The Last Cato

by Matilde Asensi

  “I need to call home,” I repeated mechanically, as I noticed how my eyes were flooding with tears. “Please, please…”

  Glauser-Röist observed me for a couple of tense seconds. He must have concluded that things would go faster if he let me call than wait for my distress to pass or argue with me. He turned me loose suddenly, went over to Father Kallistos and the patriarch, on the other side of the glass doors, and explained that we needed to call Italy. They exchanged a few words; then the captain returned to my side, somewhat annoyed.

  “You can call from the phone in that office over there. Be careful what you say. The lines are bugged by the Turkish government.”

  I didn’t care. All I wanted was to hear my mother’s voice to end once and for all that hateful feeling of abandonment and solitude that was at that moment twisting my soul. Something told me that if I talked to her, even for just a minute, I would be able to come to my senses and get my feet back on the ground. I closed the door, picked up the phone, dialed home to Sicily, and waited for the phone on the other end to ring.

  Matteo answered—the most serious and laconic of my nephews, one of Giuseppe and Rosalia’s children. As usual, he didn’t show the slightest joy at hearing my voice. I asked him to pass the phone to his grandmother, and he told me to wait; apparently she was busy. I suddenly realized even the children were involved. I’m sure they’d been told thousands of times not to explain what anyone was doing when Uncle Pierantonio, Aunt Lucia, or Aunt Ottavia called. When we were around, they shouldn’t ask questions or comment about this or that. Once again I felt the vertigo of the hypocrisy, the solitude, and that strange feeling of abandonment eating me up inside.

  “Is that you, Ottavia?” My mother’s voice sounded delighted to get my call. “How are you, dear? Where are you?”

  “Hi, Mom.” It was difficult to wrench my voice out of my body.

  “Pierantonio told me you spent a few days with him in Jerusalem!”

  “Yes.”

  “How was he? Okay?”

  “Yes, Mom,” I said, trying to feign a happy tone of voice.

  My mother laughed. “Well, well. How about you? You haven’t told me where you are!”

  “Right, Mom. I’m in Istanbul, in Turkey. Listen, Mom, I’ve been thinking… I wanted to tell you… You see, Mom, when this is all over, I’ll probably quit my job at the Vatican.”

  I don’t know why I said that. I hadn’t even been thinking about it. Maybe I just wanted to hurt her, return part of my pain. There was silence on the other end.

  “Is that so?” she finally asked, an icy edge to her voice.

  How could I explain it to her? It was such an absurd idea, sheer lunacy. However, at that particular moment, leaving the Vatican represented freedom to me.

  “I’m tired, Mom. I think a retreat to one of the houses my order owns in the country would do me good. There’s one in Connaught, Ireland, where I could take over the archives of several libraries in the area. I need peace, Mom—peace, silence, and a lot of prayer.”

  It took her several seconds to react. When she did, she took a very disparaging tone. “Come on, Ottavia, that’s nonsense! You aren’t going to quit your job at the Vatican. Are you trying to upset me? Now, when I have so many other problems? Your father’s and brother’s deaths are still very fresh. Why do you tell me these things? Well, that’s enough. Let’s not talk about this any more. You’re not leaving the Vatican.”

  “What if I did, Mom? I think the decision is mine.”

  It was my decision, no doubt, but it also was an issue for my mother.

  “Enough! Are you determined to upset me? What’s the matter, Ottavia?”

  “Nothing really, Mom.”

  “Then come on, get to work. Don’t think about this foolishness any more. Call me another day, okay, dear? You know how much I love hearing from you.”

  When I got in the car, my feet were firmly anchored to the ground again. I knew I wouldn’t forget the matter for a second, because my mind was functioning in obsessive spurts. But at least I could face my current situation without losing my mind. As much as it pained me, as much as I rejected the idea, it was inevitable: I would never be the same. A painful fracture had occurred in my life; a fissure split me into two irreconcilable parts and distanced me from my roots forever.

