“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?”
“They walk. That’s it.”
“That’s it? Don’t they nail them to anything or fall down a cliff?…”
“No, Doctor, nothing happens. They walk through the cornice and meet the souls of the wrathful, traveling around the circle completely enveloped by smoke. They talk and then ascend to the next circle after the angel wipes a new P off Dante’s forehead.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Right, Professor?”
Farag nodded. “But ther
e are some strange things,” he added in his slight Arab accent. “For example, this circle is the shortest in Purgatory. It only lasts a canto and a half. Canto XVI, as the captain said, lasts just a few pages, and a short fragment of the XVIIth.” He sighed and crossed his legs. “Here’s the second strange part: Uncharacteristically, Dante doesn’t end the circle at the end of the canto. The cornice of the wrathful begins in Canto XVI, as the captain said; but how far does it go, Kaspar?”
“To verse seventy-nine of Canto XVII. Seven and nine again.”
“And in verse seventy-nine, literally in the middle of nowhere, starts the fourth circle of Purgatory, the circle of the slothful. The fourth cornice doesn’t start at the beginning of the following canto either. For some reason, Dante fuses the end of one circle to the beginning of the next in the same canto, something he hasn’t done before.”
“Does that mean something?”
“Who knows, Ottavia. But don’t worry; I’m sure you’ll find out on your own.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“You’re welcome, Basileia.”
We landed at Ben Gurion International Airport in Tel Aviv at around noon. An El Al vehicle took us to the nearest heliport, where we boarded an Israeli military helicopter that flew us to Jerusalem in just twenty-five minutes. The minute we landed, an official car with black-tinted windows rushed us to the apostolic delegation.
From what little I saw along the way, Jerusalem disappointed me. It was like any other city, with wide streets, traffic, and tall buildings. Barely distinguishable in the distance, some Muslim minarets pointed to the sky. The populace included Orthodox Jews with black hats and curly sideburns, as well as dozens of Arabs dressed in kaffiyeh * and akal.† Farag saw the disappointment in my face and tried to console me.
“Don’t worry, Basileia. This is modern Jerusalem. You’ll like the old city better.”
I didn’t see any sign, as I’d hoped, of God’s presence on earth. I had dreamed of visiting Jerusalem someday, and I was sure that the moment I set foot in such a special place, I would feel God’s unmistakable presence. But he was not there, at least not right then. The only thing that really got my attention was the mishmash of Eastern and Western architecture and the street signs in Hebrew, Arabic, and English. The large number of Israeli soldiers, armed to the teeth, strolling down the streets, also sparked my curiosity, reminding me that Jerusalem was a city endemically at war. The Staurofilakes had returned for the adjudication of a sin. Jerusalem was filled with wrath, blood, resentment, and death. Surely Jesus could have chosen another city to die in, and Muhammad, another city from which to ascend to heaven.
My biggest surprise, however, came at the apostolic delegation, a building no different from its neighboring buildings, except for its immense size. Several priests of all ages and nationalities received us at the door, headed by the apostolic nuncio, Monsignor Pietro Sambi. He led us through several offices to an elegant, modern meeting room where, along with other dignitaries, was my brother Pierantonio!
“Little Ottavia!” he exclaimed the minute I came through the door behind the captain and Monsignor Lewis.
My brother rushed over and we hugged long and hard. This caused an amused outcry from the rest of the assistants.
“How are you?” he asked, at last pulling away from me and looking me over from head to toe. “Aside from being dirty and injured, I mean.”
“Tired,” I replied, on the verge of tears, “very tired, Pierantonio. But very happy to see you.”
As always, my brother was a magnificent, imposing presence, in spite of his simple Franciscan habit. I rarely saw him dressed that way; at home, he wore secular clothes.
“You’ve become quite a celebrity, little sister! Look at all the important people here to meet you.”
Glauser-Röist and Farag were being introduced to the gathering by Monsignor Sambi, so my brother did the honors for me: the archbishop of Baghdad and vice president of the Conference of Latin Bishops, Paul Dahdah; the patriarch of Jerusalem and president of the Assembly of Ordinary Catholics in the Holy Land, His Beatitude Michel Sabbah; the archbishop of Haifa, the Greco-melkita Boutros Mouallem, vice president of the Assembly of Ordinary Catholics; the Orthodox patriarch of Jerusalem, Diodoros I; the Armenian Orthodox patriarch, Torkom; the Greco-melkita exarches, Georges El-Murr. A true pleiad of the most important patriarchs and bishops in the Holy Land. After each introduction, my discomfort increased. Was our mission no longer a secret? Didn’t Cardinal Sodano tell His Eminence that we had to keep complete silence about what we were doing and what was happening?
Farag greeted Pierantonio warmly, whereas I noticed Glauser-Röist stayed a discreet distance away. I no longer doubted that some deep antagonism must exist between my brother and the Rock. During the small talk that ensued, I also saw that many of those present approached the Rock with a certain fear and some even with visible scorn. I promised myself I’d solve that mystery before I left Jerusalem.
