I Am The Emperor

The two get off and talk to me in an unknown language. The smallest, or to better say the least big, repeats the same sentence doing wide movements with his hands: I understand I have to get off. I follow them until a crumbling shack: it is some sort of motorway restaurant, half family half down at heel business. I run to the toilet. That’s what they call Turkish toilets: a filthy stinking loo without the WC.

Then I enter what, euphemistically speaking, should be the bar: a fatty lady is preparing a weird drink, while the two travel companions are sitting at a table smoking and drinking a huge beer. I take the chance to have breakfast, trying to avoid thinking about the driver drinking in the early morning. I slowly sip the umpteenth boiling long coffee, accompanied by a focaccia stuffed with an odd-coloured salami: it’s not the best taste, but I’m very hungry having skipped dinner due to the sudden departure from Tarsus.

It takes at least half an hour before the two finish another beer and decide to get back on the van. The less drunk offers me an old blanket: the air was hot when we left, now it is that biting one of the early hours of the day. It is the first kind act towards me: left alone in the backside of the van I felt like a spare wheel.

At sunrise we arrive in Ankara; I’m still stunned by the wind and the road, when they heavily unload the coffin from the van, giving it to a group of custom officers. Lieutenant Karim orders me to leave it there and go back the following day to pick it up with the embassy documents: I really don’t like this guy! I thank the two carriers with a lavish tip, that they do not refuse, while I say goodbye to Barbarino, who lays now in a sort of garage in the custom’s undergrounds.

I am exhausted. In front of the airport several hotels shine in the light of the beginning day. I choose the only one with four stars in its panel: Esenboga Airport Hotel. I don’t care if it’s expensive: the University director promised me to refund all expenses if I had taken our eminent colleague back to the mother land.

After two nights spent travelling, I “pass out” on the bed as soon as I enter the room. The sound of my phone ringing wakes me up: it’s six o’ clock! Who could ever call me at this time?

«Hi, this is Chiara Rigoni. Customs told me that you came back with the corpse: there is a series of things to do that I need to explain to you.»

I realise from the light that filtrates through the curtains that it is six, yes, PM. I try to recover: «Why don’t we talk about it later, maybe over something to eat?»

«That’s fine» says Chiara, after hesitating a bit.

«There’s a restaurant in the centre: see you there at 9.30. The address is Izmir Caddesi 3/17.»

«Pardon?» I say still a bit dazed.

«I-Z-M-I-R-C-A-D-D-E-S-I 3/17» she spells it.

«Ok, noted. At what time?»

«21.30-22, dinner time» she repeats.

They have special timings in Turkey; anyways, after breakfast at 3am and waiting for a nightly dinner, I immediately shove down a pack of peanuts and a juice from the minibar. Once I get my strength back, I take out from my man bag the tracing I did on mount Taurus; I carefully unfold it and start sight translating from Greek:

Julian, after leaving river Tigris, of the wild flows, here laid:

kind emperor and valiant warrior he was.

“Laid”, “laid”. This past tense, instead of the usual present, only implies one thing: already at the moment of the inscription, the corpse, or what remained of it, wasn’t there anymore!

Then the epigraph was on a cenotaph: a monument built to remind of an eminent man’s burial, but whose remains are elsewhere. But where?

To get away from this thought too, I decide visiting the famous illustrated column built in the Apostate’s city. I dress up quickly, get out of the hotel and call the first taxi: «Can you drive me to the place of Julian’s column?»

«Uhm, err…» answers with a wild look the young taxi driver. The square should be famous for Julian’s column, the only roman one still in situ. I start gesturing, borderline to the obscene, to indicate a column: somehow the guy understands correctly and leaves at full speed.

« 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.

Before leaving, the last question: «What am I supposed to do with the coffin now?»

«Are you family?» asks the dutiful employee.

«No, let’s say… a friend.»

«Then you have to deliver it to the heirs» his final sentence.

I get out even more confused. Among the crowd I notice a board with my name on: I always hoped to have someone waiting for me at the airport with a nice big panel.

I approach them: «Good morning, I am Francesco Speri».

«We were waiting for you» answers with false politeness a woman in her sixties. «We would like to thank you for all you did for us.»

At my questioning look, the lady indicates to a nearby boy to come closer and introduces herself: «Grazia Barbarino, nice to meet you. I am poor Luigi Maria’s sister and he is my son: we came to give a proper burial to our beloved».

