The Cloning

  “Oh well,” Marc sighed, thinking of Maria, “I’m on a lot of people’s lists.” Although she’d come to his mind often during the evening, he had to admit to himself that it was refreshing to be on his own for a change.

  After desert, he was having such a pleasant time that he ordered a grappa, and then another even though he’d already had quite a bit of a fine Barolo. Stephen, noting the changes in his old friend’s behavior, specifically how laid back Marc seemed, commented on the fact that he hadn’t made a single attempt to contact any of the attractive women passing right before their eyes in the piazza.

  “Don’t tell me you’re suggesting fornication, Father!” Marc teased in mock horror.

  “God help me, no. It’s just that it seems so uncharacteristic of you. And I expect that you’ve been somewhat restricted, living in the Vatican.”

  “To tell the truth, I’ve been banging a cute little Swiss Guard, but don’t tell anybody,” Marc informed him. “He’s sexy as hell, except for his uniform. It’s a little musty.” Father Reilly’s eyebrows shot up, and for a split second he fell for it.

  “You’re a horny devil, Marc, but not that horny,” Stephen laughed. “Actually, it’s gratifying to see you slowing down a bit. I suppose you’re beginning to age just like the rest of us.”

  “I guess that’s it,” Marc agreed, thinking to himself that that was as good a rationale as any for the decline in his sexual appetite.

  *

  The next morning, despite a dull headache, Marc arose in time to appear in the Viewing Room on schedule. Maria was already there with Alpha.

  “Good morning,” Marc greeted her, meanwhile chucking the baby under the chin and smiling at his responsive smile.

  “Morning,” Maria mumbled back.

  “You’re still mad?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  He sat watching her for a few minutes, hoping that she’d say something, but she remained silent.

  “Did you have a good time last night, Marc?” he finally asked himself, then replied to his own question. “Oh yes, I had a marvelous time. I had a beautiful tre colore salad, and then linguini with clam sauce for my pasta course. And then Saint Peter fish with rosemary potatoes and braised fennel. For desert . . . what did I have? . . . oh yes, how could I forget? I had a fabulous chocolate tòrta with whipped cream. And espresso, naturally. Then I had a couple grappas, just to finish things off.”

  She was not amused.

  “And what time did you get home?” he continued his self-interrogation. “Oh, it must have been after midnight. Stephen and I started to go to a club, but I was afraid my false mustache might fall off if I danced too much. But it was a wonderful evening, thank you very much for asking.”

  She was still not amused, and by then neither was he. He picked up his International Herald Tribune and read it front to back. It took him another twenty minutes to finish the crossword, and then he tackled a stack of scientific journals that Nora had mailed to him.

  As they were leaving the Viewing Room that afternoon, he finally addressed Maria again. “Are we having dinner together?”

  “I’m not very hungry tonight,” she replied.

  “What about that clam chowder? Can we have the nuns heat it up?”

  “I told them to throw it away,” she said.

  *

  The next day, her silent treatment continued. Marc pursued his reading all morning, finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate when the tension between them was so intense. Something tickled the back of his mind, reminding him that somehow all this seemed familiar. And then he realized: the tension was exactly the sort he used to sense as a kid between his parents. It was a disturbing realization, not only because of the psychic sediment it stirred up, but also because he saw that he and Maria had drifted into a quasi-marital relationship. He rose, placed himself with his back to the window so his lips couldn’t be read, and said, “Look Maria, you can keep this up as long as you want. But it’s not accomplishing anything. And it’s not healthy for either one of us.”

  “Just leave me alone,” she said quietly without even looking in his direction. And he did exactly that, walking out of the Viewing Room and returning to his quarters for the remainder of the day. His unhappy mood was exacerbated by a newspaper article about a new controversy that had begun to brew over the fact that Alpha had no father, at least an earthly father. A movement had risen to have another world-wide lottery, this time to select a father for the baby, and of course Marc immediately sprang to many minds as a prime candidate. His blood ran cold when he saw his name mentioned in that context.

