The Last Cato Page 7

  I had no idea what I would say to my mother. I felt an immense pain for her, she had always been so proud of her daughter, Ottavia. My leaving the Vatican was going to hurt her so much, and I felt responsible. What would Pierantonio say? And Giacoma? One good thing about my exile was that I’d have my sister Lucia close by, in London. She would help me bear my failure. Any way you looked at it, I was a failure. I had failed my family completely. They would certainly not love me less for leaving the Vatican for a remote, lost part of Ireland, but I knew that all my brothers and sisters, and especially my mother, would no longer view me the same way. Poor Mama. She was always boasting about Pierantonio and me. Now she’d have to forget about me and speak only of Pierantonio.

  That night, the Friday of Lent, Ferma, Margherita, Valeria, and I went to the basilica of Saint John of Letran to pray the Via Crucis and to take part in the penitential celebration. Inside those walls, so filled with history, I felt diminished, shrunken. I told God that I accepted the punishment for my enormous sin of pride. I got what I truly deserved. I had felt superior for easily obtaining something that had been denied to me. Invested with this power, I had obtained my goal. Now, bent and beaten, I humbly asked for forgiveness, seeking penance for what I had done. I knew full well it was a belated repentance, that it could no longer change my punishment. I was afraid of God, and accepted the Via Crucis as a test of divine mercy that allowed me to share with Jesus Christ the pain he suffered at Calvary.

  And as if all that was happening weren’t enough, as if echoing the pain gnawing inside me, Etna, the volcano which we Sicilians know so well, and always watch with anxiety and fear, erupted spectacularly. A sea of lava descended its slopes throughout the night until dawn, its mouth spitting fire and ashes 3,200 meters into the air. Fortunately, Palermo is pretty far away from the volcano, but the city still suffered electricity outages and water shortages. I called home, very worried, and found everyone awake, waiting for news updates on the local radio and television. They calmed me down; no one was in any danger, the situation was under control. I should have told them right then that I was leaving Rome and the Vatican, bound for Ireland, but I didn’t dare. I was afraid of their disappointment and comments. When I was settled in Connaught, I’d think of a way to convince them that the change was a positive one, and that I was delighted with my new post.

  The following Thursday, at one in the afternoon, I got on the plane headed for my exile. Only Margherita came to see me off. She gave me two sad kisses and earnestly begged me not to resist God’s will, to try to adapt joyfully to this new situation and to fight my strong temperament. It was the saddest, most agonizing flight of my life. I didn’t watch the movie and didn’t taste a single bite of the plastic food they set in front of me. I labored over what I’d tell my sister Lucia when I called her and what I’d say to my family when I found the strength in me to talk to them again.

  Nearly two and a half hours later, at five in the afternoon, Ireland time, we landed at the Dublin airport. We passengers, tired and on edge, entered through the international terminal to claim our luggage from the conveyor belts. I clutched my enormous suitcase, sighed deeply, and walked toward the exit, looking around for the sisters who were supposed to meet me.

  I would probably spend the next twenty or thirty years in that faraway country. With a little luck, I told myself without conviction, I would adapt and be happy. As I listened to my train of thoughts, I knew perfectly well that I was lying to myself. That country was my grave, the end of my professional ambitions, projects, and investigations. Why had I been so stupid? Why had I tried so hard over the years, getting one degree after another, one prize after another, one doctorate after another? All that wasn’t worth anything in that miserable town in Connaught, where I was sure to live until buried in the ground. I looked around apprehensively, asking myself how long I could stand my shameful situation, when I recalled with dark sorrow that I shouldn’t keep my Irish sisters waiting.

  To my surprise, there was no one from the Order of the Blessed Virgin Mary there to meet me. Instead, two young priests dressed in old-fashioned high clerical collars, soutanes, and black gabardine rushed up to take my luggage as they asked me in English if I was Sister Ottavia Salina. When I answered yes, they seemed relieved. They put my bag in their cart. One of the priests charged at it with outstretched arms as if it were alive and in need of tackling, while the other priest explained I had to board a return flight to Rome that left within the hour.

