Dante's Key

by G. L. Baron

  A flurry of snow erupted like a geyser and all at once the vehicle’s horn began to beep.

  His car stopped behind Julia’s a second later. The professor got out, shrugged, and looked back.

  ‘That’s the Toyota carrying the Prince’, observed Julia, coming up to Cassini, the case with the device in her hands.

  The professor looked at her, her cheeks and nose were red and a lock of blonde hair fluttered on her face.

  ‘They’re getting out. They’re fine,’ she said. ‘They simply got bogged down.’

  Within minutes, the nearest car reversed and with the help of the winch hauled the Hilux onto the road. The convoy set off almost immediately, but snow started falling again.

  Another two hours went by. The professor spent them reflecting on what he would find at the Gýgjarfoss waterfalls. The geographical reference to the waterfalls was crucial. After drinking at the spring, Dante ascends to Paradise, an amphitheatre that the poet compares to a rose, with a seat on each petal.

  That was the real destination of the trip, what they were really looking for… Cassini had thought a lot about it in Dubai and now he was convinced: near the waterfall there must be something that could resemble an amphitheatre or – at best – a temple, as Al Husayn had maintained. There was no other explanation, because Dante’s movements in the Garden of Eden end with the co-ordinates of the waterfalls.

  ‘We’ve arrived.’ Julia distracted his thoughts on the radio. ‘Our base camp is over there.’

  Over on the left, by a snow bank and a protruding rock, a cluster of white vehicles was beginning to appear out of the fog. The professor put a pair of polarized glasses on, and saw some campers parked in a semicircle by the edge of the frozen river. A large grey tent was pulled over the middle and two huge satellite dishes were positioned next to it. There were a couple of vehicles and perhaps a motorcycle, but from that distance he could not distinguish them accurately.

  ‘It’s time to eat! I’m so hungry…’ pleaded Dempsey on the radio, with his usual west coast accent.

  ‘I fear that your stomach will have to wait,’ called out Julia, decidedly. ‘The waterfall is about a kilometre from here! I asked Eklöf to take us there now, before it gets dark.’

  The white icy tongue they called a road descended gently and went straight along the river Jökulfall; they were coming to the spring from the north.

  They continued for a few minutes, bouncing on the snow, and finally the Toyota Hilux stopped in a large open space.

  They were in a kind of natural terrace, flat, snow-covered and overlooking a precipice of lava rock.

  The waterfall was in front of them; a cocktail of jagged black and white spikes, it was frozen and still, just like in a photo.

  Cassini got out, panting with emotion, and looked around. A few moments later an expression of disappointment painted his face.

  He would have expected a waterfall set in a natural amphitheatre, the white rose, or at least something that resembled the Second Temple of Solomon.

  There was nothing of the kind in this wilderness, beaten by the frozen wind.

  78

  Gýgjarfoss Waterfalls, February 3rd. 3:12 p.m.

  A dozen people wrapped up in their parkas, were standing in the snow, in front of the waterfall. The air was freezing and gusts of wind from the north made it difficult to even breathe.

  Manuel Cassini, on the edge of the cliff, was looking at a rocky ridge covered with icicles that dived into the riverbed.

  He tried to imagine what the place would look like in summer, when the waters of the Blákvísl and Jökulfall raged between those rocks. The jump the rivers faced was considerable; for a second he visualized a rushing transparent, crystal-clear river with frothy waters cascading down the steep slope.

  But there was none of that. The waterfalls were frozen under a blanket of ice, and the jets of water were long, still, sharp and frozen columns.

  ‘It’s not here!’ the professor repeated again. ‘This isn’t the place where we have to dig.’

  ‘Manuel… what’s wrong?’ Julia, who was a few steps behind him, approached. ‘The co-ordinates are correct. This is the place.’

  Cassini peered at the still rock in front of him, hoping to be wrong. ‘The co-ordinates may be correct… but this is not the right place.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ she interrupted. ‘You only looked at it for a few minutes.’

