Michael chose the route to the southern toll entrance. The yellow lane for the Telepass box was clear – a small luxury on a Tuesday morning. He drove slowly through the barrier, shifted up a gear, and accelerated.
The E45 stretched southwards like a grey ribbon. Hills to the left, the first industrial areas to the right. He liked this drive. The hour between Rome and Naples, in which you've neither arrived nor departed.
Then Mount Vesuvius appeared.
He first saw it as a shadow—an irregularity on the horizon that grew larger as he approached. The mountain stood there like a monument, both serene and dangerous. Michael thought of Pompeii. Of the ashes that had buried the city. Of the people who had no chance.
And now I'm going there, he thought. To talk about software agents.
It was absurd. But he smiled anyway.
He took the exit to Pompeii, bought flowers for Julia and chocolates for Martina at a gas station. The GPS guided him through narrow streets, past small houses with blooming gardens. The air smelled of lemons and diesel.
As he stopped in front of the house, he saw Martina already standing in the doorway. She waved. Behind her, in the shadows of the hallway, he recognized Julia.
Inside, it smelled of coffee and fresh bread. Martina took the chocolates, Julia the flowers. She placed the vase on the table – a white one that looked as if it had been dug up from the earth.
"Sit down," said Julia.
Michael sat down. The sofa was soft, almost too soft. He scooted forward a little to sit up straight.
They talked about this and that: the journey, the weather, the excavations in Pompeii. Martina told them about a new inscription they had found—Latin, from a bathhouse, perhaps carved by a slave. Michael listened, nodded, and asked questions.
But the letter was in his mind.
He was waiting for a break. It came when Martina went into the kitchen to get water for tea.
“Julia,” Michael said quietly. “I have something to show you.”
He pulled the envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. It was slightly crumpled, but still sealed – he hadn't opened it during the journey.
“A homeless person dropped it off at the college,” he said. “The contents are… strange.”
Julia took the envelope and examined the handwriting. "Your name," she said. "Handwritten. That's no coincidence."
“No,” said Michael. “Read.”
He handed her the letter. She glanced over it – once, twice. Her expression remained calm, but her fingers, which were holding the edge of the paper, turned white.
Martina returned with the tea. She saw the faces and put the cups down. "What's going on?"
Julia handed her the letter. Martina read it. She was faster than her mother – or less careful. After a few seconds, she lifted her head.
“Harari,” she said. “And Popper. And this sender – IRARAH. That’s Harari spelled backwards, isn’t it?”
Michael nodded. "I think so."
"Who writes a letter like this?" Martina sat down. "And why send it to you of all people?"
“That’s the question,” said Michael. “The homeless man was just the messenger. But whoever wrote it – knows their stuff. They know Harari, Popper, and German. This is no accidental discovery.”
Julia remained silent for a moment. Then she said, "It sounds like a warning."
“Before Harari?” asked Martina.
“Against what Harari stands for,” Julia said. “Don’t you see? The letter says: Harari isn’t warning against technology. He’s warning against humanism. He wants us to give up democracy—for a post-human elite. And the sender, IRARAH…”
“… wants the opposite,” Michael added. “Popper. The open society. The piecemeal approach. No grand gestures, no paradise on earth. Just small steps that can be corrected if they go wrong.”
Martina shook her head. "That sounds like a fundamental debate. But why are they writing this to you? What does it have to do with you?"
Michael shrugged. "Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. I'm a Jesuit, I work with InSim, I know people in the Vatican. Maybe this IRARAH believes I can do something."
“Or,” Julia said slowly, “that you know something. Something you don’t even know you know.”
Quiet.
A scooter drove past outside. The sound faded away.
“We should be careful,” Martina said finally. “InSim, this workshop – if the letter is correct, there’s more to it than we think.”
Michael put the letter back in his jacket. "I'll take it with me. Perhaps things will become clearer there."
Julia looked at him. Her gaze was soft, but firm. "Take care of yourself, Michael."
“I do,” he said. But he wasn’t sure if it was true.
They spent the afternoon together. It was as if the letter didn't exist—or as if they had decided to forget about it for a few hours. They ate, drank wine (Michael water), and talked about old times. Martina told them about her childhood, about the summers in Pompeii, about the nights she had spent searching the ruins for bats.
As it got dark, Julia lit candles.
"Are you staying overnight?" she asked.
"If it's no trouble."
"It's no trouble at all."
Michael helped with the washing up. He dried the plates while Martina washed them. Julia stood at the window and gazed into the night. No one spoke. It wasn't uncomfortable.
Later, in the small guest room, Michael lay in the dark. The curtains were drawn, but light from the street filtered through a crack. He heard the city – dogs barking, a distant conversation, the sound of the sea, which one couldn't see here but could hear.
He thought about the letter.
Harari is a warner.
IRARAH.
Take care.
He closed his eyes. Sleep came slowly, but it came.