The Lady in Blue

by Javier Sierra

  “I know that what I am going to ask you is a subject matter for confession, but we have heard that you enjoy the gift of being in two places at the same time.”

  The nun assented.

  “Are you conscious of this gift, Sister?”

  “Only at times, Father. My mind is suddenly in another place, although I have no idea how to explain my arrival there nor the method used. At first they were voyages of no importance, to the outside walls of the monastery. I saw the bricklayers and their assistants at work there, and even gave them instructions to change the work they were doing in this or that way.”

  “They saw you, Sister?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “And later on?”

  “Later on, I watched as I was taken to strange places, places where I had never been and where I found myself with people who did not even speak our language. I know that I preached the faith of Jesus Christ to them, since those peoples, of what race I do not know, were utterly ignorant of it. Nevertheless, the thing that most stirred me was listening to the voice inside of me that urged me to instruct them. To teach them that God created us as imperfect beings and sent Jesus Christ to redeem us.”

  “A voice? What kind of voice?”

  “A voice that gave me greater and greater confidence. I believe that it was the Holy Spirit who spoke to me, as it had done to the Apostles at Pentecost.”

  “How did these voyages begin?”

  Friar Alonso watched out of the corner of his eye to be certain that the scribe was taking note of everything that was said.

  “I am not sure. From when I was a child I was consumed by the knowledge that in the regions newly discovered by our Crown, there were thousands, perhaps millions, of souls who had no knowledge of Jesus Christ and who were in close proximity to eternal damnation. I grew ill merely thinking about it. But on one of those days when I was sick, my mother called two bricklayers over, men who had a certain fame as healers. She asked them to carefully examine me and treat me in such a way as to eradicate the humors that had left me prostrate in my bed.”

  “Go on.”

  “Those bricklayers shut themselves in my cell. They spoke to me of things I barely remember, but they made it clear to me that I had an important mission to fulfill.”

  “They were not bricklayers, is that what you are saying?”

  Friar Alonso called to mind the warning that the commissioner general had given him when he was in Madrid.

  “No. They admitted that they were angels and their mission was to travel from place to place. They said they were of the same blood as myself and my family. And they explained to me that they had lived among men for several years, in order to see which of us was fit to serve God. It was then that they spoke to me of the souls in New Mexico and of the great sufferings our missionaries underwent in order to reach the very remote regions.”

  “How long were you with them?”

  “For nearly the entire day the first time.”

  “Did they return?”

  “Oh, yes. I remember that that same night they came back to me; they came into my room and took me away without waking anyone. It all happened so quickly. I suddenly found myself sitting on a throne on top of a white cloud, flying through the air. I could make out the monastery, the fields where we grow our food, the river, the mountains of Moncayo, and I began to rise higher and higher until everything faded away and I saw the round face of the earth, half in shadow, half in light.”

  “You saw all this?”

  “Yes, Father. It was terrible . . . I was very afraid, above all when they carried me over the oceans toward a place I had never seen before. I clearly felt the wind in that latitude as it blew against my face, and I saw the bricklayers, transformed into radiant creatures, controlling the movements of the cloud, very ably guiding it now to the right and now to the left.”

  Friar Alonso’s expression changed when he heard her description. That account tallied with the heretical assertions, investigated sometime before, from the mouth of the Bishop of Cuenca, Nicholas de Biedma, as well as the celebrated Dr. Torralba, who between the end of the fifteenth century and the beginning of the sixteenth had both claimed that they had risen up on clouds of that sort, had flown to Rome on them, and, what was even worse, had been guided by evil spirits.

  “How can you be so sure that those men were angels of God?”

  The nun crossed herself.

  “Ave María! What other creatures could they be, if not that?”

  “I do not know. Tell me yourself, Sister.”

  “Very well.” She hesitated. “At first, like Your Worship, I asked myself if I was being tricked by the Evil One, but later, when shortly after undertaking that flight they ordered me to descend in order to preach the word of God, my fears disappeared.”

  “They ordered you to descend, you say?”

  “Yes. They laid down a kind of carpet of light below my feet and invited me to take a message to a group of persons who were waiting there. I knew they weren’t Christians, but neither were they Muslims, or enemies of our faith. They wore animal skins, and drew close to me, fascinated by the light that descended from the cloud.”

  “Mother, I must insist: are you certain they were angels?”

  “What else might they be?” The prioress was adamant. “They did not flee from my words, they accepted in good spirit my faith in God, and they regarded it with respect and devotion. The Devil would not have put up with so much praise of Our Heavenly Father.”

  “Indeed. And what happened afterward?”

  “I did all that they asked. That night I visited two other places, and spoke to different Indians. And although they spoke other languages, they seemed to understand me.”

  “Can you describe them?”

  “I was much struck by the light brown color of their skin, and by the fact that nearly all of them had their torsos, their arms and legs, and their faces painted. They lived in houses of stone, as in our villages, but they entered them by the roofs, and when they assembled for their ceremonies it was in a sort of well, to which only those men authorized by their witch doctors entered.”

  Friar Alonso hesitated. He himself, with his own eyes, had seen all of that in New Mexico. But how could she . . . ?

