‘It won’t be a problem for anyone now. It was sold up north. I’m going to have to buy another one.’
‘Buy it. A different brand. I don’t like BMW.’
‘I was thinking of a Mercedes.’
‘Good idea. Buy a Mercedes,’ Paul agreed.
Paul finished his cigarette and continued looking at the ceiling, his hand behind his head. He didn’t say anything for several minutes, just stared at the ceiling worn from the passage of years.
‘I want you to find another one for me,’ he finally said.
The other looked at him disapprovingly.
‘Another? It’s dangerous, and it’s a lot of work.’
‘Not if they’re from far away. I don’t want more from Rome or the Vatican. That was a mistake. I prefer one from Naples. They should be daring. Or even farther south. No more Romans,’ he demanded.
‘Really, I don’t ask them for their identifications ahead of time.’
‘And don’t use the Avon trick again.’
‘What do you think I am?’ the other protested, looking insulted. ‘I don’t use the same trick twice.’
‘A pope’s bodyguard should have no imagination,’ Paul kidded him.
‘Take back what you said.’ The other got up. ‘Take back what you said.’
‘And if I don’t?’ Paul dared him.
The pope’s bodyguard laughed.
61
Istanbul. Formerly Constantinople. The imperial city, cradle of civilization, frontier between Europe and Asia, point of separation or arrival for each of the continents, clash of ancestral cultures, land of European emperors and Arab sultans, Byzantines and Ottomans, the most prosperous city of Christianity for more than a thousand years.
They drove around the center for hours, this time more tightly crowded in the back where JC, Elizabeth, and Raul sat. In front was a Turkish driver with expert knowledge of the city, obviously, and the cripple, saturnine, cold, an observer alert to everything, inside and outside the car, in spite of the thousands found in this city, inhabitants, tourists, businesspeople.
They’d started with Beyoglu, where they saw the Galata Tower, built in the sixth century. A couple of hours later they’d entered the route that ends at what is now an imperfect circle that covers the Bazaar quarter, with the Suleymaniye Mosque marking the most distant point, the edifice built by Sinan over the Golden Horn in honor of Suleiman the Magnificent, where both are buried, though at opposite ends. The interior of the circle covers the Seraglio, as well, which includes the Topkapi Palace, the official residence of the sultans for four hundred years, and the Sultanahmet, that shelters within itself two other pearls, facing each other, the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sophia.
JC played the part of tourist guide, explaining the multicultural and historical points of each monument and place in that immense city.
‘What’s the purpose of this excursion?’ Raul wanted to know, exhausted by such a tour shrouded by secrecy.
‘I told you already. We’re here to see a friend.’
‘And where is he?’
‘He should be on his way to our meeting.’
‘What time is that set for?’ the cripple asked.
‘At eighteen hundred hours.’
‘See? Only a half-hour from now.’
‘Where are we meeting him?’ Raul asked again.
‘You’ll soon see,’ the old man replied evasively.
‘Why Istanbul?’ It was Elizabeth’s turn to ask for answers.
‘Why does someone move from England to a mountain in the Alentejo? How can you answer something like that? These are the imponderables of life. The tastes, desires. Some are able to fulfill them, others not.’
‘Do you always have an answer for everything?’ Raul asked. He considered the ability both impressive and irritating.
‘My dear captain, the day I don’t, you can lower the flag to half-mast because I’ll be dead.’
‘This friend we’re going to visit. Is he like you?’ Elizabeth asked.
She’d only looked at him twice, but she didn’t have to do so again to know he didn’t like her or her husband. The cripple in the front seat tolerated them only out of respect for the old man who gives him orders, thank God. As much as she tried, she couldn’t imagine this old man, so frail and in precarious health, hurting a fly or leading such a vast organization with the purpose of… whatever their purpose was.
JC laughed at her question.
‘No, men like me are dying out. I must be the last of a very under-appreciated species. We’re going to see a cardinal in the Church. A man much older than I.’
We’re going to see a cadaver? Elizabeth thought without saying it. It would be bad manners to insult the host.
‘For some time I’ve wanted to ask you a question,’ Raul dared to say, looking him in the eye as if to ask permission.
He who is silent agrees, and JC was proof of this.
‘Why did you accept the agreement last year?’
‘In New York?’
Raul nodded yes.
‘It served my interests,’ the old man answered.
Raul pulled up his undershirt and revealed a scar at the bottom of his stomach on the right side made by a deep incision. He arched his ribs a little so that another identical scar could be seen below his ribs. A sharp, cutting object had penetrated from one side to the other, leaving a scar that would last to the end of his days.
‘Do you see what they did to me that day in the warehouse in New York? I don’t see how that served your interests.’ He was angry, but JC didn’t blink. Other people’s pain didn’t affect him.
‘My dear captain. You can’t criticize me for trying to get something back that was taken from me.’
‘I’m not criticizing. I simply don’t believe it served your interests.’
‘What was the agreement?’ Elizabeth asked.
She didn’t know what they were talking about. Raul and Sarah had told her as little as possible about what happened the previous year to avoid a fight. Divorce was a real possibility, though. Sarah explained to her mother that her father wasn’t at fault. He was swept up in a whirlwind of uncontrollable events, just like her. It was true.
‘Would you prefer to tell her?’ Raul challenged JC.
‘I don’t see any problem with that,’ the old man said, turning his gaze from the street to Elizabeth. ‘Your daughter had something in her possession that belonged to me.’
‘That’s debatable,’ Raul grumbled.
‘You asked me to tell her. You’ve got to let me tell my version,’ JC said without changing his calm tone.
‘I’m only saying the ownership of those papers is relative. We know very well who they belong to.’
‘We do. They belonged to Albino Luciani until the date of his death, and afterwards to me.’
Raul saw clearly he wouldn’t change the old man’s way of thinking no matter what arguments he used. He gave up and asked the old man to continue.
‘Your daughter sent those documents to a journalist friend, and the agreement was a pact of mutual nonaggression, scrupulously complied with to the end.’
‘Why did you trust it?’ Raul insisted.
‘Because it didn’t seem to me you’d sacrifice your lives for values or moral principles. You know as well as I it would’ve been a death sentence for everyone. Besides, I trust a maxim that I’ve always followed.’ He tapped the
