The Last Cato (6 page)

My father’s men gave a slight nod as our car passed. I could not help a shout of joy when I recognized Vito among them, my old childhood friend.

“It’s Vito!” I shouted as I waved frenetically out the back window. Vito smiled timidly, almost imperceptibly.

“He just got out of the
giudiziarie,
*
smiled Domenico, pulling his jacket around his gut. “Your father is glad to have him back.”

The car finally came to a stop in front of the house. My mother, dressed in black as always, waited for us at the top of the steps leaning on her ever-present silver cane. Seventy-five years of intense life had exhausted the noble Sicilian woman’s back but the proud bearing of the youngest daughter of the Zafferano family hadn’t diminished one bit.

I took the stairs two at a time and hugged my mother as if I hadn’t seen her since the day I was born. I had missed her so much and felt a childish relief to find her in such good health. Her kisses were firm and her body was still as hard and energetic as always. With a knot in my throat, I thanked God that nothing had happened to her while I was away. Smiling, she took a step back to look me over carefully.

“My little Ottavia!” she exclaimed with a happy face. “You look wonderful! Do you know your Pierantonio has already arrived? He really wants to see you. I want you two to tell me everything.” She put her hand on my shoulder and gently nudged me inside the house. “How is the Holy Father doing? How is his health?”

The rest of the day was one continuous parade of family members. Giuseppe, the eldest, lived in the villa with his wife, Rosalia, and their four children. Giacoma and Domenico, who also lived in the villa with our parents, had five children who were home from the University of Messina and boarding school. Cesare, the third child, was married to Letizia and had four fine kids who, fortunately, resided in Agrigento. Pierluigi, the fifth child, arrived midafternoon with his wife, Livia, and their five children. Salvatore, the brother immediately older than me, was the only one who was divorced. Even so, he showed up that evening with three of his four children. Finally, Agueda, the youngest (she was already thirty-eight!) came with Antonio, her husband, and their three offspring. Their youngest was my dear five-year-old Isabella.

Pierantonio, Lucia, and I were the priest and nuns of the family. I always had a sinking feeling when I compared my mother’s expectations for her children with what we did with our lives. It’s as if God granted mothers the clairvoyance to predict the future. Or, and this is most worrisome, God adapts his plans to that of our mothers.

Mysteriously, Pierantonio, Lucia, and I had taken our vows as my mother always yearned for. I still remember her saying to my brother when he was seventeen or eighteen, “You can’t imagine how proud I’d be if you became a priest, a good priest. And you’ll be a good priest because you have the perfect character to lead with a firm hand. A diocese, at least.” Or combing Lucia’s beautiful blonde hair while she whispered in her ear: “You’re too smart and independent to submit to a husband. Marriage is not for you. I’m sure you’d be much happier living a life like one of the nuns at your school: travel, study, freedom, good friends…” And
then
there was what she said to me: “Of all my children, Ottavia, you are the most brilliant and the proudest… You have such a strong character only God could make you the person I’d like you to be.” She repeated this with the conviction of a soothsayer. She did the same with all my brothers and sisters. Their occupations, studies, or marriages fit her predictions like a glove.

I spent the whole day with little Isabella in my arms, going from one end of the house to the other, talking to family members, greeting aunts and uncles, cousins and acquaintances who came by to wish my father well and to bring him gifts. I was reunited with so many people; no sooner had I hugged and kissed someone than I’d lose sight of him again. All I remember is that my father—in a gesture of infinite weariness—looked proudly at me and caressed my cheek with a wrinkled, weathered hand before being abducted by the surging crowd. More than a home, the whole thing seemed like a fair.

By midafternoon, I had terrible back pain from carrying Isabella all day. She took no pity on me, and refused to let go of my neck. Whenever I tried to set her down, she wrapped her legs around my waist like a monkey. When it was time to fix supper, we women headed for the kitchen to help the maids while the men gathered in the hall to discuss family matters and business. Moments later I wasn’t surprised to see the tall figure of my brother Pierantonio among the baking dishes and frying pans. I couldn’t help notice that the way he moved was similar to Monsignor Tournier’s elegant mannerisms. The differences between the two were vast, of course. For starters, one of them was my favorite brother. Still, they shared that radiant self-assurance and charisma.

