The Cloning

  “Very cute.”

  “Careful what you say. Some of them might be able to read lips.”

  Rather than pursue the subject, Marc handed her the newspaper. “Everyone says the baby has got to be named soon.”

  “I heard about it on CNN,” she replied.

  “So?”

  “So nothing. Maybe the Pope should just go ahead and give him a name.”

  Marc mulled a bit on that idea. “It's a tough decision . . . even for a Pope. And your old man's raising Cain that the baby should be named after him.”

  “I know. He called me last night and yelled for a half-hour that he was the grandfather, so the baby had to have his name. Can you imagine Juan Geraldo Estobar y Madeira, Junior?”

  Marc smiled, then ventured that a last name might not even be needed in this case.

  “I'm not sure about any name,” Maria said. “Somebody will be upset no matter what he's called.”

  “We could just call him ‘Boy’ like Tarzan called his kid.”

  “This isn't funny, Marc,” she replied, suddenly quite tense. “I don't appreciate your jokes about it. Every time I turn around, half the world disapproves of whatever I do.” She reached for a magazine and shoved it to Marc. “Read that! A lot of people think I'm the new Mother of God. That's not an easy thing to be.” And she began to cry.

  Marc’s awareness of the people watching them became acute as he self-consciously handed her a tissue. “Here. Why don't you go to the back room until you feel better? I'll keep an eye on the baby.”

  That evening, the airwaves were alive with reports and speculation about Maria's weeping that had been witnessed by hundreds of people. Reporters pressed the Vatican to explain what was wrong, but the Vatican refused to make any comment. On the NBC Evening News, Brian Williams interviewed a psychiatrist who opined that Maria was suffering from postpartum depression, a very common condition with new mothers as their hormones adjust.

  Marc knew that it wasn't that simple. Maria was suffering from too much exposure to the limelight. She had found it difficult from the very start, but finally it had caught up with her.

  *

  That evening he made no mention of the event, but he was sure that Maria was aware of the stir she’d caused. He knew her so well now; he could sense her moods even when she tried to conceal them, and the next night in her dining room he could tell that she was very preoccupied throughout the meal. His first impulse was to give her some time alone, but then he worried that perhaps she shouldn’t be left by herself. When dinner was over, she thanked Sister Costanza, the nun who was pouring their coffee, then dismissed her for the night.

  “All right,” Maria announced with finality, “I have to name him tonight.”

  “The Pope’s not going to help?” Marc asked with surprise.

  She shook her head. “Monsignor Lissaro came to see me. He said that the Pope thinks I should name my own baby.”

  “Makes sense to me.”

  “So, I'm not going to bed tonight until it's done.”

  “Good idea. I'll get out of your way so you can concentrate,” Marc said, rising from the table.

  “No! I want you to help me. I can't make up my mind all by myself.”

  “You're sure?”

  “Positive. I need you, Marc.”

  “Okay.” He sat back down. “Have you considered any possibilities?”

  “Well,” Maria replied pensively, “I've thought about all of the apostles. But everybody's already used those names thousands of times.”

  “What about the Old Testament?” he suggested.

  “I thought about that too. But all those names remind me of some gruesome story, and this baby should be happy, even his name.”

  “What about calling him Jesus?”

  “That would get confusing, don't you think? I mean, you'd never know which one people were talking about. And Jesus Junior is no good.”

  “You could just make up a name. Like R2D2.”

  “You're not helping, Marc.”

  “Sorry,” he said with playful contrition.

  “Why don't we start at the top of the alphabet . . . go through every letter, see if some name comes to mind?”

  “Fine,” he replied. “Alpha.”

  “What?” she asked with an odd expression.

  “Alpha. 'A,' the first letter.”

  “Alpha?”

  “That's 'A' in Greek.”

  “I know,” Maria replied with growing excitement. “I like it. But I never heard of anyone being called that. It means first . . . the beginning.”

  “True.”

  “And he's the first cloned baby made this way!”

  “There’s no denying that.”

  “Alpha! Alpha!!” she tired the sound. “It’s great.”

  “You mean that’s it?”

  “Yes! It’s wonderful! Thank you, Marc. You're a genius!” she exulted, and without stopping to think, she threw her arms around him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. They both held their breath for a second, experiencing a momentary self-consciousness, but then Maria dispelled their discomfort with her exuberance. “My baby has a name. Alpha! I love it!”

  Fortunately, everyone else seemed to love it too. There was special rejoicing in Athens where the choice of a Greek word was received with ecstatic approval. Archbishop Dicopoulis sent his greetings to the Pope in Rome, and things were never rosier between those two factions of the Catholic Church.

  The next day, however, Maria received word that her father had disowned her for failing to give the baby his name. In addition to her refusal to appear for his hospital dedication, this latest slap in the face was the final straw for him. She was understandably hurt but not totally surprised, and appeared to get over it sooner than Marc expected. For all practical purposes, she was now an orphan, and it was clear that she leaned almost totally on Marc for emotional support.