  That evening, he dined alone and ordered a second bottle of red wine, which he finished before rising from his table. Then he walked the floor back and forth, albeit somewhat unsteadily, and finally, in desperation, switched on the TV to a special satellite feed from the United States.

  The pro-father movement had naturally elicited some vociferous discussion. On the News Hour, Gloria Steinem, the feminist and author, was pitted against a leading sociologist from Columbia University, Doctor Louis Slocum. He insisted that the lottery would be grossly inappropriate in this case because there should be an emotional relationship between a mother and a father if there was to be any benefit to the child involved.

  “But you are in favor of ultimately finding a father for the baby, aren’t you?” Gwen Ifill asked him.

  “Unquestionably. It will be difficult enough for this child to have anything like a normal life under any circumstances, but without a father figure, his chances of making a healthy adjustment will be greatly diminished.”

  “Hogwash! Absolute hogwash,” Ms. Steinem proclaimed. “That’s an insult to the thousands of widows and single mothers who have raised well- adjusted male children over the centuries.”

  Trying to keep his composure, the doctor pointed out that Alpha wasn’t just any child and that, by definition, he would be raised in a totally unique way.

  “I’m not arguing that,” Steinem groused, “nor am I denying Maria Madeira the right to marry if she should so choose. But the very idea of foisting off a husband on the poor girl just because of some male chauvinistic idea that the baby needs a father is outrageous.”

  Ifill interrupted. “There has been some suggestion that Doctor Marc Solovino is the de facto father of Alpha because he was the person who handled the cloning . . . or the conception, if you will. How do you feel about that, Ms. Steinem?”

  “He’s certainly an eminent scientist, and he may be a perfectly fine man personally, but there’s no reason to assume he’d have any emotional ties to the baby, and without that, I reject the whole concept of selecting a father. Many women are doing just fine on their own, and so will Maria.”

  Marc found himself a fan of Ms. Steinem for the first time. Knowing Maria’s taste in TV, he didn’t think that she’d be watching the program, but nevertheless he realized that she was probably aware of this new controversy and might possibly be falling under the influence of those who wanted him to become the father of the child.

  It was clearly time for him to hit the road.

  *

  He called Monsignor Lissaro first thing the next morning and asked to meet with the Pope as soon as possible. Sensing that it was serious, the Monsignor managed to squeeze a meeting into the Pope’s tight schedule right away.

  Mark thanked the Pontiff for the meeting and then went on to say that obviously he’d never planned to take up permanent residence in the Vatican. He'd willingly stayed through the birth of Alpha because of his intense interest in the success of his experiment, and since then, Maria had twisted his arm to appear with her and her baby in the Viewing Room. As a favor to the Pope, Marc had gone along with it temporarily, but now it was time to call it quits.

  “Have you been unhappy here?” the Pope asked with clear concern in his voice.

  “No, that's the weird thing about it,” Marc replied. “It's been a great life.”

  “But you miss your work?”


  “Sometimes. I’ve managed to keep up with things in my field. But I do miss teaching my classes, the give and take of a regular life. I mean, I'd like to get my hands dirty working in my lab once in a while, or cruise down the interstate doing ninety in my new Ferrari, or go out for a beer with some of my colleagues back at Harvard.”

  “Have you set a date to leave?”

  “No. You see, I don't know what kind of a life I'll be able to lead if I go directly back to Cambridge. I sure didn't plan it this way, but I've become a celebrity too. It’s a pain in the . . . the neck.”

  “I've had my own problems in that regard,” the Holy Father confessed. “Fame exacts a dear price on those who wear its crown.”

  “So I’ve been toying with the idea of sort of going undercover for a while after I leave here, get out of the public’s eye, and then maybe I can quietly ease my way back into an academic role at the University next fall without making a lot of waves.”

