Father Elijah

by Michael D. O'Brien

  “How will he know me?”

  “You will introduce yourself as Signore Pastore. He knows only that you are working for the Pope and that he is to take you to the coast of Turkey near Ephesus. He is a very good man. He’s my sister’s husband, one of the Pescatti brothers. Here, this bag contains toilet articles and a change of clothes. Also, you will need a visa for the Turkish authorities if the ship is inspected and a passport. It’s made out in the name of Pastore.”

  Elijah opened the documents and remarked at their perfection. The man in the photograph was himself, dressed in a suit and tie, the epitome of an academic. His hair was combed the wrong way, and he wore glasses. The photograph was embossed with an official Vatican stamp. He could not recall posing for such a photograph.

  “How did you make this?”

  “Never underestimate the power of the computer.”

  “But in such a short time!”

  “Our friend the Cardinal Secretary of State is a man of some prescience. He ordered it made weeks ago.”

  “He anticipated this?”

  “He confided in me that there was trouble on the way and that you would probably be maligned.”

  “Then may I ask, colonel, why you put me through such an interrogation when I came to your office this morning?”

  “I had to be sure. Stato trusted you, of course, but it’s my job to trust no one—outside of the Holy Father, that is. A thousand pardons.”

  “All is forgiven.”

  The colonel handed him a pair of reading glasses and a comb.

  “Try to make yourself look like the professor in the photo. Put on these glasses. Don’t worry, they are not lenses, just plain glass. It’s not much of a disguise but it’s the best we can do.”

  Elijah fumbled in his pocket for Stato’s ring. “Would you please see that this is returned to the Cardinal Secretary?”

  The colonel furrowed his brow, took the ring, and turned it over and over in his hand. “Why don’t you keep it for now? You might need it.”

  He gave it back, and Elijah pocketed it without argument.

  “Bene. Here are the keys.”

  “I hope we meet again, colonel.”

  “Oh, I’ll be seeing you again, after my many years in Purgatory,”

  “I shall beg a full pardon for you.”

  The colonel laughed. “Grazie! The Lord be with you.”

  “And with you.”

  The two men shook hands. The colonel got out and went to the other car. It tore onto the pavement, made a U-turn, and roared back toward Rome.

  Elijah inspected the map to get his bearings. It would take approximately an hour and a half to reach Naples, then two hours east on the highway that crossed the Apennines toward the coast of the Adriatic. A total of four, possibly five hours to reach Bari. It would be close to midnight by the time he knocked on the office door of the Pescatti Fishing Company.

  The petrol gauge registered full. The little blue Toyota was capable of going all the way without stopping, but he determined to break his journey near Naples in order to refill the tank. The sky had cleared off in the dusk, and the road was bare. The southbound traffic was light. He pressed the accelerator and eased into the fast lane.

  He drove without thinking, aware only that his flesh was aching and that his senses were clamoring for attention—hunger, fear, exhilaration, exhaustion, the dull pain of cuts and bruises—it all merged into an amorphous mass of discomfort.

  Gradually, his thoughts began to sort themselves out, and he replayed the events of the day in his mind, as if viewing them on a screen. He was amazed that he had begun by shivering on a mattress in a deserted farmhouse in Umbria. He retraced his steps up and down the mountain of Our Lady of Sorrows, through the Gemelli hospital, through the colonel’s interrogation, through the corridors of the Vatican, through the dialogue between Vettore and the Pope, arriving at his hasty ordination to the episcopate.

  “I am a bishop?” he said. He was hit simultaneously by the reality—and the unreality—of it.

  Then he remembered Anna, and his heart plunged. It fell and fell, and his head began to spin. His eyes blurred. He pulled over to the curb and shut off the engine. He rolled down the window and took several deep breaths. He held his face in his hands. He sat without moving. He closed his eyes.

