The Cloning

  After climbing through the vineyard, he turned back to observe the ancient abbey in the distance, caught in the last warm rays of amber light, mellowed by centuries of weather. The music had ceased, and he became aware of the faint gurgle of the little stream. Aside from that, the only sound was the ambient echo of the earth itself. It must have been exactly like this nearly five hundred years ago, he mused, when Saint Benedict’s new order was spreading across Italy and this abbey was founded. This is the simplicity my ancestors experienced, Marc speculated, the sights and sounds and smells of a verdant land that have changed little over the centuries. He breathed deeply, sat down on a moss-covered bench, and tried to imagine what day-to-day life must have been for those people. His ruminations transported him to a less complicated time when there was more opportunity to absorb the beauties of the earth, to quietly take pleasure in one’s own thoughts. As he lay back on the bench and looked up into the fading blue of the evening sky, time seemed to stand still. He closed his eyes.

  Someone shook his shoulder. “Doctor Solovino?” It was the Abbot looking down at him. “Are you all right?”

  Only then did Marc realize that the Abbot’s face was illuminated by the flame of a lantern. He sat up quickly. “I guess so. What happened?”

  “You must have fallen asleep. We expected you for supper; we were concerned.”

  Marc looked around, orienting himself in the darkness. He glanced at his watch and was amazed that it was nearly nine o’clock. “I’m sorry,” he apologized “I guess this place is more relaxing than I’d imagined.”

  Fra Gregory laughed. “You must be cold . . . and hungry. If you’ll come with me, I’ll find something for you in the kitchen.”

  Ten minutes later, Marc was digging into a casual but delicious repast of prosciutto, cold melanzane, a freshly sliced tomato in olive oil sprinkled with parsley and rosemary, and a thick loaf of bread, everything grown and prepared by the community . . . accompanied by a Chianti from their own vineyard.

  “Delicious,” he muttered between bites. “You must have a greenhouse.”

  “Yes, for some off-season vegetables. Our order has historically involved itself with agriculture. The bounty of God’s earth.”

  “I’m surprised that you know your way around the kitchen so well,” Marc confessed. “I mean, being the head honcho . . . the Abbot.”

  “This is my home,” Fra Gregory explained with a smile. “Perhaps you are not aware that each Benedictine takes a vow—in addition to the ordinary religious vows—to remain until death in the monastery of his profession. Doesn’t everyone know the kitchen in his own house?”

  Marc nodded his agreement but found it difficult to imagine being tied to one spot for life, even a spot as idyllic as this. “Did you travel much before you became a monk?”

  “I went to Rome once when I was a boy. But my family was very poor—from Montepulciano, just to the south—so I have remained with the land where I was born. I still work in the fields as much as time allows. And I will remain with the same brothers for my lifetime.”

  “Very different from the Vatican,” Marc observed, impressed by the simplicity of the monastic life.

  “You know the Vatican well?” Fra Gregory asked innocently.

  Suddenly Marc realized that the Abbot didn’t know who he was. He’d apparently welcomed Marc, based on vague instructions from some superior. Surely he’d heard about the cloning, Marc reasoned, but apparently he hadn’t kept up with the details of the story, didn’t recognize Marc’s name, and had never seen his picture on television or in the press. Just as well, Marc quickly concluded. “I’ve had an assignment there for a while,” he explained vaguely. The Abbot had the good grace not to press for details, and Marc was glad, concluding that if the head of the abbey didn’t recognize him, neither would any of the brothers. This might be a very pleasant change of pace, Marc decided.

  *

  And indeed it was keenly refreshing. He adjusted his eating habits to conform to the abbey’s schedule, so he enjoyed three hearty meals daily in the refectory where the brothers were quietly sociable but made no effort to draw him out or pry into his personal life. And, as he suspected, not one of them gave any indication that he knew Marc’s identity.

  Since he was not required to participate in any of their activities, Marc was free to observe the varied labors at which every member of the brotherhood toiled, each a necessary function that contributed to the overall life of the whole community. Some of the brothers went out each morning into the fields, others worked in the barns, some in the kitchen, and some of the older ones in the library. Yet, despite the variety of activities, ranging from hard manual labor to largely cerebral work, each brother appeared to perform his job with joy; Marc was invariably greeted with a pleasant smile and a friendly nod of the head when he moved among them.

  But at proscribed times, all other activities ceased and the monks gathered in the chapel to chant Matins, Terce, Vespers or Compline. At first, Marc was content to listen at a distance to the haunting hum of the music, but his curiosity got the best of him one night, and he quietly entered the chapel at Compline and sat at the back in the shadows. The brothers were so deeply involved in their worship that none of them seemed to notice his presence. The Gregorian chants were a far cry from the church music of Marc’s childhood; there was something nearly hypnotic about this, something of another world that seemed to elevate him into a state above and beyond his own body.

