Doria cut the patriarch short to say that two centuries later, during Justinian and Theodora’s reign, the temple was completely rebuilt by the famous architects Isidoro de Mileto and Antemio de Talles. After that learned interruption, Doria had nothing more to add.
The patriarch went on to explain that until the eleventh century, many emperors, patriarchs, and bishops were buried there. The faithful flocked there to venerate the important remains of martyrs, saints, and priests. After the Apostoleion was destroyed, those relics traveled from one site to another over the centuries, until they ended up in the nearby patriarchal church.
“Except of course,” His Holiness said very slowly, “the ones the crusaders stole in the thirteenth century: relics, gold and silver goblets with precious stones, icons, imperial crosses, vestments trimmed with jewels. Today most of them are in Rome and in Saint Mark’s Church in Venice. The historian Nicetas Chroniates confirms that the Latins also profaned the emperors’ tombs.”
“After similar misfortunes and an earthquake in 1328,” added Doria, looking as if she’d been personally offended by his comments about Latins, “the Apostoleion had to be rebuilt. At the end of the thirteenth century, Emperor Andronicus II Paleologo ordered its restoration, but he never returned to see it. Plundered of its relics and objects of worth, it was abandoned and forgotten until the fall of Constantinople in the middle of the fifteenth century. In 1461 Mehemet II ordered its demolition, and in its place he built his own mausoleum, the Mosque of the Conqueror, or Fatih Camii.”
At the other side of the table, the captain was growing more impatient by the second. Farag, however, seemed enchanted with the Doria’s exposition, nodding when she was speaking and smiling like a fool when she looked at him.
“Could you comment on what the church looked like?” asked the Rock, stabbing straight into the heart of the matter.
Doria opened a notebook in front of her and passed around some large illustrations.
“The basilica was laid out in the shape of a Greek cross. It had five enormous blue cupolas—one at each end of the four arms, and another gigantic one in the center. Directly under that was the altar made entirely of silver and covered by a pyramid-shape marble ciborium. Columns lined the interior walls, forming a gallery on the upper floor called catechumena, accessible only by a spiral staircase.”
“If there is nothing left of the church, how do you know all that?” The Rock at times was marvelously suspicious. I felt indebted to him for questioning Doria’s knowledge. At that point, the first of the illustrations reached me. It was a virtual reconstruction of the Apostoleion, in black and white, showing its five cupolas and numerous windows the length and width of the walls.
“Why, Captain!” Doria protested in a delightfully witty timbre. “Do you want me to list my sources?”
“Yes, I do,” grumbled Glauser-Röist.
“Well, to start with, today there are two churches that were constructed in imitation of the Apostoleion: Saint Mark’s in Venice, and Saint- Front, in Perigeus, France. We also have descriptions by Eusebio, Philostorgio, Procopio, and Teodoro Anagnostes. And there is a long poem from the tenth century called Description of the Apostles’ Building, composed by one Constantine of Rhodes in honor of Emperor Constantine VII Porphyrogenite.”
“Of course,” I cut her off, “this emperor wrote a magnificent treatise on the norms of court behavior. That manual was adopted by the European courts at the end of the Middle Ages. Have you read it, Doria?”
“No,” she said softly, “I haven’t had the opportunity.”
“Well, read it when you get the chance. It’s very interesting.”
I suspected her illustrious knowledge on Byzantium was limited to architecture. Her cultural knowledge wasn’t as broad as she wanted us to believe.
“Of course, Ottavia. Returning to the matter at hand,” she said, ignoring me completely from then on, “I should tell you, Captain, I have many sources at my disposal, although it would be tedious to list them all. If you wish, I would be delighted to pass my notes along to you.”
The Rock rejected her offer with a brusque monosyllable and sank down in his seat.
“Tell us about the location, Doria, please,” Farag requested, smiling, as he leaned over the table, his hands crossed, like a fawning scholar.
“My location?” said the twerp with a smile, not taking her eyes off him.
Farag grinned very easily at her joke. “No, no, of course not! The Apostoleion’s location.”