  When he awoke he no longer felt dizzy, and the general malaise had eased a little. He drove on, wondering how long he had been asleep. By the look of the sky, it could not have been more than twenty minutes. He realized then that he had not properly slept during the past thirty-six hours. He hoped that he would be able to complete the trip to Bari without dozing off at the wheel.

  A service station appeared on the right, just as the glow of Naples began to fill the sky ahead. While the attendant filled the tank, he went into the washroom and bathed his face repeatedly in hot water. Then he splashed a handful of ice-cold water across his eyes. It revived him sufficiently to realize that his stomach was crying for food. When he had combed his hair according to the passport photo and donned the glasses, he went into the drogheria to pay for the petrol. He purchased a loaf of bread, cheese, and a liter of orange juice. Back in the car he forced the food down his throat, chewing mechanically by an act of the will, for though his flesh was insistent, his spirit felt nothing but revulsion.

  Soon after he saw the illuminated sign with its arrow pointing east:

  Nola, Avellino, Bari, Ferry to Athens

  He saw it and understood it. He knew that he was supposed to go there. He realized that the next necessary movement was to turn the car onto the exit lane and go into the mountains. Instead, he kept driving.

  At first he did not understand why he had done so. It was merely the thing he would do, although he had not yet articulated the decision to himself. There was no emotion attached to this knowledge, still less any consciousness of a plan. There was no should or must about it. He felt an infusion of peace, his first since the events of the past two days had begun to gather momentum. Then, in the lingering certainty of this condition, a certainty that had neither object nor contours, goal nor image, he understood what he would do.

  He was not sure of the way, for the night he had passed here with Billy had been storm-tossed, darker than this star-filled sky. The dome of light over Naples receded behind him as those of Sorrento loomed ahead. He saw the restaurant by the ocean where they had eaten lasagna and drunk ale. From there on it was easy to retrace their route. He saw the paved driveway leading uphill from the highway toward the “boathouse”, and a minute farther on he came to the gravel lane that struck off toward the right, down to the sea. The way was barred by a padlocked iron gate. He stopped, reversed back along the highway and found a side road. He went down it until he spotted a clearing in a grove. He maneuvered the car among the palmettos until it was hidden, got out, and walked back to the gate. He climbed over it and went downhill on the crunching gravel. At the bottom he saw the boat rising and falling beside the dock. The marina was deserted. There were no lights visible in any direction. The hood of the cruiser and its chromium gunwales flashed rhythmically in the motion of the waves, reflecting the moon’s crescent.

  He jumped from the dock onto the deck and fumbled about in search of the cabin door. It was locked. There was a deck-wheel and a storage cabinet beside it, also locked. His experiences with the Haganah now stood him in good stead. Using a plastic credit card, he sprung the cabinet door and found a metal box inside. It contained a small flashlight lying on top of wrenches and screwdrivers, and a black plastic case, which contained a key. He slipped it into the ignition and turned it, praying. The motor sputtered and caught. Guiding the boat by the deck wheel, he took her out onto the Gulf of Salerno. He let the motor rumble softly until he was well away from shore, then pushed the throttle forward. The cruiser roared, increased speed steadily, and began to bounce on the light chop. When the coast was a good deal behind, he turned on the running lights and pointed the bow toward Capri.

  XX<
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  Capri

  The lights of the palace compound appeared on the crown of Monte Tiberio. Elijah put the helm over to port, away from the north side of the island. In order to avoid recognition at the President’s dock and helicopter pad, he steered for the large public marina, easing into a fleet of cruisers and private yachts. He found an empty berth at a wharf, moored the boat, and walked up through the village toward the mountain.

  The dial on his wristwatch showed that the evening was far gone, after ten o’clock. The houses and cafés were brightly lit, and judging by the revelry coming from them, Christmas festivities were still in progress.

  The road to the peak was dark, and he climbed steadily fighting a babble of voices that came out of nowhere and seemed bent on invading his mind. He pushed them away. They came again and again, and he forced himself to ignore them, to resist the urge to debate with them.

