Cecilian Vespers

by Anne Emery

  “Can you picture Enrico as a killer?” I asked her.

  “No! He is ambitious and he has had some obstacles in his path to the top. If he does not rise higher in the papal court, it could be seen as a disgrace to his family. After all, there have been Sferrazzas and Melchiorres at the pope’s side for centuries. So if Reinhold Schellenberg was for some reason in a position to thwart him further … But Enrico is a dedicated priest. I can’t see him doing this, or anything remotely like it.”

  “Was Father Schellenberg in a position to thwart Enrico’s ambitions?”

  “I’m not sure. They taught at the Lateran University at the same time. Schellenberg was head of the theology department back before he joined the Cistercians. It was the late 1970s, I suppose, when Enrico taught there. Just after you left Rome, Brennan. And there’s lots of talk these days of new appointments to the diplomatic corps. So if Enrico is trying to get out of exile, and back on the road to a diplomatic career, and if he applies for a position, the powers that be would speak to Schellenberg about their time at the Lateran. Now, I do know Enrico spent a semester teaching at the University of Florence a couple of years ago, before he went to Africa. He would almost certainly have been in contact with Schellenberg when he was there. Whether Schellenberg was aware of any mischief Enrico got into, who can say? But killing a fellow priest to keep him quiet would not be in Enrico’s bag of tricks, in my opinion.”

  “All right. William Logan. Does that name sound familiar to you?”

  “The American?”

  “The American? Is he well known?”

  “He isn’t. But his letters are.” She rolled her eyes and signalled the waiter for another round. “If it’s the same person.”

  “He left the priesthood in 1981 to marry one of your sisters.”

  She was nodding. “Him and thousands of others after Vatican II. Funny how they all fled when things lightened up instead of in the harsher old days. But it sounds like him. They know his handwriting here now. He addresses his letters to the Holy Father, though he’s smart enough to know they never get within a ten-foot pole’s distance of the pope. They go to the Secretariat of State with all the other letters from Catholics and crackpots around the world. Logan is one of the regulars known to the long-suffering Gary Sloane. He’s an American priest who handles a lot of the English-language correspondence here.”

  “What does Logan write about?”

  “Everything. Church doctrine, the clergy, this or that bishop who’s pissed him off, the liturgy, a lay ministry he wants to start up, a counselling service or encounter group he’s running, the moral teachings and moral failings of the church, Vatican finances, the choir at midnight Mass at St. Peter’s as seen on television, the repairs they’re doing in his parish. On and on. He’s a figure of fun over here, at least among the few who have heard of him, but it’s sad really.”

  “Sad how?”

  “Well, he never got over it, did he? He left the priesthood. His correspondence at that time told the church to get stuffed. The church was the people. Priests and religious were unnecessary and irrelevant. The papacy was a medieval relic. Tear the whole structure down. Et cetera. But he can’t leave it alone. I’m sure you’ve seen it yourself, Brennan. Catholics who leave. Or think they’ve left. If you’re not Catholic anymore, what’s the difference what jiggery-pokery we’re up to here? Write us off and join the United Church! But they can’t let go. No matter how far away they’ve gone, and how they’ve liberated themselves, what the church does still matters to them. Logan is one of those. You say he’s with your group in Halifax?”

  “That’s right.”

  “There you go then. What’s he doing there? I’ll take you over to the Apostolic Palace to meet Gary Sloane. He knows more than he ever wanted to about Logan.”

  “All right. Thanks,” I said. “Next one: Janice Ford.”

  “Never heard that name.”

  “Luigi Petrucci. A layman from New Jersey.”

  “No.” “He set fire to a church there in 1979.”

  “You’re coddin’ me!”

  “Nope. How about Father Fred Mills?”

  She shook her head.

  “I know Fred,” Brennan stated. “You can cross him off the list of suspects.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. Almost. Final name: Kurt Bleier, a police officer in the former German Democratic Republic.”

  “Unless he was skulking around St. Peter’s Square in May of 1981, I don’t imagine such a man was one of our visitors.”

  “May of ’81; that’s when —” I began.

