The Last Cato by Matilde Asensi Page B

moved. “I saw them. Just like those on the body of our Ethiopian. Seven altogether. The same ones in the scarifications. There they were, on the wall, waiting for me.”
    And I didn’t get to see them, I thought. I didn’t get to see them because you all left me on the sidelines. I didn’t get to go to the Egyptian desert and jump over dunes in an all-terrain vehicle because Monsignor Tournier decided to fire me for knowing more than I should. I was sick with anger.
    “I know I shouldn’t be saying this out loud, but I really envy you, Captain,” I heard myself say, gulping down my coffee. “I would’ve liked to see those crosses. They’re as much mine as yours.”
    “You’re right. I would have liked for you to see them, too.”
    “Sister,” added Professor Boswell, “it may not be of any consolation…” He blinked and pushed his glasses as high as he could up on his nose. “But you would not have been able to do much in Saint Catherine. The monks don’t readily admit women into the enclosure. They’re not as radical as the community of the Mount Athos, in Greece, where not even female animals are permitted, but I don’t believe they would have let you spend the night in the abbey or stroll around the place, as we were fortunate enough to have done. The Orthodox monks are similar to Muslims in their regard for women.”
    “That’s true,” echoed Glauser-Röist. “The professor is telling the truth.”
    I wasn’t surprised. In general, all religions of the world discriminate against women, either relegating them to a puzzling second class or legitimizing their abuse and mistreatment. It’s really a shame that nobody seems to want to find a solution to it.
    The Orthodox monastery of Saint Catherine was located in the heart of the Wadi ed-Deir Valley, at the foot of a spur of Mount Sinai. It was one of the most beautiful places on earth, a rare harmonious collaboration between nature and mankind. A rectangular perimeter, walled in by Justinian in the fourth century, it sheltered unimaginable treasures and an endless beauty that struck dumb those astonished few who were admitted into its interior. The dryness of the desert and the barren, red granite mountains protected it but didn’t prepare pilgrims for what they were to find inside the monastery: an impressive Byzantine basilica, numerous chapels, an immense refectory, the second most important library in the world, the number one collection of beautiful religious icons, all decorated with carved wood, marble inlay, silver with gold leaf, precious stones… A feast for the senses and an unequaled exaltation of faith that couldn’t be found anywhere else in the world.
    “For a couple of days, the professor and I roamed all over the monastery in search of anything that had anything to do with the Ethiopian man. The presence of the seven crosses in the southwestern wall was beginning to lose its meaning. I asked myself if this was simply a ridiculous coincidence and if we were headed in the wrong direction. But the third day…” His mouth widened with a huge smile. He turned to the professor, seeking his agreement. “The third day they finally introduced us to Father Sergio, the head of the library and the museum of icons.”
    “The monks are very cautious,” explained the professor almost in a whisper. “That’s why they made us wait two days before showing us their most precious objects. They don’t trust a soul.”
    At that point, I finally looked at my watch: It was exactly three a.m. I couldn’t hold out any longer, not even after two cups of coffee. But the Swiss Rock acted as if he hadn’t seen my gesture or my spent face and continued unperturbed.
    “Father Sergio came for us around seven in the evening after dinner, and guided us through the narrow alleys of the monastery, lighting our way with an old oil lamp. He was a heavy-set, taciturn monk who wore a pointed wool cap instead of the black cap like the rest.”
    “And he was