  “I understand. I would hope, however, that you'll stay here as long as possible, because you're clearly helping Maria adjust to an extremely unusual existence. And by doing so, you are performing a great service to us. You're an integral part of a major spiritual renaissance that's changing the very shape of the Church.”

  “That's all fine and dandy, but as you know, that's not my aim in life.”

  “Yes, I do know,” the Pope said tolerantly. “Have you discussed your decision with Maria yet?”

  “No,” Marc said, feeling a pang of self-consciousness because he’d decided not to tell the Pope about their private problems. Somehow it just seemed too personal to discuss.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I dread telling her,” Marc hedged.

  “You're concerned about her, aren't you?”

  “Naturally. I mean, things have worked out so that I'm just about the only adult she relates to . . . on a regular basis. And it’s sort of, well, it’s unusual to say the least.”

  “How do you think she'll manage when you leave?”

  “I honestly don't know. She's changed a lot from the brat she was when I first saw her. Do you remember when she and her dad came for an audience with you?”

  The Pope lifted his eyebrows, looked heavenward, and nodded with a charitable smile. “But she’s matured since then, she's quieter . . . more understanding, don’t you agree?”

  Marc concurred that she’d grown up considerably. “But still, she depends a lot on me . . . too much, as a matter of fact.”

  “You feel responsible for her?”

  “Something like that, I guess.”

  “Perhaps you've changed too,” the Pontiff ventured.

  “I guess I have. But not all that much. It’s just that I wouldn't want anything bad to happen to her . . . when I leave. And I want to be sure that Alpha’s going to be okay too.”

  “He’s a wonderful child.”

  “That he is. But if I stay around too long, he’ll start bonding with me, sort of like I’m his father. And that’s no good. I’m not his father, and I never meant to be.”

  “But you've grown very close to both of them, almost like a family,” the Pope observed.

  “I suppose so,” Marc confessed, then hurried on, putting that thought aside quickly. “I want you to understand that I don’t have to catch a plane home tomorrow, but this is something that must be considered because it's got to happen soon. Real soon. And I thought you might have some thoughts on the subject.”

  “I have one suggestion that springs to mind immediately,” the Pontiff said. “Why don’t you get away from Rome for a few days, give yourself some time to look at your options from a fresh perspective?”

  Marc wondered if the Pope had intuited his recent difficulties with Maria. Even if he hadn’t, he’d immediately hit upon an idea that appealed to Marc. “I wouldn’t mind that a bit, but there’s the problem of being recognized,” he replied with a regretful expression.

  “I wasn’t suggesting a holiday exactly. I was thinking more in terms of a retreat . . . some place where you’d be given privacy and the quiet time you need for self-examination . . . to sort out your future plans. I could arrange for you to be a guest at some monastery for as long as you like.”

  Marc smiled reflexively, unable to imagine himself secluded with a lot of monks. “I’ve never been much for hair shirts and gruel.”

  It was the Pope’s turn to smile. “Not all monasteries are penitential. I could arrange accommodations that would be quite comfortable for you.”

  “I can’t picture myself getting up at four o’clock in the morning to say matins with the brothers. Praying not exactly my strong suit.”

  “You wouldn’t have to attend any services unless you chose to do so. It would simply be a place for you to give some quiet thought to your life. It might be very therapeutic for you to devote a week to yourself. And it would probably be helpful to Maria and the child as well, to have a taste of living without your constant presence.”

  Marc didn’t quite know why the idea was so appealing, but it seemed exactly the right thing to do at this moment in his life. “Okay. Maybe it would be a good idea,” he agreed.

  “I’ll have Monsignor Lissaro make the arrangements. I think you’ll be surprised how valuable a retreat can be.”

  “We’ll see,” Marc replied. “Thanks.”

  “And it wouldn't hurt you to say a prayer or two while you’re there,” the Pope suggested as Marc turned to leave.

  *

  By noon Monsignor Lissaro had arranged for Marc to go to a community of Benedictines near Sienna. “Maria asked about you earlier,” the Monsignor informed Marc as they walked toward the waiting car. “I told her that you were all right.”

