“May the Lord be with us!”
Friar Benavides’s unexpected exclamation surprised his traveling partner. He let it slip out between his teeth no sooner than his feet were on the ground and he took a quick look at his surroundings. Marcilla was startled.
“Are you all right, Brother?”
“Absolutely. It is simply that this level ground and these valleys abounding in chants and those white habits seem a reflection of the lands I left behind on the other side of the sea. I feel as if I have been here before!”
“Omnia possibilia sunt credenti,” Marcilla enunciated. “For the believer all is possible.”
Their reception was shorter than planned. After descending from the coach, between the Te Deum and the genuflections of the nuns, the Franciscan who accompanied the initiates was introduced as Friar Andrés de la Torre, Mother María Jesús’s confessor since 1623, who resided at the nearby Monastery of Saint Julian. At first glance, he seemed an affable fellow, large-boned, with a flat nose and oversized ears that made him slightly resemble a rabbit. As for Mother Ágreda, she looked quite the opposite: her skin was milky; her long, slender face was tinged with pink; and her large dark-brown eyes gave her a look that was mild and yet forceful at the same time.
Benavides was impressed.
“May Your Worships be welcome here,” she said. And with barely a pause, she added, “Where do you wish to question me?”
The tone of the alleged Lady in Blue was dry, as if she were displeased at having to render an account of her intimate life to a stranger.
“I believe the church will be convenient,” Marcilla said just above a whisper, as he thought back over his time as a priest in this enclave. “It is agreeably located, without the necessity of entering the cloister, and we can have a writing desk placed there, with candles, ink, and any other necessary articles. Furthermore, we will have Our Lord as a witness.”
Benavides accepted the suggestion willingly, and let the prioress take care of the details.
“In that case, Your Worships will have everything at your disposal tomorrow morning at eight o’clock sharp.”
“Will you be present at that hour?”
“Yes, if that is the will of the commissary general and my confessor. I wish to stand before Your Worships as soon as possible, in order to dispel those doubts you have brought with you.”
“I trust that it will turn out to be less painful than you imagine, Sister,” the Portuguese friar interjected.
“Our Lord’s crucifixion was painful as well, but no less necessary for the salvation of humanity, Father.”
The sudden upsurge of the sisters chanting the Gloria in Excelsis Deo on the path to the cloister spared Benavides from responding to Sister María Jesús’s comment.
“And now, if you will excuse us,” Mother Ágreda said, “we must gather to attend our evening prayers. Help yourself to the banquet we have prepared for you. Friar Andrés has arranged for you to be put up at the Monastery of Saint Julian.”
And with that, she disappeared into the cloister.
“A woman of strong character.”
“No doubt, Father Benavides. No doubt.”
FIFTY-NINE
EN ROUTE TO LOS ANGELES
Carlos needed several minutes to catch his breath. He did not know how to put it into words, but the proximity of that woman had changed him profoundly. An angel? What difference did it make? She seemed to know everything about him, while he in turn was utterly ignorant of everything about her.
If, as he suspected, the Italian woman who tried to make the pages of Castrillo’s book disappear and the angel were the same person, perhaps she knew something about the Memorial. It all seemed strangely related!
He left seat 33C and, taking several long strides, stood in business class. She was not there.
“An Italian woman, dressed in black, with red shoes?”
The skeptical flight attendant shook her head.
“I’m sorry, sir. We have only thirty passengers on board, and none in business class. I can assure you that no one matching that description has passed through here.”
“An angel?”
Carlos remained awake for the rest of the flight, wondering who in the world he could tell about all of this.
SIXTY
ROME
Before making his way to Leonardo da Vinci International Airport, Father Giuseppe Baldi made a detour to the headquarters of the Swiss Guards. He had already deciphered the sign that would lead him to his next step, although for the moment he preferred to remain silent about it. Nevertheless, he wished to resolve a small detail before taking leave of Vatican City. Once there, he had no difficulty locating the office of Captain Ugo Lotti, the redheaded man with the ruddy face who had assisted him in the basilica the day before.
Captain Lotti offered to resolve any doubts he might have. Unfortunately, in the twenty-four hours that had elapsed since the incident, he had been unable to shed any light on the circumstances surrounding the attack. The Swiss Guards remained utterly in the dark concerning what might have prompted such an assault against the statue of Saint Veronica.
“A truly strange case,” the official admitted, gesturing toward some folders that were lying on his desk. “The devices were placed close together, at the three weak spots in the pedestal of the statue, with a skill that allows us to conclude it was the work of a professional. And yet, at the same time, everything unfolded as if whoever did it did not in fact want to cause any damage to the monument.”
“Are you trying to say that it was this woman’s intent not to destroy anything, but only to call attention to or to distract us from something?”
“So it seems.”
“I’m not convinced.”
