“I grew up on the streets of Calcutta and am a child of Mother Teresa,” he said. A sound technician quickly adjusted the equipment to capture his voice, which he had lowered to a whisper. “I have come a very long way in my life, Anna. I am one of the lucky ones.”
“I don’t think I heard you or understood you, Doctor,” she said as she moved forward to the edge of her chair, her knees almost touching his as if to coax him on.
“What I mean to say is that as much progress as the world has made in the fields of science, technology, and medicine, far too many are still left behind in misery. Basic human needs are going unfulfilled all over this planet. Our own nation of India holds one-third of the world’s poor, and almost one-half of our people live below the poverty line. A billion more are impoverished around the world. You are a reporter. This is no secret to you.”
“Yes,” she said, with a hint of defensiveness in her tone. “They are unfortunately an everyday fact of life. There are some who live on the sidewalk right outside these studios.”
“I have studied the numbers, Anna. And I believe the magnitude of the problem has now grown beyond our ability to solve it. I mean mankind’s ability to solve it. Do you understand what I mean?” he said, his voice quavering slightly.
“I’m not sure that I do,” she said. “Are you saying that our government cannot handle the care of our poorest members?”
“Governments have proven incapable of responding,” he said, with an irrepressible twinge of anger in his voice. “They are filled with bureaucrats who are corrupt or too incompetent to help. Foreign aid is being wasted or stolen. The wealthy hide and secrete their profits in order to avoid taxation. Only a trickle of the wealth of this nation finds its way to the poor.”
“That’s quite an indictment of the system, isn’t it, Doctor?”
“I know this as sure as I sit here,” he said defiantly. “Mankind was not meant for this misery. I believe the answer comes from above through Christ our Lord, perhaps guiding our hearts and minds. I am a survivor of the terror of poverty because of the hands of those doing his good work. I am an exception to the rule, but don’t have to be. I would like, in my own way, as a scientist, to do something about this misery.” He regretted that he had let the interview get so personal, but could not think quickly enough to comfortably change direction.
“So you are speaking from personal experience, Dr. Sehgal,” Anna said, urging him forward.
“Well, one memory I have as a child was walking with my father into the Kalighat Temple in Calcutta, known then as the Home of the Pure Heart,” he said. “Do you know it?”
She nodded. The TV lights were taking their toll. Beads of sweat had begun to make their way down Sehgal’s forehead. He quickly wiped them off with his handkerchief.
“There was a documentary filmed there. It is a famous story. There was no electricity, no lights when they filmed. It was a very dark place in many ways. Yet when the film was developed, the temple was bathed in light. It was said it was a miracle of divine light from Mother Teresa.” He smiled sheepishly. “I’m digressing, aren’t I?”
“No, please go on, Doctor,” she urged.
“It was actually a very modest hospice, a home for the dying established by the Missionaries of Charity. Their Sisters of Mercy will receive my prize money,” he revealed.
“So they are the ones?” she asked.
“Yes,” he continued, nodding. “Even at the tender age of seven, I knew that my father was dying. Mother Teresa herself took my father in. She was an angel of mercy. She often said that it was a beautiful thing for a person to participate in the suffering of Christ. I can assure you, Anna, that my father participated fully in this suffering during the two months that I held his hand at his bedside before he died. For me it was not a beautiful thing.”
“I see,” she said softly.
“So,” he said as he looked down at his hands, now folded in his lap, “this was a place where many went, not to get medical attention but simply to die with dignity.”
“You were orphaned?” she asked.
“In so many words,” he said. “My mother had passed years before this. She died from a disease that a mere two hundred rupees’ worth of antibiotics could have cured. I was taken in by Mother Teresa with other orphans and the lost children of the streets of Calcutta. I was raised as a Christian. I spent the rest of my childhood in her Nirmala Shishu Bhavan, the Children’s Home of the Immaculate Heart. I like to say that she was my mother.”
“I see.” Anna nodded.
