The Last Cato Read Online Free PDF
Author: Matilde Asensi
gaunt, fibrous flesh. His extremely dark skin pigmentation was striking. The planes of his face were definitive proof of his Abyssinian origin: very pronounced high cheekbones, sunken cheeks, broad knobby forehead, thick lips, and narrow nose. His large black eyes were open in the photographs, and this really caught my attention. A nearly Greek profile. Before they had cleaned up the section of the head that remained intact, his hair had been matted down, tightly curled, rather dirty, and bloodstained. After he was shaved you could clearly see a fine scar in the shape of the uppercase Greek letter sigma (Σ) in the very center of his skull.
That morning I studied the terrible images over and over, reviewing any detail that seemed significant. The scarifications stood out like highways on a map, some disgustingly fleshy and thick and others nearly imperceptible, some fine as silk threads. Without exception, all were rose-colored, even reddish in spots, which gave them the repulsive look of grafts of white skin onto black. By midafternoon I had stomach cramps, I was light-headed, and the table was covered with notes and sketches of the deceased’s scarifications.
I found another six Greek letters distributed over the body: a tau (T) on the biceps of the right arm; an upsilon (Y) on the left arm; an alpha (A) in the center of the chest over the heart; a rho (P) on the abdomen; an omicron (O) on the quadriceps of the right thigh; and another sigma (Σ) on the same spot on the left thigh. Right below the alpha and above the rho in the lung and stomach area could be seen a large chrismon, a very common monogram in the tympana and altars of medieval churches. The two first Greek letters of Christ’s name, XP —chi and rho—were superimposed onto it.
This chrismon, however, had a very peculiar variation: a horizontal bar had been added, giving the symbol the added appearance of a cross. The rest of the body, except the hands, feet, buttocks, neck, and face, was covered with the most original-looking crosses I’d ever seen in my life.
Captain Glauser-Röist sat for long stretches in front of the computer, typing mysterious instructions without taking a break. From time to time, he came up behind my chair and stood there in silence, studying the evolution of my analysis. I was startled when, out of the blue, he asked if it would help to have a life-size drawing of the human body so I could record the scars. Before answering I moved my head in exaggerated nods and shakes to relieve the pain in my neck.
“That’s a good idea. Captain, how much are you authorized to tell me about this poor man? Monsignor Tournier mentioned that you took these photographs.”
Glauser-Röist rose from his chair and turned toward the computer. “I can’t tell you anything.” He quickly struck several computer keys quickly and the printer began to chirp and expel paper.
“I need to know more,” I protested, rubbing the bridge of my nose under my glasses. “Maybe you know some details that would facilitate my work.”
The Rock wasn’t moved by my pleading. He cut pieces of tape with his teeth and stuck those sheets of paper to the back of my door. The complete silhouette of a human being took shape.
“Can I help you in some other way?” he asked when he finished.
I glared at him. “Can you consult the databases of the Classified Archives from that computer?”
“From this computer I can consult any database in the world. What would you like to know?”
“Anything you can find on scarification.”
Without missing a beat he got to work. I grabbed a fistful of markers from a box on my desk and planted myself in front of the life-size paper silhouette. A half hour later, I had managed to rather faithfully reconstruct the painful road map of the victim’s injuries. I had to ask myself why a sane, strong man only thirty-some years old would let himself be tortured in this manner. It was quite strange indeed.
Besides the Greek
That morning I studied the terrible images over and over, reviewing any detail that seemed significant. The scarifications stood out like highways on a map, some disgustingly fleshy and thick and others nearly imperceptible, some fine as silk threads. Without exception, all were rose-colored, even reddish in spots, which gave them the repulsive look of grafts of white skin onto black. By midafternoon I had stomach cramps, I was light-headed, and the table was covered with notes and sketches of the deceased’s scarifications.
I found another six Greek letters distributed over the body: a tau (T) on the biceps of the right arm; an upsilon (Y) on the left arm; an alpha (A) in the center of the chest over the heart; a rho (P) on the abdomen; an omicron (O) on the quadriceps of the right thigh; and another sigma (Σ) on the same spot on the left thigh. Right below the alpha and above the rho in the lung and stomach area could be seen a large chrismon, a very common monogram in the tympana and altars of medieval churches. The two first Greek letters of Christ’s name, XP —chi and rho—were superimposed onto it.
This chrismon, however, had a very peculiar variation: a horizontal bar had been added, giving the symbol the added appearance of a cross. The rest of the body, except the hands, feet, buttocks, neck, and face, was covered with the most original-looking crosses I’d ever seen in my life.
Captain Glauser-Röist sat for long stretches in front of the computer, typing mysterious instructions without taking a break. From time to time, he came up behind my chair and stood there in silence, studying the evolution of my analysis. I was startled when, out of the blue, he asked if it would help to have a life-size drawing of the human body so I could record the scars. Before answering I moved my head in exaggerated nods and shakes to relieve the pain in my neck.
“That’s a good idea. Captain, how much are you authorized to tell me about this poor man? Monsignor Tournier mentioned that you took these photographs.”
Glauser-Röist rose from his chair and turned toward the computer. “I can’t tell you anything.” He quickly struck several computer keys quickly and the printer began to chirp and expel paper.
“I need to know more,” I protested, rubbing the bridge of my nose under my glasses. “Maybe you know some details that would facilitate my work.”
The Rock wasn’t moved by my pleading. He cut pieces of tape with his teeth and stuck those sheets of paper to the back of my door. The complete silhouette of a human being took shape.
“Can I help you in some other way?” he asked when he finished.
I glared at him. “Can you consult the databases of the Classified Archives from that computer?”
“From this computer I can consult any database in the world. What would you like to know?”
“Anything you can find on scarification.”
Without missing a beat he got to work. I grabbed a fistful of markers from a box on my desk and planted myself in front of the life-size paper silhouette. A half hour later, I had managed to rather faithfully reconstruct the painful road map of the victim’s injuries. I had to ask myself why a sane, strong man only thirty-some years old would let himself be tortured in this manner. It was quite strange indeed.
Besides the Greek