“Well, Father, every year there are five or six violent attempts on several of the three hundred ninety-five statues in Saint Peter’s. The Pietà is the most vulnerable. This was the very first attack on the Saint Veronica, a minor work of Francesco Mochi, without any particular relevance . . .”
“If they did not intend to destroy the statue, perhaps it was a symbolic act. Have you considered that?”
Captain Lotti shifted in his chair and, leaning toward his visitor, took on a mockingly complicit tone.
“Would you happen to know something I should be aware of?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Baldi responded. He had not been expecting that question, and he wavered.
“Now I am the one who is not too convinced, Father.”
“I studied the history of the piece, and came up with nothing,” the priest said in his defense. “As you know, it was designed by Bramante, but when Paul the Third put Michelangelo in charge of the construction of the dome, the latter modified that particular work, expanding the pedestal underneath the statue. It was at that time that the ‘openings’ for placing treasures were designed.”
“You are referring to relics when you say ‘treasures’?” the Swiss Guard said, looking at the priest with a smile.
“Well, Veronica’s actual cloth was kept in the pedestal that suffered the attack. This is the cloth on which it is believed Christ dried his sweat on the road to Calvary. Some even believe they see the profile of the Messiah in the stains on the fabric.”
“And what do you know about this Order of the Sacred Image?”
“Not a single thing.”
“So why have you come to see me?”
Giuseppe Baldi sat up straight.
“For two reasons. First, to inform you that I am leaving Rome today, but that you can find me through the secretary of state. They will know where I am at any moment. Second”—and here Baldi hesitated—“so that you can tell me, to whatever extent you are able, whether or not the roll of film the guards confiscated in the basilica has provided any clues.”
“Ah! That is another fine mystery. Yesterday, naturally, we developed the film in our laboratories, and when we took a look at the last photo, something very unusual turned up . . .”
The Sw
iss Guard searched among the folders for the image.
“Aha, here it is. Do you see?”
Baldi took the photograph in his hands. It was a five-by-seven print on matte paper. He looked at it carefully for several seconds. The low-quality print seemed to have a filter of some sort across it. The basilica’s marble floor was visible on the lower part of the photograph, and near the back, he could just make out a pair of expensive red shoes. Nevertheless, the object that most called attention to itself was not on the floor, but occupied the center left section of the photograph.
“What do you think that could be?”
“I have no idea, Captain. I already told you when we were in the basilica that the camera’s flash blinded me and prevented me from seeing where the woman made her escape. What I did not remember,” he said, with the trace of a smile, “was that she was wearing such outrageous shoes.”
“But how can such a ridiculous little camera blind you, Father?” the guard protested.
“Well, even its owner was astonished by the flash of light. And if this detail is only present in this one photograph, everything becomes complicated, don’t you think?”
Baldi pointed out a series of strange luminous marks that lay like the tails of a comet across the photograph. He asked the guard for his impression. The captain hesitated.
“They are perhaps the flames of the numerous tall candles in the basilica, which in this exposure . . .”
“But Captain,” Baldi objected, “you yourself have said that it was a ridiculous little camera, the kind that comes with a pop-up flash and that does not allow you to set a longer or shorter exposure.”
“Well, perhaps it malfunctioned.”
“But then those marks would appear in all the photographs.”
“That’s true,” he conceded. “Those marks do not appear in any of the other photographs. And there’s no way to explain them. Yesterday afternoon, Lieutenant Malanga enlarged this section of the image with the help of a computer, but he couldn’t find anything behind the streaks of light. That is all they are: streaks.”
“Rays invisible to the human eye, Captain.” The Benedictine pushed his glasses back up before resuming. “Although it may seem ridiculous, do you know the impression they give me?”
“Tell me.”
Giuseppe Baldi smiled curiously, as if he were about to pull the captain’s leg.
“They look like the wings of an angel, Captain.”
“An angel?”
“As you already know, a being of light. One of those personages who, according to the Scriptures, always appears in order to deliver a message from on high. A sign.”
“Yes, of course,” Ugo Lotti replied unenthusiastically. “And yet an angel in Saint Peter’s . . .”
“May I keep it?”
“The photograph? Why not? We have the negative.”
SIXTY-ONE
ÁGREDA
The life of the Lady in Blue had been subject to an unbending routine for the last ten years. The end of that day’s labor would not be an exception.
Once the sun had set, around eight o’clock in the evening, and having barely touched any food, Sister María Jesús retired to her cell to undertake the daily examination of her conscience. It was always done in silence, far from the individual activities of her sisters, in a state of deep concentration that never ceased to seem painful and pitiful to all others.
The initiate prayed until nine-thirty, stretched out on the floor of her room, her face against the tile. She then washed with cold water and lay down to sleep on a hard wooden bench, trying not to think about the lacerating pain that soon took possession of her back.
