And finally Jesus sent her the beginnings of an idea, which shone like a thin ray of light through the mists of her confusion. She had been thinking about the wrong kind of friendship, she realized. The other clerks weren't likely to be any more use than she herself was. But there were more than just clerks at the Bank—there were important employees who would be utterly unaware of her existence, people with whom she would normally be terrified to speak, or even make eye contact. Perhaps there was a way of getting one of them to help her.
She thought of Lucia Gaspari, Signor Donato's secretary. Gaspari was a forbidding woman in her forties, frighteningly competent, with the reputation of being intolerant of the slightest mistake. She never socialized with the younger girls, who spoke of her in hushed tones, as if she were superhuman, a force of nature. The idea of approaching her filled Miranda with dread. But she knew it was what she had to do.
Her legs felt as if they were set in concrete as she walked to Donato's office, but she made it there, and Gaspari was sitting at her desk outside the office, typing something on her computer with blazing speed.
Miranda stood in front of her desk until Gaspari looked up. "I'm sorry to interrupt, signora," Miranda said, "but I—" She said one last silent prayer. "I was wondering if I could speak to you. On a personal matter."
Gaspari looked at her as if she had asked permission to come to work naked. "You are—?" she demanded.
"Miranda Cromwell. From Payroll?"
"Yes, the British girl. And what is it you wish to speak to me about?"
"Please, signora, it's a private matter. I—I need your advice."
That seemed to soften the older woman just a little. "Well, I'm very busy at the moment," she responded. "But perhaps I can spare a few minutes at the end of lunch. Say, a quarter to one?"
"Thank you so much, signora," Miranda gushed, genuinely astonished that the first step had been so easy. "You are very kind."
Gaspari waved away the compliment and returned to her work. Miranda lingered by her desk for a moment, then went off to seek further inspiration.
She struggled through the morning, sitting in her cubicle unable to concentrate, then finally at 12:45 she returned to Gaspari. The secretary looked slightly annoyed, as if she had managed to forget her promise to meet Miranda until that moment. She was drinking a Diet Coke, and half an orange sat on a paper plate on her desk. "I spoke to you earlier, signora," Miranda reminded her meekly. "You said I could—"
"Of course," Gaspari responded without warmth. But she stood up and led Miranda into a small conference room across from Donato's office. Miranda had never been in the room, which, with its high-backed leather chairs and gleaming mahogany table, was clearly intended for the top management of the bank. On the wall a large portrait of the recently deceased pontiff gazed down upon them.
Gaspari looked right at home in the conference room. She was a handsome woman, Miranda thought, with fine features and long hair dyed jet black. She was heavyset, but carried her weight well; Miranda had never seen her wear anything other than a tailored suit.
"Now then," Gaspari said, sitting across the table from Miranda. "What is this personal matter?"
"It is—" Miranda paused. And in an instant she understood what she wanted to say, what she needed to say, another ray of light; it all made sense, and she thanked Our Lord, from whom all blessings come. "It is very—well, shameful." She could feel herself blushing.
Gaspari shrugged, as if to say It's entirely up to you.
"You see—oh please, signora, forgive me, but you see—I am having an affair with a priest."
Gaspari's eyes widened. "A priest," she repeated.
"It's an older man—a monsignor," Miranda improvised. "I don't know how it happened, but we have fallen in love. He is not like anyone I've ever met. He is so gentle—and yet so strong. When he is with me, I—"
Gaspari gestured for her to be silent. "What is his name?"
Miranda shook her head sadly. "I prefer not to say. I hope you can understand."
"Well, this is foolishness. What do you want from me?"
"I want—I know this is asking so much, signora—but I would like you to help me understand what to do. My parents are in England and won't have anything to do with me since I became a Catholic. And the other girls here at the Bank—they're so shallow and immature. Their advice would be worthless. I have no one to turn to. But then I thought of you. Everyone says you are sensible and intelligent. I thought—if I could just talk to you about my situation, find out how you would act, what you would do. It would mean so much to me. I know this is presuming a great deal, but you're my only hope."
The flattery didn't seem to move the older woman. "But there's really nothing to talk about, you see," she said. "Of course you must break off the relationship immediately. The longer it continues, the more you will be hurt. What else do you expect me to say?"
"I don't know. I—I've tried to break it off. But it doesn't work. We love each other too much."
"Oh, nonsense. You're infatuated, and he should be ashamed of himself. If you like, I'll call him up myself and give him a piece of my mind."
"No, no please," Miranda begged, as if Gaspari were about to pick up a phone and make the call that instant.
"Well then, you must do it yourself. Without delay." Gaspari stood up. "Now I must return to work—and so should you." She paused at the doorway to the conference room. "And you may call me 'signorina,' not 'signora,'" she said.
"All right," Miranda whispered as the secretary strode out of the room.
It's a beginning, she thought. She was amazed at what she had just done, how she had managed to lie so fluently, so believably. But would it work? She had no idea, but she had the sense that something had happened, a first step had been taken. She had to trust in God that it would take her in the right direction.
