“You see the preview of the work on YouTube?” Tony asked.
“Interesting,” I said. “I’ve been following the flap on social media about whether her hand is pulling the sword out, or putting it back in.”
“Does it matter?” he asked.
“Are you nuts? It’s the whole point of placing it on the coast. Is she about to whack off Muslim heads? Or is she showing them we want peace?”
“Whatever,” Tony said and put the car in reverse. “Had enough statue?”
I nodded and adjusted the blanket over Hamid. This morning when I’d put him in his car seat, he howled his head off, so I gave in and held him on my lap. I touched his nose, then turned to the passenger side window to watch the wind herd black clouds over the fields. Tony braked at the sign, centro ciudad.
Molino del Santo clung to the stony slope of a mountain as if any minute the village might lose its hold on the cliff and tumble into the sea. Capellini-thin alleys wound around a ruined fort until dead-ending at a cobblestone square. A water tower on stilts loomed like an upright spider over the treatment plant. The town crawled with National Police, kids, tourists, clergy, and media-types with name tags on lanyards around their necks. “We’re hours early and the place is already jammed,” Tony said.
“The new Pope’s first time in Spain.”
We passed guys in the blue berets of Zak’s Constancia Knights. We passed an elderly couple walking a feisty whippet straining at the leash. We passed a man in a black leather jacket leaning against the hood of a Toyota pickup. A cigarette slanted from his lips. His head turned to follow a Guardia Civils’ SUV cruising the street.
“He looks like one of the jihadists in the boat,” I said. “But men in black leather all look alike. I could be wrong.”
“He does appear a bit dodgy,” Tony waited for pedestrians to clear the cross-walk and swerved into an alley. “Keep your head down.” Then in an exasperated tone, “I told you it was dangerous for you to show up. The bloody sods on the ferry might be the ones the cell sends here to demolish the festivities.”
“To tear the place apart,” I agreed.
He gave my hand a quick squeeze. “Let’s hope the chap’s just ducking the missus. You think this dog’s breakfast-of-a-town has a place to get tea?”
Tony circled the square where the church of St. Clare of Assisi and the rectory behind it sat in splendid disrepair. Chipped conquistadores marched across the lintel; the angel guarding the portal was one wing short. From the pointed arches and ribbed vaults, I guessed the buildings as late Gothic. The hideous yellow-ochre stone must be from a local quarry and probably cheap, otherwise, why dig it up? A splat of rain zig-zagged down the windshield, leading an advance of bullet-sized drops.
“I see stores,” I said, “but no parking. Quick, that Citroen’s backing out.”
Tony swung into the vacant spot. Opposite the church, a café served croissants and coffee at the plastic tables it shared with the tapas bar next door. A hole-in-the-wall tourist trap displayed dusty mantillas and matador capes on a clothesline strung above the entrance.
Tony unfastened his seat belt. “Stay in the car so the bad guys won’t spot you,” he ordered. “What can I get you two?”
“Coffee for me and juice for Hamid. No condensed.”
Tony plunged into the swirling rain. I looked down at Hamid, who was chewing on his blanket. When he paused for breath, I drew away the cloth and slid a teething ring into his mouth. “Oh boy,” I said. “I wish I had one of those.” He gazed dreamy-eyed at the dashboard. I too, was lost in thought, running down how we’d hand Hamid over to the church and asking myself what could go wrong? The answer? everything.
Assuming the dedication came off without a hitch, the Knights were to deliver Hamid to the Red Crescent’s main office near the hospital. The exchange would be filmed showing the kid alive and well.
The plan was in cement until I threw in the monkey wrench. Me, on my high horse insisting the kid be raised in the church. Me, so devout I rarely got out of bed for Sunday Mass. And here I was grandstanding even though realizing if we did not return Hamid, who knew what the jihadists might do. Why didn’t Zak talk me out of my grandiose idea? And why did the others buy in? I must have fed into their secret vanities. If Zak pulled off screwing the jihadist’s he’d come out as the new Richard the Lionheart, and the Archbishop could print mass cards for when he made cardinal.