“We attended school by day and begged on behalf of the Sisters of Mercy by night,” he recounted. “Some were luckier than others. I woke many times in the morning beside other children who would not wake again. There were many illnesses and severe malnourishment. Fortunately for me, some of us who showed great promise to a group of lay Catholics visiting from America were given special treatment. We received clothing and books, even tuition for special tutoring for several years. Eventually, I was able to qualify to attend school and was accepted at the Indian Institute of Technology in Madras. That is where I first began to study science.”
“I am sure Mother Teresa would be proud of you, Dr. Sehgal,” Anna said. He could tell she was anxious to wrap up before they ran out of time. “One of her once destitute children receives a Nobel Prize thirty-five years after her own.”
“I see you know your history,” Sehgal said with approval. “I remember the glorious day. I was a university professor at the time Mother Teresa was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize,” he mused. “And I hope to be around when she is canonized as a saint as well.”
“I am not Catholic, but everyone knows the story of Mother Teresa, Doctor. I understand that sainthood in the Church requires two demonstrated miracles, does it not?” she asked.
“It does,” he answered enthusiastically. “One has already been demonstrated. A dying woman with an inoperable tumor fully recovered after a locket bearing Mother Teresa’s image was placed on her chest. The tumor was healed, and a team of doctors verified the impossible. So, with this miracle documented a few years following Mother Teresa’s death, her beatification by the Church is now complete.”
“But a second miracle is required for sainthood. And that has not happened as yet. Correct?”
“Technically,” he said.
Sehgal suddenly remembered the phone message in his pocket from Jon Bondurant. He intended to return the call immediately.
“But, Anna, you must know, I believe I am that miracle.”
CHAPTER 5
Rome, Italy
April 2014
There were at least a thousand reasons to despise Father Barsanti, and for Parenti there was no question he and his little friend had so far miraculously survived one more.
It was bad enough Parenti had to work for the prefect in the Papal Library by day. But to have him live down the hall in the same decrepit apartment building on Via Germanico just outside the Vatican was too much. The brown building, a turn-of-the-century structure with nothing remarkable on its façade to denote its presence, sat on a direct line to St. Peter’s Square. Consequently, the apartment’s dwellers had no choice but to be up and alert each Sunday. It was the day revelers from around the world boisterously made their way past the building to celebrate what for many was a once-in-a-lifetime religious experience.
Parenti’s apartment, a small efficiency with room for only a well-worn bed, a shower, a chest of drawers, and a hot plate, was modest even by priests’ standards, but he found it comfortable and cozy. Its short distance to Vatican City made his journey home after a long day at work easier on his tired legs, and he was happy to call the spartan quarters home.
He shared the comfy room with a “roommate,” a stray dog he had rescued from the streets and named Aldo. He was a tiny, long-haired Chihuahua with large, sad brown eyes and a constant nervous tremor with which Parenti could relate. The dog was always as quiet as a mouse and so small Parenti could secrete him in
side his vestment pocket to journey with him to and from work when he chose. The priest considered it a divine gift that he had been able to house-train the teacup-sized pooch with a small litter box hidden on the apartment’s balcony just outside his window. Pets, which Barsanti detested, were strictly forbidden in the building. But since the dog usually stayed confined to a miniature travel cage as modest as the apartment that housed it, he had escaped Barsanti’s notice. He provided companionship and rested on the little priest’s chest at night as he read. The dog carefully watched the priest turn page after page as though he too were enjoying the plot. It was uncanny how the animal sensed Parenti’s moods and anticipated his needs. For the first time in the priest’s miserable life, he felt he had a friend who loved him unconditionally.
Ready to retire to his bed with book in hand, Parenti reached over for the tiny cage beside the dresser to retrieve Aldo and discovered he was gone. The priest looked around him and shook his head. He could see he had left his apartment door slightly ajar, a crack large enough for even the least adventurous of creatures to scurry through. It was not the first time Aldo had opened the cage door himself, but it was the first time he had ventured outside the apartment.