  “The Holy Father was shot, yes. May 13.”

  We stayed at the bar for another round; then Kitty had to return to the Vatican for a meeting, so we walked her back.

  “Treat you to a gelato at our old spot?” Brennan asked her.

  “I wouldn’t say no.”

  We stopped at a tiny place near the Vatican and ordered three cones of incomparable Italian ice cream: amareno for Brennan, pistacchio for Kitty, fragola (strawberry) for me.

  When we got back to the Vatican City State, Kitty escorted us to the Apostolic Palace, familiar to anyone who has ever seen the pope appearing in the window of the papal apartments on the top floor. We walked down a long marble corridor and entered the office of Father Gary Sloane, who was barely visible behind the stacks of paper on his desk. Kitty introduced us, told him why we were asking about William Logan, and left for her meeting.

  “Logan. Yes, I answer all his letters or, at the very least, acknowledge them. But I don’t know how I can help him. I’ve suggested counselling, but I don’t think he pays much heed to my poor attempts at advice. His marriage fell apart. The kids are with his ex-wife, who was a nun but now follows some new-age guru. Logan is upset because the kids have no religious beliefs at all. He goes from one job to the next; he seems to be in a spiral of poverty. He’s fifty years old and nothing’s worked out for him; he’s sinking farther and farther from the reach of the American dream, so-called. Now he’s got the second wife, and she wants to start a family.”

  “He tells you all this?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes. He tells us what’s wrong with the church, in minute detail, and gives us almost as much detail about his own life. Everything that goes wrong for him is, as you might expect, somebody else’s fault. His correspondence to us suggests it’s the church at fault. But, who knows, maybe he’s a regular correspondent with the U.S. government and, when he’s got them on the line, it’s the CIA’s fault. It’s a sad case.”

  We thanked Gary, and left the palace.

  “I’ve lined up somebody else for us to see,” Burke announced as we walked through Bernini’s colonnade. “I sussed out Graziella Rossi’s schedule. Made sure she wasn’t off to the Sydney Opera House or somewhere. She may have some information about Enrico Sferrazza-Melchiorre.”

  “You and Enrico are friends of Graziella Rossi?”

  “Oh, ‘friend’ isn’t a word I’d be tossing around with respect to herself. Woe betide anyone who thinks he or she is a friend of La Rossi. But we’re both acquainted with her. It was through Enrico that I met her; he’s known her forever.”

  “Will she talk to us?”

  “She’ll talk to us as soon as we get to her apartment. She’s expecting us.”

  Thinking of that “woe betide,” I asked him, “Were you on good terms with her when you left Rome?”

  “Ah, well, good terms … I wouldn’t say so exactly. But the woman loves to talk. And if she can pass the time slagging someone, she’ll run on, you can be sure.”

  “What exactly was the nature of your relationship with this diva?”

  “Am I on the witness stand now? Did I say ‘relationship’ or did I say ‘acquainted’?”

  I smiled, and he gave me a damning look in return. In fact, I knew he had been subjected to a screaming tirade by the great soprano, whose advances he had rebuffed. I had heard the tale from his brother in New York. Kitty Curran had confirmed that he�
�d been on the receiving end of the diva’s fury. That’s opera for you.

  We were greeted by the doorman at the singer’s sumptuous quarters in the upscale Parioli district of Rome. He alerted Signora Rossi, and sent us upstairs. The apartment had travertine marble floors, a grand piano, and enormous arched windows overlooking a broad avenue lined with similarly luxurious dwellings, palms, and plane trees.

  I had heard Graziella Rossi on “Saturday Afternoon at the Opera” on CBC radio, and had a CD of her Traviata; this was the first time I had seen her. She was the very archetype of the dramatic soprano, and she had the operatic figure to match. Her black hair was swept back from her face and her upturned dark eyes flashed over a set of high cheekbones. Her large mouth was painted a flaming red.

  “Ma che sorpresa! Caro Brennan! Can it possibly be?” She held out her arms and made a show of looking him over, then embraced him and kissed him on both cheeks, leaving a smear of red like an open wound near each of his ears. I could practically feel the effort he made not to put his hands up and wipe the lipstick off.

