As Irene, Lennon, and Cox turned to leave, they beheld a scene worthy of a De Mille epic. A sea of humanity was being funneled through what was in actuality a gigantic door space. But from their perspective it appeared to be that narrow gate Jesus spoke of through which the rich could not easily pass.
There was little choice. It was either wait at their places for an additional hour or so for the basilica to empty, or test their fate and put their lives on the line and join the exiting crowd.
“What the hell,” Cox urged, “let’s try it. You only live once.”
“Yeah,” Lennon agreed, “and this may be it!”
As they made their way down the steps they were quite literally swept up by the crowd. Cox was convinced that, were he to take both feet from the floor at once, he would be carried off by the press of the crowd. But he feared if he did he just might fall. And that would mean death by stampede.
Irene was sure she had been pinched—several times. But for now, her one thought was to escape this adventure alive. Later— if there were a later—would be time enough to check for bruises.
As he was vortexed through the doorway, Cox witnessed an almost unbelievable sight. A man was attempting to get back into the basilica. As he and Cox passed as buffeted ships in the night, the man was pulling himself from one shoulder to the next, as one literally swimming against the current. As far as Cox could tell, the man did well merely to remain in situ and not be swept backwards.
From time to time, in future years. Cox would wonder whatever had happened to that man and what he was trying to accomplish that had motivated him to such a bizarre form of suicide.
6.
The tables sagged and the shelves drooped, so heavily laden were they with foods—all of them delectable.
Trays filled with rich varieties of antipasto alternated with trays heaped with fresh figs, berries, cream puffs, salads. Pans overflowed with red tomatoes, red peppers, green peppers, clams, and melons. Cucumbers were fitted between stalks of fresh asparagus that nestled among fruit-filled platters. On the topmost shelf was an unprepared leg of calf. Peeking from behind the leg were spinach and various kinds of lettuce. The aromas mingled to whet the appetites of all who entered the restaurant.
Gallucci’s was located on a typically narrow Roman street off the Via Merulana near the Church of Santa Maria Maggiore.
It was not one of Rome’s more famous or popular restaurants. But for the few cognoscenti it was among the very best Rome had to offer. And Rome had some of the best in Europe.
One who knew of Gallucci’s and frequented it when in Rome was Inspector Walter Koznicki. He had chosen this spot to meet Father Koesler and the deacon Ramon Toussaint at 6:00 p.m. partly because he prized the place and partly because he knew they could conduct a secluded meeting there during dinner.
Koznicki arrived at Gallucci’s several minutes before six. Koesler and Toussaint arrived together promptly at six. The two had spent much of this day together renewing their friendship. In Detroit, Toussaint and his wife, Emerenciana, had been extremely close friends of Koesler’s. A friendship that had survived even the Toussaints’ embroilment in that episode wherein violent justice was brought to those who were escaping the punitive arm of the law. Shortly thereafter, the Toussaints had left to relocate in San Francisco. Koesler had not seen them since.
Koesler, in his half-Latin, half-quasi-Italian, informed the maî-tre d’ that they were with the Koznicki party. They were shown to a private booth in the rear of the restaurant, where they sat and absorbed the sight and smell of tempting, tantalizing food.
Bottle after bottle of wine lined those shelves not piled with food. Each table was topped by a white cloth over the traditional red and white checkered cloth. In sum, it resembled most other authentic Roman restaurants. But Koznicki assured them it was far from merely average.
Although Koznicki had been well aware of Toussaint, had seen photos of him, and had even seen the man at a distance, the two had never formally met.
As Koesler introduced them, the Inspector appraised the deacon.
Though in his middle years, Toussaint appeared to be an exceptionally strong and vigorous man. Koznicki also noted there seemed to be much going on behind Toussaint’s lively brown eyes. The Inspector guessed Toussaint would be a worthy chess opponent; he was not likely to come in second in any game of wits.
Long, long ago, in his early days in Detroit, Toussaint had correctly appraised Koznicki as one of the most astute and effective detectives Toussaint had ever known.