Around eleven at night, when the rest of the sisters were closed in their cells, Sister María Jesús submitted herself, as was her custom, to the “exercise of the cross.” It was a terrible practice. Over the course of an hour and a half, she berated herself with thoughts of the passion and death of Our Lord Jesus Christ; she then placed an iron cross weighing some one hundred pounds on her shoulder while she walked on her knees until she was exhausted. Finally, after a pause to gather strength, she hooked the cross on the wall of her cell and hung from it for an additional thirty minutes.
Sister Prudencia awakened her every morning around two to go downstairs and preside over matins, which usually lasted until four in the morning. She always attended, no matter whether she was taken with a fever, was sick, or in pain. But that day and only that day, she preferred to stay on the floor above. She wanted to hide the distress of knowing that, in a few hours, a commission of friars would interrogate her.
Some two hundred yards away, in the Monastery of Saint Julian, the last night of April passed in a more tranquil manner. By seven in the evening, Fathers Marcilla and Benavides had already completed their prayers and ingested a frugal meal consisting of bread and fruit. They had had sufficient time to prepare the necessary sheets of parchment where Mother Ágreda’s answers would be recorded.
“Mercy, Mother of God, Mercy.”
Sister María Jesús’s anguish drifted under her door and to the floor below.
“You know that I am faithful and that I discreetly keep the marvelous things you teach me to myself. You know that I have never betrayed our dialogues. Succor me in this difficult encounter.”
None of the sisters heard her. Nor did anyone answer her pleas. Bewildered by the silence, the prioress fell down on the hard wooden bench that served as her bed. But sleep did not come to her aid.
Thirty-five minutes later, the Monastery of Saint Julian opened its doors for Friar Andrés de la Torre and the secretary charged with transcribing the interrogation. After formal greetings and examinations to verify that everything was in order, the four walked across Ágreda toward the Conceptionist cloister. And there, as the prioress promised them, they found a writing desk and five chairs arranged around it, as well as two large candelabra at the head of the table.
Nothing more could be asked. The church was clean and quiet, set apart, a place where their work would be more comfortable. And it would also permit one of the sisters in the congregation to observe the inquiry from the choir loft as it unfolded.
The prioress arrived punctually. She was dressed in the same habit as the previous afternoon, and her young face gave evidence of exhaustion; she had already undergone too many years of sleeping two hours daily.
Sister María Jesús greeted the four priests who were waiting for her. After bowing before the tabernacle of the main altar, she took her seat and waited while they completed the initial formalities. Her eyes were glistening. She had passed the night weeping.
“On the first of May, of the year of Our Lord 1631, in the main church of the Monastery of the Conception of Ágreda, we proceed with the questioning of Sister María Jesús Coronel y Arana, a native of the village of Ágreda and prioress of this holy house.”
Sister María listened in silence as the scribe read aloud her full family name. When he was finished, he raised his eyes from the nearly empty page and directed a question to the nun.
“You are Sister María Jesús?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Do you know, Sister, why you have been called before this tribunal today?”
“Yes. To render account of my appearances outside the monastery and of the events in which Our Lord wanted me to play a role.”
“In that case, respond under oath to everything that you are asked. For the purpose of this tribunal, the privileged nature of confession has been lifted and you must answer all its questions with Christian humility. Do you accept?”
She assented. The nun looked Friar Alonso de Benavides in the eyes. His severe manner and large nose reminded her of the figure of Saint Peter hanging over the altar of that very church. He was a man of authority. Benavides was seated directly in front of her, behind a mound of papers covered with indecipherable annotations, and a copy of the Bible. When he sensed the prioress observing him, he took the initiative.
“The reports we ha
ve received state that you have experienced instances of rapture, or ecstasy. Could you explain to this tribunal when they began?”
“Approximately eleven years ago, Father, in 1620, when I had just turned eighteen. It was then that Our Father desired that I be assaulted by trances during religious services, and that several of the sisters saw me floating above the ground.”
Benavides watched her closely.
“It was not a gift I solicited, Father, but rather one I was granted as was my mother, Catalina. She, too, fell into trances, and such was her faith that, when she was well on in years, she decided to live as a nun in this order.”
“You levitated?”
“So they tell me, Father. I was never conscious of it.”
“And how do you explain your ecstasy carrying you beyond the walls of the cloister?”
“My first confessor, Friar Juan de Torrecilla, was not an expert in such matters.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Only that, carried away with his enthusiasm, he spread word of those events outside the bounds of the convent. The news stirred interest throughout the region, and many of the faithful came to see me.”
“Were you aware of this?”
“At that time, no. Although it struck me as strange when I awoke to find the church surrounded by devotees. But as always when I came out of that state, my heart was overflowing with love, and I did not pay much attention to them, nor did I inquire regarding their attitude.”
“Do you recall when the first ecstasy took place?”
“Perfectly. The Saturday after Pentecost in the year 1620. The second came over me on the feast of Saint Mary Magdalene.”
Friar Alonso leaned across the desk in order to give emphasis to his next words.
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