Although I could now take very good care of Bertha and fulfill her every wish, she stuck to her modest lifestyle. Having completed her studies, she was preparing for a teaching position. She had moved into a larger apartment only because her old one had become too small for all her books. Books and travels — those were the things she splurged on. Twice a year, she drove to Greece in her little car. Recently, these trips had extended to the Ionian Coast as well as the Anatolian interior. She had visited Sardis, the residence of Gyges and Croesus, on the ancient golden river, the Pactolus.
When my problem started afflicting me, I went to see her and also spent the night. I slept fitfully, and it was good feeling her next to me, when I suddenly awoke as if plunging from a height. She then switched on the lamp; we chatted, not about my problem, but about her travels; I had her read aloud to me. Now that we had become friends, I understood her better there was still some eroticism, but of a different kind.
She enjoyed hearing my accounts of Kornfeld's investigations. After all, historical, especially archeological interests are closely interwoven with graves; basically, the world is a grave into which the ages descend and from which they rise again like asphodels. These processes are a sowing and reaping, and Orpheus lives in every historian.
Once, right after returning from Asia Minor, Bertha said: "It's obvious why Komfeld visited Knossos, Mycene, and Troy — but why hasn't he been to Cappadocia? That would be the Promised Land for you people."
This was the second major turning point in the history of Pietas-Terrestra, if I may call our car trouble near the Black Forest churchyard our first major turning point. When Kornfeld heard about Bertha's suggestion and conned the literature from Herodotus and Pausanias down to the latest travel guides, he hired an airplane, and the three of us flew to Urgup in the middle of Anatolia.
There, with the help of local guides, we wandered through an underground world. It has been known for a long time and it was also opened to tourism in the modem era; but it has never been explored to its full extent. The first person to mention it was Sieur Paul Lucas, a French traveler in the age of Louis XIV. His account, like Marco Polo's description of China, was considered a wild fancy. Who can believe in subterranean cities with churches, streets, marketplaces, stables, granaries — in complexes to which whole nations have retreated at various times? Tools and weapons can be found there, from stone axes to machine guns, steel helmets, and gas masks. Mammoth hunters, Hittites, Assyrians, Phrygians, Lydians, Persians, Turks, magi, Christians, and Muslims have left their traces here.
Whenever we chance upon such a settlement, which has existed uninterruptedly since prehistoric times, we may assume that the earth has been especially gracious: this high plateau is formed out of a tuffa that can be broken with shovels, yet soon hardens into rock upon being exposed to air. In this respect, it even outdoes molasse.
The corridors, made secure by rolling doors resembling millstones, lead to rooms and chambers that, lying over or under one another, stretch on for very long distances. As I have said, they have been only partially explored.
Kornfeld instantly realized that this and no other place on earth was the proper site for Terrestra. The house, built over millennia, was prepared; only the furniture was missing.
But that was not all. In front of these underground cities, there is a forest of towers, at the sight of which Sieur Paul Lucas was utterly astonished: an enormous mass of cones shaped like sugarloaves and often as high as the Castle of St. Angelo. There are well over a hundred thousand; the Turks call them the "chimneys of the fairies." Hermits and monastic orders established themselves in some; a few served as dovecotes, while others are still inhabited today, containing, for instance, a police station. A teahouse had also been set up, and we relaxed there after ascending from the underworld.
As I have said, these towers have been known and also described for a long time; in Kornfeld's library, I came across a six-volume opus by Guillaume de Jerphanion: The Rock Churches of Cappadocia.
Kornfeld enlightened me about the geological origins of these formations; I am not sure that I fully understood. According to him, the high plateau was once covered, or rather coated, by a thin, hard stratum; water had seeped in through cracks, disintegrating the friable subjacent rock. Sandstorms had completed the job, grinding the cylinders into shape. It is owing to their caps, which protect them like helmets, that the towers have survived for millennia.
This explanation made it clear to me why the majority of these towers looked like mushrooms with black caps and sand-colored stems, while others, which were not yet completely detached, formed chains.
Thus, along with halls, grottoes, and caverns, there were also unlimited numbers of tumuli beckoning to Terrestra.
In this way, the first stage ofthe undertaking was completed according to Jersson's guidelines, and far more favorably than we had hoped. We could now focus more strongly on promotion.
To start with, we had to think about acquiring the land. A lease would have to be obtained for an unlimited time or, as the phrase goes, "in perpetuity"; for that was the only possibility in keeping with Terrestra's plan and its unique offer. Fortunately, the terrain, although gigantic, was a wasteland. Here too we had unexpected luck.
Once again, a military regime had taken the helm in Anatolia; the name of the general who controlled the good and bad weather was Humayum. There were old connections with him, partly through a bank that Jersson maintained in Istanbul. The general was in a quandary both at home and abroad; oil and foreign currency were lacking, the prisons were overcrowded. He had to be on good terms with the democracies. As a result, we could look forward to striking a deal with him.
Actually, I was supposed to negotiate it. The banker knew that I had studied media; furthermore, aside from Kornfeld, I was the one most familiar with the plan. But I had to refuse, for by then I was already doing only half a job, although I was still accessible.
How was it that he decided on Sigi? After all, the banker had no lack of promoters who had proved their worth in the petroleum trade. Sigi lived a Bohemian life and despised business; he had been active for only a few weeks, playing the role of a sort of government minister. Perhaps Jersson merely wanted to hand his nephew and son-in-law a job on the Terrestra payroll. It could do no harm, for the general was bound to accept our offer.
Be that as it may, Sigi was a good choice. He had a Levantine vein; in corruption, it usually goes a lot further than Hanseatic scrupulousness. Besides, in his pocket, he had a Swiss check made out for a princely sum for charitable purposes — a further sign that Jersson's trust in him had grown.
I have no idea how much Sigi embellished the report on his mission; he had a theatrical gift. Humayum was rather corpulent for a general. He wore no stars, there was no decoration at his throat; but he did sport a palette of parti-colored ribbons, as is customary in these higher ranks. Coins and stamps showed him in profile; the artists had stylized his profile into that of an eagle.
The conversation had started in the general's home and had concluded during a horseback ride around the old city walls of Istanbul.