The revised scenario went like this: as soon as the Pope’s helicopter lifted off, instead of the Red Crescent, Hamid would be delivered to St. Clare’s rectory. Brother Fernando from Catholic Services would take it from there.
A rumble of thunder. I eased the teething ring from Hamid’s mouth. His scream could blast the paint off the car. I wiped off the gooey spit and popped the ring back in before he could let loose again. Through the window I watched a mom in a raincoat coax a stroller over the slippery cobblestones. A nun in a full-length habit unfolded an umbrella. A sleek dark-green Mercedes glided past, and I glimpsed Arabic plates. I picked out Tony among the crowd in the coffee-counter line. In his orange Medicines Sin Frontera tee-shirt, he was easy to spot
A rap on the glass on the driver’s side. What in the world?
Zak, in a denim jacket and blue beret, motioned for me to lower the window. “I’m drowning,” he shouted.
He slid inside, drew off the beret and wiped it on his sleeve.
“You’re here early,” I said.
“So’s everyone else. Including your weirdo neighbor. See him under the awning?”
“Casey said he was coming. He wants to join the Facebook conversation of the day. The topic being, is Our Lady drawing Her sword in? Or out?”
Hamid yawned, and the teething ring rode the current of drool draining into his onesie. I slid the ring back in his mouth and bounced him on my knee. “This morning Casey brought my rental car from our apartment building to Tony’s place. Remember me telling you we used Tony’s car to get to my Dad’s the night the jihadists? But you know the rest. I told you on the phone.”
“The rest of what?”
“You were so busy complaining about the Archbishop and the Pope you weren’t paying attention.”
“Yes, I was. Of course. The ferry.”
“Anyway, I’ll drop off the rental at the airport. Don’t forget, I’m leaving the country.”
Zak touched my cheek. “Don’t remind me.” He lowered his hand. “But right now, we have a problem. The Pope’s hung up in Cadiz.”
“For how long?”
“He might not show at all. The acolyte danced around the issue. The Vatican’s usually precise on logistics, which makes me think something’s seriously wrong.”
“Can the Archbishop pinch-hit?”
“I have a bad feeling,” Zak said. “Like when the crazy Catalonians bombed the Marriott.”
“Free-floating anxiety.”
Zak took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled. “Your clinical observations have a way of trivializing everything.” He motioned to the guy in black leather who was now behind Tony in the coffee line. “Every place I look, there’s Emir’s people. What are they doing here? My tech-guru picked up internet traffic—the word helicopter. And there’s too much excitement, downright hysteria among the chat groups. Not good.”
“We’re okay. The baby’s our leverage. That’s why we have him, right? The only problem is that the jihadists might not care if Hamid lives or dies. Let me tell you about when I was a consultant for the prison system.”
“What happened?”
“This inmate told me a rival drug-lord held his—the inmate’s infant son, hostage. “It don’t bother me none,” he said, ‘go ahead and kil
l the kid. I can make another just like him.’
Like my own father, I thought.
“A real shit.” Zak said.
“You got that right.”
Zak positioned the beret on his head and ran his finger along the headband.
“It’s on straight,” I said. “If the Pope doesn’t show, what’s the worst-case scenario?”
“That he was tipped off that the terrorists will attack.”
I thought for a minute. “Wouldn’t his handlers warn the public?”
“If that’s what his Holiness decides. Here comes your British friend.”
Across the street, Tony, holding a plastic bag, stood on the asphalt waiting for the traffic to clear. A teenaged girl on a skateboard whizzed up beside him and dismounted.
Zak gripped my wrist. “Not a word to your friend about the Pope.”
“Okay, but why not?”
“Feelings aren’t facts.”
The girl repositioned her foot on the board and pushed off. When she got to the center of the street, a motorcycle shot from behind a van, missing her by an inch.
She lay on the street with Tony crouched beside her. They rose at the same time. The girl leaned and picked up her skateboard. Gripping her elbow, Tony helped her cross the street.