Parenti rose from his bed and stepped into his red slippers. He first searched his room completely and then made his way quietly into the dimly lit hallway to scan it for any sign of his friend. As he passed by Barsanti’s doorway, his heart raced as he considered the consequences of being caught on his late-evening mission.
When he found no trace of the dog near his room, he turned the corner, head down, to search the adjoining hall and bumped directly into the buttocks of Barsanti himself. The prefect, in conversation with two other priests, was in the middle of an animated story, one now ruined by Parenti’s interruption. He looked down on the hunchbacked priest with disdain.
“As I was saying, Father Giordano,” Barsanti exclaimed, “I was halfway to your apartment when I stumbled over this.” He held Aldo by his tiny collar and swung him back and forth with delight, clearly enjoying the terror of both dog and owner. “It’s a sizable rat, is it not, Father Marino?”
“A rat, or a rodent of some kind,” Father Marino posited.
“A rat!” Barsanti exclaimed as he looked first at Parenti and then at the poor dog. “We’ve enough of them in Rome, have we not?”
“They’re quite a nuisance,” Father Giordano said. “You know, they’ve started plagues.”
“Do you know this pest, Parenti?” Barsanti asked. “Pets are strictly forbidden in the complex. Do you know where he might have come from?”
Parenti looked down at the floor. “I do not,” he said.
“You are certain?” the prefect asked. “Never seen him before?”
“I’ve not,” the little priest said. “I swear I do not know him, but if you want to be rid of him, I will take him off your hands.”
“Last chance,” Barsanti said. “An owner might claim him now, but then he might be asked to vacate for breaking the rules.”
Parenti thought about his cozy apartment and the short walk to work. Aldo stopped his struggle and appeared to wait for Parenti’s response. I am a coward, thought Parenti.
“I’ve no such pet,” he said. Aldo stared into his eyes, and Parenti felt like he absolved him from his betrayal.
“Then he is a rat. Not to be trusted, are they?” Barsanti said once again as he looked at Parenti and happily dangled his catch. “We have a convocation here. Let’s decide, then. Feed him to the stray cats outdoors? We’d be doing the community a service.”
Parenti stood in glum silence, unable now to claim his helpless friend. He looked away from his pet’s gaze, helpless to do anything more than stand miserably by.
“Down the hatch with him, then?” Barsanti asked as he glanced over at the door to the trash chute leading eight stories down.
Parenti turned away from the group, sickened by the drama of the moment.
“Or a swift end to him, here and now?” Barsanti asked. He gripped the dog by the nape of the neck, and set the dog gently down on the floor. He then reared his leg back and in one swift motion kicked the tiny dog like a soccer ball as hard as he could down the hall. With a sickening squeal, the pup’s head cracked against a wall like a ripe tomato and splattered blood across the hall.
Parenti fought back the contents of his stomach and put a fist in his mouth to prevent retching. The dog lay lifeless on the floor, and a pool of dark blood spread from his crushed head.
The other priests, shocked by Barsanti’s sudden rage and unspeakable violence, said nothing. Parenti was sickened as he watched Barsanti take pleasure in the moment.
“Father Parenti, you have experience with rats, do you not?” he said. “Dispose of this one as quickly as you can.” With that, the prefect turned, took his companions by their arms, and headed down the hall toward the stairwell.
Overcome with guilt and grief, Parenti stooped down to gather his poor companion of over two years and cursed himself for his cowardly betrayal. He wrapped the dog gently in his handkerchief, returned quietly to his room, and closed the door behind him. He laid the dog on the bed, took to his knees, unfolded the handkerchief, and began to stroke the creature with his trembling hands. He closed his eyes and prayed for forgiveness in silence for several minutes. Then a far-fetched idea came to him that he knew he had no choice but to try. He had nothing to lose.
He reached for the lower drawer of his dresser and moved several pairs of socks and some underwear aside. He pulled out a plastic bag, and from it, a small, worn piece of ancient cloth. It was the piece of material bearing the blurred but discernible image of a face—the same cloth he had secretly purloined after it slipped from the codex he discovered in the Papal Library weeks before. For that transgression, he was unsure of the punishment. Lying to the pope was probably an eternity of suffering in Malebolge, the eighth circle of hell. But from the homework he had quietly done since the veil’s discovery, he strongly suspected he knew exactly what he held. It might not only help Aldo now but also maybe even save him from the fires of hell one day.