“Ah!” she said with a flirtatious smile. “Of course.”
I felt like getting up and killing her, but I controlled myself.
“Based on what we know, Constantine the Great ordered his mausoleum built on the highest hill in Constantinople. The primitive Church of the Holy Apostles was erected around this circular building. Over the centuries, the church was expanded until it reached the same dimensions as Saint Sofia. After that, it fell into a decline. Mehemet II left nothing when he razed his mosque.”
“Can we visit Fatih Camii?” the Rock asked.
“Naturally,” responded the patriarch. “But you mustn’t disturb the Muslim faithful. You would be expelled without a second thought.”
“Can women also enter?” I asked. I wasn’t well versed on Islamic customs.
“Yes,” Doria answered quickly, with charming smile, “but only in certain areas. I’ll be accompanying you, Ottavia.”
I looked at the captain out of the corner of my eye; he responded with a slight shrug that meant, We can’t avoid it. If she wants to come, so be it.
The second illustration reached me just then. In a sumptuous Byzantine illumination, you could clearly see the golds and reds of the cupolas and the walls, just as they must have been at the church’s moment of greatest splendor. Inside, as tall as the columns and the walls, Mary and the twelve apostles contemplated the ascension of Jesus to the heavens. I couldn’t help an admiring exclamation.
“What a charming miniature!”
“Well, it’s yours, Ottavia,” replied Doria, sarcastically. “It belongs to a Byzantine codex from 1162. You’ll find it in the Vatican Library.”
It wasn’t worth answering her. If she wanted me to feel responsible for the historic ravages made by the Catholic Church, she could always try.
“Let’s recap,” answered Glauser-Röist, thrusting forward in his chair as he smoothed his elegant but wrinkled jacket. “Here’s a city known as the richest, most splendid in the ancient world, with untold riches and treasures. In this city we must purge ourselves of greed, who knows how. We must do it in a church that was dedicated to the apostles but which no longer exists. Do I have it right?”
“You’re exactly right, Kaspar,” Farag said, rubbing his beard.
“When do you wish to visit Fatih Camii?” inquired Monsignor Lewis.
“Immediately,” the Rock answered. “Unless the doctor and Professor Boswell need to know anything else.”
We both gently shook our heads.
“Fine. Then let’s go.”
“But, Captain!” said Doria in her phony singsong voice. “It’s lunchtime! Professor Boswell, wouldn’t you agree we should have something to eat before we go?”
I was seriously thinking about killing her.
“Please, Doria, call me Farag.”
My insides churned, tearing me into microscopic, venomous fragments. What exactly was going on here?
Dragging my soul behind me, I walked alongside Father Kallistos to the patriarchate’s dining room, where a couple of old Greek women, their heads covered in Turkish style, served us a meal I barely tasted. Doria was sitting to my right, between Farag and me. I had to put up with her absurd prattle. I think that’s what took away my appetite; but so as not to call attention to my distress, I ate some fish and a bit of stuffed vegetables with spicy pasta that reminded me of the tasty Sicilian caponatina. For dessert, the patriarch devoured three or four small milk puddings as white as his skin. Everyone followed his example
, except me. I preferred a soft junket of goat’s milk to calm my unsettled indigestion.
During coffee, Doria pried herself away from Farag and started up a conversation with me. While the men discussed the Staurofilakes’ strange behavior and their incredible history and organization, my “friend” dove into a subject I would’ve rather avoided: our distant childhood memories. Her insatiable curiosity about the members of my family surprised me. She seemed to know a lot about them, but she always lacked some detail to complete the puzzle. At last, bored with her obsessive questions, I rudely took a big leap in the conversation.
“How is it, Doria, that you live in Turkey yet stay so up on what we Salinas are doing in Palermo?”
“Concetta talks a lot about you all on the phone.”
“Why is that, with all the tension between our families right now?”
“Well, Ottavia,” she said sweetly, “we Sciarra girls don’t hold a grudge. Our father’s death pained us a lot, but we’ve forgiven you all for it.”