“An example of why I wouldn’t confide in your doctor friend,” Zak said. “He should help the cyclist, not the kid who never bothered to look both ways. If we tell him there might be an attack, he’ll instigate the mother of all evacuations. If I’m wrong and the Pope does show up...” Zak closed his eyes. “We’ll be blamed for a huge fucking mess.”
Tony approached the car, stopped midway and stared, probably guessing who Zak was. I pushed the toggle switch to unlock the rear door.
Zak slid from the front, dashed through the rain and settled into the back seat.
Quick introductions and Zak said, “I take it, you’re the doctor.”
Tony set the bag between his feet and drew out a bottle of orange juice and a paper cup.
“You’re just saving refugees,” Zak said, “so we can go broke supporting more of them.”
Tony calmly lifted a container of coffee from the bag and passed it to me. “Watch, it’s hot. I made sure the lid’s on tight.”
Hamid whimpered and waved his arms. Then came the urgent kicks under the blanket and the predictable red-faced howl. “You have the Dot Tots?” Tony asked.
I reached for the diaper bag at my feet. “Your turn? Or mine?”
“Not enough room upfront. I’ll lay him flat in the boot.” Tony slung the bag over his shoulder and hoisted Hamid from my lap.
“It’s raining,” I said.
“I’ll keep him under the open lid.”
A good as any excuse to get away from Zak, I thought as the door closed.
Zak leaned on the back of my seat. “I need you to help with a favor. A big one.” His breath was warm on my neck. “I got Father Arturo—he’s the celebrant in the church across the street. He’s young but has impressive plans to rehab the rectory and —”
“Zak, get to the point.”
“Hamid has to be baptized. Here. Now.”
I twisted around to face him “Are you out of your mind?”
“It’s best if both a man and a woman stand up for him. Not that we’re official godparents, but...”
“No.”
“Hamid has to become Christian. Has to, in case the jihadists show up, and he’s—we don’t want to think about it.”
“No.”
“Look, if the kid should not, like, survive?”
“He’ll survive.”
“If he doesn’t, what about your conscience? Your responsibility to the faith? You want him to die without the sacraments and—”
“All right, all right.” I turned back to the windshield and watched the rain slither down the glass. Bad timing. On the other hand, what’s the harm? I thought of Sister Helen, good old Sister Helen with her narrow-lidded eyes and wide grin like a dinosaur’s. Sister going into details about the disadvantages of hell
“Turn around. Face me. You’re on board?”
The intensity of his eyes was unnerving. I sighed and asked, “Just so it doesn’t take too long. When?”
“Father agreed to do it right before Mass. Short and sweet. Twenty minutes, we’re out of there.”
Before I could think it through, Zak said, “I’ll be back.” He slammed the car door and darted toward the café.
In contrast to its outside, the interior of Saint Clare of Assisi was grand as its name. I followed Zak through the massive portal while wondering how many Visigoths, crusaders, king, and queens had darkened these weathered doors. The tabernacle shone gold. Overhead, a Crucifix hung on chains from the vaulted ceiling casting a shadow of the Cross over the tiers of lilies. The leather kneeling pads smelled of well-worn saddles. In a chapel to the right, the baptismal front sat on a stone plinth. It took a team of angels to hold the marble basin aloft.
Turning his beret nervously in both hands, Zak stood beside me while I swayed slightly to entertain Hamid. Father Arturo emerged from a doorway behind the altar. He wore a black cassock, and with the arrogance of a panther, swept down the altar steps carrying a dipper, an amphora, and a book under his arm. He proceeded to set up his equipment on a table near the font and turned to us with the volume in his slender El Greco hands. He spoke in Spanish.
“Father apologizes for his lack of English,” Zak whispered. “He wants to know the name of this child.”
Name? It hadn’t occurred to me. A Catholic kid called Hamid? “Peter?” I suggested. “John’s nice.”