  *

  Lying in his bed a few nights later, he pondered on exactly how he’d gotten himself into this avuncular role. He’d certainly not seen it coming. If he had, he wouldn’t have let it happen. Not that he disliked it; he was perfectly willing to be Maria’s uncle—or whatever—for as long as he was around. She’d turned into a nice young woman, but by all rights some priest should be her mentor, not him. However, he concluded, since things had worked out this way, he’d go along with it. He didn’t stop to consider where it could lead.

  CHAPTER 13

  More and more, their life began to fall into a pattern, admittedly an unusual pattern, but nevertheless a certain orderly series of daily events that, oddly enough, brought a sense of meaning to a unique existence. Maria and Marc took Alpha to the Vatican Viewing Room six days a week at the assigned hours and tried to proceed with their regular activities as if thousands of Peeping Toms weren't literally at their window, absorbing their every move. And oddly, even the presence of all those visitors began to assume less importance; at times, they could even be forgotten.

  Despite the expectations of some media mavens, Alpha failed to develop a halo. Nor did he have a beatific smile on his little face at all times. Sometimes he crunched up his tiny features into a most unappealing appearance and cried for no apparent reason, screaming at top volume until he’d managed to upset everyone within hearing distance. Only when he’d finished making whatever statement he was trying to make would he hush and happily return to his mother’s breast as if nothing had happened. His bodily functions were perfectly normal: on several occasions while being diapered, he let go with a stream of urine that gave Maria a good soaking. And, Marc noted cynically while changing Alpha’s diaper, his shit stank. The cloning had apparently succeeded in producing a standard, completely operative human baby.

  His normalcy was, of course, what made him so dear to Maria and Marc. They delighted in watching how his eyes began to observe moving objects, then soon began to focus so that he recognized and remembered what he’d seen. To elicit one of his smiles by simply appearing in his line of sigh
t was a joy. And to hold him close, to feel his warm humanity, was pure bliss. It was also, Marc and Maria agreed after a long day of dealing with the new Christ, pure bliss to put him down in his crib at night.

  Each night when Alpha finally slept, Marc and Maria would dine together in her quarters on beautifully prepared meals in the great tradition of Italian cuisine, always accompanied by a glass or two of excellent wine. Afterwards they’d watch a movie or play Canasta. Sometimes, when the weather allowed, they’d ask one of the nuns to keep an eye on Alpha while they took a stroll in the Vatican gardens.

  Marc occasionally mused at the odd picture they presented to the world: two adults whose only function was to look after an infant. And yet they felt quite content with the process. He understood Maria’s involvement perfectly: it was classic maternal instinct, nothing more. And for himself, he rationalized that his involvement was scientific; after all, he’d created this little bundle of joy single handedly, more or less. So why shouldn’t he be involved? Why shouldn’t he enjoy the fruits of his labor?

  One day while they were in the Viewing Room, Maria suddenly became excited at something in a magazine she was reading. “It says here that babies who are exposed to more colors develop better than those who don’t have that stimulus.”

  “Sounds reasonable to me,” Marc replied, not terribly interested in this bit of news because he was involved with his own reading at the moment.

  “Well, look at Alpha. He’s dressed all in white. And his sheets and blankets are white. This room’s almost totally white.”

  “So?”

  “So he’s not getting enough color,” she pointed out in a tone of distinct distress.

  Marc put his journal aside and looked around. Maria happened to be wearing a violet dress that day, and he was wearing a blue jacket and plaid shirt that had a number of subtle colors in its design. Marc pointed out that Alpha was exposed to those colors, then added, “And there’s a bouquet of red roses next to his crib with lots of green leaves. Seems like enough color to me.”

  “You haven’t read the article.”

  “You’re right, I haven’t,” he confessed and picked his journal to continue his own article on an interesting new development in DNA manipulation.

  “Don’t you care if Alpha has enough stimulus?” she demanded.

  Marc put down his reading again. “Sure, I care. But I think he’s doing just fine. He’s a very alert baby. There are lots of colors in this room if you’ll look carefully. And his nursery upstairs is blue. And his carpet’s wine colored.”

  “Yes, but he spends so many hours in here every day. Everything’s white! I think he needs some colorful clothes. Look at those fancy things he’s wearing. Nothing but white. He looks like he’s going to a Confirmation!”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you.”

  “Well, I am worried,” she persisted, “and I think you should be too. I think you should do something about it.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like go to Monsignor Lissaro and tell him that Alpha needs some cute play clothes like other children. Something in orange, or yellow, or green. He’s going to be crawling soon, and the next thing you know he’ll be walking, so he’s going to need something besides these lacy frills.”

  “There’ll be plenty of time for that.”

  “I don’t understand you. You really act like you don’t care a bit.”

  “Maria, they’ve gone to a lot trouble to design this place and to make it look special. And they must have spent a fortune on his baby clothes. I imagine they think that white’s suitable while he’s still such an infant. He’ll outgrow them soon enough.”

  “You’re forgetting that his psychological foundation blocks are being laid right now,” she insisted, referring to a phrase in the magazine article. “Obviously you don’t care, but I do! If you won’t go to Monsignor Lissaro, then I’ll go myself.” And she headed for the telephone.