Her courteous tone and composed ways do not inspire sympathy at all. «Did you have a nice trip?» asks her, with very little interest in my answer.

«I am deeply sorry for your loss.»

None of them seems particularly afflicted; I am not either, I’m actually glad I can get rid of the corpse.

«Thanks again for everything» repeats the boy.

Of course, they could have been the ones going to Turkey, I try to not let that thought shown in my face: «You’re welcome. It was the minimum I could do, after many years…»

«Sure, I can imagine» cuts short the lady.

«Here’s a copy of the report of the anatomopathologist, in case you want to show it to your lawyer» I add, articulating my words slowly.

With a last condolences gesture, I leave the odd group and go to the train station.

Only when the Intercity from Rome arrive at Chiusi station to change, I feel I’m in Italy again; at around 19.30, after taking a minibus from Sinalunga station until Bettolle, I get home: I am glad to be back to the quietness of the town I live in since when I won the research grant from Siena’s University.

I leave my bag and immediately go down to get back the cat from my neighbour, where I left it in these days. I knock vigorously. A kid around 5 or 6 opens the door.

«Hi, is grandma home?»

The baby says: «How do we say?»

I am speechless.

«Mum says you always have to say please.»

«She’s right. So, nice kid, is grandma home, please?»

«What’s my name?»

I never knew it, actually. «What’s your name?»

The little crook smiles: «I won’t tell you!»

«Come on, tell me.»

«And what will you give me?» he says all proud.

And my parents wonder why I do not want kids…: «A candy?»

«Mum says not to accept candies from strangers»

«But I am no stranger, I live upstairs.»

The kid then puts out his right hand, I give him the honey and mint candy that luckily I had in my pocket.

«Now, will you tell me your name?»

He crosses his arms and bends his head: «Gian…luca».

«Very well, Gianluca, is grandma home?»

«Well, apart from the fact that you didn’t say please» he specifies «What’s my grandma’s name?»

I knew he would ask that, but I really can’t keep her name in mind: «Federica?»

«No.»

«Elisabetta?» I try.

«Almost» he smiles, happy with this new game.

«Elisa?»

«Got it!»

«Ok, listen carefully: Dear Gianluca, is your grandma Elisa at home… please?»

«Nope» and he slams the door in my face.

While standing stunned in front of the door, I think about a scene from the movie Caro diario of Nanni Moretti: he’s on holiday in Salina and when ringing a friend, a kid picks up and before passing the phone to his parents, he forces him to imitate several animal sounds.

Luckily Elisa overheard everything: «Francesco, welcome back. How was it?»

«Well, bureaucracy aside…» I cut short.

She smiles: «Pallino behaved very well, here he comes: he heard you.»

A fluffy white cat comes out from behind my neighbour’s legs and welcomes me with whim, almost reproachful.

«Thanks again, I wouldn’t know where else to leave him.»

I go back home, with the feline in my arms. After a nice dinner, we both tired go to bed; it has surely been an adventure for him too, these days in a stranger’s house.

Tuesday 20 July

«Welcome back to work, had a nice holiday?» asks me the director, as soon as I enter the Montepulciano station branch.

Well, yeah, I didn’t mention it yet: after finishing my professor contract at the University, I ended up working as a bank counter clerk. Not the best, but it’s a permanent contract at least!

I didn’t tell anyone the real reasons of my trip, actually the two reasons: the research of the professor and the emperor.

«All good… a bit tiring.»

It is harder to get out of Vito Darino’s questions, he’s the cashier on the desk next to mine. As we say around here, “he’s a weird fish”: he’s generally quiet and gentle, but gets upset out of nothing, becoming all red, then purple and suddenly deflates. He is against the whole world, thinking no one understands a thing and, that’s the reason they get promoted, while he has always remained stuck. He claims to be single; I’d say more of a bachelor: he hasn’t had a girlfriend in ten years I think, always talking about women, but in a very misogyny way.

«Did you have fun? Have you met any nice Turk darlings?» is his first question.

«No, I just had some rest.» Couldn’t be falser.

«I’ve also visited some touristic places.»

«Where exactly have you been?» he insists.

I try to remain vague: «Well… an archaeological site: you know it’s my passion».

«Sure, sorry professor» he says ironically.

«After all» I try to debate «it is the job I’ve been doing for ten years, before starting here.»

Vito charges back again, fantasising about unreal erotic adventures: «So no women?»

«What should I tell you: I will start chasing men then.»