My mother was obviously captivated as she watched him approach.

“Mama,” Pierantonio said, kissing her cheek, “will you lend me Ottavia? I’d like to take a walk with her in the garden and catch up before dinner.”

“Does anyone care how I feel?” I called from the other side of the kitchen, deftly sautéing some vegetables. “Maybe I don’t want to go.”

My mother laughed. “Now, now! What are you even talking about?” She joked as if it were inconceivable I wouldn’t go for a walk with my brother.

“And the rest of us—are we just invisible to the two of you?” protested Giacoma, Lucia, and Agueda.

Pierantonio, the flatterer, kissed each one, then snapped his fingers as if he were summoning a waiter. “Ottavia, let’s go.”

Without missing a beat, Maria, one of the cooks, took the skillet I held from my hands. It was one big conspiracy.

“In all my life,” I said as I took off my apron and set it on a bench in the kitchen, “I’ve never seen a Franciscan priest less humble than Father Salina.”

“Guardian, Sister,” he replied. “Guardian of the Holy Land.”

“And so modest!” guffawed Giacoma. Everyone broke out in a chorus of laughter.

If I could have been a spectator and watched my family from a distance, one thing would have stood out: The Salina women adored Pierantonio. No one ever enjoyed a more fervent, submissive flock of honey-tongued sweet talkers. Like a god, his most trivial wishes were carried out with the fanaticism of the Greek Bacchae. He knew it, enjoying like a child playing the part of a capricious Dionysus. My mother was completely to blame. She had infected us with her blind worship of her favorite son like a virus. Why wouldn’t we indulge the little god in every whim when he bestowed his wit and kisses upon us? He was so easy to make happy!

Pierantonio put his arm around my waist and steered me out to the back patio toward the garden door. “Tell me how things are going!” he exclaimed bombastically the minute we set foot on the soft grass around the house.

“You tell me!” I replied, looking at him. His hairline had receded a bit; his wild eyebrows gave him a savage air. “How can the important guardian of the Holy Land abandon his post when His Holiness is set to arrive in Jerusalem?”

“Wow! You shoot to kill!” he laughed, putting an arm around my shoulders.

“I’m so happy you’re here, you know that. But I’m puzzled. I know the pope leaves tomorrow for your jurisdiction.”

He looked at the sky distractedly, acting as if the point weren’t important. But I knew him too well. That gesture conveyed just the opposite.

“Well, as you know… Things aren’t always what they seem.”

“Look, Pierantonio, you can fool the priests, but not me.”

He smiled, still looking at the sky.

“Okay, okay! Are you going to tell me why the illustrious guardian of the Holy Land leaves when the sovereign pontiff is about to arrive?” I persisted before he could start talking about how beautiful the stars were.

“I can’t tell a nun employed by the Vatican the problems we Franciscans are having with the high prelates,” he said, regaining his cocksure attitude.

“You know I spend my life locked up in my lab. Who am I going to tell?”

“The pope?”

“Yeah, sure!” I uttered, stopping in my tracks in the middle of the garden.

“Cardinal Ratzinger?…” he hummed. “Cardinal Sodano?…”

“Come on, Pierantonio!”

Something must have shown on my face when he mentioned the secretary of state, because he opened his eyes and arched his eyebrows maliciously. “Ottavia… Do you know Sodano?”

“I was introduced to him a few weeks ago,” I admitted evasively.

He took me by the chin, lifted my face, and pressed his nose to mine. “Ottavia, little Ottavia… What are you doing hanging around with Angelo Sodano? What are you not telling me?”

It’s awful for someone to know you so well. And it’s awful to be the second youngest in a family of brothers and sisters so highly skilled at manipulating.

“Well, you haven’t told me the problems you Franciscans are having with His Holiness, and look what you’ve asked me,” I hedged.

