The Cloning

  Having finally come to this resolution, he was able to focus more unreservedly on the work at hand. Indeed, he labored up to twenty hours a day during the remainder of the week, stopping only for hurried meals and a few hours of restless sleep. He kept the little vial in his pocket, but he thought of it less and less with each passing day.

  *

  At the end of a week, in Cardinal Lucassi’s study, the old man thumbed through Marc’s report while Monsignor Monza peered over his shoulder. Marc eyed the two of them during this wait, wondering what they were thinking . . . or were not thinking. He noticed that Monza’s upper lip glowed slightly from perspiration even though the room wasn’t overheated; was he a little edgy because of guilt? What was going on behind those beady eyes? Marc had not mentioned the hidden TV camera to either of them, nor had they given any indication that they knew of it. He decided that he could play the silent game as well as they, so, even though he was very curious about what they might know, he kept his silence while Lucassi continued to read. Marc took some satisfaction from his secret: he was the only person on earth who knew about the hair.

  The Cardinal focused on the four-page summary at the end of the highly technical document. Marc’s carbon-14 dating agreed essentially with the previous dating which implied that the cloth was from the early part of the second millennium and therefore couldn’t have been the wrapping material in which Jesus was buried; but, on the other hand, Marc had been unable to discover any definitive method by which the cloth was imbued with the mysterious image.

  “I’m very pleased,” the Cardinal finally commented to Marc’s utter amazement. He had expected the old man to explode in rage or perhaps keel over with a massive stroke. “You’ve been a diligent worker,” Lucassi continued in a satisfied tone.

  “When I have a job to do, I like to get it done,” Marc replied, although, to the best of his memory, he’d never slaved with quite this intensity, even during his undergraduate days when he was inclined to delay work until the last possible hour. Something about this project had impelled him to labor not only with total dedication but also with deliberate speed.

  “I shall read it in more detail later,” the Cardinal said with finality, placing the report on his desk. “But I couldn’t be more satisfied. God bless you, my son.”

  “I thought you’d hate it,” Marc confessed.

  “Why should I hate it? It does nothing to disturb the status quo which has been quite satisfactory since the last examination; that report did nothing to undermine the beliefs of the faithful, and neither will this one.”

  “You’re serious?” Marc asked, amazed.

  “Completely. It’s gratifying that your research in no way explains the image on the cloth. So, if one unexplainable event—a miracle—somehow created the image, then there is no reason to question that some other sort of miraculous occurrence makes the accurate dating of the cloth impossible.”

  That sort of reasoning was not exactly compatible with Marc’s scientific turn of mind, but he was in no mood to argue because he’d done his job as thoroughly as he knew how, and that was that. “If you’re happy, then I’m happy,” he said candidly.

  “I must confess that when we met, I feared you were the devil’s handyman, but instead you’ve turned out to be the workman of the Lord.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Marc grinned. “It’s just that there are some things that science still can’t fully explain, and the shroud’s image is one of them.”

  “And thank God for it. The veil should never be removed from some mysteries. The Holy Father will be as pleased as we are.”

  Marc wasn’t so sure about that. He’d gotten the impression that the Pope had an honest scientific curiosity, and that, as a man with some technical background, he was honestly hoping for some sort of break-through. He didn’t seem fearful of what modern science might prove. Marc was glad that he wouldn’t have to meet the Pope again and look into those penetrating eyes. No telling what he might infer.

  “Are you going back to the United States now?”

  “Actually, I’ve been invited to London for a scientific conference, so I’m heading there.”

  “I wish you Godspeed,” Lucassi said, offering his hand.

  As soon as Marc was out the door, the old man turned to Monza with relief, lifted his hands to heaven, and said, “Let us thank God that this is finished!”

  “Yes, it turned out more satisfactorily that I’d expected,” Monza agreed.

  Just outside, Marc hesitated. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the vial, wondering if he was doing the right thing. Sure I am, he concluded to himself without further debate. With that, he slipped the vial back into his pocket and exited on the run to his Ferrari waiting at the curb.

  *

  When he pointed his new auto northward it seemed even livelier than before, as if it had been waiting impatiently for him to finish his work and hit the open road. It appeared to be straining at each stoplight, so as soon as he hit the A5 Autostrada he let it loose, and despite the rain that had started to fall, the kilometers began to mount on the odometer. By early afternoon he came to a smallish industrial town called Aosta, which seemed a likely place to stop for luncheon. Although the town was plain, he happened upon a restaurant where the food was magnificent, and two hours later, after a five course meal, Marc found himself thinking more of bed than of driving further, especially since the rain had turned into a steady downpour which showed no sign of letting up. Just as he was paying his check, a woman and man from across the nearly empty dining room approached his table.

  “You’re the man with Papa. Yes?” the woman began with no preamble.

  Marc realized that his photograph must have been widely disseminated by now, so he wasn’t too surprised at being recognized, particularly in Italy where the Pope’s numbers are high. “Yes, I am,” he admitted.