  You cannot win. You will die.

  The night air was cold, and a north wind tore at his coat. He wore no hat or gloves, and his ears began to sting.

  You will be torn limb from limb.

  He became aware of the extreme exhaustion of his body, and the fragility of his will.

  Go back, go back, go back.

  At the halfway point, he stopped on the side of the road and sat on a tussock of grass, breathing heavily, his hand pressing the hammer of his heart.

  He is not here, he is not here.

  Automobile lights shot around a bend in the road, coming down from above. He roiled over into the bushes and held his breath. The car rolled slowly by. He got up to continue the ascent, but another set of lights rounded the bend, and he was forced to throw himself down again. His knees hit rock, a sharp branch scraped his face, and he cried out as the second car crawled past.

  What happened to her will happen to you.

  Making his way through the bracken and stunted trees growing along the righthand side of the road, he continued to climb and rounded the bend. Ahead lay a gate flanked by chain-link fencing that disappeared into the woods to left and right, encircling the heights. Two men stood on the far side of the gates. They leaned against the metal bars, talking to each other, smoking cigarettes beneath the arc lights flooding the gate area.

  Elijah darted into the woods to the right of the road and scrambled on hands and knees at an angle that would take him close to the fence, beyond the circle of the lights. He went blindly now, adding to his cuts and scrapes, praying all the while, hoping that the wind was covering the sounds of cracking twigs and rustling branches.

  When he passed a heave in the side of the mountain, beyond their field of vision, he flicked on the miniature flashlight and found the fence. It was eight feet high, topped by barbed wire. He went along it searching for a break in the links, but found nothing that would admit him into the compound. The fence line began to plunge back toward the south, and the moonlit sea appeared through the pines clinging to the rocks. He saw that he would have to return to the road, cross over without being seen, and try to enter on the north side.

  He was about to go back when, from the corner of his eye, he saw a flicker of light between the trees farther down. He felt an instant of panic, wondering if a search party were scouting the perimeters of the compound.

  We know you are here, we know you are here.

  He crouched in a cleft of the rocks and tried to make himself small.

  You cannot escape, you cannot escape.

  He waited. The light came no nearer. He peered from his hiding place and saw that it came from no artificial source and was in fact a fire. It was burning at some distance, perhaps twenty meters away. Wood smoke drifted toward him. He listened but there were no voices. He wondered who could be out so late at night on a rocky precipice. Possibly a lonely soul looking to the sea, seeking consolation on this most social of evenings with the company of fire, water, and stars.

  Even so, whoever it was might be associated with the men the compound, and it could be suicidal to risk exposure.

  Go back, go back, go back.

  He closed his eyes and prayed, “It is impossible, my Lord. I must go back.”

  The fire leapt higher for an instant, and Elijah saw a human form silhouetted against the flames. The figure was alone, standing with its arms spread wide, facing toward the place where Elijah lay in hiding. It waved in his direction.

  Impossible! For at that distance, he was beyond the glow, and the rocks concealed him. Nevertheless, it waved again. Elijah saw that it was pointless now to continue. Better to approach and risk the consequences. If he fled abruptly, the figure might sound an alarm, might have a radio that would alert security and send guards swarming over the mountaintop. His only chance lay in going forward, pretending that he was a wanderer who had lost his way in the dark.

  When he came up to the fire, he was surprised to see that the figure was a boy of about eight years of age. The boy smiled at him.

  “Who are you?” said Elijah.

  “My name is Rafael.”

  He was barefoot, dressed in white shorts, and a light cotton jacket. The wind tossed his golden hair.

  “What are you doing here? It’s late. It’s cold.”

  “I’m not cold”, said the boy. His voice was pleasant, even sweet. His eyes contained a composure that rightly belonged to men of great age.

  He continued to gaze at Elijah without speaking, offering no explanations, demanding none. Eventually he turned toward the sea and pointed at it.

  “The morning star will rise when the night is almost over”, he said with an expression of joy.