  “Whatever brings you back to Rome? A summons from the Holy Father? Or have you been desanctified? Settled down with a little hausfrau and a brood of runny-nosed children?”

  Her eyes homed in on Brennan’s face. “Cosa è successo?”

  “Niente, Grazi, niente.”

  “Nothing has happened and yet your eye has changed. It gives you a tragic air, very minor key, shall we say. And who is this angelo biondo?”

  “The blondy angel, whose appearance is deceptive, is Monty Collins.”

  She gave me her hand. I did not know whether I was supposed to shake it or kiss it. I opted for a shake.

  Brennan listened to the latest developments in Signora Rossi’s life, then explained our mission.

  “We were all at vespers when the body was found,” he concluded. “One of our guests in Halifax is Enrico Sferrazza-Melchiorre. Someone suggested there may be some bones rattling about in his closet.”

  “Oh, you must be referring to the intimidation charges. Have no fear, that was all hushed up.”

  “What do you mean, intimidation?”

  “Interfering with a witness; is that what it would be called? My English!”

  “Witness tampering?”

  She gave Brennan a helpless look and shrugged.

  “What’s he supposed to have done?”

  “It had something to do with the sex charges. You know. It was all too sordid. I paid little attention.”

  “Sex charges.”

  “Yes, yes.” She flapped a bejewelled hand, as if it was of no interest. “Now, Brennan, did you know I made a film? You must see it. Though I warn you: you may be committing a sin by watching me in it. I am a long way from a good Catholic girl in this film.”

  “Are you now. Well, maybe I’ll have the chance to see it some time.”

  “I have it here.”

  “Ah.”

  She turned her head and shouted at someone off stage. “Beppe! Set up my film!”

  “What were those charges you mentioned, Signora Rossi?” I inquired. “Charges against Enrico?”

  “There was a woman. Hasn’t it always been so? Cherchez la femme! Who can say what happened? But dear Enrico found himself under investigation by the magistrates, and it was said that charges would be laid against him. False accusations? Chissà?

  “Beppe!” she commanded again. “Are you setting up my film, or have you gone to Hollywood for it? He is useless!” she said to us then, not bothering to lower her voice. “I may have no choice but to dismiss him. Will you take him under your wing if I put him out on the street, Brennan, like poor Annunziata all those years ago? I am sure she was grateful for your assistance at that time. Ah, well, blessed are the poor, and Annunziata was blessed indeed to be the object of your attentions, Brennan, a man otherwise so —”

  “The charges, Grazi.”

  “The charges went away! Un miracolo! Some day perhaps Don Enrico Sferrazza-Melchiorre will be named a saint, having performed such a miracle!”

  “What accounted for the charges going away?”

  She leaned forward and affected a mock conspiratorial pose. “That is more in your line than in mine, Father Burke: Vatican treasure, is what I heard!”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “Enrico Sferrazza-Melchiorre comes from a long line of Sicilian looters, my dear Brennan. Perhaps you didn’t know. They bought their way into the aristocracy centuries ago with gold and art stolen from around the Mediterranean world. So what could be more natural to a Sferrazza-Melchiorre than to get his fingers on a priceless Vatican object and use it to bribe his former mistress — or victim, whatever she was to him — to drop the accusations? Jewellery is what I heard. Perhaps she’s still flaunting it around the slums of Tirana! If she’s still alive. If not, look closely — perhaps Enrico is wearing it himself!”

  “You don’t like Enrico? I never knew that.”

  “Oh! On the contrary! I have always held Enrico in the highest esteem. He partakes of a quality I cannot help but admire in others, a quality I recognized in you as soon as I met you, Brennan: a streak of utter ruthlessness.”

  He let that go, and continued with his questions: “Do you think he would have killed Reinhold Schellenberg?”

