The Cloning

by Washam, Wisner

  *

  After being greeted by the Pope in a brief ceremony, Maria was escorted to her luxurious quarters. Her spacious salon and dining room overlooked the Square, while her bedroom and the adjoining nursery faced the rear where there was total quiet and a breathtaking view of the Vatican gardens. A breeze wafted the soft fragrance of flowers through the windows. She was introduced to a retinue of nuns who’d cook whatever she desired, do her laundry, clean her suite of rooms daily, and look after her every need. Marc couldn’t help smiling to himself and thinking that the princess was now a queen. He was given more modest but equally comfortable living space on the floor beneath her.

  Meanwhile Bishop Bottero had taken the precaution of alerting Vatican security that anonymous threats had come to his attention against Maria, and thus all of her food and beverages must be carefully monitored to avoid the possibility of poisoning or administration of some drug to bring on a miscarriage. Without naming names, the Bishop discreetly pointed out that there conceivably might be a party or parties within the hierarchy of the Church who would want to do her harm, so even Nani was unable to circumvent the close security that quietly but thoroughly enveloped Maria and her embryo.

  Although she was treated like royalty, pampered and made over constantly, Maria felt increasingly unattractive as she grew more obviously pregnant with each passing week. She hated wearing maternity jeans, so she gave them up for the duration, opting instead for a wardrobe of exquisite maternity dresses provided by the finest Italian couturiers. Her spacious armoires were filled with an array of fine cotton, silk, and soft wool outfits in a multitude of colors and styles. Gucci furnished her shoes and accessories.

  “This is a little old for me, don’t you think?” she asked Marc one day when she was wearing a new linen dress in dark blue with a white lace collar.

  “It looks fine to me,” he replied. “After all, you’re not a teen-ager any more. And you’re gonna be mother soon.”

  “True,” she said as she turned to check the hemline in a mirror. “Wonder what Jennifer and Lucy would say if they could see me now.”

  But no matter how luxurious Maria’s new life-style, the loss of freedom to go wherever she wanted, whenever she wanted, still galled her. Admittedly, she was free to roam the hallways of the Vatican, to visit the Sistine Chapel when it was closed to visitors, and to take walks in the magnificent gardens, but she couldn’t help noticing the rooftops of Rome beyond the walls. She remembered the fabulous shops along the Via Veneto, the little boutiques in the hotel where she and her father had stayed on her last visit to the Eternal City, the wonderful restaurants, and the discos that throbbed into the wee hours of the mornings. All those pleasures were only a stone’s throw away, yet she couldn’t enjoy any of them. She confided her frustration to Marc.

  “I’m sure that we can arrange an outing for you,” he said.

  “How?” she demanded.

  “The Vatican could set up a private visit to any place you want.”

  “That sounds like a barrel of fun!” she replied. “I mean, who ever heard of a private disco?”

  “I’d be happy to go with you,” he teased.

  “Thanks, but a disco without a crowd would be a bummer. Half the kick’s watching other people.”

  Her point was valid, Marc realized . . . too valid. In the intensity of the cloning process, no one—least of all himself—had considered the side effects of the mother’s being turned overnight into a super-celebrity. He’d read, of course, about the disastrous results some youngsters experience when they’re catapulted into show biz stardom with little or no preparation. Many of those young people act out their problems in various self-destructive ways, but at least they’re able to act out. Maria’s case was even more stressful because—due to the religious nature of her “stardom”—she has to maintain strict decorum . . . her outlets for release are all virtually cut off. And it will be like this for the rest of her life in all likelihood. If she were dwelling on similar thoughts, however, she never brought them up, and Marc certainly didn’t mention it. Instead, he did everything in his power to distract her from the sense of confinement. With the Pope’s blessing, he arranged access to the Vatican Museum after hours, but this was only moderately successful because her interest in antiquities was limited.