His hands began to tremble. He held his breath and listened carefully for anyone outside in the hall. He heard nothing. Then, careful to protect the image on the cloth, he laid it over the dog like a protective blanket, stroked it slowly, and closed his eyes to pray once more.
A minute passed before he felt a tingling sensation in his fingertips. Impossibly, something had moved beneath his hands. He shuddered from head to toe as the world around him seemed to spin with the movement. The air turned icy cold. When he opened his eyes to look down, the veil appeared to stir. Something was alive beneath the cloth. Would it bite? He considered whether to snatch the rustling bundle and pitch it across the room.
He cautiously lifted the veil’s edge. Stunned, he watched as the dog, still bloodied but now fully healed, climbed happily from under the miraculous veil and into the crook of his arm.
“My friend, you have returned!” Parenti cried out, flooded with joy. He brought Aldo close enough to his nose to kiss him. “You must forgive me.”
Aldo looked back with an expression of great gentleness and compassion. The warmth and depth of the dog’s love and forgiveness rendered Parenti weak with relief. He held the dog close to his heart. Aldo wagged his tail and snuggled closer. “What has happened is beyond my wildest dreams. No one must know,” Parenti said as he stared at the faded image on the cloth. “Not now, not ever.”
CHAPTER 6
St. Michaels, Maryland
April 2014
Bondurant was exhausted. Twenty-four hours of flight time from Mumbai to Baltimore with four stops in between had taken its toll. He gazed out at the lush green lawn that stretched almost fifty yards from the Enlightenment Institute on Perry Cabin Drive all the way to the Miles River. The signs of late spring in St. Michaels, Maryland, flirted with the approaching summer and filled his large window frame. Bright white petals from the dogwood trees outside his
office window floated to the ground like snowflakes with the slightest breeze. In the distance he could see an afternoon ferryboat, red and white, full of weekend tourists on its slow trek across the East Bay toward Annapolis.
He took another drag on his cigarette and crushed the butt into the dozen others that lay dead in the ashtray beside him. He cursed the addiction he couldn’t shake. He had picked up the habit years earlier as a way to keep others at bay, or lose them entirely with obnoxious smoke in the moments when he wanted to be alone. Now the weakness of addiction had turned on him, and there was little he could do about it.
He reached for the glass of Macallan single malt he had poured, his lone companion on the porch just outside his office. He cradled his scotch in one hand and the contract that had just arrived from the Vatican in the other. Then he kicked open the worn screen door at the rear of the large Victorian farmhouse he had converted to his Institute offices years before. It was a large covered porch that enclosed a half-dozen rocking chairs and an antique dining table. As much debate as food had been served at the table, just the way Bondurant liked it. He glanced over at the horizon to his right and could see the familiar sight of ships’ masts that extended just above the distant tree line. There sat the Baltimore clippers moored at the Maritime Museum, a half mile upstream.
He took a sip. After twenty years of drinking the same whisky, he still marveled at its smoothness. It was the same scotch his father used to drink, and Bondurant was certain his own taste for it was one of the few decent traits the old man had left him.
He watched a tired white skipjack from an oyster fleet chug past on the green river, and in trail right behind it, a sleek new sailboat on its way to the bay, filled with revelers likely up for the weekend from nearby Washington, DC. At the bow of the sailboat were three tan twentysomething girls stripped to their bikinis. They laughed, waved their arms, and pointed toward him. He watched as they toasted, their drinks high in the air, and shouted in his direction. He waved back halfheartedly and casually returned the salutes. Between the drone of the boat’s motor and their distance from him, he couldn’t hear a word they had yelled. He stood absolutely thoughtless for almost ten minutes as they faded from sight around the river’s edge.
The Shroud Conspiracy Page 5