The Cloning

  To Marc’s surprise, Maria showed no signs of embarrassment about these graphic depictions; on the contrary, she was so concentrated that no sexual connotations seemed to cross her mind. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that her pregnancy had nothing to do with sex—a highly unusual circumstance. Occasionally he’d glance at her and find it touching that she was so involved, so committed. Of course, he mused to himself, her level of commitment wasn’t too surprising since she was much too pregnant now to do anything else.

  Several classes later, Signorina Fonicelli introduced the concept of “focusing” as a means of helping deal with the discomfort of contractions. She also taught various methods of breathing to help handle increasing levels of pain as the baby pressed the cervical opening. She drummed them through the regimen repeatedly, “Uno, due, tre, quattro!” Marc was an integral part of this, learning how to advise Maria during the delivery process and helping her keep count. “Uno, due, tre, quattro.”

  There were, of course, amusing aspects to these procedures, but whenever humor threatened to raise its ugly head, Signorina Fonicelli quickly squelched it, reminding Marc and Maria that, “When the hour comes, there will be no time for smiling.”

  She also emphasized the necessity of the mother’s being in top physical condition to facilitate the birth process. She taught them exercises designed specifically to build the muscles required in the delivery. There were also exercises to stretch the pelvic “floor” in preparation for the birth. The Signorina insisted that Marc lead Maria through these routines for a half hour daily, counting out the cadences, “Uno, due, tre, quattro.”

  “Do we have to do it today?” Maria sometimes asked Marc. “I’m sure my muscles are in great shape by now. And I’m tired besides.”

  “When the hour comes, there will no time for smiling,” he reminded her with mock gravity. Maria invariably laughed and agreed to do the exercises if he’d do them along with her. Soon the Signorina’s merciless instance on repeating the drills over and over began to have its desired effect: Maria responded reflexively to Marc’s commands.

  He was also taught how to massage Maria’s back muscles to help with the pain of giving birth. She was particularly fond of this. “More, more,” she’d beg when they practiced massage. In addition, he learned how to support her shoulders and upper back to help with the actual pushing required to get the baby out.

  At their last class, Signorina Fonicelli came with a supply of small paper bags. “It is your duty, Signor, to make certain that you have a bag prepared for the labor.”

  “You mean, in case I get sick?”

  “No, of course not, Signor. In the case the Signorina begins to hyperventilate, she should breathe into the bag. This will prevent too much oxygen from getting into her head.” Fonicelli demonstrated with a bag over her own nose and mouth, growing red in the face in the process. Then she thrust another bag to Marc and instructed him to hold it likewise to Maria’s face and count with her.

  Marc followed her command to the letter, “Uno, due, tre, quattro,” but during the process, Maria—who was lying on an exercise mat at the time—looked up to him, and he noticed that her eyes were the same brown as roasted coffee beans, but with a particular sparkle in them today. He realized that she was laughing into the bag, afraid that Signorina Fonicelli would see her. He tried to conceal his own amusement, but it was useless; he couldn’t help grinning. This only intensified Maria’s amusement until she could no longer contain herself. She let out a whoop of laughter with such force that it burst the paper bag. It exploded with a bang. Marc guffawed aloud, and fell to the floor beside Maria, the two of them rolling hysterically in laughter. But Signorina Fonicelli was not in the least amused. On the contrary she was furious . . . and this only made Maria laugh more. The Signorina rose to her full height, reminded them one final time that “When the hour comes, there will be no time for smiling,” and left the room.

  *

  The Christmas tree in Maria’s sitting room was adorned with a treasure of Baroque figurines from the Vatican Museum. The Director personally selected them and even helped Maria decorate the thick boughs of the fir. She was aglow as the spirit of the season became more and more pervasive.

  “You’re like a little girl,” Marc smiled as she shook various packages under the tree and tried to guess what was in each one.

  “Christmas is my favorite time of the year,” she replied. “You get to do so much shopping,” she added.

  Of course, she was unable to go out to shop, but she took great pleasure in studying every available catalog and then ordering on line. She also asked Marc to make purchases for her when he sneaked into the city. She made a list of gifts for all the nuns who looked after her, for Monsignor Lissaro and other staff members, as well as the Pope.

  “What would you like?” she asked Marc.

  He thought for a moment before replying, “I’m pretty spoiled here. I can’t think of anything.”

  “That’s a big help,” she commented, then returned to thumbing through a catalog of men’s clothing.

  “What about you?”

  “I’m pretty spoiled too,” she acknowledged with a smile. “I’ll let you solve that problem on your own.”

  As it turned out, she’d already ordered some special steaks from Omaha, Nebraska, guaranteed to be the finest available, because Marc had commented once that European steaks taste different from American ones. She planned to have the nuns fix an entirely American dinner in his honor one evening.

  Marc bought her a digital camera, knowing that no matter how many professional pictures were taken of her baby, she’d want to take some of her own. He also bought a color printer and a huge leather-bound photo album with room for hundreds of shots.