* * *
Lucia Gaspari was in an irritable mood all afternoon. Signor Donato was making his usual demands, but she didn't respond to them with her usual efficiency. Her mind kept returning to the conversation with the foolish English girl. We love each other too much. Romantic twaddle. The girl was not especially attractive; Lucia wondered if this was the first time a man had ever paid attention to her. That would explain a lot. Just her luck to be swept off her feet by a monsignor.
Donato emerged from his office to point out several errors she had made in a letter she'd typed. "We can't let these sorts of things happen, Lucia," he said. "It's not acceptable. Simply not acceptable." He returned to his office, obviously pleased at having set her straight. She wondered how many times she had silently corrected his spelling over the years.
He is so gentle—and yet so strong. The girl probably devoured romance novels, and expected—hoped—fantasized—that somehow everything would turn out all right in her own romance, that her monsignor would renounce everything to spend the rest of his life with her.
She wouldn't take the advice Lucia had offered her, of course. Or she would do it half-heartedly, knowing that the monsignor would be able to overcome her scruples yet again and have his way with her. And when he finally tired of her, or he was transferred away from Rome, or the bishop he worked for found out about the affair and demanded that he straighten himself out... When it finally ended as it must, on someone else's terms, what would she do? How would she carry on? What would she think of herself, and men, and life?
Lucia picked up the phone and dialed Miranda's extension. "It's Signorina Gaspari," she said.
"Oh, signorina," the breathy English voice answered. "I'm so sorry to have brought my problem—"
"That's quite all right. I'm beginning to think I was somewhat too dismissive of your situation. Not that I would change my advice to you, but—perhaps we could talk some more."
"Yes, that would be—I mean, if you don't mind. I would be ever so grateful."
"Well, then," Lucia said. "Please stop by. Anytime."
"Thank you so much, signorina. I certainly shall."
<
br /> And surely this is a mistake, Lucia thought as she hung up. No good could come of meddling in someone else's life, even if the person begs you to do so.
Not surprisingly, Miranda showed up a short while later. "If this isn't a good time—" she began, but Lucia silenced her, and they returned to the executive conference room, where the old pope gazed down at them with disapproval.
"So tell me, Miranda," Lucia began. "Have the two of you... made love?"
Miranda nodded, blushing crimson. "In my apartment. I know I shouldn't have invited him, but I wasn't thinking—I couldn't think. We talked and talked, and we drank some wine, and then, I don't know how it happened, but I was in his arms, and we were kissing." Miranda closed her eyes, evidently reliving the moment. "I wanted him. I couldn't help myself. I felt as if I were drowning, and he was rescuing me. We made love right there on the couch. We couldn't wait, we needed each other so much. It was—it was glorious."
"I see," Lucia responded dryly. "And has this happened more than once?"
"Yes, I'm afraid so. Whenever he can get away from his duties. But we have told no one."
"Do you think he loves you?"
"Oh, I'm sure of it. He says that he didn't know what real life was until he met me. He says that—that I make him a better man." Miranda began to cry. "I'm so ashamed—but I'm also in love. I can't live without him. I don't know what to do."
"Has he made any promises? Has he said what he's going to do about the situation?"
"He says he wants to be with me, to marry me. But he is in a delicate position, you see. He comes from a prominent family, and he cannot afford a scandal. Also, the work he does for the Church is quite important, and he knows his superiors will try to stop him if he attempts to be laicized. So it's hard for him to figure out what to do."
"If he were truly in love—" Lucia began.
"Oh, please don't say that," Miranda interrupted with passion. "He's a good man, and he does truly love me, I know he does. It is just so complicated for him right now."
"It always is, you know." Lucia shook her head. It was as she expected. "It won't do, Miranda. You have to understand that this affair simply can't end happily. Of course it is all wonderfully romantic, and of course you are deeply and truly in love. But your lover has broken a solemn vow by being with you. How can you expect him to keep any vow that he now makes to you?"
Miranda teared up again. "What we feel for each other is special, unique," she protested. "He didn't want to break his vow of celibacy, but—"
"If he were worth having," Lucia insisted, "he would have waited. He would have done the right thing by the Church before making any commitments to you. You're glad right now that he capitulated to his lust, but you won't be so glad in the future, when you start worrying about what kind of man would act in such a way, and whether he will act that way again."
"He wouldn't. Oh, I know he wouldn't."
"You must end the relationship, Miranda. Now. Before you are hurt so deeply that you can never recover. You're still young and attractive. You need to understand that there are other men out there waiting for you. Better men. Men who aren't... entangled. Men who will treat you right."
Lucia could feel herself start to cry as well. So useless. Why was she bothering?
"There'll never be another man like him, I know that," Miranda sobbed. "But I also know that you're right. It can never work. I just needed to hear someone say it. Someone I trust. Thank you, signorina."
"Call me 'Lucia,'" she whispered, gazing at the young Englishwoman on the other side of the table, and seeing someone so familiar that it almost hurt. All the tears, all the promises... none of them would matter in the face of her love. "Tonight," Lucia said more loudly. "Don't delay. Tell him tonight."
Miranda nodded, and she reached out and squeezed Lucia's hand. Lucia prayed that she was mistaken, and that Miranda would succeed where she herself had failed.