  The car we took to the Fatih Camii wasn’t from the Vatican enunciator. To be discreet, Monsignor Lewis and the captain thought it best to take an unmarked car from the patriarchate. Only Doria came along to drive us; she sped down the Horn of Gold and Atatürk Boulevard. The Mosque of the Conqueror loomed suddenly at the far end of the Boxdogan Kemeri (the Aqueduct of the Brave)—enormous, solid, and austere, with very high minarets covered with balconies and a large central cupola encircled by a large number of semicupolas. Bordered by madrassas, it looked down on the faithful coming and going across the esplanade in front.

  Doria and I didn’t say a word to each other during the entire trip. She parked in front of an apartment building at the far end of the plaza, from where we walked to the entrance like any prowling tourists. Farag lagged farther and farther behind until he was at my side, abandoning Doria to the captain. I didn’t have the strength to deal with him, so I walked faster and caught up with the Rock. Because of his standoffishness, he was the only one sure to leave me in peace. I didn’t feel like talking to anyone.

  We crossed the threshold and found ourselves in a large, covered patio with trees and a central shrine that looked like a newspaper kiosk but was actually a fountain used for ablutions. The atrium columns were colossal, and it struck me that, despite being a Muslim building, the entire complex had a distinct neoclassical look. This initial impression disappeared completely when we took off our shoes and went inside. Doria and I also covered ourselves up in long black veils given to us by the old doorman whose charge it was to oversee the morality of the infidel tourists. I held my breath before such splendor. Mehemet II had constructed a mausoleum truly worthy of the conqueror of Constantinople. Covering the floor were gorgeous red rugs that compared favorably to Saint Peter’s in the Vatican. Brightly colored stained-glass windows were wisely placed in the cupola’s domes and in the niches of the three cupolas. A powerful, horizontal light filtered in through those windows and filled the space. The arches and domes stood out, accented by their showy red and white voussoirs. On each pendentive, large or small, was an eye-catching blue medallion containing luminous inscriptions from the Koran. A web of cables held up a multitude of gold and silver lamps.

  The women’s galleries were located on the first floor. I was afraid the doorman would force us to stay there while Farag and the captain looked around. Fortunately, he didn’t. Doria and I moved around the mosque as we pleased. Apparently, foreign female tourists enjoy privileges Muslim women don’t.

  For more than an hour we wandered high and low, inspecting absolutely everything. We started with the qibla, the temple wall that faced Mecca. At its center, carved into the stone, was the mihrab, the most sacred spot in the building, a recess that pointed in the exact direction of Mecca. It was much more difficult to examine the maxura, which was near the qiba, the imam’s pulpit. After that, we split up and Farag studied the numerous hanging lamps with immense patience. I examined each and every one of the columns on the three floors, including the women’s gallery. The captain, clutching his utility backpack as if it were made of gold, analyzed the motifs woven into the huge rugs and benches and every piece of wood, as well as the plain sarcophagus that held the remains of Mehemet II. Doria looked over the stained-glass windows and doors. The only thing we didn’t do was pry the flagstones from the floor.

  By the time we finished our inspection, the conqueror’s mosque was practically empty of worshippers except for a few old men dozing next to the pillars. But that silence was none other than the calm before the storm. The muezzin’s call to prayer over the loudspeakers startled us, and we looked at each other, disconcerted. The captain motioned for us to join him at t
he door and leave at once. We barely had time to regroup. Surging in waves, out of nowhere, hundreds of the faithful entered the temple, arranging themselves in orderly, parallel rows for the midday prayer.

  “It’s the adhan, the call to prayer,” Doria said. Of course, the human tide had somehow pushed her against Farag.

  “La ilah illa Allah wa Muhammad rasul Allah,” the muezzin’s amplified voice shouted over and over. “There is no other God but Allah and Mohammed is his prophet.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” the Rock said, using his body as a battering ram to make way through the current.

  With great difficulty, we managed to get to the open-air patio, the sahn, just in time—for right before we could retrieve our shoes, the mosque was completely full.

  “Tomorrow’s another day,” Farag said cheerfully, looking around with a smile.

  “Let’s go,” Doria said. “I’ll take you to the hotel so you can rest. I’ll call Monsignor Lewis and have them bring your luggage from the airport.”

  “Is it still on the plane?” I asked, surprised. I immediately regretted having directed a comment to her, even a simple question.

