Revelations of the Aquarian Age

by Barbara Hand Clow

  William appraised Armando, still not trusting him since he’d pursued Sarah. They’d been polite during last night’s dinner, but he didn’t feel like being alone with this young man. “Yes, I love this room. I suppose you do too?”

  “Yes, of course. May I please join you for a moment?”

  William wasn’t happy about this, but he wasn’t going to be rude. “Yes, of course.”

  Armando sat down close to the fireplace opposite William. “I’ve come to clear the air. You didn’t like me when I was interested in Sarah, and you were right. But, now that we are all family, I’d like to get to know you. Sarah helped me when I needed her. I don’t think I’d be married if it weren’t for her, so I hope you can accept me?” I wonder whether he knows anything about the things I tried to do to Sarah.

  William’s skin was crawling with the same old creepy feeling, yet Armando was no longer a threat to his daughter. He felt like reaching out to him since he was Pietro’s son. He didn’t know what to say, so the first thing he thought of came out of his mouth. “How did Sarah help you? What did she do?”

  Armando hadn’t expected a question back, so American. He’d merely come to make peace since they were in the same house and related by marriage. He thought William would just be jolly and share a drink. There was a long uncomfortable pause . . . “Well, I can be frank with you.” His voice was so low that William struggled to hear, so he read his lips. “A priest abused me when I was young, during my First Confession, and then I became a monster. You were right about me when you first met me. I would have been no good for your daughter. But I’m different now, I’ve worked through what happened to me.”

  William was totally taken aback; his heart fluttered. “I didn’t hear anything about that, son, don’t know what to say. Does your wife know about it?”

  “She does. Simon and Sarah knew, so Jennifer had to know before marrying me. Sarah was very kind to me at that time, very kind.” He watched William closely because he seemed to be unusually nervous—his face bright red. “Ah, I’m making you nervous by bringing this subject up. Please forgive me, William,” he said very softly and kindly. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable in our home.”

  William felt like he was suffocating, having a stroke or a heart attack. He pulled at his collar to unfasten the top button. He looked over at Armando who seemed to be fading away. He started sweating profusely. “Can you bring me a drink? Brandy, Scotch?”

  “Of course,” Armando said getting up quickly wondering why the Irish always sweat when they’re uncomfortable. He brought brandy to the table with two glasses. “Are you all right?” William looked a bit better after a slug, so Armando continued. “I know it must seem terribly odd that I would speak about something like this, but I’ve learned from therapy that I do better when I talk about the things that disturb me. I don’t know if my pain from this abuse will ever go away. After all, it was not my fault at age seven.”

  William was feeling an unfamiliar mix of curiosity, compassion, and confusion. “Well, son, how did you ever get over such a terrible thing? What galls me is you were having your First Confession! I wonder if any Catholics escaped the fuckers—I, uh, that is I mean since Simon writes about it I know the extent of this horror.”

  Armando was watching him closely, something more was going on. William was nervously avoiding eye contact while tapping his fingers on the palm of his right hand, all the while his outstretched foot was jerking. He was acting cornered, so maybe the antidote was to say more to push past a barrier. “I’m not really over it. I was one of the lucky ones because the priest got away with it once and then my parents had him sent away. I shudder when I think of what this has done to people who were repeatedly abused.” He glanced at William’s clouded eyes . . . Ah! He is one of the damned.

  William clutched the arm of the chair with one hand and slurped down more brandy with the other. Armando held the bottom of the stem while refilling it in uncomfortable silence. Then Armando said thoughtfully, “William, I don’t know how to say this exactly, but I feel like there is something you need to talk about. If you do, I’m a good ear after what I’ve gone through.”

  The fire in William’s groin rushed into his solar plexus. If that hot fire made it to his heart, he felt like he might die. He was determined to stuff it, but the potent discomfort was too strong. I don’t want to die of a heart attack, my granddaughter. So he slugged down more brandy then growled like an Irishman in the pub, “One of the damned suckers did it to me, too. You are the first person I’ve told. The bastard rammed me against the communion rail when I was only nine. Like you, he only got me once, but it changed me. The world was gray after that, gray like an eternal rainy day.” Glancing at Armando’s shocked eyes, he raised his glass. “Here’s to you Armando, another member of the boy’s club.”

