue for the next cornice.”

The captain patted himself down. In his right pants pocket, just like after the previous test, he found a folded piece of thick, lumpy homemade paper.

ἐρώτησον τὸν ἔχοντα τὰς κλεῖδας· ὁ ἀνοίγων καὶ κλείσει, καὶ κλείων καὶ οὐδεὶς ἀνοίγει.

“‘Ask he who has the keys: that which is open, no one closes, and that which is closed, no one opens,’” I translated. “What do they want us to do in Jerusalem?” I was confused.

“I’m not worried,
Basileia.
Those people know our every move. They’ll let us know.”

A car with its headlights on came racing down the street.

“Right now we have to get out of here,” muttered the Rock, running his hand through his hair. The poor man was still somewhat groggy.

A gray Fiat pulled up. The driver’s side window rolled down. “Captain Glauser-Röist?” asked a young priest wearing a cleric’s collar.

“That’s me.”

The priest looked like he’d been rousted out of bed. “The archbishop sent me. I’m Father Iannucci. I’m to take you to La Spreta Airport. Please get in.” He got out of the car and graciously opened the doors for us.

We arrived at the airport a few minutes later. It was a minuscule place that didn’t resemble the large airport in Rome at all. Even the airport in Palermo seemed enormous next to this one. Father Iannucci dropped us off at the entrance and vanished as politely as he had appeared.

Glauser-Röist interrogated the lone counter agent. The young woman, her eyes still swollen with sleep, directed us to a separate area, next to the Francesco Baracca Aeroclub, where the private airplanes were parked. Back on his cell phone, Glauser-Röist called the pilot, who informed him that the Westwind was ready to take off as soon as we boarded. Over the phone, the pilot guided us to the plane, a short distance from the small aeroclub planes. Its engines were running and its lights were on. Compared to the other mosquito-like planes around us, the Westwind seemed like a gigantic Concorde jet. It was actually a small airplane, with five windows; and of course it was white. A young flight attendant and a couple of pilots from Alitalia were waiting for us at the foot of the stairs. After they greeted us with a certain professional coldness, they invited us to climb aboard.

“Can this plane really get us to Jerusalem?” I asked under my breath, somewhat doubtful.

“We aren’t going to Jerusalem, Doctor,” the Rock announced at the top of his lungs as we climbed the stairs. “We’re landing in Tel Aviv. From there we will take a helicopter to Jerusalem.”

“But can this little plane get us across the Mediterranean?”

“We have priority to take off,” one of the pilots said to the captain. “We can leave whenever you like.”

“Let’s go now,” ordered Glauser-Röist laconically.

The flight attendant showed us to our seats, pointing to the life jackets and the emergency doors. The cabin was very narrow and the roof was very low, but the space was perfectly laid out, with a couple of long sofas on one side and four appealing easy chairs at the back, upholstered in a leather as white as snow.

A few minutes later, the plane gently took off. The sun flooded the cabin’s interior with its first rays. Jerusalem, I said to myself, excited. I’m going to Jerusalem! To the place where Jesus lived, made his predictions, and died to rise on the third day! It was a trip I’d wanted to take my entire life; but I had never been able to go, because of my job. Now, that very job was taking me there. I felt my emotions grow, and closing my eyes, I gave thanks for the gentle rebirth of my strong, steadfast religious vocation. How had I allowed some irrational feelings to betray the most sacred part of my life? In Jerusalem I would beg forgiveness for that fleeting foolishness, hoping that in the holiest place in the world I would be free of my ridiculous passions once and for all. Besides, in Jerusalem I had a more important matter: my brother Pierantonio. I’m certain he would never imagine I was flying in this dinky little plane toward
his
domain. As soon as I set foot on land—if I ever did—I would let him know I was in Jerusalem and have him set aside all his obligations for the day and dedicate all his time to me. The upstanding guardian was in for a big surprise.

It took less six hours to get to Tel Aviv. During the trip, the flight attendant took great pains to making our trip pleasant. Every time we saw her coming down the aisle, we started to laugh. Every five minutes or so, she offered us food and drink, music, videos, or newspapers and magazines. Finally, Glauser-Röist dispatched her so we could doze in peace. Jerusalem. Beautiful, holy Jerusalem! Before day’s end I would be walking down its streets.

Shortly before we landed, the Rock took out his worn copy of the
Divine Comedy.
“Aren’t you curious to read about what awaits us?”

“I already know. An impenetrable curtain of smoke,” said Farag.

“Smoke!” I let escape, stupefied.

The captain leafed through it quickly. A radiant light streamed in through windows.

“Canto XVI of
Purgatory,
verse one and following:

“The gloom of Hell or of a night bereft
Of all its planets, under barren skies,
and totally obscured by dark, dense clouds,

“never had wrapped my face within a veil
so thick, made of such harsh and stinging stuff,
as was that smoke that poured around us there.

“It was too much for open eyes to bear,
and so my wise and faithful guide drew near,
offering me his shoulder for support.”

“Where will they lock us up this time?” I asked. “It’ll have to be some place they can fill with a dense cloud of smoke.

“With us inside, of course,” Farag pointed out.

“That goes without saying. What else happens in the third cornice, Captain? How do they get out of there?”