  “I had them leave our bags on the plane,” Glauser-Röist explained, “in case we solved the test today.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Kaspar.”

  “If you like,” Doria continued, flashing her brightest smile as she took the veil off her hair, “tonight I’ll take you to dinner at one of the best places in Istanbul. It’s a very fun place where you can see a real belly dance.”

  “Before we leave, we should examine this patio,” I cut her off, illhumored.

  What a strange lot we were that day… The only link between us was the Rock, who had no idea what was really going on.

  “But right now they’re praying!” Doria protested. “We may upset the worshippers. Better wait until tomorrow.”

  Glauser-Röist looked at her. “No, the doctor is right. Let’s examine this place. If we do so discreetly, we won’t bother anyone.”

  “Someone should keep an eye on the doorman,” proposed Farag. “He hasn’t taken his eyes off us.”

  “He could be the Staurofilax watching over the test,” I said ironically.

  Stupid Doria whipped around to look at him. “Really?” she nearly shouted. “A Staurofilax!”

  “Doria, please!” I scolded her. “This isn’t a game! Stop looking at him!”

  The elderly doorman, with a thin beard, his head covered by a white cap that looked like an eggshell, frowned and glared at us.

  “Doria, go over there,” the Rock ordered. “Talk to him, put your veil back on, and distract him as much as you can.”

  With a wicked smile on my lips, I handed Doria my turban and stayed with Farag and the captain.

  “Let’s split up,” Glauser-Röist said as soon as Doria was far enough away. “Let’s each examine a third of the patio. Doctor, don’t go near the fountain of ablutions. You could set off a revolution. We’ll take that part.”

  They left me alone and headed for the sabial. The section I was assigned to, at the extreme left of the enclosure, had nothing of interest. The ground was stone and the trees had slender trunks. There was nothing unusual about the walls separating the enclosure from the street. Poking around lazily under the portico, I amused myself by watching Doria throw herself into conversation with the doorman. The old man looked at her as if she were an idiot—which she was—or the devil incarnate, and looked ready to throw her out with loud, reverberating shouts. I’d love to know what foolishness she was saying to the poor man to make him contort his face in such an annoyed manner.

  I didn’t have time to figure it out. Farag grabbed me by the arm and forced me to turn toward him. With an enchanting smile, he cut his eyes in the captain’s direction.

  “We found it,” he whispered, still smiling. “Let’s hurry.”

  Walking calmly, we headed for the side of the sabial where Glauser- Röist was standing.

  “What did you find?” I asked, smiling, as we approached.

  “A Constantine chrismon.”

  “In a Moslem fountain for ablutions? That’s impossible.”

  Before the five daily prayers proscribed by the Koran, Muslims must go through a complex ritual of ablutions, washing their face, ears, hair, hands, arms up to their elbows, ankles, and feet. All mosques have a fountain at the entrance where the faithful must pass through before entering the haram, or prayer room.

  “It’s perfectly hidden,” Farag explained to me. “It’s like a jigsaw puzzle whose pieces have been scattered on the bottom of the fountain.”

  “On the bottom of the fountain?”

  “There’re twelve water spigots, and the water falls into a stone drain whose bottom contains the pieces of our chrismon. That means the clue is in the sabial. The captain is still investigating. We have to hurry. Doria can’t keep the doorman busy forever. Look quickly and move away as soon as you can.”

  I followed Farag’s instructions to the letter, exchanging a knowing look with the captain as soon as I got close enough. Their assessment was right. At the center of the fountain was a stone cylinder from which twelve copper spigots jutted up. Under them was a drain a little less than a meter wide, surrounded by a small parapet. At the bottom, nearly obfuscated by the dirty water, one could see the stone ashlars with worn down reliefs on which one could perfectly make out the disconnected parts of a Constantine chrismon.

  Even though I’d been warned about being near the sabial, I turned one of the spigots without thinking. Although I didn’t cause any cosmic cataclysm, it gave me an idea. I took off my shoes before Farag’s and the captain’s horrified eyes, and climbed into the drain to see if what we had to do was step on the stones. Obviously, nothing happened. But since the stones were very slippery, as I was getting out, I slipped and bumped against the spigot’s head. The curious thing was that the spigot turned upside down but didn’t break. There I found a spring that proved we were onto something. When Farag and the captain saw the spring, they followed my lead and got into the drain, shoes and all, turning all the spigots like crazy. No more than a minute could have passed from the time I got in the water until we had twisted all twelve faucets and the ground opened up under our feet.