  I didn’t understand what was going on; they knew even less. During the few minutes I spent with them, they explained that they were the bishop’s secretaries, sent to escort me from one plane to another. The bishop himself had given them their orders. The diocese had found a return flight just in time, and the bishop had made the reservation on his cell phone.

  That was all I saw of the Republic of Ireland: its international terminal. At eight in the evening, I was off again on my way back to Rome. I’d spent the entire day flying from one country to another, like a confused bird. To my surprise, once off the plane I was escorted to the airport’s VIP area. In a private waiting room, seated in a plush seat, the cardinal vicar of Rome, His Eminence Carlo Colli, president of the Italian Episcopal Conference, was waiting for me. He got to his feet slowly and extended his hand with a certain degree of embarrassment.

  “Eminence,” I said startled, quickly kissing his ring.

  “Sister Salina…,” he stuttered. “Sister Salina… You don’t know how much we regret what’s happened.”

  “Eminence, as you can imagine, I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

  He was referring to the ill treatment I’d received from the Vatican and my order over the last eight days. I wasn’t ready to cave in so easily, so I let him think I was afraid of some new disgrace for which they were having me return.

  “Is it a member of my family?…” I suggested with a look of deep concern.

  “No, no! Oh, no, no! Blessed Lord! Your family is in perfect health!”

  “What is it then, Eminence?”

  The vicar of Rome was sweating profusely despite the airconditioning. “Accompany me to the city, please. Monsignor Tournier will explain.”

  We went directly to the street through a side door. Right outside waiting for us was one of those black limos with the license SCV (Stato della Citta del Vaticano) that all the cardinals use for their personal business, which many sly Romans joke about and have changed to Se Cristo Videsse (If Christ could see you). As I took a seat next to the cardinal, I told myself something very grave must have happened. Not just because they’d had me spend an entire day going from one end of Europe to the other and back, but also because they had sent the president of the Italian Episcopal Conference as my personal escort.

  The limousine arrogantly crossed the streets of Rome, which were crowded with tourists even at that cold hour of the night. We entered Vatican City through the Piazza del Sant’Uffizio by way of the more discreet and lesser known Porta Petriano, just to the left of Saint Peter’s Square. The Swiss Guards acknowledged us and waved us through. On our left was the enormous Basilica of Saint Peter; as big as it is, it should certainly be considered as another basilica. We drove into the wide Piazza di Santa Marta, whose gardens and fountains we skirted till we came to the main door of the newly erected Domus Sanctae Martae.

  The Domus Sanctae Martae (named for Saint Martha, Lazarus’s sister, who gave Jesus lodging in her humble home in Betania) was a splendid palace whose recent construction had cost close to $20 million. It was built with the twofold plan to provide comfortable lodging to cardinals during the next conclave and to serve as a luxury hotel for illustrious visitors, prelates, or anyone willing to pay its extremely high room rates.

  As we entered the brilliantly lit, sumptuously decorated foyer, His Eminence and I were received by an ancient porter who escorted us to the front desk. When the hotel manager recognized the cardinal, he rose from behind an elegant marble co
unter and very solicitously accompanied us through a wide vestibule toward an impressive stairway which descended toward a bar with several rooms. Through some open doors, I caught a glimpse of a library and the administrative offices of the Domus. On the other side, in the shadows, was a legislative room of gigantic proportions.

  The manager, always one step in front of us, slightly contorted his body backward to signal the cardinal’s preeminence. Leading us to an enclosure inside the bar where there were several private rooms, he knocked respectfully at the door to the first room and half opened it, indicating we could go in. As soon as he completed a dignified bow, he disappeared.

  It was a meeting room with a small oval table surrounded by modern black high-backed chairs. Three people were waiting for us. Presiding over the meeting was Monsignor Tournier, seated at the far end, looking glum. To his right was Captain Glauser-Röist, stony as ever, although he looked slightly different from the last time I’d seen him. I observed him more carefully and, to my great surprise, discovered that he had a beautiful tan, like he’d been lying in the sun for a week at some beach resort on the Adriatic coast. Lastly, to Glauser-Röist’s right was an individual I didn’t know, who kept his head down and his hands tightly laced as if he were very nervous.

