The Last Cato (52 page)

“Okay.”

“Well, okay.” He nodded, rubbing his nose against mine. “You have five seconds. Pick up that damn phone.”

“Now you’re talking like Glauser-Röist.”

“I think I’m starting to understand him.”

I walked to my room under Farag’s inquisitive look. I preferred to talk alone, calmly, instead of having him stuck to me like a shadow, hanging on every word. As I listened to the ringing at my order’s main house in Rome, I also heard the doorbell. The captain had arrived, and Butros came up right after that.

My conversation with Giulia Sarolli was one of the most difficult conversations I’ve had in my entire life. She used the same scornful tone she used to tell me I’d been exiled to Ireland, far from my community and my family. No matter how much I insisted, she didn’t explain the steps I had to take to leave the order. She obfuscated, repeating over and over that the legal part of the matter wasn’t important. All that mattered was the spirit, the donation I’d made of my life.

“That donation, Sister Salina,” she said, “is a donation of love, a love that tries to overcome our ego and opens us up to the rest of the world. That’s why community life exists. The ideal we sisters aspire to is to say as St. Paul did, ‘I have the freedom to do this and that, but I also have the freedom not to do what I want but rather what the rest of the world expects of me.’ Do you understand?”

“I understand, Sister Sarolli, but I’ve thought it over, and I am sure I couldn’t be happy if I stay in religious life.”

“But that life is all about following Christ!” Giulia Sarolli couldn’t understand how I could renounce such a lofty goal. She talked as if any other option wasn’t worth considering. “You were called by God, how can you turn a deaf ear to the voice of Our Lord?”

“That’s not what this is about, Sister. I understand that it’s hard to grasp, but things aren’t always that easy.”

“You haven’t fallen in love with a man, have you?” she asked in a grave voice after a few seconds of silence.

“I’m afraid so.”

The silence persisted for a few more seconds.

“You took vows,” she stressed, accusatorily.

“I haven’t broken them, Sister. That’s why I want you to explain exactly what I need to do to go back into the secular life.”

But I didn’t have any luck this time either. Sarolli didn’t understand or didn’t want to understand that when some things come to an end, there’s no turning back. She kept trying to convince me to reconsider a while longer before making such a serious decision. I knew our conversation would be long, but I didn’t realize how long.

“You need to trust that God will continue to call you,” she repeated.

“Listen, please, Sister,” I said, feeling irritated and tired. “I’m sure God is still calling me, but I am calling you from Egypt, and you aren’t answering me. Please, tell me, once and for all, what I have to do to leave the order!”

“Next December, when you speak with the mother superior of your community for your annual review, tell her you don’t want to renew your vows at the next Fourth Sunday of Easter and that’s it.”

“What are you saying?” I was alarmed. “That I have to wait till the annual review? Sister Sarolli, I already know that. I am asking you what I should do to leave the order
now.”

I heard her sigh over the phone line. “You need dispensation from the bishop,” she groaned. “As I recall, it hasn’t even been a month since you renewed your vows.”

“No, Sister Sarolli, I didn’t renew my vows.”

“What do you mean?” she said alarmed.

“The Fourth Sunday of Easter was May 14. That day I had to go to Sicily, for my father and brother’s funeral; they died in an accident… a car wreck.”

“And you didn’t renew your vows the following Sunday either? You didn’t sign the paper when you came back?”

I heard her open and close some drawers and take out some papers. Then she covered the mouthpiece with her hand. I heard her say something to someone who must have been close by. I was starting to fret over what that long international call would cost Farag. After a while, she finally seemed convinced of the truth of my words. In a resigned voice, she gave me the news.

“Legally, Sister, you don’t have to do a thing. Contrition before God is another matter. That is personal, and you will take that up with Him in solitude. You must send a letter to the general director of your community and to the mother superior of your community, Sister Margherita. Those letters will be placed in your file, and at that point, we will terminate your membership in this order.”