  The twelve stones at the bottom of the fountain gave way under our weight, dropping us into a void. As we were sinking, we saw the light grow faint and then disappear. At any other moment of my life (like when we fell from the crypt of Saint Mary in Cosmedin into the Cloaca Maxima) I would have screamed like a crazy woman, my arms flailing, trying to grab on to anything I could. But here, in the fifth circle of Purgatory, I knew anything was possible, and I wasn’t the least bit afraid. I plunged with a great splash into a deep pool of water that received me gently. The only thing that startled me was how freezing cold the water was. I held the air in my lungs, and when I stopped sinking, I kicked my feet to push myself to the surface. Besides smelling awful, that place was as dark and ominous as the inside of a wolf ‘s mouth. Next to me, I heard splashes.

  “Farag? Captain?” My voice echoed back to me many times over.

  “Ottavia!” shouted Farag, from my right. “Ottavia! Where are you?”

  I heard another splash next to me. “Captain?”

  “Damn it! Damn all those Staurofilakes!” Glauser-Röist roared. “My clothes are soaking wet!”

  I couldn’t help laughing as I tread water. “That’s just great! What are we to do, Captain? Your clothes are wet! What a catastrophe!”

  “What a terrible shame!” panted Farag.

  “Laugh all you want! I’m fed up with these guys!”

  “Ah, well, I’m not,” I said.

  At that moment, the Rock turned on his flashlight.

  “Where are we?” Farag asked. When the light went on, we saw that we were in a stone tank filled with murky water.

  The good thing about living through adventures like this one and being submerged in water used to wash hundr
eds of sweaty feet is that the problems of daily life, the really painful ones, fade and disappear. Immediate concerns use up all of our physical and psychological resources. In this case our immediate concern was to keep from vomiting, trying not to think too much about the infections such filth could cause to the wounds on our feet and in our tattoos.

  “It’s a kind of Sargasso Sea. Instead of algae, there are fungi,” I said.

  Farag burst out laughing.

  “Doctor, please! Stop saying such disgusting things!” the Rock thundered. “Let’s look for a way out, quickly!”

  “Then shine the flashlight on the walls. Let’s see if we can make anything out.”

  The cistern’s stone walls were covered with large blotches of black moss, separated by thick lines of filth that showed the different heights the water had risen to over the last five hundred or a thousand years. Apart from the humidity and the layer of vegetation, we didn’t see anything to help us scale the walls. On the other hand, the distance to the sabial ‘s drain was so great it was impossible to reach it. If there were a way out, it had to be below us.

  “We’ve purged more than greed,” Farag murmured. “We’ll purge our pride with this humility bath.”

  “We’re not done yet, Professor,” pronounced the Rock.

  “We have only one flashlight,” I said, starting to notice the fatigue in my legs. “So if we’re going to dive, we have to do it together.”

  “No, Doctor, we have three flashlights. Hold on a moment, and I’ll give you yours.”

  He searched in his wet backpack and took it out with great difficulty. Then he handed another one to Farag. In all that light, that place wasn’t so disgusting as it was sinister. I didn’t want to think about it too much, because the whole episode made me gag. I wasn’t about to add more filth to the water.

  “Ready?” the Rock asked. Without hesitating, he took a breath, puffed out his cheeks, and sank into that soup.

  “Let’s go, Ottavia,” Farag urged me, looking at me with smiling eyes, the same goofy way he’d been looking at Doria all day. If he was trying to bring us closer together, he was tangling with the most stubborn person in the world. Not saying a word or turning around to acknowledge what he said, I filled my lungs with the infected air in the cistern and submerged myself in pursuit of the captain. The water was so muddy that Glauser-Röist’s light was barely visible a few meters below. Farag followed me, lighting up the inner walls of the tank. There was nothing to see except for the large branches of white moss that seemed to wave as we passed by.