  Monsignor Tournier and Glauser-Röist stood to greet us. I noticed the papal photographs that hung in a line on the cream-colored walls. All the pontiffs of this century, in their soutanes and white zucchettos, looked affable, with paternal smiles. I gracefully saluted Tournier, then came face-to-face with the toy soldier.

  “We meet again, Captain. Do I have you to thank for my interesting round-trip flight to Dublin?”

  Glauser-Röist smiled. For the first time since we’d known each other, he dared touch me, taking my elbow and guiding me to where the man I didn’t recognize remained immobile. He looked startled to death as we walked directly toward him.

  “Doctor, allow me to introduce Professor Farag Boswell. Professor…”

  The man got to his feet so quickly that a pocket on his jacket hooked on the armrest of his chair and wrenched him to a halt. He wrestled a moment with his pocket until he managed to unhook himself and only after adjusting the tiny round glasses on his nose was he able to look directly into my eyes, smiling timidly. “Professor Boswell, allow me to introduce Dr. Ottavia Salina, of the Order of the Blessed Virgin Mary. She’s the person I’ve been telling you about.”

  Professor Boswell shyly extended his hand to me. I shook it without much conviction. He was a very attractive man, around thirty-seven or thirty-eight, almost as tall as the Swiss Rock and dressed casually (blue polo shirt, sports jacket, loose and very wrinkled khaki pants, along with dirty, worn hiking boots). He blinked nervously as he tried to keep his glance from fleeing mine. He was an unusual man, this Professor Boswell: His skin was olive-toned, like that of an Arab, and his features were a perfect blend of Jewish morphology, but his surprisingly blond hair fell softly over his deep turquoise blue eyes. Strangely enough, I took to this surprising Professor Boswell from the first. Maybe it was his awkwardness (he kept his eyes vigilantly glued to the carpet) or his timidity (he completely lost his voice when he was forced to talk), but I was engulfed by a sudden wave of sympathy for him that surprised me.

  We sat down around the table, although now the archbishop secretary ceded the head chair to Cardinal Colli. Across from me were Glauser-Röist and Professor Boswell, and at my side sat the always agreeable Monsignor Tournier. Although I was dying to know what was going on, I decided I should act indifferently to the preposterously dramatic situation. Clearly, I was there because they needed me again. They had hurt me too much over the past week for me to lower myself and beg for an explanation.

  The captain was the first to take the floor. “As you see, Doctor,” he started in his baritone German voice, “events have taken an unexpected turn.”

  Glauser-Röist leaned over, picked up a leather pouch, opened it parsimoniously, and took out a package the size of a birthday cake wrapped in cream-colored linen. If I was expecting some gesture of reconciliation, well, that was it. Everyone present looked at the carefully wrapped package as if it were the most precious jewel in the world and followed it with their eyes as the captain gently slid it across the table and placed it right in front of me. I didn’t know what to do. Except for me, it seemed like no one else was breathing.

  “You may open it,” Glauser-Röist said tentatively.

  Many incoherent thoughts passed through my head, all at a dizzying speed. One thing was for sure: If I opened that bundle, I would once again become a cheap tool; easily used and replaceable. They had brought me back to Rome because they needed me, but I decided right then that I no longer wanted to collaborate.

  “No, thank you.” I pushed the package back toward Glauser-Röist. “I’m not at all interested.”

  The Rock fell back into his chair and adjusted the collar of his jacket with a long look, a mixture of respect and anger flashed in his eyes. “Everything has changed, Doctor. Trust me.”

  “Would you kindly tell me why? If I recall correctly (and I have a very good memory), the last time I saw you, exactly eight days ago, you were slamming shut the door to my office as you left in a huff. And what a coincidence—the very next day, I was fired.”