  ‘I don’t see anything that resembles a temple…’ he replied, upset, his hands deep in the windbreaker, looking gloomy. ‘I was hoping to come here and find some other clue that would indicate where to dig.’

  ‘Let’s reason this out,’ suggested Timothy Dempsey, beating his feet vigorously on the ground to warm himself up. ‘The last geographical indications of Purgatory have brought us here, where Dante is purified and then ascends to Heaven. Are there other references in the Divine Comedy that may indicate the location of the Garden…? Providing it actually exists.’

  Cassini ignored him, gazing instead into Julia’s big eyes.

  ‘Did you expect to find something different?’ she ventured, more indulgently.

  ‘When Dante speaks of ascending to the stars, his point of arrival is the white rose, the place where the souls of Paradise sit. Knowing that there are no physical references, I was certain I’d find them here.’

  Some of the drivers began to snort. They were prepared to use pickaxes and pull wires; instead they were there, doing nothing, listening to what was a meaningless conversation for them.

  ‘What exactly is the white rose?’ asked the only woman there apart from Julia, Olina Einarsson, the guide – a middle-aged lady with two large brown braids and a round face. She and her husband had defined the shortest route to lead the expedition to the falls.

  Cassini, who was busy staring at the rock sticking out of the snow, seemed to ignore the question. But only for a second… ‘The idea that Dante has of Paradise is based on the Ptolemaic system,’ he replied in English, with a low voice and a conversational tone. He looked like he was lecturing one of his classes at the University Federico II. ‘It is also influenced by Christianity. The universe created by God is represented by symbols. One of these is the white rose’.

  The woman stood silently, contemplating the flat expanse covered in snow before them.

  Cassini felt compelled to explain the concept better. ‘When Dante ascends to heaven, the image of the blessed doesn’t appear immediately. Little by little, however, he begins to recognize them and notes that they are in a circle, as if sitting on the petals of a rose.’

  ‘You expected to find the white rose here, then?’ interjected Eklöf, scratching his tawny hair.

  Cassini nodded. ‘I thought the ascension was a simple metaphor. I expected to find something that resembled an amphitheatre…’

  ‘What did you say?’ interrupted the deep voice of Rúnar Einarsson, Olina’s husband. ‘An amphitheatre?’

  Cassini turned abruptly toward the man. ‘Yes, something like that. The white rose is a place shaped like an amphitheatre, with the Virgin Mary in the centre, and the other blessed souls beside her. The shape may be that of an ellipse or a circle…’

  When they heard these words, the man whispered something in his wife’s ear. She stiffened then nodded. ‘Maybe we know where it is,’ she declared.

  *

  Twenty minutes later, the expedition members were walking in single file along the snowy mantle.

  They were heading west, away from the road, along the edge of the cliffs tied to each other with nylon ropes.

  Olina Einarsson said that days before, when they were preparing the base camp, about a kilometre from their position, they had identified a great natural amphitheatre. It looked like a sort of circular basin, several tens of metres in diameter.

  Despite Cassini’s scepticism, they moved on foot, guided by the Einarssons, taking advantage of the last rays of sun.

  ‘It’s down there,’ thundered the woman, flushed wi
th exhaustion. ‘Behind that ridge.’

  The outline of the now-famous Langjökull glacier loomed along the flat horizon and with the sunset’s reflections looked like a sleeping animal.

  The group stopped short when Rúnar, gesturing with his hands, shouted, ‘There, can you see it?’

  The landscape did not seem to change much, but there, on the plain covered with lava rocks, was a depression. It was so wide, with its edges covered in snow descending gently, it just seemed like a normal ground subsidence.

  Looking at the whole picture, however, the area looked like a circular depression a couple of metres below the surface level. It was as if a giant meteorite had landed right there, leaving its mark.

  ‘Could it be the white rose?’ Olina asked Joonas Eklöf softly, while the photographer began to take snapshots of the area.

  The Finn looked at the large space in silence and then spread his hands, staring at Cassini instead.

  The professor moved a few steps, while remaining on the edge of the amphitheatre, feet sunk in the snow.