  “Be my guest,” he concurred, surprised at her vehemence toward him on the topic . . . but aware that her behavior was easily reconcilable with the spitfire he remembered from last year.

  Unfortunately, the Monsignor wasn’t available immediately because he was with the Pope visiting other churches in Rome for most of the day. Maria appeared to take it as a personal rebuff and spent the afternoon virtually silent. At first Marc was annoyed, surprised that she’d turned on him with such alacrity. But after giving it more thought, he concluded that her behavior was just immature, not all that surprising for someone so young in such unique circumstances. Besides, in their sequestered state, he was the perfect target for any anger or frustration she might experience.

  Just as they were about to leave the Viewing Room, the Monsignor arrived in response to her message. He listened to her complaint carefully then admitted that the Vatican didn’t have as a great deal of hands-on experience with babies, but he saw no reason to doubt that the stimulus of some extra color would be beneficial. He promised to look into it first thing the next morning. Maria suddenly came out of her funk and for the remainder of the day behaved as if it hadn’t happened.

  A complete new wardrobe was delivered to the Viewing Room before noon the next day. The array of colors rivaled the rainbow, and Maria was ecstatic as she tried to decide which outfit to use first. Marc had to confess that Alpha seemed more animated when he was clad in a little yellow jump suit with all the letters of the alphabet appliquéd in various bright colors.

  The Monsignor even sent a little wind-up mobile, which Marc attached to the side of Alpha’s crib. Colorful little figures of a cow, the moon, and some stars made circles as the music box played an Italian lullaby continuously. It looked a little out of place in contrast to the intricate, artistic design of the crib, but the baby, whose dark brown eyes were totally focused now, was entranced, and so was his mother. When Monsignor Lissaro stopped by that afternoon, Maria gave him a hug of gratitude. “I don’t know which nun you sent shopping, but she did a fantastic job. Fabulous!”

  Lissaro gave her an indignant look, then beamed as he announced that he had done the shopping himself. “I wouldn’t let anyone else have the honor,” he announced proudly.

  *

  One morning about a week later, while Marc was still dressing, he had a call from Stephen Reilly who was passing through Rome for a night en route to a conference in Africa. After hearing about Marc’s newly domesticated lifestyle, Stephen asked, “How’d you like to put on your disguise and go out for dinner? Like the old days.” Marc jumped at the invitation.

  Late that afternoon, as he and Maria were leaving the Viewing Room, she informed him that she had a surprise for dinner. She’d come across a recipe for New England clam chowder, something that he’d mentioned as one his favorites, and she’d asked the nuns to prepare it for that night. When he explained that he’d already made plans to go out with Stephen, she stiffened, and looked at him with an expression approaching incredulity.

  “When did you decide that?”

  “He called this morning.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t know you were planning a special dinner,” Marc replied.

  “But we’ve been together all day.”

  “I’m sorry. I just didn’t think about it. I didn’t realize it would matter.”

  “That’s really thoughtless. You know we always have dinner together. And I’ve had the clam chowder made especially for you.”

  “It’ll save.”

  “Why don’t you ask him to have dinner with us?”

  “Because he’s already made reservations at some place special.”

  “Cancel the reservations.”

  “He’s only going to be here one night. And to tell you the truth, I’d like to get out. It’s been months since I was off the reservation.”

  “What about me?”

  “Maria, you’re welcome to go with us . . . if you want to risk it,” he replied, knowing full well that she’d never take the chance.<
br />
  “Forget it,” she snapped. “Just go ahead and have a wonderful time!”

  *

  In fact he did have a wonderful time. Stephen took him to a restaurant in the Piazza Navona, an establishment famous for its seafood, and the weather was so agreeable that they were able to dine outside where they could watch the fascinating parade of Romans at leisure. Marc wore a baseball cap, dark glasses, and a fake mustache that Stephen brought along for good measure, a disguise so successful that Marc felt truly relaxed.

  When he voiced surprise that Stephen was traveling without his boss, Cardinal Dugan, Stephen explained with obvious distress that Dugan was boozing more than ever. In fact, he’d been scheduled to attend the conference in Pretoria, but wasn’t up to the trip.

  “To tell you the truth, Marc, he’s very unhappy with the way things have turned out for him. He thinks he hasn’t gotten proper credit for the cloning.”

  “Credit? He was against it from the word ‘go.’ Remember when he tried to have me arrested?”

  “Of course I do, but he tends to forget things like that. He thinks he should be singled out for coming up with the idea of sending you to Turin in the first place.”

  “Tell him to get a good P.R. man.”

  “He’s got one,” Stephen replied indignantly. “Don’t forget that I majored in Communications as an undergraduate. But I can’t work miracles.”

  “He didn’t set you up to talk to me, did he?” Marc asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He knows I get along with the Pope. I thought maybe he’d like me to put in a good word.”

  “Good Lord, no. He wouldn’t ask you for a favor if it were the last thing he ever did.”

  “I’m still on his shit list?”

  “You might say that.”