  As the time for her delivery approached, Doctor DeFeo arrived from Boston to set up a delivery room in the Vatican infirmary, a provision that had never been required there previously. He too brought a present to put under Maria’s tree.

  On Christmas Eve, the Pope came to her room, along with Lissaro, Cardinal Nani, and Archbishop Bottero. The Pope brought a small gift that Maria shook curiously, then placed under the tree, assuring him that she wouldn’t open it until Christmas morning. When she handed the Pontiff his gift, his face lit up with delight.

  “You are very thoughtful, Maria. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

  “It’s not much. I mean, like, I couldn’t think of what you’d need. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. But don’t open it until tomorrow. Promise.”

  “I promise,” the Pope assured her. “Doctor DeFeo tells me that you will be delivered very soon.”

  “I hope so,” Maria smiled. “I can’t get much bigger.”

  “Is there anything we can do to make you more comfortable?”

  She hesitated, then asked, “Are you celebrating Mass tonight in Saint Peter’s?”

  “Of course. It’s Christmas Eve.”

  “Could I come to the service?” she asked.

  Her request surprised Marc, given that she’d never shown any indication that she enjoyed going to church, but on second thought he realized that it wasn’t so startling in view of the many ways she’d altered since he first met her. The Pope was also surprised, and even though he sensed how much Maria wanted to attend, he instinctively hesitated.

  “An excellent idea,” Nani volunteered.

  Bishop Bottero immediately saw this as an attempt on Nani's part to cause problems for Maria. Although Bottero had managed to contain Nani's murderous plans, the Cardinal continually sought subtle ways to make trouble for her indirectly without actually taking action himself, hoping in some way to discredit Maria and to circuitously achieve his ends.

  “If I may say so, Your Holiness,” Bishop Bottero interjected, “that could be very dangerous. If the congregation were to recognize her, there could be a public demonstration . . . or even a riot.”

  Nani visibly winced at this deliberate act of disrespect, but he managed to contain his rage. Agai
n the Pope hesitated, loathe to disappoint Maria. But Bottero’s sensible advice prevailed.

  “I’m afraid the Bishop is right,” the Pope said finally. “But if you like, I will hold a private Mass for you afterwards . . . in my own chapel.”

  “Yes, I would like that.”

  Cardinal Nani stepped toward the Pope. “It is nearly time for the service, Your Holiness.”

  “Yes,” the Pope acknowledged. “I’ll send for you later,” he told Maria, then turned to Marc. “And you’re welcome to come too, Doctor Solovino.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass,” Marc replied.

  The Pope didn’t press but simply nodded with an understanding smile, then left with his retinue.

  “I like him a lot more than I used to,” Maria said.

  “He likes you, too,” Marc replied. “But you surprise me.”

  “About wanting to go to the service?” she asked. He nodded. “When I was little,” Maria continued, “I went all the time with my mother. Then, when she died, I stopped because I was mad at God for taking her away. But now . . . now that I’m going to be a mother myself, it just seems like a good idea. Especially at Christmas.”

  Marc nodded. “I understand.”

  “Why won’t you go to the service?”

  “I’m not big on religion.”

  “Then why have you done all this?” she asked, indicating her distended belly.

  Marc shrugged. “To prove it could be done.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean, you don’t think the baby’s part of . . . part of God?”

  Marc was astonished at the question. They had never spoken of the religious aspects of her situation. Of course he recognized that she’d matured considerably since being impregnated, but he hadn’t realized that she’d grown this serious, that she’d begun to think in spiritual terms. That really was a change! “It doesn’t matter what I think,” he equivocated.

  She moved away, hesitated, then turned back toward him. “It matters to me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve been pretty stressed out over this baby, the whole routine,” she said, her eyes flashing in annoyance, “and if the guy who dreamed it up doesn’t think it’s anything special, then maybe I’ve made a mistake.”

  He’d never seen her like this. “It is special,” he said emphatically. “You’re carrying a baby made from your own egg that doesn’t have any of your own characteristics. He’ll be an exact duplicate of somebody who probably lived and died a couple thousand years ago. That’s never been done before. You’ll go down in history as the mother of the first human being ever cloned in that way.”

  Maria wasn’t satisfied. “I think there’s more to it than that.”

  “Like what?”

  She hesitated, then said in a quiet voice, “I’m not sure. But it’s like I was chosen for something more than just an experiment.” She stopped.

  “Yeah . . .?” he prompted.

  “I didn’t feel it at first,” she spoke deliberately, “but now I think this has all been planned out. This baby is, like, more than just the first one to be cloned this way.”

  Marc was beyond surprise now. He was flabbergasted. Was this the same girl he’d seen here a little over a year ago? The chain smoker who didn’t have time for an audience with the Pope? Could pregnancy be responsible for such a transformation? he wondered. He’d known a few pregnant women over the years, but he’d never observed such a radical change in their personalities. Her startling new conviction was so loaded that he wasn’t about to engage in an argument. If that’s what she wants to believe, then so be it, he thought to himself. Rather than comment, he just shrugged again.

  “You’ll see. I’m right,” Maria stated.

  To change the subject, he suggested that they take a walk, get some air.