“Forgive me, Doria, but you’re saying foolish things. What are you talking about? Why do you need to forgive us for your father’s death?”
“Concetta always says your mother was wrong to hide your family’s business from you, Pierantonio, and Lucia. You know nothing about it, do you, Ottavia?”
Her candid look and that sibylline smile showed she was ready to tell all. I gulped down some coffee in order to steady my nerves. I don’t know what got into me, but when I finished, I shot back one of my mother’s habitual sentences: “Passu longu e vucca curta, Doria.” *
“Come now!” she said, surprised. “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about!”
I looked at her in astonishment. “I asked you to stop!”
“Oh, come on, Ottavia, don’t act like a little girl! You can’t ignore that your father was a campieri!”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “My father wasn’t a campieri! * You’re insulting the Salinas’ memory and good name!”
“Well,” she sighed. “There’s nothing sadder than a blind man who will not see. Anyway, Pierantonio knows the truth.”
“Doria, you’ve always been a bit odd, but with this, I can say you’ve finally gone nuts. I’m not going to allow you to insult my family.”
“The Salinas of Palermo?” she asked, surprised. “Who own Cinisi, the most important construction business in Sicily? Who are the only shareholders of Chiementin and have exclusive control over the milliondollar cement business? Who own the stone quarries in Biliemi that provide the stone for all public buildings? Who own every share of the Bank of Sicily that launders dirty drug and prostitution money? Who own nearly all the productive lands on the island? Who control the fleet of trucks, the distribution networks, and the ‘security’ of the businessmen and vendors? Are you referring to the Salinas of Palermo?”
“We are businessmen!”
“Sure, dear! Well, so are the Sciarra of Catania! The problem is that in Sicily there are 184 mafia clans organized into just two families: the Sciarras and the Salinas. ‘The double S,’ the antimafia authorities call us. My father, Bernardo Sciarra, was the don of the island for twenty years, until your father, a loyal campieri who never caused any trouble, slowly took over and killed off the most prominent capos.”
“You’re crazy, Doria. I beg you, for the love of God, stop.”
“Don’t you want to know how your father killed the great Bernardo Sciarra and how he got control of the capos and campieris faithful to my family?”
“Shut up, Doria!”
“Well, you see, Ottavia, he used exactly the same method we used to terminate your father and your brother Giuseppe: a supposed traffic accident.”
I was dumbfounded.
“My brother has four children. How could you do something like that?”
“You still don’t get it, dear. We’re the Mafia, the Cosa Nostra! Our great-grandfathers were mafiosi. We kill, control governments, plant bombs, shoot off Luparas,* and respect the Omerta. No one can bypass the rules and ignore the vendetta. And you want to know the funniest part?”
As I listened to her, I clenched my jaws so tight they ached. I tried to breathe and hold back my tears, while contracting the muscles in my face until there was a grimace of pain on it. That seemed to delight her; she smiled like a happy child on her birthday. My entire life was crumbling. I closed my eyes, they were hurting so bad, and the knot in my throat was choking me. Doria was malignant, she was perversity incarnate, but maybe I deserved all that. Maybe I had closed myself up in the dreamworld of the church so I didn’t have to accept reality. I shut myself away so nothing could hurt me. And in the end, it had done me no good.
“The funniest part is that your father never could stomach being a don. He was a campieri; he liked being a campieri. Behind him was someone who did have the strength and ambition to start a turf war. Do you know who I’m talking about, Ottavia, dear? No? I’m talking about your mother, my friend, your mother—Filippa Zafferano, who now is the acting don of Sicily!”
She broke out in happy cackle, throwing up her hands to show how funny that was. I looked at her without blinking, without erasing the sad look on my face, without doing anything except swallow my tears and purse my lips.
“Filippa, your mother, feels strong and safe in Villa Salina. Tell her to stay inside and not come out, because there are many dangers.” As much as I didn’t want to believe her, I realized it was a clear threat.
