I think about the day thats passed and the one that awaits: the only thought of going back to customs gives me goosebumps, but the task I was assigned from the Literature faculty director is to get back the corpse to Italy. I repeat this mantra to charge myself up along the way, while the wind hits me harsh on the face.
Sunday 18 July
It is around 3 in the morning when the van stops. Im afraid they want to leave me there, in the middle of nothing.
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. Thats 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: its not the best taste, but Im 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; Im 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 dont 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 customs 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 dont care if its 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: its 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 dont we talk about it later, maybe over something to eat?»
«Thats fine» says Chiara, after hesitating a bit.
«Theres 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, wasnt there anymore!
Then the epigraph was on a cenotaph: a monument built to remind of an eminent mans 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 Apostates city. I dress up quickly, get out of the hotel and call the first taxi: «Can you drive me to the place of Julians column?»
«Uhm, err» answers with a wild look the young taxi driver. The square should be famous for Julians 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 Julians 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 Apostates 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 Julians body taken to a more fit place. But where?
I cant take this question off my mind, not even while I walk to the centre: I arrive at the dates 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.»
«Lets go.» She takes me by the arm.
The place is dark, I cant see well what Im eating, but maybe thats 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 its 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.