  “I’m tired of the gardens,” she replied.

  “I’ve got a new place . . . very private,“ Marc told her. “And you’ll be able to hear the Christmas music too.”

  “Okay,” she agreed, “as long as it’s not too far. My feet hurt if I walk too much.”

  *

  “Wow! Look at the view!” she gasped.

  They were on the roof of Saint Peter’s, its great dome looming directly behind. Before them, the imposing statues of the saints lined the parapet, looking out perpetually over the square toward the city of Rome.

  “Take a look down there,” Marc said, taking Maria’s hand to lead her to the ornate balustrade along the front of the Basilica. Below, the two huge arcs of columns reached around the magnificent space like two enfolding arms, seeming to draw all the faithful into the embrace of the Church.

  “It blows your mind.”

  “I thought you’d like it up here. It’s open to tourists during the day . . . but tonight, it’s all ours.”

  “It’s so beautiful,” she whispered. “And look at the sky!”

  All along the horizon, the lights of the city tinged the edge of the firmament with the warm glow of humanity, then blended into a deep cerulean, and finally, overhead, the sky was almost black . . . punctuated by the stars and planets that sparkled nearly within reach.

  “Awesome,” Maria said. “When did you find this place?”

  “Actually, I was here the first time I came to Italy, when I was nineteen.”

  “Were you cute when you were nineteen?”

  Marc laughed. “I don’t think so. More like gangly. With pimples.”

  From the sanctuary below, the strains of Adeste Fideles could be heard, thousands of voices raised in unison to praise the Christ child. Maria held out her arms, turning slowly as if to absorb the fullness of creation in one panorama. Then she took Marc’s hand and said, “I want you to believe.”

  He tried to toss it off. “What difference does it make?”

  “It makes a lot of difference to me because you’re a very smart guy. And if you don’t believe, it makes me seem dumb to even think about these things.”

  “You’re not dumb.”

  “I’m not smart like you. I mean, you’re a really sharp character . . . a professor . . . and you, like, win awards and things.”

  He had no desire to get into this discussion, but it was difficult to avoid when everything she said was so deeply felt. He’d be willing to bet she’d never discussed thoughts like this to another living soul. In all likelihood she’d never even had such thoughts before. “We’re coming from two different places,” he began with some difficulty. “Me . . . I deal with physical things . . . cells, and molecules, and atoms. That’s where my head is. But you . . . you’re into a whole different trip. You’re pondering things that are metaphysical . . . or spiritual. That’s where you lose me.”

  “I guess I lose myself. I mean, these ideas are all so new to me. It’s like somebody’s been whispering things in my ear—secrets—and I don’t understand it all myself.”

  “Everybody’s got a right to believe what they want to believe.”

  Before she could reply, Maria’s eye was caught by something moving above them.

  “Look!” she pointed.

  Marc turned and saw it too. A shining object was moving through the sky almost overhead. It glowed like a star, only brighter and more reddish, traversing toward the horizon.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Marc shook his head, uncertain what they were seeing. “I don’t know, but it’s sure as hell moving.”

  “It’s getting brighter. Look!”

  Then it dawned on Marc. “Now I know. I read about it in the paper. It’s an old Russian satellite that’s falling out of orbit.”

  “It looks like a star. A huge star,” Maria said in awe, craning her neck to keep the object in view.

  “No, it’s just some metal that’s getting hotter and hotter as it enters the atmosphere.”

  “Which way is east?” she asked.

  “That way,” he replied, pointing in the same direction as the fiery path.


  Suddenly the sky became bright, almost as bright as midday. The object exploded with a blinding flash, like a giant flare, lighting up the whole city below with cold, white light. They reflexively shielded their eyes but continued to watch in amazement as the “star” subsided into a glow, moving further to the east.

  She turned to him. “What does a smart guy say about that? Does it look like a star in the east or not?”

  “You mean the Star of the East?”

  “Why not?”

  He smiled tolerantly. “I told you . . . it was just a satellite.”

  “Maybe you’re not as smart as you seem,” she replied, turning back to watch the glow sinking toward the eastern horizon. “It is Christmas Eve, after all.”

  “If you want to interpret it as the Star in the East, be my guest. I can’t swallow that.”

  Maria was silent for a few seconds, choosing whether to pursue the discussion. Then her body moved slightly as if a small spasm had shaken her. She took a deep breath, then put her hands to her abdomen.

  “You’re not going to believe this either, but I’m having a pain . . . like no pain I’ve ever had before.”

  He looked askance at her, then laughed. “Don’t you think you’re going a little far to prove your point about the star?”

  “No, this is for real, Marc. Honestly!”

  Something in her tone told him that she wasn’t kidding. “Let’s go,” he said, suddenly serious. He took her by the arm and quickly led her back the way they’d come.

  CHAPTER 12

  Her labor was unusually short for a first pregnancy. Just before the sun rose on Christmas morning, Maria was delivered of a healthy boy who weighted in at seven pounds and eight ounces. The sky echoed the sound of every church bell in Rome ringing out the glad tidings.