  “Well, he missed his chance to kill her, didn’t he? The Halili slut. Though one would think he had the opportunity. She trailed after him wherever he went. He tried to take a vacation in Venezia. She turned up there. He taught at the University of Firenze — Florence — she followed him there as well. I understand she caused a scene. Confronted him and made accusations. He eventually went all the way to Africa! But as for Schellenberg, if he knew about the scandal and if Enrico wanted him dead for that or some other reason, and didn’t do the killing himself, someone in his family might have stepped in. Or perhaps they hired someone. Does anyone at your choir school look like a professional assassin, Padre?”

  “This woman — Enrico’s mistress — she’s in Albania, you say?”

  “As far as anyone knows. But she has been known to present herself in the streets of Rome.”

  “What are the chances of that happening in the next few days?”

  “The odds are against it, but the odds could be improved.”

  “How?”

  “Zamira always has her price. As I have explained to you.”

  “What would bring her to Rome?”

  “Well, she already has the crown jewels. But the offer of a part in an opera would have her here quicker than you could grasp your wallet.”

  “She’s a singer then.”

  “She is a screamer.”

  “So you’re not likely to intercede on her behalf with the casting director of your next opera.”

  “Not in my next work, no. Perhaps she and Enrico can stage Verdi’s Sicilian Vespers together. Do you know it?” She looked at me. “It is based on the massacre of the French by the Sicilians in the thirteenth century. The killing began at the time of vespers. Enrico can be one of the Sicilian tenors, and Zamira can sing the part of the maid!”

  Brennan laughed, then said: “We can’t pin our hopes on that, I’m afraid.”

  “No. Well, Alfredo Totti will be doing Norma next year. He is casting the opera now. Pia Franca will be singing the role of Norma, which of course should have gone to me.” She gave Burke a significant look.

  “You loathe Pia Franca.”

  “Yes, I do. I’ll give Alfredo a call. Maybe he’ll have a role for Zamira Halili — the role of Adalgisa perhaps? Bellowing alongside Pia on the stage. Come see me in a couple of days, to find out if she has taken the bait. Ora, my film! Beppe! Refresh our drinks.”

  Burke scrambled to his feet. “We have to go, Grazi. We’re meeting someone at the Vatican about the murder. I hope to see your film another time. Will you be singing anywhere this week?”

  “Alas, no. But come to my master class! I am teaching a new group of young sopranos, from all over Eu
rope. The day after tomorrow at the Bel Canto Auditorium. Four o’clock. Consider it a free concert!”

  We hailed a cab outside the apartment. It took us past the Borghese Gardens, past a multitude of trees, fountains, monuments, and statues. As I wrenched my head around to catch a fleeting sight of the Galleria in the gardens, I said to Burke: “We’re not going to keep up this pace all week, are we? I want to relax and see the city. I was here years ago, but —”

  “It hasn’t changed. It’s the eternal city, remember?”

  “Still.”

  “Sure we’ll see the city. It’s time for a scoff now, though. Aren’t you hungry?”

  “Famished.” “Well, I know just the place.”

  The Trattoria Benelli was a small, family-owned eatery a few blocks from our hotel in the Prati district. The aroma of garlic and freshly baked bread made me want to move in and live there. The walls, inside and out, featured frescoes of the Italian countryside. Everyone in the place was local — always a good sign — and they were having a marvellous time talking, laughing, and sharing food between tables. Italian folk music played over the sound system.

  A young girl came over to take our order. “Buonasera, signori.”

  “Buonasera, cara. Dov’è Alberto stasera?”

  “Papà è morto, tre anni fa.”

  Burke expressed his obviously genuine condolences to the girl on the death of her father, and asked her a number of questions, which I took to be inquiries about the current ownership of the restaurant. Mamma owned it now and Mamma was called to the table. Susanna Benelli had the kind of classic Italian face that should have been immortalized on a gold coin. Her rich brown hair was tied loosely back, and her deep brown eyes were lightly made up to show them to advantage. She was not in the least worn down by widowhood or the responsibilities of raising four children on her own. The three youngest, all boys, made their presence known in the restaurant as they carried out, or failed to carry out, the chores assigned to them. She introduced us to her sister, Isabella, who, except for being smaller and darker, looked exactly like Susanna.