* * *
And what had Miranda accomplished? Nothing that she could boast about to Monsignor Fieri, perhaps. Before Lucia had called her, she had begun to fear she had accomplished nothing at all. But she should not have despaired; she should have known that Jesus would not let her down. Now, in one short day, she had become intimate with one of the most powerful people at the bank—someone, she was certain, who knew its secrets as well as anyone. And what Lucia didn't know, she was in a position to find out. Miranda did not feel guilty about the lies she had told her. In the service of the Church, anything was permissible.
In her apartment that night Miranda sat on the couch and imagined talking to her imaginary monsignor, trying to give him the message that Lucia had told her to deliver. He wasn't Fieri, exactly, though he possessed Fieri's intelligence and fervor in his devotion to the Church. He was a little younger—though still mature; a little slimmer—though not at all scrawny. And his eyes! Oh, his eyes—they were brown, warm, infinitely understanding, infinitely compassionate. They gazed into her soul, and knew her better than she knew herself.
They were, she understood, Jesus' eyes.
Miranda closed her own eyes, and imagined...
The message was, of course, not what her imaginary monsignor wanted to hear.
* * *
Lucia resolved yet again to have nothing more to do with the British girl's problem, but again her resolve melted in a flood of empathy and compassion. She went to Miranda's cubicle the next morning. "Well?" she demanded in a low voice, making sure she wasn't overheard. "Did you speak to him? Did you end it?"
Miranda looked down, and Lucia's heart sank. So predictable. So pitiful. "I tried," the girl whispered. "I really tried, Lucia. But he started to weep. He has such—such wonderful eyes. I couldn't stand it. He said that without me, his life wasn't worth living. He said—oh, I can't repeat it. He said that I meant more to him than God."
"And I suppose you took it all back, said you were sorry, you didn't mean it, you wouldn't say such things ever again?"
Miranda nodded mutely.
"And you ended up in bed together, and he had his way with you."
She nodded again, still unable to meet Lucia's eyes.
Leave it at that, Lucia thought. The girl is doomed. But she knew she couldn't. How could she live with herself if she didn't make one final effort, no matter how difficult and embarrassing it had to be? "Let's go for a walk," she said.
Miranda looked up, her eyes frightened. "But Signor Montini—"
Lucia dismissed Montini with a wave of her hand. "Your boss is terrified of me. He will not dare complain. Let's go."
Miranda obediently stood up and followed her. They left the bank and walked through the Vatican gardens. The day was warm and cloudless, and it was impossible not to feel at peace along the quiet and tranquil paths. Lucia wished fervently that she didn't have to say what she was about to say. But she steeled herself, and began.
"You know Signor Donato, of course," she said.
"Of course," Miranda replied. "I mean, I have never had the honor of actually meeting him, but—"
"Yes. Such a very important man. I have worked for him for many years. He is a good boss, most of the time—thoughtful, polite, considerate. He is happily married, with six wonderful children who look upon me as an aunt. His wife is a fine woman, very religious. She sends me flowers on my birthday. The children decorate cards for me and remember me in their prayers."
Miranda nodded politely, not understanding.
"Well, many years ago Signor Donato and I were lovers, like you and your monsignor," Lucia continued. That got the girl's attention. "He was married then as well, with a couple of young children at home, but I didn't care. I believed that this was my one chance at happiness, and I wasn't about to give it up. And I believed that he felt the same way. He told me the same things your monsignor told you, we wept the same tears, made the same promises. There is nothing new under the sun.
"But of course nothing came of it. In the end he wasn't prepared to destroy his old life to start a new one wit
h me. Our time together turned bitter. I made demands; he put me off. I became a burden, and finally he got rid of me."
They stopped, and sat on a bench next to a statue of Saint Francis of Assisi. A groundskeeper walked by, a cigarette dangling from his lip, carrying a rake on his shoulder like a rifle. "But here you are," Miranda pointed out meekly after he had passed, "still working for Signor Donato."
"Yes, here I am," Lucia agreed. "But it would have been so much better for me if I'd had the courage to drop him, instead of waiting for him to drop me. Then perhaps I could have salvaged some of my dignity and self-respect. Then perhaps I could have gotten on with my life. But instead—" She made a helpless gesture. "It's not as if I think he'll change his mind someday. I'm not that stupid. Well, maybe I am on occasion, when he smiles at me in a certain way, or recalls some private moment we shared together. I think I've taught myself to be content just to have crumbs of his attention. Or perhaps I just ran out of energy to try to do anything different."
"Do you hate him?" Miranda asked.
"Oh, no, I could never—well, I hate many things. I hate what I have become. I hate the way I let him control my life. I hate the way, most of the time, I know he isn't thinking of me, he is simply taking me for granted, like a piece of office equipment that never breaks down. But I can't hate him. After all this time—" Now Lucia started to cry, as she had known she would, and it was Miranda's turn to comfort her. "You must not repeat any of this to a soul," she warned after she had regained her composure. "Especially not to the stupid girls you work with. I am telling you this only so that you can understand what your future will be like, if you don't take control of your life, if you continue to let your fantasies overcome your common sense. You do not want to end up like me, Miranda. You do not want to end up like me."
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