I found out that this is always a brilliant way to end the conversation.

Once again, glued to my PC, I switch on my “autopilot” for the cash register routine. Some of the operations are long and boring, whilst others slip away lightly, as the clients do: as soon as I finish, I forget the account number along with the face that I had in front of me.

That same evening, before leaving the bank, I receive an email from the Literature Faculty’s director:

Dear colleagues,

This is to inform you that the obsequies of our eminent professor Luigi Maria Barbarino, prematurely passed due to a tragic fatality, will be held on Thursday 22nd at 16.30, at Poppi’s abbey…

Thursday 22 July

Arezzo’s countryside is nothing like Siena’s. Around the Palio’s city you find so many to-good-to-be-real little villages and then the hills: endless, small and all with one only farmhouse surrounded by trees on top. In the Arezzo area all is flat, the crops less diversified: houses are not isolated and far, but one next to the other, leaving wide empty spaces in between. The roads as well are different: over there they go up and down, with many curves, humps and slopes, here there is just a long straight way, seemingly leading to nothing.

At 15.00 I’m already in Poppi, and I take advantage to visit the magnificent series of frescos in the Guidi counts castle. This way I find out that, when he was young, Dante took part as a knight in the famous battle fought in the plane under the castle: I always figured the sommo poeta shut in his room imagining celestial worlds, I really can’t imagine him in an armour, piercing and cutting enemies’ throats.

I walk down from the fortress to San Fedele’s abbey. While I admire its ashlar stone facade, two professors come along tailed by their disciples. Professor Alessandri comes towards me and offers his condolences; I thank him somehow perplexed: I am not a family member, but probably for them I am the closest one to Barbarino, as I’ve been his assistant for years. When three more researchers do the same, I answer like I was at an old aunt’s funeral, the one that you haven’t seen in years and that, on top of it all, wasn’t that nice either: «Thank you, thank you, unfortunately… that’s life.»

Finally, his family arrives: I send everyone to them, and get inside the church. After some interesting insights mixed with banalities from the priest, it is the director’s turn to speak. He stands from the right-hand side group of benches; the ones where all professors are dying of heat in their jackets and duty suits. While the lecturer walks between the lines, the general thought is only one: that he finishes soon. The director, with a wide dramatic gesture, puts the tocco (a black squared academic cap, given to honour the departed professor) on the casket. Once he’s on the podium, he takes out of his breast pocket three sheets, unfolds and refolds them in a dramatic act, all with a half-smile such as to say: I prepared a speech, but I will be magnanimous and spare you by improvising. A shared relief sigh follows this act.

«Dear colleagues, we are here reunited to represent the whole academic staff in expressing our participation to the heart-felt mourning of the family.»

[Translated from the academic language it means: how can the staff care, if even his own family doesn’t? That’s why there is so few of us.]

«We were all struck by the sudden and premature departure of our respected colleague…»

[= We immediately rejoiced when the old baron, finally, croaked…]

«His loss leaves a hole, in the staff, that will be very hard to fill.»

[= I will certainly not replace him, but will use the chair funds to give a raise to my mistress]

«The whole faculty commits, to the extent possible, to continue on his behalf his work in Turkey.»

[= If I still get funding from the Turkish government, I’ll send one of my interns, otherwise we leave it all immediately]

«I think it will be a proper tribute to organise annual symposiums in his memory…»

[= With the remains of the PRIN funds that still are in his name and that I cannot put in my pocket, I will organise half a day of studies this year and never again]

«Last, but not least, please allow me to express my deepest gratitude to Francesco Speri, who took back our dear departed.»

[= Luckily, I found this idiot, otherwise I would have been the one flying over there in this terrible heat]

«I wish for dear Francesco, as the professor did, to find his rightful place at the University…»

[= If Barbarino didn’t do anything about him while he was alive, I will certainly not put my efforts into finding this guy a position…]

«…and see his years of continuous and fruitful collaboration with dear Luigi finally recognised.»

[= You were his slave for years, now that he’s dead you’re on your own!]

«Thanks again to all of you for participating in such a great number.»

[= Unfortunately, I had to be here, but I am jealous of those who went to the beach].

With these emotional words we take our leave, moved, from the eminent Luigi Maria Barbarino.

At the exit everyone says quick goodbyes and runs to their car: my “ex-colleagues” can’t wait to get back to their academical researches, that they are conducting between the port of Talamone and the Capalbio G beach club.