“Michael,” Zak told Father firmly. Then in an aside to me, “Who fought the devil,”
“Okay by me.”
I tucked the red satin blanket around Hamid’s feet. The calligraphy on it probably read God is great in Arabic. So much for diversity, I thought watching Father make the sign of the Cross. I raised my head when Zak and Father began a dialogue: the obligatory questions asked all godparents; assurances that the new person would be raised in the faith. More prayers and I heard the rhythm of the Apostle’s Creed. Then Father leaned to anoint Hamid with Chrism oil. I caught a whiff of sage.
Two acolytes, boys about nine or ten in white cassocks, came from behind the altar and crossed the sanctuary. Each knelt with hurried dips, then quickly rose and began lighting candles. Bells pealed in the tower. A blast of wet air. The doors slammed shut. The first person to show for mass was an old guy who gripped one pew, let go and reached for the pew ahead. Behind him, a teenaged girl pulled off her scarf, shook out the rain and ran her fingers through her hair. The door slammed again and slowly the pews filled.
Father lifted the gold dipper. Supporting Hamid’s head gently with one hand, with the other, he tipped the ladle over the baby’s head. I tried to keep Hamid from batting the dipper; he scored only one hit before I blocked his arm. But when Father dried the baby’s face with a towel, Hamid only lay back and blew a bubble of spit.
My throat tightened. This was wrong, all wrong. Hamid was cheated. No real godparents. No family in the front row. Instead of Zak, the boy’s father should be carrying the baptismal candle and white sash. Afterward, there should be cake and balloons, and presents and ice cream.
I pulled myself together and forced a smile while Father made the sign of the Cross.
“Are you staying for mass?” Zak whispered.
“It would be rude not to.”
Father gathered the dipper and amphora and disappeared behind the altar.
One trumpet note soare
d from the choir loft. A harpsichord responded. If not Palestrina, a magnificent knock-off. The congregation rose. An altar boy holding aloft a Crucifix advanced down the aisle. Two others proceeded the deacon, then came Father Arturo; the first shall come last.
Zak and I had taken the second pew from the front. Hamid lay quietly, seeming oblivious to the bustle around him. Maybe baptism damps down the lungs. That or the turbulence of the past few days, was taking its toll. Certainly, I felt it. The congregation sat. Exhausted, I closed my eyes.
The parishioners suffered through the deacon’s endless verbiage. Just as we knelt for prayer, a burst of red flared behind the stained glass. A shrill whistle like the call of a tropical bird was followed by a dull, but loud thwump.
“Mortars,” Zak shouted. “Get down.”
Screams, shouts, the clack of kneelers flipped against their brackets. More flashes: the building shook and seemed to dip, lurch and spin as if it were a plane flying through hell. I gripped the armrest. Another blast and the wood trembled under my hand.
“Get down,” Zak shouted again.
I slid from the pew to the floor and threw my body over Hamid’s. Silence. A whiff of cool acrid air. I raised my head. A street-level window was a lake of broken glass. Overhead the Crucifix, down to its last chain, swung in a slow circle. Hamid let out an anguished howl, and I realized I had him pinned too tightly against me.
“Haul ass,” Zak said, pulling me to my feet.
“Wait for the mob to clear,” I said. “Where should we go? Where’s safe?”
“The rectory.”
“After the church, the first place they’ll strike. Will they dare hit the hospital?”
“Technically, no,” Zak said. “The Red Cross and Red Crescent share space, and no one’s—” His words lost in an earth-shattering boom and roar of tumbling rock. I clung to the back of the pew ahead until the aftershock cleared. A click of falling plaster and I turned to the jagged hole that had become a window onto the cobblestone square and the street and the shops beyond. Orange dust rose in a graceful spiral. The air was thick with grit that smelled of creosote. Fighting for breath, I coughed and choked while draping the blanket loosely over Hamid’s nose. Standing amidst the swirling dust, Father appeared as an apparition about to rise through the grainy clouds. His voice transcended the babble of the congregation.
The Loss of What We Never Had Page 23