  Armando went rigid. William had transformed into a boorish, red-faced, fat Irish slob with watery eyes, a runny nose, and shaky hands. Armando deftly took his glass, put it down, and put his hand lightly on William’s arm. “It’s all right, William. It’s good you’ve told me because I understand. I don’t know whether anybody understands this who hasn’t gone through it. I lost my innocence that day . . . before that I was a really happy little boy. I didn’t begin to feel decent again until I married, and now I am finding happiness again. I’m a tortured soul; always will be. That’s why I paint. But I’m getting better, and you will too. I’m not one of the damned in hell; neither are you.”

  William shook out a large white handkerchief, dried his eyes, blew his nose, and stuffed it awkwardly into his right pocket. “Funny thing, I didn’t like you when I met you, yet you’ve ended up being the person I could share this with. Mary doesn’t know, never will. I never could talk about it with anybody, not even the kids, who know so much about these things. They’ll never understand my shame, which makes me feel like one of the damned. I sensed something in you, an edgy pain you were covering up with your fancy aristocratic manners. We Irish cover it up in the pub.” Then he switched to a more comfortable focus. “The question is, how did the Church get away with it for so many years? It still goes on.”

  Armando took a small sip of brandy and then said in a voice filled with knowing, “We are so much more cynical here in Italy than you are in America. Sexual abuse permeates our culture—Italian art stuffed with fat, sensual, nude cherubs, portrayals of hell filled with damned nude men, statues of just-raped women. Sexual abuse pervades our art, keeping the issue right in front of our faces on the walls of our churches, art that opens hell in our eyes, our minds obscured by the layers of ageless denial. But you Americans are not, so your country is where the truth is coming out. You probably admire Pope Francis, but we are cynical because we know he’s there to attract American money.”

  “We pay less money all the time; certainly I do. When you realize how sick the hierarchy is, it gets harder and harder to pay. I’ve supported Opus Dei for years but not now, and they’ll kick me out soon if I don’t pay. I am grateful to you, young man, because I’ve resisted letting go of this last piece of my religion, the dirty dollars. Opus Dei has been my tie to my Irish past, my family’s story. But I don’t need it anymore; I certainly don’t need the confessional! And, heh! Now that I’ll be coming to Italy more often, I can get my Catholic fix by going to museums and the Vatican.”

  “I keep painting in the old style, inserting portals into the new world that is coming. Do you still go to church, William? We are old titled Italians and we don’t go anymore, not even Matilda. How about you?”

  “Well, yes, we have been, and I suppose Mary always will. I don’t think I will after today, son. I think I will liberate myself the way Sarah did, which hasn’t hurt her a whit. She’s as saintly as ever, even more so. In fact, now that we’ve had this talk, maybe I’ll start talking to her about her research and writing. Soon, we’ll be able to read her novel and then we’ll know what she thinks about. I think she’s a heretic and I’ll join her. Why in hell not?”


  Armando looked William over carefully to make sure he was really okay, since a half hour ago he’d almost called the doctor. His skin was white and clear and his eyes were feisty. “William, here’s what I’d like to say, since you’ve shared so much with me. I’m in the early stages of my marriage, learning how to love a woman. You understand, like my father understands, because you both love your wives. Needless to say, what happened to me when I was young makes this process more difficult. Jen has her own struggles, and I think my difficulties make it harder, but we’re working on it and we are getting somewhere. The Church would only screw us up. That’s why a priest didn’t marry us; it must have shocked you. The Church is dying because it has nothing to offer families. I’m out, our whole family is out, and you may leave. Supposedly the Third Prophecy of Fatima says the Church will shrink back to nothing because of an apostasy, the wholesale abandonment by the faithful. Well, I am pulling the plug.”

  “How will people get along without something to believe in? Really, how will they?”