That said, she turned back to Farag, who was talking with His Most Divine Holiness. My entire body was paralyzed, almost lifeless. My head, on the other hand, was a whirlwind of thought. Now I understood why they sent Pierantonio, Lucia, and me away to boarding school when we were so young. Now I understood why my mother never allowed the three of us to take part in certain family matters. Now I understood why she had always encouraged us to stay as far away from home as possible and to devote ourselves so completely to the church. It all fit so perfectly. The puzzle of my life was now in place; the picture complete. My mother had selected us to be her counterweight, her spiritual and earthly guarantee. Pierantonio, Lucia, and I were her jewels, her works of art, her justification. To my mother’s old-fashioned way of thought, that absurd, compensatory view of the world fit perfectly. It wasn’t so bad that the Salinas were Mafia if the three of us were near God, praying for the rest, occupying positions of responsibility or prestige within the church, as a way to expunge our name. Yes, it all made perfect sense. Suddenly, the great respect and admiration I’d always felt for her transformed into immense pain in the face of the enormity of her sins. I wanted to call her and talk to her, ask her to explain why she had acted so, why she had lied to Pierantonio, Lucia, and me all our lives. Why she used my father as an instrument of her greed. Why she let her other six children—now just five, with Giuseppe dead—kill, extort, and rob. Why she allowed her grandchildren, whom she said she loved, to grow up in that environment. Even now, she wanted to head an organization that went against the laws of God and mankind. Nonetheless, I knew I couldn’t ask her for those explanations. If I did, she would probably quickly figure out how I’d learned the truth, and the war between the Salinas and the Sciarras would leave too many dead in Sicily’s gutters. The time for deceit had passed. I had to acknowledge that I wasn’t as innocent as she would have liked. Neither was Pierantonio; after all, his dirty dealings inside the church simply followed a family tradition. Good Lucia wasn’t much better, always on the fringe, so detached and naïve. The three of us blissfully lived a lie in which our family was like a fairy tale, a perfect family with its closets filled with corpses.
I was so absorbed in my thoughts I didn’t hear Captain Glauser- Röist calling me, but I got to my feet like a robot. Farag and Doria’s infatuation didn’t matter. Nothing could be more painful than what I was feeling. I didn’t care if they stayed together for the rest of their lives. My mind was going from the past to the present, from the present to the past, tying up loose ends and merging los
t threads into one. Everything in my life took on a new color.
Suddenly I felt very alone, as if the entire world had emptied of people, as if my ties with life had unraveled. My brothers and sisters had lied to me, too. They all had kept quiet and played the game my mother decreed. They weren’t the siblings I thought they were. We didn’t form that indivisible group we were so proud of. In fact, Giuseppe and Filippa’s real children were those five living in Sicily; they were the ones who were part of the family business. We three who lived apart were deceived, detached from the daily reality of the household. Giuseppe—may he rest in peace—Giaconda, Cesare, Pierluigi, Salvatore, and Agueda must have always felt we were marginalized or perhaps that we were privileged. The trust among the nine siblings had always been a sham: Three were destined for the church; the other six shared the fortune and disgrace, the truth and fiction. They lied because their mother ordered them to. And Father? What was Father’s role in all that? At that moment, I understood that my father was only a campieri, a simple campieri who liked his hateful work and gave in to the orders of his wife, the great Filippa Zafferano. Everything fell into place. It was so simple.
“Dr. Salina? Are you feeling alright?”
Family images were erased from my mind, and out of the fog emerged the Rock’s face. We were in the vestibule of the patriarchate and I had no idea how I’d gotten there. I’d seen the captain every day for the last three months, but he suddenly looked like a total stranger, like Doria before she told me her name. I knew I knew her, but her face gave me no clue to her identity. Parts of my brain had short-circuited and weren’t functioning. I was feeling completely lost.
“Dr. Salina, please.” He shook me by my arms. “What’s going on with you?”
“I need to call home.”
“You need to do what? Everyone’s in the car, waiting for you.”
The Last Cato Page 36