“That simple? I’m out? It’s done?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“It will be, as soon as we receive those letters. If there’s nothing more, Sister…,” her voice wavered as she spoke that last word.

“And my salary? Will I receive it all, directly from the Vatican?”

“Don’t worry about that. We will arrange all that when we get those letters. However, remember that your contract with the Vatican is contingent upon your status as a nun. I’m afraid you will have to settle that matter with the prefect of the Classified Archives, His Reverend Father Guglielmo Ramondino. It’s fairly likely you’ll have to find another job.”

“I realize that. Thank you for everything, Sister Sarolli. I will send those letters as soon as possible.”

I hung up the phone and a dizziness swept over me. I had a precipice in front of me. Turning back was no longer a possibility, and the truth was, I didn’t even want to. I sighed and glanced at Farag’s room. When my mother found out, she’d probably have a heart attack. No, she’d have at least two or three. I couldn’t even imagine my brothers’ and sisters’ reactions. Pierantonio might understand. I just wanted to be with Farag for the rest of my life, but the practical Salina side of me weighed every possibility. In spite of everything, returning to Palermo was an option. There I would always find shelter. I would also have to look for another job, but that didn’t worry me. With my professional history, my awards, and my publications that wouldn’t be too hard. That work would also determine where I would live. I sighed again. Some way or another, I would go forward and find a way to cross this precipice.

The door to the room opened very slowly and Farag’s chin appeared through the crack.

“How did it go? We heard you hang up.”

“You aren’t going to believe it,” I replied arching my eyebrows. “I’m free.”

Farag’s jaw dropped. I got to my feet and went toward him.

“Let’s go eat. I’ll tell you about it in detail.”

“But… but… you’re no longer a nun?” he babbled.

“Technically, no,” I explained, pushing him toward the door. “Morally, yes,… at least until I send my resignation in writing. But let’s go eat, please. The food must be getting cold, and I feel guilty leaving your father and the captain alone.”

“She’s not a nun anymore!” he shouted as we entered the dining room. Butros smiled, ducking his head, revealing a deep happiness. The Rock, his eyes hooded, stared at me for a long time.

The meal was very pleasant. My new life couldn’t have begun any better. I had no doubt why the Staurofilakes chose Alexandria for purging the sin of gluttony. It would have been hard to find dishes more succulent with better condiments than those typical Alexandrian dishes. Before the
baba ghanouj
(a puree of eggplant, tahini,
*
and lemon juice), and then
hummus bi tahine
(a chickpea puree with the same seasonings), we sampled an assortment of the tastiest salads accompanied by a lot of cheese and
fuul
(some enormous brown string beans). As Butros explained, the Alexandrians inherited Roman and Byzantine cuisines, but they also added the best of the Arabic cuisine. Every stew contained olive oil, honey, bay leaf, yogurt, garlic, thyme, black pepper, sesame, cinnamon, and other spices.

I tried them all. Glauser-Röist drank a couple of bottles of Stella Egyptian beer. Farag’s father did him one better.

“Did you know beer was invented in ancient Egypt?” he said. “There’s nothing like a nice glass of beer before bed. It helps you get to sleep and is a natural relaxant.”

Despite that, Farag and I just drank mineral water and cold
karkade,
a dark red soft drink made with hibiscus flowers, which gave it a somewhat sour taste. Egyptians drink it all day, along with
shai nana,
very strong black tea they brew with mint.

The worst part was the desserts. I say the worst part, because there was no limit to the variety served. The Alexandrians, true to the Byzantine tradition, were like the Greeks, great lovers of sweets. Farag, an upstanding Alexandrian, had ordered enough cakes, puff pastries, and cookies to feed a starving army rather than the four people already satiated by a great meal:
om ali,
*
konafa,
†
baklaoua,
‡
and
ashura,
§
a typical dessert that Muslims consumed especially on the tenth of the month of Moharram. Farag and his father devoured it every chance they got. Glauser-Röist and I exchanged discreet looks of surprise at the outrageous capacity of the Boswell family to consume sweets without restraint.