“Since I am familiar with Gallucci’s,” said Koznicki, “perhaps you will permit me to make a few suggestions?”
“Of course. Take over,” Koesler said.
Toussaint merely smiled and nodded.
Koznicki summoned the waiter. “I think a nice Chianti to begin,” he turned to his guests, “and for the antipasto, I would suggest the caponata for both of you.” He looked at the waiter, who nodded. “It is a cold salad of eggplant, celery, capers, tomatoes, olives, vinegar, and sugar,” he explained to his friends. “For a first time at Gallucci’s, it is a good, innocent way to begin. And,” he turned again to the waiter, who realized he was dealing with one who was on easy terms with the menu, “I will have the carpaccio.”
“Well, where to begin?” said Koesler, as the waiter went about bringing breadsticks and butter, followed by the requested Chianti for the Inspector’s approval. “I guess since much of this is my idea, I’d better bring you up to date, Ramon, on what we suspect is going on.”
Koesler, halting only to permit the waiter to serve the salad, then reviewed with Toussaint what was mostly his hypothesis on the possible connection between the murders of Cardinals Claret and Gattari. The fact that both killings seemed entirely unmotivated and unusual. Both murders were perpetrated by black men in dreadlocks. Both victims were prime candidates for the Papacy. And, finally, the strange appearance of a symbol of black power in the form of a black fist.
“And you are right, Bob, in connecting them, I believe,” said Toussaint, as he set down his wine glass. “I heard some talk on the part of a small segment of the black community in San Francisco after the murder of Cardinal Claret. So I went to Toronto to see for myself. My contacts there corroborated the fact that there is a conspiracy of sorts, but they were not certain where it would lead. Then, at a meeting in San Francisco, my Haitian friends told me they had learned that this conspiracy would spread to Rome. And so it has.”
“But do you know who is responsible? And why?” The questions were Koznicki’s. Before Toussaint could reply, the waiter arrived to clear away the salad dishes.
Koznicki again consulted the menu. “I would recommend, again for a first visit, the Stracciatella. It is eggs, cheese, and nutmeg blended, then poured into boiling chicken broth.”
The waiter’s eyes sparkled in the presence of a bongustaio.
“Fine,” said Koesler.
“I believe I will skip the soup course, Inspector,” said Toussaint.
“As you wish,” said Koznicki. “For myself, I will have the pasta e fagioli.”
The waiter refilled their glasses with Chianti and departed.
Koznicki, eager for a reply to his questions, nodded at Toussaint.
“It is a long story that I shall try to make as short as possible without omitting any of the essential details,” said Toussaint.
“Perhaps you are aware,” he began, “of the dissatisfaction of many of the home-counties English with the people of many colors who now live in London and its environs—Indians, Africans, Pakistanis, Jamaicans, and so forth. These so-called native peoples have a difficult time making a living and conforming to English mores, particularly in so urban a setting. When the English become unnerved, the classic response from the erstwhile colonials, is ‘We are here because you were there!’ Which means, of course, that the problem is due solely to the fact that Great Britain’s empire once included all its colonies. In making India a British colony, it made the Ind
ians British subjects. If Britain had stayed at home, as it were, so would the Indians have remained in India.
“This concept is even more relevant when one considers Africa,” Toussaint continued as Koznicki and Koesler began their soup. “Black Africans were taken prisoner and removed from their homeland and delivered to the West. To America, where, in the South, they were made slaves to King Cotton. And to island countries, like Haiti and Jamaica. But in those two countries, the Africans experienced vastly different treatment.
“In Haiti, their masters,” Toussaint winced at the word, “were the French. The French considered their slaves to be human, if inferior. Ergo, they were souls to be saved. The slaves were required to be baptized and thus become Catholic. In a sense, I owe my Catholic heritage to Haiti’s French slaveowners. Knowing what I do now, I would choose to be Catholic. But that does not blunt the fact that Catholicism was forced upon the slaves of Haiti.
