“Hmmm. Not a bad idea. Does it work?”
“It got you out of a bathing suit and into a basement.”
“All right, you win this argument”, Smith laughed. “Without you and the Lord, I’d probably be prancing around in deer antlers at this very moment.”
The two priests finished their coffee, left some coins on the table, and strolled along the Tiber until they reached a bus stop.
“I’d better get back. They keep a close watch on me over there at general headquarters. I’m still officially dysfunctional, and I don’t want to get the general worried. He’s already taken some flack for having me here.”
“It sounds as if he is not a bad man.”
“There’s the trouble, isn’t it? He’s a good man, but he’s got no courage. Hardly anybody has courage anymore. That’s what’s so disheartening. No one wants to stop these guys who’re going for power. No one can bear to be criticized. They’re all paralyzed.”
“The Pope is doing his best. There are many loyal cardinals. They try to maintain the peace and keep calling people back to the realities.”
“The realities? I’ve almost forgotten what those are. Refresh my memory.”
“Spread the Gospel, teach, feed, protect—and conform ourselves to the image of the One who carried a Cross and died on it.”
Smith bowed his head, musing privately, until the bus arrived and he was taken away.
* * *
For the remainder of the summer, Elijah resumed his studies of apocalyptic literature. During a rummage through the stacks of the Carmelite library, he came upon a facsimile edition of a commentary on the Book of the Apocalypse by an eighth-century Spanish monk named Beatus of Liebana. Saint Beatus had written the text of his commentary during the upheavals of the Arab occupation. A tenth-century artist named Maius, a monk of the Monastery of Saint Michael, had illuminated it with the flamboyant colors and absolutely unique iconography of medieval Spain.
The imagery was dazzling. Purple dragons coiled around the acid-yellow cities of man. Emerald seraphs spun the azure disc of the cosmos. Indigo scorpions stung their victims. Archangels plunged stiff from the heavens, swords outstretched, lit by neon. Gardens exploded with ripe fruit, axes fell, heads rolled off the martyrs’ bodies like harvests in an orchard. Blood spurted, entrails spilled. Rivers of ink spewed from snake mouths. Trumpets blew. The messenger to the church at Sardis scowled in warning: You have the reputation for being alive; yet you are dead. Awake! Awake and strengthen the things that remain. More trumpets blew. Blood! Fire! Flood! Two monks bore witness against the Antichrist. Hot gold light burst from their lips. The Antichrist killed them as his servants dismantled Jerusalem, stone by stone. Hovering over all, the fierce face of Christ on His throne, waiting for the Last Day—the Great Judge—far more terrifying than the beast who gorged on the ruby flesh of saints.
The text was insightful and of historical interest. But Elijah was especially moved by the colophon inscribed at the end of the manuscript:
Let the voice of the faithful resound and re-echo! Let Maius, small indeed, but eager, rejoice, sing, re-echo, and cry out!
Remember me, servants of Christ, you who dwell in the monastery of the supreme messenger, the Archangel Michael.
I write this in awe of the exalted patron, and at the command of Abbot Victor, out of love for the book of the vision of John the disciple.
As part of its adornment I have painted a series of pictures for the wonderful words of its stories, so that the wise may fear the coming of the future judgment of the world’s end.
Glory to the Father and to His only Son, to the Holy Spirit, and the Trinity from age to age until the end of time.
Elijah at first passed over the pun in the colophon, then returned to it: The reference to “small indeed” was no flourish of tribal humility, especially when measured against the artist’s name, Maius, literally “major”. It was a joke, and another monk, living a thousand years later, laughed.
He further noted that the Beatus apocalypse had emerged from the chaos of Moorish Spain at the same time as the Averroëst copy of Aristotle. He reminded himself that God was always far ahead of human and diabolical strategems. He also wondered why hindsight seemed to be the only faculty for discerning the ways of divine Providence.
As summer ended, Elijah put away the Beatus Apokalypsis and made the necessary preparations for teaching his courses. He moved from day to day in a state of peace, which he suspected was the result of the invisible prayers being offered for him across the world. With just a twinge of remorse, he was more convinced than ever that his mission had failed, although he did not say anything to the Cardinal Secretary about this. He was resigned to remaining in Rome indefinitely, perhaps even to spending the remainder of his life teaching at the International College but he secretly hoped to return to the desert. At some point, the Pope, Stato, and Dottrina would realize that other avenues of approach to the President would have to be explored Clearly, the letter of admonition had elicited no response. Though it had been worded with tact and imparted the primary insight with no direct confrontation, the President would surely understand his meaning: the spirit of Christ was at variance with the striving for exalted station in this life. Almost certainly the President had wiped him off the list of prospective devotees. In all likelihood, Elijah would not be invited again to enter the presence of the Great Man. This inner conviction—more accurately a hope—gave him an immense sense of relief.
During the week before commencement of classes, his relative calm was disturbed by a letter from Anna Benedetti.