  He arranged for the latest Hollywood movies to be shown in the private screening theatre, and if the films’ stars happened to be in town, they readily came to the Vatican for the opportunity of meeting Maria. He hoped that she might find rapport with some of these celebrities, especially the younger ones. But the specialized mentality of most of the celebrities was totally foreign to her, and more often than not their conversations were stilted if not downright awkward, leaving Maria feeling more estranged than before.

  Marc discussed her feeling of deprivation with Monsignor Lissaro who shared his concern and offered to have her driven around Rome in an unmarked limousine with tinted windows. Even though she wouldn’t actually be mixing with the public, this might give her the impression of being with people, Lissaro reasoned. But, to Marc’s surprise, Maria refused the offer because she feared that somehow she might be recognized. Despite her complaints, she was terrified of another experience like the one in the mall.

  “After the baby comes, we’ll go out,” she said in a tone that led Marc to infer that she was again thinking more of her baby’s safety than of her own.

  *

  A possible diversion came from an unexpected direction. Word arrived that her father was planning a visit, and—despite the mutual annoyance that tarnished their relationship—Maria’s spirits were rejuvenated in anticipation of his appearance. But shortly after the Generalissimo arrived, it became apparent that he hadn’t come simply to see his daughter. He’d come to take her back with him to Santo Cristo for the groundbreaking of a new hospital.

  “It’s going to be named after you, Maria,” he beamed proudly.

  “I’m sorry, Papa, but I can’t go now.”

  “Of course you can. I just want you there for the dedication . . . to lay the cornerstone.”

  “I can’t, Papa. It’s dangerous for me to fly now. Can’t you see, I’m more than six months pregnant?”

  “Then we’ll take a ship,” replied the Generalissimo reasonably.

  “That would take too long. And besides, there are no ships to Santo Cristo except banana boats.”

  “I’ll rent a yacht,” he offered, his countenance clouding.

  Maria shook her head. “The Pope would never allow it.”

  “I’m your father, not the Pope!”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier,” she demanded, “when I was still able to fly?”

  “Because I have a country to run! Don’t you understand what a busy man I am?”

  “Too busy to think about anybody but yourself.”

  “I’ve already announced that you’ll be there for the ceremony!” he shouted, his expression growing increasingly stressed.

  “That’s tough.”

  “Do you want me to have a revolution?”

  “That’s your problem,” Maria snapped. “I’m not going to risk my baby for you or anybody else.”

  “You think you’re too good for your own father, don’t you? Now that you’re living like a queen in your castle?”

  “I’m thinking no such thing. I’ll come to dedicate the hospital after my baby’s born . . . not a minute before!”

  Marc happened to be coming to check on Maria when he heard their raised voices from the corridor outside. Rather than leave her alone with her father, he made a snap decision and knocked.

  She responded immediately. “Come in!”

  “Can I help?” he offered from the doorway.

  “Yes!” the Generalissimo shouted. “You can leave us alone. This is all your fault anyway!”

  “No, don’t go!” Maria countered instantly. “I want you to stay,” she said, then turned to her father. “Don’t you dare try to blame this on an
ybody else. Marc could have gotten somebody else to carry the baby—there were plenty of women who really wanted to do it—but you bribed me to take the job. Well, you got your way, so don’t make any more trouble for me, all right? I’ve told you I’ll come to Santo Cristo later. That’s all I have to say.”

  Marc held the door open. The Generalissimo glared at him, then gave Maria a withering look, and stalked out.

  She turned away, trying to hide the tears welling up in her eyes. Marc quietly closed the door and moved to her. “I’m sorry,” he offered.

  “Why is it that I forget every time what he’s like? I look forward to seeing my father . . . and then it always turns out the same.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “No. I just wish my mother was alive.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “And I wish my father was dead!”

  “Really?” Marc asked gently.

  She swallowed hard. “No, not really. I just wish he liked me for what I am . . . instead of what I can do for him.”

  Unable to fight it back any longer, she began to sob. Marc moved closer and quietly held her until there were no more tears.