“The slaves, of course, had little to say about this enforced religion. They simply mixed their new, alien religion with their own religious practice which Westerners know as ‘voodoo.’
“In time, many of the slaves of Haiti either won their freedom or escaped and emigrated to many large cities in many countries. That is why you will find the descendants of former Haitian slaves in virtually all Western urban centers. And with them you will find this amalgam of Roman Catholicism and voodoo.
“The experience of the African slaves of Jamaica was quite different simply because they belonged to the English. And the English considered their slaves not as humans but as property. There were no forced conversions, thus their development was comparatively free from Western influence. But Jamaican slaves suffered one of the highest mortality rates of any of the islands. So the black population growth derived almost entirely from repeated importation of more blacks from many parts of Africa. The form of voodoo that developed in Jamaica was called ‘pocomania,’ or ‘the little madness’ or ‘possession.’ It evolved from a mixture of differing forms of voodoo brought from different parts of Africa.
“But because of the forced mixing of these differing African cultures, there were few shared traditions or experiences. So that different beliefs and different practices evolved in a variety of different groups.”
Just then, their waiter returned, removed the empty dishes and waited with polite curiosity for Koznicki’s order for the next course.
Toussaint consulted his watch. It was growing late and he had much to do before this day was finished. He would have to hurry through this explication. But it was important—very important—that these two should understand.
“Inspector,” said Toussaint, “I will eat no more. I hope you will make allowances. There is much I have yet to do. But please; order for yourself and Bob. I will talk. You will enjoy your meal. We never know how many more meals we have to enjoy before we will eat no more.”
A strange statement, thought Koznicki.
“I will now order the pasta and the entree for the Father and myself. Our friend will have no more,” Koznicki said.
An expression of sadness passed over the waiter’s features. He could not bear to think of anyone’s being only a spectator at a Gallucci meal.
“Father will have the fettuccine.” He turned to Koesler. “It will remind you of egg noodles, Father, only so much better.” He turned again to the waiter. “And I will have your gnocchi. When we have finished, please serve the entree. Father will have the red mullet—you will like that, Father. It is prepared right at the table. And I will have the polio scarpariello. And bring us a bottle of your Orvieto.” He glanced across at Toussaint. “Are you sure you want nothing more? Something to drink, perhaps?”
“Thank you, no, Inspector.”
“Then please go on.”
“I will not burden you with the history of the slave rebellions of Jamaica, the Maroons, or a long list of freedom fighters. For our purpose, I will merely mention Marcus Garvey and his prophecy to the slaves of Jamaica—the slaves who wanted nothing more than to escape what they saw as a massive conspiracy of Western civilization to keep them in bondage and away from their homeland—Africa.
“Garvey prophesied, ‘Look to Africa, when a black king is crowned, for the day of deliverance is near.’
“The majority of Jamaican blacks believe that prophecy was fulfilled when an Ethiopian named Ras Tafari was crowned emperor in Ethiopia in 1930. Ras Tafari took the name Haile Selassie. From that moment on, Ethiopia became the longed-for homeland for a majority of Jamaican blacks; Haile Selassie became their savior, and they became, after his given name, Rastafarians.”
The pasta was served.
“Rastafarianism is not a religion or a government or a social order. It is a way of life and it is not understood in precisely the same way by all Rastafarians.
“Jah is God and he is black. The Bible, especially the Old Testament, is their textbook. But it must be appropriately interpreted. For instance, in the Book of Numbers it says,” Toussaint quoted from memory, “‘All the days of the vow of his separation, there shall be no razor come upon his head: until the days be fulfilled, in the which he separated himself unto the Lord, he shall be holy, and shall let the locks of his hair of his head grow.’ All of which justifies the style called . . .” Toussaint paused.
“Dreadlocks,” Koznicki supplied.