Foligno, 2 September
Dear Father Schäfer,
Our meeting in Warsaw impressed me greatly. In retrospect, there is much that I would have liked to discuss with you. I have a house near Foligno where it is possible to receive guests without the usual distress of public ceremony. You would honor me if you would consider a visit. My son Marco and my daughter Gianna will be returning to Milan next week. Before they leave, I would like them to meet you. You would, I think, remind them of their father, whose absence has left a gap in their lives. Would this coming weekend be convenient for you? If you will consent, I shall send a car.
Sincerely,
Anna B.
He wrestled with conflicting emotions for some hours before writing his reply:
Rome, 6 September
Dear Dr. Benedetti,
He crossed out her formal title and began again.
Dear Anna,
You honor me with your invitation. I would like to come to see you and your children. However, my responsibilities as the academic year draws near prevent me from accepting. Our meeting in Warsaw was significant for me also. I shall always admire you and pray for you.
Sincerely,
Fr. Elijah Schäfer
He hoped that the tone was cordial, sufficiently warm yet detached. He hoped that she would read this signal properly and approach him no more. He had placed the memory of her alongside Ruth and Pawel, alongside the many whom he loved, and who would remain outside the parameters of his sacrifice until they met again in Paradise, where all love found completion and perfection. He bore too many wounds, suffered the impulses of too much need, for him to trust his heart in her presence.
Was he being false, he wondered. But what was the truth, especially when the heart was involved? Was there anything more unstable than the heart? Would it be any more honest to say to her, I am drawn to you, Anna, but my life belongs to another, One whom you do not believe in? How could she possibly understand that?
He loved her. Yes, he admitted that. Without realizing it, he had allowed her face, her voice, and her soul to become intimate. He also loved Christ. And he knew that if he were to love himself in the most profound and godly sense, he must not abandon the indelible character of his life—his celibate priesthood, eschatological sign of the end of history—carrying in his own flesh a word about the final objective of love, the ultimate consummation toward which all human
love strived, and which all human love fell short of on this earth.
In Paradise, he would tell her, in Paradise we. . .
There he was again, he said angrily to himself, having conversation with her. He realized that his imagination was now stirred. If he did not stop it instantly, it would soon be inflamed by riotous feelings.
He had told the truth in his reply. He did admire her. He would pray for her—yes, there was no doubt about that—until the end of his life. But he needed distance. He needed to retreat to the desert as soon as possible.
He had only just put the matter from his mind when another letter arrived.
Foligno, 9 September
Dear Father Schäfer,
I understand your position perfectly. Please be assured that my respect for you is total, and that it includes your life’s commitment. There are few people I can trust in my present situation. Fewer still who are wise. My need is great and the matter is urgent. Would you reconsider? I guarantee your freedom.
Sincerely,
Anna Benedetti
She guaranteed his freedom? What was she saying? Had she correctly read whatever fragments of himself had slipped out between the lines of his terse reply and deduced the rest? If so, the situation was more impossible than ever. He could not go.
On the other hand, she was a soul, perhaps a soul in distress. Until now, she had appeared to be the kind of person who did not permit herself to experience distress. Wealth, education, status-these were an impenetrable armor. Who or what could distress her? Harm her? And what did she mean by need and urgent?
He was still debating with himself when the porter came and told him he had a telephone call.
“Hello”, she said. “Have you received my letter?”
“I have.”
“Can you come?”
“It’s difficult.”
“I beg you.”
“Your letter didn’t explain anything. Are you in some trouble?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“It’s not possible to discuss it now.”
“Danger?”
“Partly. Please.”
Her voice was calm but insistent.
“Really, Anna, there must be others to whom you can turn. Is here anyone. . .?”
“This concerns you as well.”
The silence hung between them. Several times he opened his mouth and closed it again. He felt anguish and elation.
“It also concerns your Church.”
“The Church?”
“I can’t discuss it now. Please, you must come.”
“All right. I will come. When?”
“Tomorrow my son goes to Rome on family business. He will pick you up at your residence in the evening, after supper, and bring you to the farm.”
“All right.”
Her sigh of relief was audible, and puzzling.
“If you are in some kind of danger, shouldn’t I come now?”
“It would be better if you travel with Marco. I ask you not to discuss this with him. He knows nothing.”
“Nothing about what?”
“I have kept my children safe from. . . from the difficulties of my life. Please don’t disturb their happiness.”
“Anna, you must tell me. . .”
“I can’t. Later, you will understand.” She hung up.
He located Foligno on the large relief map of Italy that hung in the corridor by the porter’s office. It was just south of Assiss. This was providential, for he had been longing to see Don Matteo. He had written to the friar several times throughout the summer, but had not received a reply. He had telephoned the convent twice only to be told each time that Don Matteo was ill and could not write or receive visitors. Regardless, Elijah determined that he would try to see him during the coming weekend.