  Armando peered into his small, needy blue eyes. “William, you haven’t believed in it for a long time and you’ve gotten along just fine. Maybe being honest with yourself and cutting the ties will mean you can believe in something new? In my case, I have my art and loving Jennifer is my spiritual life. I’ve finished a painting of Jesus that I want to show you.”

  William was hanging on every word. “Funny thing is, you’re right, and you know what I believe in? I believe in my granddaughter because she gives me hope for the future. She is a splendid little being who doesn’t have to believe in anything; she just is. We can be like that too.” They rose up together and walked through the library to go to lunch.

  16

  Jesus and the Bee

  Dinner was a splendid affair. Pietro sat at the head of the table, the consummate patriarch entertaining his special guests. Teresa joined them for the first course and then went off with her babysitter. Pietro lifted his wine glass for a toast, “To the Pierleoni, Appel, and Adamson families! Let us share food and great stories!”

  David stood up with William as they clicked their glasses. “To Pietro and Matilda, our excellent and kind hosts. No matter how lost the world may be, we will enjoy life and great Italian food. Thank you for inviting us.”

  As Sarah watched them toast, she wondered why her father seemed to be so different. What’s with him? He is comfortable and isn’t slyly eyeing Armando like a red fox. “Armando,” she whispered. “My father seems to be changed tonight. Do you know why? Of course, he loves being in Europe, but this is different.”

  Armando had been totally engrossed in Sarah’s natural beauty. I can’t help it; it’s my painter’s eye. It’s her energy. She is as beautiful as St. Teresa in Ecstasy by Bernini. “Ah, umm, well, we did sort of make peace today,” he said placing his napkin on his lap and delicately sneaking a glance at Jennifer who was talking excitedly to Pietro. He whispered back, “Your father never liked me you know, especially didn’t want me to marry you.” Jennifer looked over at Sarah and noticed how beautiful she was wondering why Armando was whispering to her as he said, “We decided to bury the hatchet today because there’s no more wood to cut.”

  Jennifer’s solar plexus tightened up so forcefully that her knees hit a table strut and rattled glasses. What on earth is going on? Get a grip on yourself, Jen; you’re at dinner! Her ears rang and eyes watered, then her skin flushed hot, but Armando’s fierce loving eyes showed her there was nothing to fear tonight. She relaxed.

  At ten the next morning, William and Sarah went down the wide steps to Armando’s studio door below the first floor of the house. They went inside and gazed at the sectioned, corbelled brick ceilings in the large underground grotto, like an ancient monk’s dining hall. Light from the north streamed through tall ground-level casement windows. “Was this once a wine cellar?” asked Sarah.

  “Ahh, Sarah, building styles still interest you,” noted Armando. “Actually, it is more historically significant than that, built during the high Renaissance, the best period in Rome. Before that our family used this lower area to store grain, wine, and meat we brought down from Tuscany. We also had gardens here and stored vegetables in the winter. We fed the masses on several occasions during famines. Lorenzo Bernini lived nearby and used to buy our wine and prosciutto! We’re lucky it wasn’t torn down a long time ago because when our house was built over these cellars around 1550, it was constructed over this part of the old storage system with steps down into it. There is a spiral staircase out of the kitchen to this space, our larder. I love this room because it’s always cool. It’s like a monastery, could have been one, and probably goes back to 1200. Look at the stone floors, worn down by so many feet. Let’s look at my painting of Jesus and Mary Magdalene.”

  Sarah was stunned. Her novel was about the Holy Bride, so his portrayal of Mary beseeching Jesus to stay with her in this dimension caused Sarah to vibrate with intense fire as her parasympathetic nervous system assumed the Magdalene’s pose. She held her arm down to keep it from flying up, losing awareness of where she was as if she were ascending.

  Armando observed a cocoon of light developing around Sarah flowing into other dimensions, like Teresa of Avila in the Chiesa di Santa Maria della Vittoria with the sun streaming through the ocular device above her head. William said in a cracking voice, “Quite something, Armando. Both Christ and Mary are very commanding. She seems to hold him there on the rocks as he rises. Is he ascending?”