“Doesn’t look like you’re worried about diabetes, Farag,” I joked.

“Not diabetes or obesity, or arterial hypertension,” he said with difficulty, gobbling down a great big piece of
konafa.
“This is just what I needed—a good meal!”

“Alexandria boasts the terrible distinction…,” the Rock recited somberly. Farag’s father froze, his eyes wide and in the middle of chewing. The Rock continued, “… of being known for perversely practicing the sin of gluttony.”

“What did you say, Captain Glauser-Röist?” he asked, incredulous, after swallowing his
baklaoua
with the help of a quick gulp of beer.

“Calm down, Papa.” Farag smiled. “Kaspar isn’t crazy. He just made a joke.”

But it wasn’t a joke. I couldn’t get out of my head Cato’s message about the city and its guilt.

“I understand that,” the Rock said, quickly changing the subject, “in Arabic countries, Internet access is restricted. Is that true in Egypt, too?”

Butros folded his napkin meticulously and set it on the table before he answered. (Farag kept eating
konafa.
) “That’s a serious matter, Captain,” he said, his forehead furrowed in worry. “Here in Egypt we don’t have to put up with the restrictions that exist in Saudi Arabia and Iran, where they censor and restrict citizens’ access to a thousand pages of the Internet. Saudi Arabia, for example, has a center for technology on the outskirts of Riad where they control all the pages seen by its citizens. They block hundreds of new addresses daily which, according to the government, go against their religion, morals, and the royal Saudi family. It’s even worse in Iraq and Syria, where the Internet is completely forbidden.”

“Why are you upset, Papa? You barely know how to turn on a computer, and in Egypt we don’t have those problems.”

Butros looked at his son as if he didn’t know him. “A government shouldn’t spy on its own people, son, or act like a jailer or censor opinions and freedoms. And it especially shouldn’t censor religion. The hell described in books isn’t in the next life, Farag. It’s here, on this side. So many men say they interpret God’s word, but they are lying, like the governments that restrict their citizens’ freedoms. Think about what our city was like before and what it’s like now. Remember your brother Juhanna and Zoe and little Simon.

“I won’t forget them, Papa.”

“Search for a country where you can be free, my son,” Butros spoke to Farag as if the captain and I weren’t there. “Find that country and leave Alexandria.”

“What are you saying, Papa?” Farag’s knuckles were white as they pressed against the wood.

“Leave Alexandria, Farag. If you stay here, I would never be at peace. Get out of here. Leave your work at the museum and close up the house. Don’t worry about me,” he rushed to say, looking at me and smiling with evil amusement. “As soon as you two find that place, you’ll sell this house and buy another one there.”

“Would you leave Alexandria, Butros?” I asked, smiling.

“The deaths of my son, Juhanna, and my grandson sealed my break with this city.” His friendly expression barely hid the deep pain he felt. “Alexandria was glorious for thousands of years. Today, for those who aren’t Muslim, it’s just dangerous. There aren’t any Jews, Greeks, or Europeans left. They all fled and only come here as tourists. Why should we stay?” Again he looked at his son with bitterness. “Promise me you’ll leave, Farag.”

“I’ve thought about it, Papa,” Farag admitted, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. “I’m so happy to be back that it’s really hard for me to make that promise.”

“Do you know that if Farag stayed in Alexandria, he could die at the hands of the
Al-Gama’a al-Islamiyya,
Ottavia?”

I remained silent. Maybe Butros was obsessed, but his words affected me. I communicated that to Farag with my eyes.

“Okay, Papa. You have my word. I won’t stay in Alexandria.”

After that, no one said a word. I’d never imagined I would live with so much fear. I thought sadly about the people in Sicily, threatened by families like Doria’s and mine. Why is the world such a terrible place? Why does God let such terrible things happen? I’d lived in a glass bubble, and now I finally had to face reality.