  “Good,” Marc replied noncommittally. He had purposely avoided her because he didn’t want another unpleasant scene.

  “I’ll have to tell her where you’ve gone.”

  “Why does she need to know?”

  Lissaro hesitated a moment, obviously uncomfortable to find himself in the midst of a misunderstanding that was completely out of his usual sphere. “Because, otherwise she’ll be very worried. Neither of us wants that, do we?”

  “No, of course not,” Marc agreed.

  As the chauffeur held the door of the limousine, the Monsignor offered his hand. “Have a restful visit.”

  “Thanks,” Marc replied. “Thanks for everything. You’ve been very helpful all along.”

  Lissaro detected a note of finality in Marc’s tone. “I look forward to seeing you when you return.” Marc made no reply, only tilted his head in a way that implied uncertainty. “ I trust that I shall see you again?” the priest asked directly.

  “That remains to be seen. I’ve got a lot of things to work through.”

  “And if Maria asks if you’re coming back . . . ?”

  Marc got into the car, then looked up into Lissaro’s eyes. “How can I reply to that if I don’t know the answer myself?”

  CHAPTER 14

  The trip to Sienna through the rolling hills of Tuscany was more than just pleasant for Marc; it filled him with a satisfying sense of release. He’d not fully realized how confined he’d been in Vatican City until he’d left and was motoring through one of Italy’s most scenic areas, enjoying stunning vistas from behind the tinted glass of the unmarked limousine. After driving past acres of Chianti vineyards and through the picturesque town of Sienna, the car continued northward for another fifteen minutes until he was delivered to the gate of an ancient abbey where he was welcomed by the Abbot himself.

  Fra Gregory’s face was weathered to a nut brown like a farmer’s, and his gentle smile radiated a trusting, loving nature. He welcomed Marc warmly, adding that he had a special affinity for Americans because of generosity shown to his family by GIs when he was a boy. Then he led Marc directly to his “cell” which was, in fact, more like a small room in a modest but perfectly adequate motel . . . not nearly as austere as Marc had envisioned. Granted, it didn�
��t have the style that Cynthia or some other decorator would have added, but it was functional and clean . . . with a single bed, a chair, a desk, a private bath and a window overlooking the lush garden where the members of the brotherhood raised their own food.

  Fra Gregory gave him a schedule of the days’ activities, including Divine Office and meal hours, and told Marc that he was welcome to join as many or as few of the activities as the spirit dictated. After giving directions to the chapel and the dining room, the Abbot explained that he was due at a service and left Marc alone without further ado.

  Marc set about unpacking his suitcase, which required less than ten minutes. He glanced around the room, thinking that he’d catch the latest on CNN. But there was no television set. Nor was there a radio. And, upon closer inspection, he realized that there wasn’t even a telephone. As for reading material, he found nothing but an English version of the Holy Bible. At Monsignor Lissaro’s suggestion, he’d left his Kindle and lap-top behind.

  So, rather than read the Bible, he decided to do a little reconnoitering, impelled on a certain subconscious level to make certain that he wasn’t a prisoner. The heavy door to his room swung open easily, and he moved quietly into the tiled hallway where he could hear the faint echo of the service being chanted in the distance; he poked around until he found a door that opened onto a cloister leading to the garden.

  He walked along the beautifully manicured pathways, admiring the finely tilled plots, hoping that perhaps he’d see another human being, but suspecting that he wouldn’t since members of the brotherhood were undoubtedly in the chapel worshipping. The sun was beginning to meld into the western hills, and a gentle mist had infused the air, softening the focus of each detail.

  Walking further, he realized that it was more than just a garden. It was a small farm, designed to produce an amazing variety of vegetables. To the left, over the crest of a gentle hill, leading down to a small stream, was an orchard with an impressive number of fruit trees. On the opposite hillside were tier upon tier of impeccably trimmed grapevines.