  “I’m not sure,” Armando answered lost in Sarah’s light. I wonder if she could ever let me paint her again. “I’m not sure whether this is after he came out of the tomb or before he was crucified. What do you think, Sarah?”

  Thankfully, the question brought Sarah out of her reverie. She was uncomfortable being in a high state with anyone except Simon. All she could see, as she refocused to answer Armando’s question, was the large golden bee on the rock behind Jesus. What is that? Why is it there? Why can’t I remember? “Armando, I don’t know what to say. I’m overwhelmed by your portrayal of Christ’s light as Mary struggles to hold him in our world. I had no idea anyone in the modern era could paint something like this. But, why is that golden bee on the rock behind Jesus?”

  “That’s amazing, the very first thing Claudia said when she saw this painting months ago and then came to visit it again last week. Typical of her, she had a long explanation for what it means that I could barely comprehend, something about the relationship of Jesus and Mary, especially the sexual aspects, based on a recently translated ancient manuscript. Supposedly the queen bee is a symbol for a sacred lineage from Mary Magdalene, Jesus, and their children—a hidden bloodline.”

  “Uh, Armando,” William said. “So, you painted that bee there to cue people into the whole story? How clever.”

  Both Sarah and Armando looked at William quizzically. “Dad, what do you mean by clever?”

  “Well. They say that painters slip in symbols to convey big secrets for anybody who has the eyes to see them. Like you can show images of things that you can’t say in words or somebody will kill you. You’ve heard about that?” he asked in a confused voice. “Heh, I’m over my head. So why did you put that bee there?”

  “I’ve been tempted to paint it over. Things come through on the canvas and I don’t know where they are from, I change them sometimes. Since this bee seems to mean things to people, I’ll let it be. I haven’t any idea why the bee is there or what it means. Claudia says the bee emerged from my archetypal level, knowledge that flows in my blood. As for me, I think I should just let my subconscious flow when I work. If I think about symbols too much, the muse will abandon me.”

  “I agree with you,” William responded. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about symbols. They say the symbol for Christ is a fish—so what? This painting brings me closer to the light of Christ than anything I’ve ever seen. It belongs in a church where it can inspire people.”

  “Funny thing you say that because I d
idn’t put it in the last show, which annoyed my agent. She said she could display it in a spiritual way, have a special carpet in front of it or something, but I resisted. I had a powerful dream about the painting on display in the Medici Chapel in Florence where it emitted a powerful florescent green light. While it was there in the chapel, all the bones in the reliquaries became luminescent, exploded, and then fell as glowing blue snow all over Florence. What a dream that was!”

  Sarah eyed Armando strangely because she could see his vision in toto. “Hmmm . . . maybe that is exactly where it should go! I’ve felt like liberating the saints imprisoned in those reliquaries myself. You are related to the Medici by blood, so maybe Pietro could arrange it. People must see this painting! It could awaken the light of Christ in Florence. The Medici Foundation always needs restoration money because that chapel is so complex and always on the verge of collapse. Make it happen, Armando!”

  David knocked on Jennifer’s parlor door after watching Armando go to his studio with William and Sarah. As he walked in, Dante switched his tail and strutted by acting like George III of England. “Okay to let the cat out into the hall?”

  “Yes, of course. He struts up here in the morning after Armando leaves, cases the suite, then waltzes out. Odd cat, he watches Armando a lot. He keeps me company sometimes for a few hours. Come sit down.”

  David sat down, looking around at a tall wall desk with ornately carved bookshelves and exquisite small Florentine tiles. “Lovely desk isn’t it, Dad? It’s been here forever and belongs in a museum; this whole house is a museum. Do you like it?”

  “I love this house; it’s deeply meaningful because they’ve raised their families here for centuries. With the world going the way it is, I’m basking in the joy of being in a home that feels ageless. It makes me feel like we will survive. There has to be a place for living like this, not just seeing a desk like that in a museum. How are you doing? You seem to be happy and content. I’m becoming very fond of Armando, such an exotic and impressive young man, certainly very unusual.”