‘Relax. These people know what they’re doing. And she’s protected. Rafael can be trusted.’
‘Yes, but people make mistakes. Whoever is pursuing them must also have resources. Perhaps more.’
‘Think positively, my dear.’
‘I’m trying, but I have a bad feeling.’
‘Let’s eat something,’ Raul suggested, directing her to the door.
‘I’m not hungry.’
Raul turned toward his wife and hugged her with one hand around her shoulder — they were like a pair of newlyweds on their honeymoon.
‘You have to eat, dear. We can’t let ourselves get weak. Our daughter needs us in good shape to take care of her,’ he argued.
‘What can we do against those people?’ Elizabeth observed hopelessly.
Raul led his wife over to the bed and they sat on the edge. A slight turbulence began to shake the plane, causing some unease.
‘I used to think that, too, Liz. But last year your daughter taught us all a lesson,’ Raul recounted hesitantly. ‘Things come to an end and not before that. We can sit here completely deceived, crushed, without hope, with death whistling in our ears, but God, or whatever you want to call it, has given us something precious, our intelligence. And everything can change in a second.’ His words were deeply felt, almost moving. ‘This is what happened last year, thanks to our daughter. We can never give up. She’s going to be all right.’
Tears ran down Elizabeth’s face. She could only think of her daughter as a little girl, since for parents their children are always adolescents. Perhaps it was destiny, some divine order, that exposed her path to the most lethal and shameless side of the pious Church.
‘Shall we go?’ Raul insisted one more time.
‘Yes, I’ll go,’ Elizabeth agreed, getting up. ‘We need to keep going, for Sarah.’
They left the bedroom for the cabin, where six movable leather easy chairs were installed. At the moment four of them in pairs, facing each other, were separated by a table loaded with breakfast dishes. Plates of brioches, muffins, bread, a mixture of continental and English, with plenty of sausages, bacon, beans, and poached eggs. Probably prepared with Elizabeth and her Saxon blood in mind. All this with Darjeeling and Earl Grey tea, milk, coffee, fresh fruit juice, oranges, as always, and to finish up, a plate of four sfogliatelle napoletane, a fine puff pastry of difficult confection, but exquisite taste, in honor of the Italian travelers. Even a butler dressed in black and white was doing the honors at the table.
JC was seated in one of the chairs, eating a sfogliatella. At his side, the cripple made do with a piece of bread and butter.
Various plasma-screen televisions were arranged around the cabin tuned into the best news and financial channels. Elizabeth watched the one with Sky News.
‘Good morning,’ JC greeted them. ‘I hope you like what I ordered.’
Raul greeted everyone and sat down. Elizabeth kept watching television.
‘Come over and sit down, my dear. There’s no news,’ JC advised. ‘Come and eat. I’ve ordered scalloped eggs and beans for you.’
Elizabeth sat in the only empty chair next to the table.
‘What would you like to drink, signora?’ the butler asked.
‘Tea with milk, please.’
‘ E voi, signore? ’ he asked Raul.
‘Coffee.’
The butler prepared the orders on a cart like those used by flight attendants.
‘Thanks. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,’ Elizabeth thanked JC.
‘Elizabeth, dear, what gets us through this life is comfort. Did you sleep well?’
‘Well enough,’ Raul replied, spreading some cheese over his brioche.
‘There was a time when I could sleep on any side and took two minutes to fall asleep,’ JC complained. ‘Now everything bothers me. I don’t know if it’s the engine noise or the altitude.’
The butler placed the drinks in front of Raul and Elizabeth.
‘Where are we?’ Raul wanted to satisfy his wife’s curiosity.
‘In the air, my friend.’
‘In whose air?’ he insisted. He hated evasions.
‘In the air of the Lord,’ JC responded in the same way.
‘Where are we going?’ Elizabeth’s turn to ask.
‘To see a friend,’ the other informed her.
He always has his answers prepared, Elizabeth thought, a little suspiciously.
‘Do you talk to the pope like this?’ Raul tried a new strategy.
‘A pope is not superior to any of us,’ JC replied, off guard.
‘He’s someone very special,’ Elizabeth said.
‘Of course he is, my dear. I’m sure he’d receive you with tea and cookies.’ The sarcasm was more than obvious in JC’s choice of words.
‘You weren’t well received by the Pole?’ Raul insisted on knowing details.
‘He was too afraid of me not to receive me well. Which is not to say he spoiled me with parties.’
‘How many times did you speak with him?’
‘Personally? Three. Enough to change the world.’ He showed no unease at his pretension. It must be how he saw himself, a savior, someone so important that he could give and take at his pleasure, bring down governments, states, and substitute one ally for another.
‘That’s a little exaggerated,’ Elizabeth considered.
‘You think?’ JC asked, making himself comfortable in the seat and sipping his Darjeeling. ‘Ask the Soviets and the East Germans.’
‘The Soviets and East Germans don’t exist anymore,’ Raul observed.
‘Precisely,’ the old man concluded with a look of triumph, the brilliance in his eyes that of a boy proud of having climbed a high mountain, looking back on what he’d done.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Raul said, completely amazed.
‘Then don’t believe it,’ the other responded simply. ‘The fact that you don’t believe it doesn’t mean it’s not true.’
They both knew that it was so. And the contrary could also be considered true.
‘Why can’t we know where we’re going?’ Elizabeth risked asking, a little fearful.
‘Who told you that you can’t? Don’t feel like captives.’
‘What friend is this we are going to see?’ It seemed like an interrogation agreed upon between Elizabeth and Raul. This last question had come from the husband, but JC was used to operating in the line of fire.
‘You’ll find out.’
They noticed the engines had slowed their rotation, and the plane was descending. A static noise was heard, followed by the voice of the pilot.
‘ Signor Dottore, we are beginning our descent into Ataturk.’
JC pressed a button. ‘Great, Giovanni. Thanks.’
‘Ataturk?’ Raul recognized the place.
‘Where’s that?’
The butler began packing up the table quickly. Security rules regulate takeoffs and landings. In no time he’d cleared everything off the cream-colored table.
‘What’s Ataturk?’ Elizabeth asked again, visibly worried.
‘It’s an airport,’ JC replied, tightening his seat belt. ‘Fasten your seat belts,’ he advised, ‘and welcome to Istanbul,’ he added with one of his rare smiles.
55