  *

  Over the course of the next few days, he noticed that Maria wasn’t as interested in food as she had been, and her eyes sometimes had a far away look. Fearful that her somber mood might become habitual and reverse the progress of her orientation, Marc intensified his efforts to divert her. He purchased an X-Box with every conceivable video game, and this kept her occupied for a few weeks while she mastered each one. She possessed a fiercely competitive streak and took great pleasure in challenging Marc once she’d learned the intricacies of the games. There was no denying that her eye/hand coordination was phenomenal, and he was no match for her.

  Soon the newness of the games began to wear off, however, and he realized that he must come up with another diversion. He acquired an elaborate hi-fi outfit, complete with an expansive selection of the latest pop CDs, but she played it at such a volume that members of the Vatican staff were distracted and were often kept awake at night. It even disturbed the Pope in his quarters, so Monsignor Lissaro gave her the latest Bose sound silencing earphones and tactfully suggested that she could hear the music more clearly that way. Maria understood his unspoken message and used the gift daily, but Marc couldn’t help noticing how alienating the earphones were, entertaining the listener while simultaneously isolating him or her from everyone else.

  On a foray into Rome, Marc—in disguise—was browsing through an English bookstore when he came across The Book of Games, which contained rules for every conceivable game of cards. Hoping to find a new diversion for Maria, he purchased it, and while thumbing through it on the way back to the Vatican, he noticed the rules to Canasta, a game his grandmother had taught him when he was a kid. A Spanish name might appeal to Maria, he reasoned, and that night after dinner he taught her to play. She became an instant Canasta addict.

  For reasons he couldn’t explain, the game gratified her totally, and she wanted to play constantly. Perhaps it was the sluggishness of the process, Marc mused one afternoon when a game had dragged on and on for hours; maybe her joy at playing for such inordinate lengths of time had some psychological parallel with the glacial progress of her pregnancy.

  She tried to persuade members of the Vatican staff to play the game with her too, but they usually begged off on the grounds that they had duties requiring their attention. So Marc, whose only “duty” was to look after Maria, became her constant opponent. They began to keep a running account of their wins and losses, and even though she gained a slight edge from time to time, the tally was more balanced than their video game competitions. Still, she simply couldn’t get enough of Canasta. He couldn’t count the number of times she’d pleaded, “Just one more game, Marc. Please. Don’t be a dweeb.” And he always relented because it was good to see the sparkle in her eyes again, to see her cheeks flush when she was able to meld right away and then leave him holding a large handful of cards.

  Her discovery of Canasta came at a propitious time because Maria was growing quite large and was inclined to stay in one spot rather than move about frequently. Of course, she continued doing her daily exercises in the small gym that had been set up near her quarters. Often she and Marc would swim in the indoor pool where she always bemoaned the loss of her girlish figure, but he assured her that she was still quite attractive. And they took a daily walk in the Vatican gardens, but the walks grew shorter because the weather began turning much cooler.

  *

  “Why don't you just jump on a plane and come over?” Marc asked Nora. “Maria and I would really like to see you.”

  “I'd love to,” Nora replied, her voice as clear as if she were telephoning from the next room, “but Thanksgiving's coming up, and I've promised to help out with a dinner for the homeless.”

  “I'd almost forgotten about Thanksgiving. Why don't you come over for Christmas?”

  “I wish I could, Marc, but I've promised to spend it with my daughter in California. You know I have to grab any time she's willing to give me.”

  “I understand.”

  “I'll plan to come soon after the baby's born, okay? Or will you still be there?”

  “I haven't made any commitment one way or another. We'll just wait and see how Maria adjusts to motherhood. Are they still missing me in the Department?”

  “Of course they are. But the University's muddling through, or at least it hasn't closed its doors,” Nora teased. “Actually, Professor Swanson was asking about you just yesterday.”

  “Tell him to give my best to everybody there.”