  “You touch Shroud of Torino?” the man asked with awe in his voice.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Then I must touch you,” the woman said, and without a by your leave, she reached out and laid her hand gently on his cheek for what seemed to Marc like five minutes. She apparently wanted to absorb any holy emanations that he might have soaked up. Clearly thrilled, the couple thanked him and left as abruptly as they’d arrived.

  The waiter, having watched this exchange, asked for an autograph. He was joined by the proprietor as well as by the chef, several other diners, and the entire kitchen staff, some of whom wanted to touch Marc or wanted him to sign a menu. Finally, he was able to extract himself from this entanglement and returned unnoticed his car where he hurriedly put on his sunglasses.

  He located a utilitarian hotel overlooking the main highway that led to the French border. Mercifully, the sunglasses seemed to work because no one recognized him as he was checking in or going to up his room. There he enjoyed his first bathtub in a week, and after soaking contentedly, he fell into bed where, despite the constant roar of camions throughout the night, he slept straight through to dawn.

  *

  Jagged Alpine peaks, sparkling with fresh autumn snow, began to show on the horizon in the early morning light. The air had turned cold, and the morning sun etched the splendor of Mont Blanc against the blue sky, calling Marc to the slopes. His car responded magnificently to the challenge of the inclines and curves, and soon he was high into the mountains where he sped deep under Mont Blanc through a twelve-mile tunnel that opened into France and the fabled ski village of Chamonix.

  He took a room in a small hotel on the main street, theorizing that he’d be close to the action when après ski time rolled around later in the day. Although the village had only a light covering of new snow, the concierge assured him that conditions higher up were ideal because the cold weather had come unusually early this year. After buying a new ski outfit, gloves and a woolen cap, he rented the best demo equipment available, Rossignol skis and shiny new Koflach boots.

  Over the years, experience had taught Marc that many
a friendship could begin on a ski lift en route to the mountain tops, so he checked the line carefully, hoping to position himself with a fresh new female. But as luck would have it, he ended up sharing a gondola cab with two overweight Frenchmen who reeked of garlic and talked constantly in loud French, not a word of which he could decipher.

  As the lift rose higher and higher above the village, the concierge’s words proved to be very accurate. The snow appeared ideal. Although the base wasn’t deep, it was adequate, and the latest covering from the night before made a good skiing surface. Not surprisingly, however, his first run was a little shaky. After all, he’d made no athletic preparations for the ski season, and he’d spent the last week in a very sedentary activity, locked in a room by himself. But his next run was better, and he began to get the feel of the terrain. By the third run his full self-confidence had returned as his muscles started to remember the techniques honed in years gone by.

  This time in the queue he managed to share the gondola with a nifty-looking young woman. However, she seemed to be more interested in looking at the scenery than at him so, thinking that he might use his new fame to advantage, he removed his sunglasses that he’d carefully worn all day.

  “Hi,” he smiled.

  She looked at him and returned his smile. “Hello.”

  “Ah, you speak English.”

  “A little,” she acknowledged, but gave no indication that she recognized him. Apparently she hadn’t been watching enough TV in the last week or so, he inferred. So he casually slipped his sunglasses on again and proceeded.

  “Do you ski for a long time?” he asked, phrasing his question in condescendingly broken English, as if that would make it easier for her to understand.

  “I ski all my life,” she replied, “since I was four years old.”

  “Great. You must like it a lot.”

  “It’s all right,” she conceded with a shrug, “but I more like wind surfing.”

  “I’ll bet you’re good at that,” Marc led her on. “You look as if you have a strong body.”

  “That’s what my husband says,” she informed him with a totally straight face.

  “Your husband?”

  “Yes. I meet him at the top of the gondola. You like to take a run with us?”

  “Uh . . . ,” Marc extemporized, “actually, I’m supposed to meet somebody too.”

  So much for that.

  On the next run, he skied all the way down to the village, kicked off his skis, loosened his boots and had a fine luncheon at an outdoor café overlooking the main street. His attention focused on the pulchritudinous display of European women parading before of his appreciative eyes. There was something about women in ski outfits that turned him on; oddly, even though their bodies were covered from head to toe, they looked downright sexy. Was it that the heavy boots caused their hips to thrust forward? Or was it simply their aura of good health from being outdoors and exercising in the clean, mountain air? Whatever it was, the week of self-exile in the chapel had sharpened his appetite for both good food and good-looking women. Although some of his smiles were returned in kind by members of the passing parade, none gave him the opportunity of strike up a conversation.

  After stopping by the rental shop to have a minor adjustment made on one of his boots, he headed directly back up the mountain, realizing that he’d better get in as many runs as possible because once the sun dropped behind the western mountains, the light would grow flat quickly, and further skiing would be inadvisable, especially in unfamiliar terrain.

  On the way to the top, he decided to try a more adventuresome trail this time. Even though the slopes were much steeper, Marc was confident enough to enjoy the challenge. But after a few hundred meters, he came to a spot where the trail divided, and there was no sign to indicate which route led back to the village. As he looked around for some clue, he spotted a young woman lying casually in the snow, leaning against a tree, smoking a cigarette. She had carrot-red hair, he noted as he skied toward her.