  “You shouldn’t be here. Where is your mother, child?”

  “My mother is waiting for me.”

  “You should go. They will be worried at home.”

  “They are not worried.”

  “Little one, you must go now.”

  The child looked at him gravely. “But if I go, who will guide you to the top of the mountain?”

  Elijah thought that he might not have heard correctly.

  “It’s Christmas!” he protested.

  “Yes, it’s Christmas”, said the boy, his face blazing with the leaping firelight.

  “You shouldn’t be alone.”

  “I am not alone.”

  “It’s dangerous here.”

  In answer the child walked to the fence and said to Elijah, “Come.”

  He obeyed. Just inside the radius of the light, the boy parted the bushes and showed him a dip in the rock.

  “We can go through here.”

  He squeezed under the fence on his belly, tearing the back of his coat. It took a minute to disentangle it from the wire, and when he climbed out on the other side, he saw that the boy had already gone through.

  He led Elijah up into the woods. The moon and stars lit their way. They proceeded for several minutes until a pale track appeared in the ground at their feet.

  “The little sheep used to walk here”, the boy said. “We will go on this.”

  The narrow path cut through the rocks and the straggling bushes, winding higher and higher. Elijah did not feel any strangeness in this wholly unexpected situation. He did not understand it, but explained to himself that divine Providence had arranged for a village child to be on the mountain, and that he would know, perhaps through intuition, that Elijah sought to go up to the top. The boy had assumed, no doubt, that the lost stranger must be a visitor to the house of the famous man who lived on the peak.

  They came to an inner circle of fencing. The boy opened a gate looming out of the darkness, and they went into an ornamental garden. There were many statues inside and walkways of white flagstone. The palace complex and the President’s house came into view beyond a maze of hedges. Then Elijah saw the helicopter pad and the visitor’s pavilion.

  “You must go back now, Rafael”, he whispered. “From here I go on alone.”

  “No. I must take you.”

  Without waiting for reply, he strode across the lawn to the plate-glass wall of the secu
rity foyer and stood by the door. He looked back at Elijah. Elijah walked over warily and peered inside. The guard seated at the desk was leaning back with his hands crossed on his stomach, his head nodding forward on his chest, asleep.

  Elijah pulled the handle. It was locked.

  “It’s no use”, he said.

  The boy reached up and pulled on the handle. The door opened.

  “You can go in now.”

  Elijah stared at him. Dazed, he walked through the entrance and past the guard. He turned back to look at the boy but he was gone.

  He went along the corridor into the window-lined semicircular room overlooking the Gulf of Naples to the north and the Gulf of Salerno to the east. The back wall was as he remembered it, paneled in rosewood. Far below, the lights of boats moved like stars on the sea.

  The building was not deserted. There were voices conversing behind a closed door. From another direction, he heard the ordinary kitchen sounds of dishes being stacked and the purr of machinery. He crossed the pale amethyst carpet, noted the blue-bronze sculpture of the horse and the stripped thorn-bushes whipping at the window. A scent of jasmine hung in the air.

  He walked stealthily along a glass-encased causeway over a tumble of rocks and potted bonsai trees into the larger building, the residence. At every moment he expected to be apprehended, but more than once a door would close just as he was about to pass, or footsteps would disappear down a corridor. He passed through two security checkpoints, at one of which a cigarette smoldered in an ashtray on the desk; at the other a guard appeared to have momentarily abandoned his station for a washroom. Elijah slid past the sound of a flushing toilet and entered a hall that opened onto the majestic living room. The room was as he remembered it, almost a full circle, fully 300 degrees of which was floor-to-ceiling glass. He passed through to another annex and entered the library.

  The President sat in a highbacked wing chair, beside a blazing fireplace. He was reading from a sheaf of papers beneath a single lamp and did not appear to notice Elijah’s entrance. A few moments later he pushed his glasses onto his forehead and lay the papers on his lap.