“Exactly. Or this from Genesis: And God said, Let the earth bring forth grass, the herb yielding seed, and the fruit tree yielding fruit after his kind, whose seed is in itself, upon the earth; and it was so. And the earth brought forth grass, and herb yielding seed after his kind . . . and God saw that it was good.’ And this Biblical passage legitimates . . .” Toussaint paused again.
“Marijuana,” supplied Koesler.
“Which they call ganja. And which, for them, is a sacrament.
“Their music is reggae. It was made popular by the late Bob Marley. Perhaps you are familiar with it?”
Koesler slowly swallowed some fettucine and shook his head.
“I must admit I was aware of both Mr. Marley and his music,” said Koznicki, “but I have steadfastly avoided both.”
“It does not matter,” said Toussaint, “Reggae is not that germane to our present situation.
“What is of importance is to understand the Rastafarians, how they became what they are, and what their hope and aim is. Essentially, Jah is their black God; Haile Selassie—formerly Ras Tafari—is their savior . . .”
“But Selassie died years ago,” Koesler protested.
“It does not matter. Many Rastafarians refuse to believe he is dead. To others, he has merely preceded them into heaven.
“But to go on with the essential Rastafarian creed: Ethiopia is the homeland; Addis Ababa is Zion; the Western world is Babylon, an enslaving, corrupt, selfish, persecuting society from which the black man must one day escape and return whence he came.
“Ganja they have adopted probably because the weed grows abundantly in Jamaica and also because the narcotic offers some release and escape from the poverty and degradation the black man in exile feels.
“Now, when we come to the way in which each Rastafarian reacts to these beliefs that structure his or her way of life, we find great diversity.”
Toussaint’s chronicle was interrupted by the waiter’s return.
Before Koznicki, he placed a dish containing small sections of chicken which had been crisply fried, then sauced with garlic, rosemary, and white wine.
On a serving cart next to the table, the waiter prepared Koesler’s fish. The mullet lay in a large pan. With a single stroke, the waiter split the large fish and then boned it. After squeezing half a lemon over it, he poured first wine, then the fish’s own juices over its length. It appeared delicious, and it was.
“Most Rasta men,” Toussaint proceeded, and then, as if interrupting himself, “despite the popular and current feminist movement, we might just as well dismiss the Rasta women because the Rasta men have dismissed them: Rasta women
are respected, protected, supported, and appreciated; but, if something important is happening, Rasta females will not be there.
“Anyway, as I was saying, most Rasta men are peaceful, at least as long as they are not provoked. There are some, however, who are comfortable with violence. You can find ample evidence of this in your daily papers.
“There were, for example, the twelve Rasta men who kidnapped a young black woman and her son in the Bronx some years back. Rastas executed four of their fellow Rastas in New York City. There have been Rastas wounded and killed in gunfìghts with police. Rastas have been known to traffic in drugs and to commit robberies. So, for a group officially espousing peace and love, some of the Rastas can be and are very violent. And it is, quite evidently, these violent Rastas with whom we must now deal.”
“All of what you have told us is both interesting and informative,” said Koznicki. “But why? Why should even a violent Rastafarian want to attack a Cardinal, a prince of the Catholic Church?”
“That is the fundamental question, is it not?” Toussaint said reflectively.
“Some years ago,” he proceeded, “there was a segment of the popular Sunday evening television program, ‘Sixty Minutes,’ that dealt with the Rastafarians. It opened with a scene of a Rasta man, dreadlocks and all, beating on a small drum and chanting, ‘Death to the Pope! Death to the Pope!’”
“I must have missed that program, although I usually watch the series,” said Koznicki.
“I remember it,” said Koesler, “but I don’t recall the scene you describe, Ramon. I must have missed the opening of that segment. Was any reference made to it later in the program?”
“No, oddly. But it was there in the beginning.”
“But again,” Koznicki touched napkin to his mouth, “why? Why ‘Death to the Pope’?”
“The Rastafarians,” Toussaint replied, “consider the Pope the most powerful and significant figure in Western civilization.”
Koesler smiled. “There are those who would accord that description to the president of the United States, or, perhaps, to the Russian premier.”
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