  “Hi,” he said, thinking even as he said it that perhaps this opening gambit could use some improvement.

  She looked up at him with a provocative smile. “Hi to you too,” she responded in a heavy accent.

  “Oh . . . you speak English very well.”

  “So do you,” she replied devilishly, obviously aware that it was his native language.

  “I’m trying to get back down to Chamonix. Is that the way?” he asked, pointing to one of the trails.

  “Maybe.”

  “Oh, you speak English and you have a sense of humor too.”

  “If you say so,” she replied with a little laugh.

  “So what’s the joke? Is that the way or not?”

  “If you ski good. It is a difficult trail.”

  Marc eyed her up and down. From his angle, she looked to be in very good shape. “Can you do it?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Then I can do it,” he informed her. “Why don’t you lead me? I’ll buy you a drink when we get back to the village.”

  She hesitated a moment, then said, “Very well. If you can keep up with me.” She stubbed out her cigarette, then extended her hand for a lift out of the snow. When she was standing erect, he could see that she was petite; her head barely came to his shoulder, but she was in more than just good shape. Her Bogner one-piece suit displayed a mind-boggling figure.

  “I’ll keep up with you, don’t worry.”

  But it wasn’t as easy as he’d expected. As she started down the steeper of the two pistes, he could instantly see that she was more than a very good skier, she was superb. Not to be outdone, he took a deep breath and followed. Keeping one eye on the terrain in front of him, he could see her figure ahead, negotiating every bump and turn with impeccable precision. And she was leaving him behind.

  He pressed harder, taking a straighter line, but she continued to easily outdistance him until, reaching a bit of level ground, she stopped and looked back up the mountain toward Marc. He assumed that she was allowing him catch up so they could talk, but no such luck. Before he could come too near, she took off again down the slope, leaving him behind in a spray of snow.

  “Hey, wait up!” he yelled, but she was already out of hearing range.

  Several hundred meters further down the mountain, she took a sharp turn off the regular trail, into unskied territory that dropped precipitously down a rocky ravine. He stopped at the top and looked over into the chasm. It’ll take every bit of my ability, he thought, and even then I might not make it. But what the hell, he mused . . . my faith needs a challenge! And with that, he edged over the rim and into the abyss.

  The snow, clinging to the slope of the mountain, was interspersed with jagged rocks that protruded darkly out of the whiteness, seeming to dare any skier to come too close. He knew that in addition to these visible rocks, there were many others lurking just under the snow’s surface, waiting to catch a ski and tear it to shreds, sending the unwary skier into a tumble that could end God knows where. The best strategy seemed to follow exactly in her track, but that would require Marc’s ultimate skill because she was going down the mountain like a bat out of hell, and the only way to successfully follow was to approximate her speed.

  It was the most difficult skiing he’d ever tried, requiring his total concentration as well as every ounce of strength he could muster. The muscles in his legs, especially in his thighs, began to burn, and he gasped for oxygen in the high alpine air.

  As they dropped deeper into the gorge, they moved out of the sunlight, into blue shadows, where the temperature dropped suddenly and it was more difficult to see the quality of the snow. It became all the more essential to follow precisely in her tracks, but he was beginning to wonder how long he could hold out. His knees were taking a severe beating. He dug his poles hard into the snow, hoping to make each turn as quickly and neatly as she.

  Ahead he could see where the rocks thinned out and the angle of the terrain became less steep. If he coul
d just make it that far, he’d be fine, he muttered. Just a few more turns. She appeared to be slowing down, thank God, and Marc felt that he was going to make it. He was gaining on her, and he made no attempt to hold back because he didn’t want the space between them to seem too great at the finish. Full speed ahead he barreled, when suddenly she took a sharp turn to the right, and Marc’s ski caught an edge as he tried to follow her. Before he could catch himself, he was airborne, skis high over his head, his poles poking vainly into the air while she came to a quick stop and watched his ignominious tumble into a bank of snow.

  His face was buried in the dark whiteness, and he lay still for a moment to assess the damage. It was cold, but there was no stabbing pain from any part of his body, so he assumed that no major damage had been done. However, his skis hadn’t released, and he found them crossed in a position that made it impossible to move. Somehow, he managed to maneuver enough to raise his head and shake the snow out of his eyes. There she stood, looking down at him, giggling at his humiliation.

  “You buy me that drink or not?” she asked impatiently in a husky voice.

  “If you’ll stop laughing long enough to help me up,” he replied.

  “But you must first tell me your name.”

  “Now?”

  “Of course. I never go out with strangers.”

  “Marc,” he said obligingly.

  “Marc. That’s a nice name.” And she quickly kicked off her skis, slogged into the snowbank, and found the release on his skis. “There,” she said, grabbing his hand and pulling him to his feet.

  “You nearly killed me, you know,” he informed her as he shook the snow from his new outfit.

  “You said you were good.”

  “Not that good.”