  “I shall. Oh, by the way, Cynthia stopped by last week just to say hello.”

  “Hello to who? You or me?”

  “Me,” Nora replied in a regretful tone. When Marc made no comment, she continued, “How's your social life? Have you made any new conquests since you've been there?”

  “A few nuns. That's about it,” he quipped. “To tell the truth, I spend most of my time with Maria.”

  “I see. Is that as difficult as you thought?”

  “No, actually it isn't. She's not as hard to handle as she used to be.”

  “Maybe you're just getting used to her.”

  “Whatever. But it's a good thing I came along. Otherwise I think she'd be bonkers by now.”

  “Keep up the good work. And give her my love.”

  “I will. And we'll look forward to seeing you soon.”

  After Nora hung up, she couldn't help remarking to herself how often and how casually Marc had referred to “we.” And how relaxed he sounded.

  CHAPTER 11

  Doctor DeFeo flew regularly to Rome to keep tabs on Maria’s progress. After his visit in November, he spoke privately with Marc.

  “She’s coming along very nicely. Everything appears to be perfectly normal.”

  “Great.”

  “You’re doing an admirable job of keeping her spirits up. She speaks of you almost as if you were part of her family.”

  “We spend a lot of time together,” Marc acknowledged.

  “That brings me to my point,” DeFeo said. “I’d like very much for her to deliver by natural childbirth if possible. It’s much better for the baby.”

  “Then I’m sure she’ll do it. That’s the most important thing in her life now.”

  “Good. Maybe you’re not aware of the Lamaze method of natural birth, but it’s a joint endeavor, usually shared by the mother and the father. The father ideally acts as a coach, helping the mother direct her energies . . . assisting her through the birth process in a way that no physician or nurse could do. And in those cases where there’s no father available, someone else who’s close to the mother is pressed into duty.”

  “I’ll be glad to help, if that’s what you’re leading up to,” Marc assured the doctor. “I wouldn’t want to miss the delivery after waiting this long.”

  “There’s more involved than just t
he delivery. You see, there’s a training period involved in which the two parties learn together what to expect during the birth process. Ideally, classes should start about six weeks before the birth. It’s a fairly intimate process, but I think you’d be ideal for the job if you’re willing to devote the time.”

  “Hey, I’ve got nothing but time,” Marc laughed. “Like Maria’s father said, I’m responsible for this. So I might as well see it through to the end.”

  Maria was pleased when Doctor DeFeo introduced the idea to her.

  “You’ll need someone you trust implicitly for your coach,” he explained to her, “so if Marc’s not the person for the job, you just say so. It can very well be another woman . . . one of the nuns . . . even one of your schoolmates, as long as it’s someone you trust to see you through the delivery.”

  “I can’t think of anybody I trust more than Marc,” she said without a moment’s hesitation.

  Doctor DeFeo located a Roman woman who’d been trained in the Lamaze method of natural childbirth, and turned the training over to her.

  *

  Signorina Fonicelli was a heavyset, single woman with a light mustache. Dour in the extreme, she’d apparently chosen her profession for vicarious reasons: it brought her closer to giving birth than she was likely ever to come on her own. The truth was that, in addition to being humorless, she was singularly unattractive physically, and so it was a good guess that at her age—somewhere in the neighborhood of forty—her chances of marriage were remote. Although she was deeply impressed by the honor of preparing Maria for the birth, Signorina Fonicelli didn’t allow that to modify her authoritarian approach to her subject. She demanded total and exact attention to every detail from both Maria and Marc. Each of her routines was taught to a count, and no deviation was allowed. “Uno, due, tre, quattro,” were her bywords.

  Classes were held twice weekly. Signorina Fonicelli began with the basic physical principles of the female physiognomy as it related to giving birth. She showed diagrams, which illustrated how the baby was positioned in the womb, how the cervix expanded to make ready, and finally how the baby was pushed through the vagina, followed by the umbilical cord and the placenta.