  “Let me explain, Kaspar,” Monsignor Tournier cut him off and raised an admonishing hand in the Rock’s direction as he turned toward me. There was a melodramatic tone of false contrition in his voice. “What the captain couldn’t reveal to you is that… I was responsible for your firing. Yes, I know it is hard to hear…” I thought to myself that the world wasn’t ready to hear Monsignor Tournier admit he had done something wrong. “Captain Glauser-Röist received very strict orders from me, I should add. When you revealed that you knew all the details of the investigation, he was obliged to… how should I put it… inform me, yes. You should know he lobbied energetically against your… firing. Today I’m here to tell you how much I lament the Church’s mistaken attitude toward you. It was, without a doubt… a mistake, a deplorable mistake.”

  “The fact is, Sister Salina,” Cardinal Colli said, “Captain Glauser-Röist has taken over this investigation, appointed by the cardinal secretary of state, His Most Reverend Eminence Angelo Sodano himself. Monsignor Tournier is no longer at the helm.”

  “The first two things I asked for,” added Glauser-Röist, arching his eyebrows impatiently, “are that you immediately be included in the investigation as a member of my team and that your contract with the Classified Archives and the Vatican Library be reinstated.”

  “And so it was done!” confirmed Cardinal Colli.

  “So, Doctor,” the Swiss Rock summed up, “if you are in agreement with all that has been done to rectify our mistake, open the damned package!”

  He gave the bundle a shove that sent it skating back to my side of the table. An exclamation of horror escaped from the throat of Professor Boswell.

  “I’m sorry, I’m a bit unnerved,” the captain apologized.

  I was so disconcerted I didn’t know what to think. I put my hands on the white linen package, in suspense, indecisive. I had recovered my job at the Classified Archives, I was no longer banished from the Vatican, and I was a member in good standing of Glauser-Röist’s investigation team on a mission I longed for from the start. It was far more than I could have hoped for that morning when I got out of bed. As I weighed this good news, something tickled my palms, causing me to rub them and brush off some irritating grains of sand that were stuck to my skin. Surprised, I looked at the tiny white grains that fell like snow over the dark burnished wood on the table.

  Glauser-Röist pointed. “That’s no way to treat holy sand from the Sinai.”

  I looked at him as if I’d never seen him before. My surprise had no limits. “From the Sinai?” I repeated automatically, stunned, but trying to keep my excitement closely guarded.

  “More precisely, from the monastery of Saint Catherine of Sinai.”
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br />   “Do you mean… you went to Saint Catherine of Sinai?” I reproached him, pointing my right index finger at him. Incredible. While I was having the worst week of my life, he had been in a place that, by rights as a paleographer, was my due to visit. The Swiss Rock ignored my anger completely.

  “That’s correct, Doctor,” he replied, returning to his more neutral tone. “I’m sure you’ll have many questions for me. I assure you that I—” he stopped short and turned to Professor Boswell, who started to shrink down in his seat—“that we will answer all your questions without holding back any information.”

  I was annoyed, of course; still, I couldn’t help notice Glauser-Röist’s new attitude toward Monsignor Tournier and Cardinal Colli. During our first meeting, the captain had stayed discreetly in the background, attentive to Tournier’s orders. This time he seemed completely oblivious to them, as if they were shadows against a wall.

  “Okay, okay…” I raised my arms and let them fall with a heavy gesture of resignation. “Let’s start with Abi-Ruj Iyasus and end with this sand-filled package from the Sinai.”

  Glauser-Röist raised his eyes to the ceiling and took a deep breath before beginning. “Well, let’s see. The accident of Cessna 182 last February 15 in Greece was the real beginning of this story. At the feet of Abi-Ruj Iyasus’s corpse, the firemen found a very old silver box, decorated with enamel and gems that contained strange pieces of wood with no apparent value. Since the old box did in fact look like a reliquary of some sort, the civilian authorities consulted the Greek Orthodox Church, to see if they could offer any helpful information. The Orthodox clergy were taken by an urgent surprise when they verified that one of those dry wooden fragments was nothing less than the famous Lignum Crucis * from the Docheiariou Monastery on Mount Athos. They quickly alerted all the other Orthodox Eastern patriarchates. One after another they verified that all the reliquaries that housed fragments of the True Cross were empty, so they decided to contact us Catholic heretics, since we are in possession of the majority of Ligna Crucis in the world.”