  “You spoke to the Indians of the arrival of the Franciscans?” he continued.

  “Oh, yes! The angels made certain that I did. They even allowed me to see places where friars in our seraphic order were laboring. In one of them, I saw how an Indian whose name was Sakmo implored one of our members, an old preacher, to send the Word of God to the people where he came from. This Sakmo, a dark-skinned man with big, broad shoulders, prayed that they would assign missionaries that I myself had told them to demand.”

  “Isleta!”

  “I would not know how to tell you the name of the place, for no one told me what it was. Instead, I found myself devastated that the friar denied him help for lack of men. Did you know that I myself spoke with this Sakmo a short time before, and I showed him where he ought to travel in order to come in contact with our missionaries?”

  “How many times do you believe you were there?”

  “It is difficult to be precise, because I have the conviction that on many occasions I was not conscious of it. I dreamed daily of those lands, but I could not say if I did so because I was there in body or because Our Lord wanted me to relive certain scenes from my preaching.”

  “Try to estimate. It is important.”

  “Perhaps some . . . five hundred times.”

  Friar Alonso’s eyes opened all the way. His voice quavered slightly.

  “Five hundred times, from 1620 until today?”

  “No, no. Only between 1620 and 1623. Later, after I pleaded with Our Lord God and his intercessors with all my strength, my exterior manifestations ceased. Little by little. And those angels who had accompanied me daily began to extend the time between their visits. First once a week, and then once a month. And finally, they came no more.�
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  “I understand. Did someone tell you how to put an end to your ‘exterior manifestations’?”

  “No. I mortified my body in order to make them cease. I stopped eating meat, milk, and cheese, and began a vegetable diet. Furthermore, three days a week I maintained a strict fast of bread and water. Shortly thereafter, it all ended.”

  “Forever?”

  “Who can know this except God?”

  “Nevertheless, a woman of your appearance continues to be seen in those far-off lands,” Benavides said in a lowered voice.

  “Perhaps what could be happening, Father, is that those angels are borrowing my form and they continue to show it to the Indians without my knowledge. Or perhaps they have asked the help of some other sister.”

  Friar Alonso scribbled something on a sheet of paper and folded it over.

  “Very well, Sister María Jesús. That is all for today. We must think about what you have stated to this tribunal.”

  “As you wish.”

  The nun’s obedience disarmed the Portuguese friar, and reassured Father Marcilla, who noted with pleasure that the expectations of the former guardian of New Mexico were not disappointed. Benavides already had no doubt: this nun was the Lady in Blue he was looking for. Now all his efforts would center on forcing her to divulge the secret of her flights to the New World.

  He would not leave there without it.

  SIXTY-TWO

  ROME

  Two hours later, as he was checking in his luggage at the Alitalia counter, the Benedictine still wore an ironic smile. The airport was quiet, and there were no traces of other passengers at the departure gates in his terminal.

  Baldi passed swiftly through security without noticing that a young woman dressed in black, with red shoes, was close behind him. The Benedictine had other things on his mind. He felt rejuvenated by the endorsement he had received the day before from His Holiness’s personal secretary, Monsignor Stanislaw Zsidiv, after his flight from the confession booth. Baldi had been granted a speciale modo authorization allowing him to meet face-to-face with the Second Evangelist. That was the sign! And although he would once again violate the rules of Chronovision, this time he was doing so with a safe-conduct pass from Saint John. John had told him to trust the signs, which obligated him to back his envoy.

  “Return with news before the internal assembly on Sunday,” John had instructed him. “Your priority is to find the woman who worked with Corso. May Mark, the Second Evangelist, guide you.”

  Thus, Giuseppe Baldi flew to El Prat Airport outside of Barcelona, where he made a connection to one of Aviaco’s veteran Fokker F27 Friendships, whose destination was the always-tricky runways of San Sebastian, in the north of Spain. There, using the credit card that Zsidiv himself had put in his hands, he rented a white Renault Clio three-door and took Highway A-8 to his destination, the Basque capital of Bilbao.

  Forty-five minutes later, near the outskirts of the city, he parked the car. Preferring not to drive into an unfamiliar city, he hailed a taxi, giving the driver a piece of paper bearing the address of his final destination. While the Third Evangelist was busy reflecting how rapidly one could cross Europe in the late twentieth century, the cabdriver, unnerved by the mannerisms of the nervous priest in his backseat, increased his speed as he headed toward the University of Deusto. He was there in less than ten minutes. On the second floor of the neoclassical building where the Theology Department was located, “Saint Mark,” or Father Amadeo María Tejada as he was otherwise known, had his office. A directory posted at the entrance gave the office number and location.

  Baldi took the marble steps two at a time, and once he stood in front of the door leading to the vestibule, he rang the doorbell. A second later, he announced his presence by rapping with his knuckles.

  “How may I help you?”

  The gigantic Amadeo Tejada peered down at the person standing at his door as he racked his brains trying to figure out what had brought a man well on in years into that swirling mass of students in the middle of exams. His visitor was wearing the long habit of the Benedictines, and he regarded Tejada with a look of astonishment.