  ‘What does our professor say?’ The Sheikh’s son chuckled sarcastically with his bodyguards.

  Cassini ignored him as usual, but this time for a reason that had nothing to do with their mutual dislike. ‘What is that rock over there in your opinion?’ he asked Holmar Bjarnason, the expedition’s geologist.

  ‘Igneous material, I would say,’ he suggested; he was a big man with curly hair and a hint of a hump. He was staring at the place pointed out by the professor, about thirty metres to the left.

  A rock with the shape of a tilted T was sticking out of the snow. On the front they could see another bump, like a hook, pointing downwards. At either ends, there were two large symmetrical holes that recalled the shape of two eyes.

  ‘Don’t you think…’ said Cassini.

  ‘A bird, maybe an eagle,’ said Julia. ‘It seems like it’s launched into flight.’

  The professor nodded. ‘I thought the same thing, too…’

  ‘What do you mean?’ the Prince inquired.

  ‘It means that we have found the white rose.’

  79

  Base camp, February 3rd. 7:52 p.m.

  The camper, windswept by the freezing winds, was immersed in the dark snowy plains. The impetuous gusts of wind made the vehicle sway and creep through the prefabricated structure, overpowering the distant voices of the camp occupants.

  Manuel Cassini was alone, sitting at a small burr wood table with a yellowish lamp dangling above his head, swaying from the more vigorous gusts.

  When they assigned the accommodation, Joonas Eklöf had given him the smallest camper: a fibreglass monocoque with just two beds. The most important thing, however, was that no one was to disturb him during his studies.

  At that moment, he needed to be in a quiet place. He felt a turbine of overlapping emotions as he stared at the photographs of the snowy caldera; he felt like the lottery winner who has just received a disturbing visit from the taxman.

  On one hand, he knew all the arguments and interpretations that had brought them to the falls were fallacious. Somehow, they must have misunderstood the clues provided by the poet… On the other hand, however, he knew he had had a great stroke of luck that was overshadowing his failure.

  The natural amphitheatre was probably the right place. But how did you explain the kilometre separating it from the waterfall?

  He needed further confirmation to be certain that the site was correct. The answer was bound to be contained in the pages of The Divine Comedy – but where?

  Just then, someone knocked on the door of the camper.

  It was Julia, wrapped up in a white parka, holding a plastic tray in her hand.

  He stared at her through the glass window then let her in. A gust of cold air and snow crept inside the camper as she entered.

  ‘It’s minus ten degrees,’ she began, as she slipped off the scarf from around her neck.

  ‘It’s not a good moment,’ said Cassini, his eyes dropping onto the small pantry, where she had placed the food.

  ‘It’s always a good time to eat,’ she said, amused. ‘You think more clearly with a full stomach.’ Those words were supplemented by a sincere smile, which the professor seemed to appreciate.

  ‘Okay. Will you join me?’

  The two sat down at the table and Cassini took the lid off the dishes that Julia had brought him.

  ‘Is it a peace proposal, or something more?’ wondered the professor, while biting into the dark food before him.

  ‘It’s called hákarl, it’s rotten shark…’

  The woman did not have time to finish the sentence before Cassini spat everything out onto the plate. ‘It tastes of ammonia. It’s terrible!’ he cried, emphasizing his words with an amused look.

  ‘The drivers are celebrating the Thorrablot, the mid-winter festival in honour of Thor, and have insisted on my bringing it… They said it would clear your mind,’ she smiled again but after a while her full lips closed.

  Cassini was silent. In fact, eating something was not a bad idea. ‘Would you like a carbonara? I have a packet of pasta and some vacuum-sealed bacon in my backpack,’ he said.

  A few minutes later they were side by side in the tiny kitchen of the camper, an aroma of fried bacon filling the air, and the windows steamed by the boiling water.

  ‘I have to apologize,’ she burst out suddenly, as if she wanted to remove a burden.

  He stared at her, blinking, but did not answer.

  ‘For everything! For having kidnapped and drugged you. I have no excuses… I’m not that way… But what we did with that device was the only way to find this place.’