The meeting was long and boring. One after another, the patriarchs and bishops of the Holy Land expressed their great concern over the thefts of Ligna Crucis. They told us that the smaller Christian churches were the first to suffer thefts by the Staurofilakes. Often, it was just a tiny sliver or a little sawdust in a reliquary. What began as an obscure accident on some out-of-the-way mountain in Greece had turned into an international incident of outlandish proportions. Everyone was extremely worried about the effect the thefts could have on public opinion if the scandal popped up in the media. I wondered how long it could be kept silent when so many important people were already involved. In the end, the sole purpose of that meeting was for the curious patriarchs, bishops, and delegates to get to know us. Neither Farag nor the captain nor I had anything to gain. At best, we found out we could count on the help of all those churches for anything we might need. So I took advantage of that.
“With all due respect,” I said in English, using the same formulaic courtesy they used, “do any of you know anyone who guards keys here in Jerusalem?”
They all looked at each other, disconcerted.
“I’m sorry, Sister Salina,” Monsignor Sambi answered. “I don’t believe we completely understood your question.”
“We must locate,” Glauser-Röist interrupted, “someone in this city who has keys. Whatever it is he opens, nobody can close, and vice versa.”
They looked at each other, clearly showing that they didn’t have a clue about what we meant.
“Ottavia!” My brother scolded me good-naturedly, ignoring the Rock. “Do you know how many important keys there are in the Holy Land? Every church, basilica, mosque, and synagogue has its own historical collection of keys! What you’re saying makes no sense in Jerusalem. I’m sorry, but it’s just ridiculous.”
“Try to take this seriously, Pierantonio!” For a moment, I forgot where we were. I forgot I was addressing the respectable guardian of the Holy Land in the middle of an ecumenical assembly of prelates, some of whom were equal to the pope in esteem. I just saw my older brother with a sarcastic attitude about a matter that three times had nearly cost me my life. “It is very important to locate ‘he who has the keys,’ do you understand? Whether there are a lot or a few isn’t the issue. There’s somebody in this city who has the keys we need.”
“Very well, Sister Salina,” Pierantonio replied. I froze when I saw, for the first time, a look of respect and comprehension on his great princely face. Could it be that, for once, “little Ottavia” was more important than the guardian? Oh, dear, that was great news! For once I had the upper hand over my brother?
“Well…” Monsignor Sambi didn’t know how to end that unusual family squabble at such a distinguished meeting. “I think we must take note of what Captain Glauser-Röist and Sister Salina are telling us and begin our search for that bearer of the keys, as you say.”
There was a general consensus, and the conclave dissolved amicably for lunch, which was served in the luxurious dining room. They told me it was whe
re the pope had lunched on several occasions during his recent trip to the Holy Land. I could not help an ironic smile when I remembered how we had gone for three days without a shower and realized that we probably smelled pretty bad.
When I went to my room, I discovered that a couple of Hungarian nuns had already unpacked my bags and had neatly arranged my things in the closet, the bathroom, and desk. They shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble, I thought. The next day, probably at daybreak (or some other inopportune time), we would be flying to Athens for more bruises, wounds, and tattoos. Thinking about the tattoos, I went to the bathroom, took off my clothes above my waist and carefully removed the two bandages covering the inner part of my forearms. The marks were still swollen, the one from Rome much less than the one from Ravenna, just a few hours old. Like it or not, those two beautiful crosses would be with me for the rest of my life. Both had green lines deeply grooved into my skin, as if they’d been injected with some extract of plants and grass. I decided it wasn’t a good idea to worry, so I took a long, glorious shower. Once I’d dried off, I doctored myself with what I found in a medicine cabinet and bandaged my forearms. Fortunately, if I wore long sleeves, it was impossible to notice the assault on my body.
In the middle of the afternoon, after we’d rested for barely an hour, Pierantonio offered to take us to old Jerusalem for a brief sightseeing trip. The nuncio was pretty worried about our safety, for just days before, the worst skirmishes since the end of the Intifada had taken place between Palestinians and Israelis. We were so engrossed in our own problems that we hadn’t even heard the news. In the fighting, at least a dozen people had been killed and more than four hundred wounded. The Israeli government was forced to return three districts of Jerusalem—Abu Dis, Azaria, and Sauajra—to the Palestinian Authority with the hope of reopening negotiations and ending the revolt in the independent territories. The mood was tense, and everyone feared new attacks in the city; Because of this as well as because of Pierantonio’s position, the nuncio insisted we drive one of the delegation’s more lowkey vehicles to get to the old city. He also provided us with one of the best guides: Father Murphy Clark, from the Biblical School of Jerusalem. A big barrel of a man, with a lovely, trimmed white beard, he was one of the world’s foremost specialists on biblical archaeology. We parked the car near the Wailing Wall, and from there, went on a trip back through two thousand years of history.
The Last Cato Page 28