“Let’s make a deal,” he proposed happily, taking hold of my arm, urging me to walk again. “I’ll tell you why I’m here and you tell me what you know about the all-powerful secretary of state.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can!” he fussed, cheerful as a child. You’d never guess that that exploiter of little sisters was fifty years old! “In secret confession. I’ve got the vestments in the chapel. Let’s go.”

“Listen, Pierantonio, this is very serious.”

“Great! I love it when you’re serious!”

What made me maddest was knowing that if I’d concealed just a little bit more I wouldn’t have been in that situation. I was the one who let the cat out of the bag right in front of this insatiable gundog, and the more discomfort I showed, the hungrier he was going to get. I had to put an end to it.

“That’s enough now, Pierantonio. Get serious. I can’t say anything. Especially to you. You, more than anyone, ought to understand that.”

My voice must have sounded really severe, because he backed off and drastically changed his attitude. “You’re right,” he conceded, a repentant look on his face. “There are things you can’t tell. But I never imagined that my sister would get mixed up in Vatican intrigues!”

“I’m not. They just needed my skills for a strange investigation. Very strange. I don’t know.” I murmured pensively, pinching my lower lip. “I
do
find it disconcerting.”

“Some strange document? Some mysterious code? Some shameful secret from the church’s past?”

“I’ve seen all that. I wish I could tell you! No, it’s something even more out of the ordinary. What’s worse, they’re keeping information from me.”

My brother studied me, a determined look on his face. “So, go over their heads.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, stopping to poke at the grass with my shoe. The night was cool. Soon the lights in the garden would go on.

“Go over their heads. Don’t they want a miracle? Well, give them one. Look, I have a lot of problems in Jerusalem, more than you can imagine.” He started to walk again, slowly, and I followed him. More than ever my brother seemed like an important head of state weighed down by responsibilities. “The Holy See has entrusted us Franciscans in the Holy Land with very diverse, very difficult tasks, everything from reestablishing Catholic worship in our area to protecting pilgrims, to getting biblical studies and archeological excavations up and running again. We run schools, hospitals, dispensaries, nursing homes, and above all the guardian is involved in a multitude of political conflicts with our neighbors of other religions. My biggest problem right now is the Holy Cenacle where Jesus instituted the Eucharist. These days it’s a mosque run by Israeli authorities. The Vatican keeps pressuring me to negotiate a sale. But do they give me any money? No!” he exclaimed angrily. His forehead and cheeks turned bright red. “Right now, I have 320 religious people from thirty countries working in Palestine-Israel, Jordan, Syria, Lebanon, Egypt, Cyprus, and Rhodes. Don’t forget that the Holy Land is a region in conflict, where they fight with all manner of guns, bombs, and disgusting political maneuvers. How do I hold up this house of cards built of religious, cultural, and social work? Do you think my order can help? They haven’t got a lira! Do you think your rich Vatican has given me anything? Nothing! Not one cent! The Holy Father diverted money from the church: Millions and millions slipped under the table through figureheads, fake businesses, and bank transfers in fiscal paradises to prop up the Polish Solidarity Union and bring down Communism in his homeland. But how many liras do you think he’s given for our projects? Nothing! Nada! Zip!”

“You can’t be serious, Pierantonio,” I whispered, pained. “The church takes up an annual collection all over the world for you.”

His eyes flashed in anger. “Don’t make me laugh!” he shot back. He turned and headed back to the house.

“Okay, but at least finish telling me how to get the information I need,” I begged as he took giant steps, putting a lot of ground between us.

“Be smart, Ottavia!” he exclaimed, not turning around. “The world is full of ways to get what you want. You just have to prioritize, figure out what’s important and what’s not. Figure out at what point you’re willing to disobey or act on your own, on the fringe, even…” He hesitated. “Even going against your own conscience.”

My brother’s voice had a distinctly bitter tinge to it, as if he had spent his entire life disregarding his own conscience. I asked myself if I would be able to do such a thing; if it would be worth it to go off the reservation to get the information I needed. But before I could articulate these thoughts, I already knew the answer: Yes, of course I would. The only question was how.