Ulus, ulus» he repeats incomprehensibly.
He leaves me in an anonymous square surrounded by apartment buildings; in the middle stands the column, 10-15 meters high: on it they carved various episodes from Julian’s life. I go around it, admiring the scenes, until the low relief about the funeral procession of emperor Constantius hits my eyes. Behind the corpse, laying on a chariot, two crowned figures open the procession: form what I recall, they were recognised as Julian and, the bigger one, as the god Helios. Now, after finding the epigraph and the empty tomb, I formulate an alternative interpretation: what if the whole scene does not represent the funeral procession of Constantius, but the moving ceremony for the Apostate’s body? Maybe in the column that represents the main episodes of his life, they wanted to remind us of his last trip. In this case, Julian would not be the one standing, but the body laying down, while the crowned figures following him could be the new king Valentinian and the smaller one, his younger brother Valens. Probably the professor understood that too, certainly I can affirm something that the ancient authors did not pass onto us: once in Tarsus, Valentinian and Valens not only paid homage to the tomb of their eminent predecessor, but they also took him away. Probably they considered the place not suitable to receive the mortal remains of an emperor [they may have feared the same ending: buried in a forgotten corner of the Turkish mountains]. Thus, next to the river Cydnus, they got built the cenotaph with the inscription found by the professor and at the same time they had Julian’s body taken to a more fit place. But where?
I can’t take this question off my mind, not even while I walk to the centre: I arrive at the date’s place at 20.30, largely on time. Don Castillo: the name of the restaurant makes me think of a traditional inn. I sit on one of the steps in front of it: I can see women passing, many of them covered by long black burkas.
Chiara, in her usual heels, arrives after one hour and fifteen minutes: «Have you been waiting for long?»
«No» I answer standing up and stretching my stiff legs. «Nice to see you again.»
«Let’s go.» She takes me by the arm.
The place is dark, I can’t see well what I’m eating, but maybe that’s better: the names of the plates are enigmatic and, taking advantage of the surprise and of her desire to make me try Turkish kitchen, she avoids explaining until I finish the whole portion. She ordered meat in all sauces and of all kinds: I hope it’s just veal and not something else.
I must complete a task, even if unwillingly: «Your friend was very kind, he helped me a lot.»
«Yes, he is always kind with everyone» she replies coldly.
«Talking about Fatih, he’d like to hear from you, but does not want to bother.»
I give her the piece of paper: «He gave me his phone number and said… well, he would like if you…»
«Thanks,» she cuts me, «but no, keep the number, you might need it more than I do!»
I don’t insist, I clearly touched a delicate subject: «So, what did you want to explain about tomorrow?»
Chiara lists all steps in detail. First the embassy at 8am: I need to pick up a document and get a stamp on Tarsus’ hospital records, in order to get back the body. Then stop at the infamous customs to have my passport back and finally a special flight at 11am. She won’t be there, but I shouldn’t have any problems. I thank her heartedly.
«It was a pleasure» she says with a smile that seems malicious to me.
Monday 19 July
From the street, the embassy is just as I pictured it: big and white, with the looks of some of those big Victorian countryside villas in the southern USA. I expect the master with his slaves, instead a manager with his assistant and few time for me comes out. I give them the documents from the obituary, the secretary browses them absent-mindedly: she puts a stamp, staples a visa on them and with the same quickness resolves the other bureaucratic matters.
At the custom things go more smoothly than at arrival. The fearsome officer from Friday is not there, just a nicer one: I finally get back my passport. I will definitely make a copy of my documents before leaving in the future (you never know).
They accompany me until I am onboard the “special plane”: an actual merchandise cargo, short and stocky. I esteem very low chances of a successful take-off. I get up the stairs to a large entrance on the backside (and not on the side), I pass through the huge hold, charged with a bit of everything; behind a sliding curtain there are around ten passenger and then the pilot’s cabin. The seats are not numbered: I sit in the only free one, next to a guy who looks at me head to toes and then goes back to reading his newspaper.
We wait for a long time, before they authorise take-off. I forgot my mp3 in the suitcase; to avoid thinking about taking off I start reading that odd anatomopathologist’s report: page after page handwritten in Turkish, with at the end of the second copy an English summary. In forensic science language he declares that Barbarino died after the fall: he reports multiple compound fractures, the fatal one on the back of his head, but no heart attack.
I am shocked: the professor’s assistant talked about a sudden illness as death cause. Here it seems that death was due to a hit on the head, probably during the fall. I put the report away: the police will think about investigating.
In the meanwhile, unbelievably, the plane has reached its flight quote: I calm down. It lasts only a moment though, since I realise I haven’t seen the coffin when crossing the hold. Losing a suitcase is unpleasant, but what about a corpse!
Since I think no hostess is expected to be on the cargo, I get up, move the curtain and go back to the hold. There is a coffin, I approach it to be sure: the name is the right one. Something hits my eye: something has been written on the short side. Some letters have been engraved, poorly, on the wood: DDCF. Weird! Probably someone at customs, since during the long trip on the van I didn’t notice them. I am actually certain: they were not there before. It looks like an acronym: sounds gloom and familiar at the same time.
I take back my place: that smart gentleman keeps looking at me, on the sly.
I am slightly perturbed by that acronym and the end of Barbarino: I travel back in time during the period passed at his service, better said his “dictatorship”; I certainly do not miss him, humanely I should moan his passing, but I really cannot. After all I wrote and did for him, he wasn’t even able to get me a permanent contract at the University. He claimed I deserved it more than anyone else for my curriculum, but there was always someone with extra academic credits passing in front of me: I really did well to leave that world.
At arrival in Fiumicino, I go to customs with the Turkish documents. Luckily in Italy everything is easier: they just put a couple of stamps on them.
I think I saw it in a movie: a famous dealer used the coffins of American soldiers, died in battle, to smuggle drugs into the Unites States. In my case, no one would realise: they do not open the sealed crate and the only anti-drug dog remains curled up in his corner.
I deliver the report from the anatomopathologist: «They told me to give it to you in order to have it forwarded to the State Police».
«No worries» says the officer, «we’ll take care of it.»
He puts the paper on top of a pile on his left, those documents seem to have been there for months.
It doesn’t matter if no one investigates on that death.
