ages now: when I worked at the University, I wrote several articles and a couple of books about him. His conversion from Christianity to paganism caused him to be named the Apostate and for all his short life he tried to attract new worshippers, reforming the traditional religion: his utopia was to get the whole empire, now unavoidably Christian, back to its pagan roots. The whole reason of his charm to me is here: Emperor Julian wanted to change the world, without realising that the world had changed already, but in a different direction and there was no going back. While I was still on the plane, I promised myself that the philosopher emperor’s column would be the first thing I’d see in Ankara, but with all that bureaucratic mess…
It is actually Julian the reason I came to Turkey: the official mission is to get back the remainders of poor Barbarino, but I’m here mostly to see the dear emperor’s tomb, never found until now, and that the professor, shortly before his death, told me in a letter he had finally discovered!
The bus is proceeding at a high speed on an endless desert plain. I fall asleep imagining to be in one of those American movies where the protagonist travels the States coast to coast.
Meanwhile in Ankara, lieutenant Karim, the one from that never ending afternoon at the customs, gets back home where his two sons are waiting for him; their mother left years ago.
Aturk, the oldest, was standing behind the doors from several minutes and he slams it open when he hears the noise of his father’s old car. «So, are they giving it to me?»
«Don’t we say hello anymore?» answers grouchy his dad.
«Welcome back, Mr lieutenant» says Aturk in a mockingly serious tone, then he repeats: «Will I get it?»
Karim does not answer, he enters his house, leaves the uniform jacket on the coat hanger and goes sitting on a brown armchair in the living room; his son follows him.
«They haven’t told me anything.»
«Can’t you just call them? Do you realise how important this is?»
«I know» he says grumpy. «Get me something to drink.»
The lieutenant gets up to pick up his jacket again, he takes a small black leather diary from a pocket, goes back to the armchair and dials a number on the phone: «Good evening, this is…»
«Don’t say your name!» The voice at the other side immediately interrupts him. «I told you not to call.»
«Yes… I know, but, you see…»
The mysterious voice cuts him: «Did you do what I asked?»
«Yes, Mister…»
«I told you: no names!»
«Well, that Italian: we stopped him and hold him until we could. Now he has a document from the embassy, he will get back his passport only on Monday.»
«Good! Remember: when he gets back to Ankara with the coffin, do as we told you.»
«Yes, seal it well and carve the letters…»
«Follow the instructions» stops him abruptly the voice.
The lieutenant proceeds, fearful: «Of course. I wanted to know if, as agreed, my son…»
«He can apply.»
«So, you guarantee he will…»
The voice again: «I told you he must apply: this means he will succeed!»
«I… Thank you.»
«Goodbye. Don’t call here ever again!»
«Thanks again and good night.»
Aturk enters from the kitchen, slowly and goofy watching out not to let a single drop fall from a glass full of a low-quality white wine: «So?»
«You can apply.»
His son doesn’t understand either: «I’ve got the application ready since months ago…»
«I told you to apply: the place is yours.»
«Thank you, thank you» Aturk gets closer to his dad, as to kiss him. He just hugs him, to be coldly hugged back.
«Come on, go make dinner for you and your brother now.»
The lieutenant sips his wine slowly, before going to bed, satisfied with what he had done during his day.
Saturday 17 July
I fell asleep California dreaming and I wake up in the middle of traffic noises and undistinguished yelling, while the bus gets slowly into the station: Tarsus reminds me of Palermo, which, according to the movie Johnny Stecchino is famous for its chaotic traffic.
I walk to the city centre, or at least what I imagine it to be: there is a monumental door from the roman era (might this be the renowned door where Antony met Cleopatra before Actium’s defeat?). Here no one speaks German, I just show the paper with the engineer’s address to anyone I meet: between gestures and half English words, they show me a road running along the Berdan river. My classical memories remind me that is the Cydnus, famous in ancient times for its transparent but freezing waters, which almost caused Alexander the Great’s drowning. Now it’s reduced to a disgusting blackish river, due to the many industrial petrol waste discharges from the area, I assume. I ring the bell at number 60, a sort of stilt house: an old hunchbacked lady opens the door.
«I am looking for Fatih Persin…» I ask, a little distracted, in my own language.
«Italian, come in Italian» the old lady smiles, showing her few remaining teeth and inviting me in with her hand. She then runs away up the stairs.
This house is weird looking: half laying on the river, it is almost empty of any objects or furniture, but very original in its style. I make myself comfortable on a red wooden chair, the seat made of woven straw. The smell of meat sauce slowly cooking has filled the whole dwelling.
From the unstable step ladder that comes out of an opening in the ceiling, a man in his forties comes down, tall and thin, very tall and too thin: «Good morning, I am Fatih» he shakes my hand and says something in Turkish to the lady.
«I am Francesco Speri, Chiara gave me your address… Chiara…» I forgot her family name.
«Rigoni» he finishes a bit surprised. «What I do for you?» The engineer has some trouble with Italian, but we manage to communicate; while he sits, his mother, or at least I think, comes in with a tray and two big cups of coffee. The look is not very tempting: something is floating in it and the smell is sour, yes sour, not bitter.
I perform a thanking gesture, while picking up the enormous cup. «Chiara said I could ask you for help: I need to follow the road along the river to get to mount Taurus. Somewhere there my archaeology professor was digging, when…»
«Italian coffee better, right? It’s lemon inside» Fatih explains seeing my suspicious face. He smiles: «No problem, today is Saturday: I go there with you with motorbike».
I accept his help, not before gulping down this sort of hot lemonade that tastes like coffee.
We leave immediately, no helmets on. The motorbike is actually a moped: it doesn’t go faster than 30 km per hour, but even in these conditions, not being the one who drives, makes me feel like on a plane! The road is long and bumpy: I hug tighter the poor driver at every turn; it makes me a little embarrassed, but the fear of being thrown out is bigger. This rough path seems endless, but suddenly Fatih stops: he noticed some panels indicating men at work. We leave the moped and carry on on foot until a sloping height: it is the archaeological site dug by the professor.
Poor Julian: buried in a lonely and forgotten mountain moor, away from the fabulous world he used to reign. Actually, it was not his choice: in sign of spite towards the inhabitants of Antiochia, from where he left on his Persian expedition, he promised himself he would have camped in Tarsus at his return, rather than see the Antiochians again. He didn’t come back alive from that war. His officers, as an extreme form of respect,