  The professor looked down, not sure about the meaning of her words.

  ‘I saw that you’ve brought with you that damned thing. What does the Sheikh want, to relive the excavations? And through whose mind this time?’

  ‘He insisted I bring it… to make his friend Joonas Eklöf use it… but not right away; only if we find something.’

  ‘What you did to me was terrible!’ concluded Cassini. ‘I never want to hear about it again.’

  ‘I’m just asking you to forgive me… I have no excuses.’

  The professor sighed, shaking his head. ‘What do you think I should do?’

  ‘Shout, yell, slap me, blame me.’ She took his hand and, with tears in her eyes, mimed the gesture of a slap. ‘But please forgive me. I did it for the Sheikh; I owe him my life.’

  The professor snatched his fingers away. He swallowed hard and tried to stay calm, but a spasm caused his stomach to contract. His heart started hammering fast.

  ‘Say something!’ she pleaded in tears.

  But he stood as if in a daze. Julia’s outburst had decidedly impressed him and perhaps, in other circumstances, he would have interpreted it as a strange declaration of love. But not now.

  ‘Blame me!’ she said. Enlightenment.

  Beatrice’s reproach.

  That’s where he had to look!

  “His steps were turn’d into deceitful ways.” The triplet in canto XXX of Purgatory, where the beloved lady reproaches the poet on taking the wrong road, was now beginning to assume a different meaning.

  The professor rushed to the table, catching the miniature edition of Purgatory and quickly flipped through the pages.

  When he found the verse, he read it again aloud

  130 His steps were turn’d into deceitful ways,

  Following false images of good,

  that make no promise perfect.

  ‘He turned his steps. Again the word “steps”!’

  Julia looked at him puzzled, her cheeks furrowed by a salty tear. ‘Call Timothy Dempsey. I need his computer.’

  *

  Ten minutes later, the young man was sitting in front of Cassini with his ultrabook in front of his nose.

  ‘We weren’t wrong,’ revealed the professor excitedly. ‘The indication of the spring was correct; it served Dante to give us a precise geographi
cal reference. But the white rose is somewhere else, and Beatrice reveals it to the poet, saying that he went down the wrong path, the “untrue way”.’

  ‘Does he provide numerical data?’ the computer expert asked, pulling up a map of the area on the screen.

  ‘The word “step” appears again, in verse 130.’

  ‘We have already calculated that a hundred steps is equivalent to six hundred and sixty-five metres. One hundred and thirty “steps”, then, correspond to eight hundred and sixty-four metres. But in what direction… and starting from where?’

  ‘Right. You’re right. Which way?’ Cassini began to frantically scroll the text until he stopped abruptly, his finger running down the yellowed page. ‘Yes, yes. Here it is: in verse forty-six of canto XXXI he says opposite a way.’

  Julia raised an eyebrow, not understanding where the professor was going.

  ‘Verse one hundred and thirty is not the only place where Beatrice reprimands the poet,’ he said, panting. ‘In the next canto, the woman tells him that not only had he taken the wrong road, but that he went in the opposite direction.’

  ‘Verse forty-six?’ asked Dempsey drily. ‘Another three hundred and five metres, but in what direction?’

  ‘By opposite way he means the opposite side to where Dante met Beatrice… I think.’

  ‘Eight hundred metres to the west then, starting from point number “5”?’ asked the young man, looking at the map he had drawn in Dubai.

  ‘Try… where does it lead to?’

  Dempsey tapped on the keyboard, drawing a straight line from the point where Dante meets Beatrice, close to the spring, moving in the opposite direction. He stopped suddenly and smiled.

  ‘So?’ asked Julia.

  ‘Wait a moment. What was the other verse, the one of the opposite way?’

  ‘Forty-six, that is, about three hundred metres.’

  A few seconds passed and the young man turned the computer screen to Cassini. ‘Bingo!’ he exulted, satisfied. ‘Our amphitheatre is right there, where we found it. It’s eight hundred metres west of point “5”, and three hundred north of point “1”.’