XVI
Foligno
After supper on Friday evening, Elijah dressed himself in slacks, a white shirt, and windbreaker, at the request of the prior, who was worried about an upsurge of anticlerical incidents in the campagna. He prayed his breviary, walking back and forth on the sidewalk in front of the college. A red sports car pulled up to the curb and the driver, an agile young man, jumped out.
“You’re Mamma’s friend”, he said, pulling off his sunglasses, shaking Elijah’s hand vigorously. “I’m Marco. Ready for a space ride?”
“Ready for anything”, Elijah smiled back.
Marco drove with total disregard for the reality of death. They were soon out of the city and speeding along the superhighway that shot north toward Florence.
They chatted about inconsequential things for a time until the boy said, “You’re a priest.”
“Yes. Can you tell?”
“Not from the cool rags. But it shows.”
“What are the symptoms?”
“Nothing you could put your finger on. I guess it rubs off on you guys.”
“And you, Marco? What do you want to do in life?”
“I’m a law student. It’s in the genes.” He flashed Elijah a look.
“Is your sister also studying to be a lawyer?”
“No. Gianna’s in med school.”
“Is that in the genes also?”
“She’s a mutant. The black sheep of the family.”
“I look forward to meeting her.”
“You’ll like her. She’s sensible, like Mamma.”
“And you are not?”
“No, I guess I’m not”, he said cheerily.
The sun was setting when they turned onto an eastbound highway that wound up into the Umbrian hills.
“Will there be many guests?”
“I don’t think so. As far as I know you’re the only one.”
“Your house at Foligno must mean a lot to you.”
“We spend our summers there, and Christmas.”
“Each of you travels far.”
“Milan’s not that far.”
“It’s a long journey for your mother.”
“She flew from The Hague. She flies all over the place. We have houses in France and Belgium, and a palazzo in Roma. But Foligno is the best of all.”
“Is it the most beautiful?”
“Yes. You’ll be surprised at how beautiful it is. It’s grandiose!”
“Grandiose? Better than the palazzo?”
“Far better. It’s splendid. It’s opulent.”
“More so than France and Belgium?”
“You forgot San Marino.”
“Better than San Marino?”
“Even better. It’s a mansion.”
Elijah began to wonder if he would enjoy the coming weekend. He did not feel comfortable in opulent residences.
“How is your mother?”
There was a barely perceptible pause before Marco replied. “She’s really tired. I’m glad we’ve got company this weekend. She needs a change.”
“Really? In what sense?”
“Mamma does too much. Of course she’s famous. Splendid accomplishments and all that. But. . .”
“But?”
The boy shrugged.
“Look”, he said, distracting Elijah. “There’s Terni coming up fast! After that we go north again and then it’s not so far.”
Forty-five hair-raising minutes later, the car pulled off onto a dirt road that wound up the side of a mountain covered in vineyards. Slowing a little, the boy used an electronic device to open a gate that loomed out of the dark ahead of them and closed it behind. Five minutes later, he braked in front of a small sagging farmhouse, draped with vines.
“Our mansion”, grinned Marco.
Elijah got out and looked. “This is opulence!” he said.
The boy laughed appreciatively.
The front door opened, and Anna came out onto the crumbling stone steps.
“Father Schäfer”, she said graciously. “You have survived. Thank you, Marco.”
“It’s nothing, Mamma. He’s a tough one.”
“Marco is very hard
on our guests. He has shortened the life of many.”
She led them into the house. They entered a parlor outfitted in old Italian country furniture, which looked authentic, and went through to a large kitchen illuminated by gas lamp and candles. A lovely young woman standing by a wood stove put a ladle into a simmering pot and wiped a hand on her apron. She came over with a charming smile and shook his hand.
“This is Gianna. Father Schäfer.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Father. I hope you like it here. It’s rather simple.”
“That is what I like best.”
“This was my mother’s family home”, said Anna. “She was born on a bed upstairs. My great-grandfather built this house for his bride in the eighteen-hundreds.”
“I Promessi Sposi”, said Elijah.
The three Italians looked at him and burst out laughing.
“I like him”, said Marco. “He can stay.”
“How good of you”, Gianna said jabbing him in the ribs. The brother and sister wrestled for a few seconds until the boy threw her off and made for the staircase.
“I’m beat”, he said going up. “I’ve got to be out of here at the crack of dawn. Buona notte everyone!”
“Buona notte”, they called.
“He’s going sailing on the Adriatic tomorrow”, explained Anna.
“Mamma, why don’t you two go to the parlor and have a sip of wine. The cannellone will be ready in a while. I’ll call you.”
They went into the sitting room with their drinks. Anna sat across the room from him.
“What wonderful children you have”, he said.
“Thank you.”
“Gianna is so much like you.”
“She is more like a sister to me than a daughter. She has always been mature, even when she was a child.”
“Marco, too, is charming—a fine young man.”
“He’s the delight of my heart. But he is a little spoiled.”
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