  “Saint Mark?” he stammered in Italian.

  The giant’s face lit up. He understood everything in a flash.

  “Domine Deus! You received permission to come here?”

  Baldi nodded. The perfect Italian accent of the man standing across from him encouraged Baldi to continue the conversation in his native tongue.

  “I am ‘Saint Luke,’ Brother.”

  “The musician!” Tejada said, arms lifted to the sky as if in thanks. “Please! Come in, sit down. You don’t know how long I have waited for such a visit!”

  Tejada was beaming like a young student. He did not have the faintest idea what had brought one of the leaders of the Chronovision team to his office, but he sensed it must be something important, since the primary rule protecting the security of the project was being transgressed for the first time in almost fifty years.

  “Monsignor Zsidiv authorized this visit, Father Tejada. You already know him.” Baldi winked. “Saint John.”

  “I take it, therefore, that the matter is serious.”

  “Of the greatest importance, Brother.” Saint Luke began to explain, but could not at first find the right words. “Of course, I imagine you have already heard about the First Evangelist’s suicide, no?”

  “I heard the news a few days ago. I’m in shock.”

  Baldi nodded.

  “What you perhaps do not know is that, after his death, documents related to his research disappeared from his computer. And we have no idea where to begin to look for them.”

  “I don’t understand. Why are you bringing this to me? I am not a policeman.”

  “Well, Divine Providence guided me here. Let’s say”—he hesitated for a second—“that I have let myself be carried by the signs.”

  “All well and good, Father,” Tejada said approvingly. “It’s only been a few times in my life that I’ve seen a cleric carry his faith to its ultimate conclusions!”

  “Furthermore, you are an expert in angels. Isn’t that so? You have studied their behavior more closely than anyone. Since as you already know, they plant seeds here and there, you are the best person to interpret their designs.”

  Tejada shrugged. It was obvious that someone in Rome had provided his visitor with his curriculum vitae.

  “I take that as a compliment,” he said.

  “What I want to say to you, Brother, is that . . . Better that you should see it yourself.”

  Saint Luke riffled around in his bag in search of the photograph that Captain Lotti gave him. He withdrew it from a brown envelope, and carefully placed it on Professor Tejada’s desk.

  “It was taken yesterday, in Vatican City, after the woman who should be in the picture had set off three small explosives at the base of the pedestal supporting the statue of Veronica.”

  “Those are the woman’s red shoes?”

  Baldi nodded.

  “Incredible. That news did not get this far. Was there any damage?”

  “It was an unimportant incident that did not even merit two lines in today’s Osservatore Romano. But look closely. The shoes that you see a little behind the red ones, at the same spot where those lines cross the image, are mine. I was there and witnessed the attack.”

  Father Tejada took a magnifying glass out of his desk and examined the image carefully. Once he had viewed it at thirty times its normal size, he looked up at Father Baldi and scratched his beard.

  “Do you know what sort of camera was used to take this?”

  “A pocket-sized Canon. The shot was taken by a tourist in the basilica.”

  “I understand. And you didn’t see anything, correct?”

  “Nothing . . . The burst of light from the flash overpowered everything in the vicinity and even startled the camera’s owner. It blinded me.”

  “Hmm,” Tejada rumbled. “Most certainly the disorienting lig
ht was not from the flash, Father.”

  Baldi looked surprised but said nothing.

  “Perhaps,” Tejada continued, “the flash of light passed through our supposed terrorist.”

  “Passed through?”

  “Do you know anything about physics, Father? Have you read any scientific publications on the subject?”

  “No, my area of expertise is the history of music.”

  “In that case, I will try to explain it in the simplest manner possible. Perhaps what you saw was a side effect that has been studied in numerous experiments in particle physics, especially those in which a photon is capable of splitting in two, projecting an exact replica of itself to any other location in the universe. That phenomenon of doubling is called the teleportation of particles, although if they chose their words wisely, they would call it bilocation.”

  Baldi shifted slightly. Bilocation?

  “During that process of the duplication of materials,” Tejada went on, “it is possible to prove that the original photon discharges an enormous quantity of luminous energy, a strong radiation that is perceptible to scientific instruments and that can easily leave traces of itself on a photographic negative.”

  “But you are talking about elemental particles, not humans who somehow show up in two places at once!”

  The tremendous implications of this theory were just beginning to dawn on the Venetian. If what Tejada was saying was true, Baldi had been a few meters away from a person capable of bilocating in the same manner as Sister María Jesús de Ágreda.

  “And who told you that no technology exists that can transfer what photons do to physical bodies onto the human scale?”

  “Lord! Has someone done that?”

  Saint Luke’s volubility was becoming a source of amusement to Father Tejada.

  “It will seem strange to you, but this is not the first time that I have seen these types of streaks in photographs. Sometimes, in cases where it is believed that supernatural entities have intervened, such as in the apparitions of the Virgin of Medjugorje, in Yugoslavia, similar images have been obtained.”

  “Really?”

  “We are face-to-face with some type of energetic manifestation that surrounds certain individuals, which is invisible to the human eye. It is something like the halos that artists give the saints, except in this case we are talking about something with a physical basis.”