  He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the questions about his future. But his mind failed to deal with the uncertainties, failed even to articulate them clearly. He found himself ruminating about his parents, some of his teachers, colleagues at Harvard, about Nora, the Pope, Dugan, Lucassi, Nani, Alpha . . . on and on, a kaleidoscope of memories, impressions, and ideas. He’d never experienced anything quite like this, never dealt with a state in which his mental processes seemed to be going in all directions at once. His thoughts whirled as if a cyclone had grabbed his psyche; the only constant in the eye of this whirlwind seemed to be Maria’s face. Was this some sort of omen, or was he experiencing a kind of nervous collapse? No. No way was he that upset! This quandary could be forgotten with a snap of his fingers; all he need do was catch the next plane back to the U.S.A., and it would be a thing of the past.

  Not so quick! another part of his mind said. Something or somebody has really screwed up your head, and you can’t straighten it out just by catching a jet. Problems in one’s head tend to travel wherever the head goes. Maybe the best approach is to recapitulate all the events during the past year or so—all the steps that have brought me to this state—put them all in chronological order, then work backwards through causes and effects to get to the root of this unrest. But the scientific method failed, and again, all he could see was Maria’s face. She was looking very sad, very alone. He opened his eyes, quickly left the chapel, and walked aimlessly, ending up in the vineyard where he paced between the rows of vines.

  A few minutes later, he heard Fra Gregory’s voice calling his name. “Doctor Solovino? Are you all right?” Marc answered, and the Abbot was soon at his side with the lantern again. “I saw you hurry out of the chapel. You seemed to be upset.”

  “I guess I am,” Marc confessed.

  “Is there some way I can help you?”

  “I doubt it. I’ve just got some problems I have to work through . . . some decisions I have to make.”

  “Have you tried praying?”

  “Not really. I’m not the praying type.”

  “Prayer is different for different people.”

  “I know you mean well, but the truth is I’ve never had any luck with prayers. I could get on my knees and keep my eyes closed all night, and nothing would happen.”

  “It is not always as simple as kneeling and closing one’s eyes.”

  “I’ll just have to work things out on my own. Thanks,” Marc said.

  Fra Gregory took a deep breath and nodded that he appreciated wh
at Marc was saying. “Shall we go back to the abbey?” The two men turned and headed across the little stream, then up the slope to the building, which was now dark. As they stopped, each about to go to his own cell, the Abbot said, “I shall pray for you, Doctor. God will help you with your problems.”

  Marc wasn’t sleepy, so for want of any other distraction, he picked up the Bible and read—mostly from the Psalms—until he fell into a fitful sleep. Toward dawn he awakened with a start from a dream of Maria frantically calling his name. His first impulse was to rush to her side, to help her, but instantly he realized that she was many miles away. But was the dream some sort of message from Maria? he wondered. Was she in trouble? Had she actually called out for him at the exact moment he’d had the dream? “Get a hold of yourself, Solovino,” he muttered, realizing that he’d had an easily explainable dream . . . the result of his being separated from a person whom he’d seen almost daily for over a year. She was perfectly all right, he was certain. Even if she were in trouble, there were plenty of people to look after her—and Alpha—in the Vatican. But he couldn’t go back to sleep, and as soon as the sky began to brighten outside his window, he hurriedly dressed and located Fra Gregory who was on his way to chapel.

  “I need to make a phone call,” Marc explained. “Could I use your telephone to contact someone in Rome? I didn’t bring my cell phone.”

  The Abbot looked at him blankly for a moment, then explained, “I’m sorry, Doctor. We have no telephone here.”

  Marc was astonished. Admittedly, he hadn’t heard a phone ring since he’d arrived, but he just assumed that there must be a phone in the Abbot’s office, some means of communication with the outside world. “How did you get the message that I was coming? You were obviously expecting me.”

  “The parish priest from Sienna received the message on his telephone. He came and asked me to expect you,” Fra Gregory explained. “But if you must speak with someone, you may go into Sienna today when Brother Sebastian goes for the post. He will take you to the priest.”

  Suddenly Marc felt foolish. Why was he creating all this bother? He’d come here specifically to get away from the Vatican, to get some perspective, to sort things out about Maria. He needed the separation. “No. Just forget it. It’ll wait.”

  “If you’d care to write a letter, Brother Sebastian will gladly mail it for you.”

  “Thanks. Maybe I will.” But Marc knew that that would be a mistake too.

  Realizing that he had four days remaining on his retreat, days which could be difficult if he allowed himself to be drawn further into this miasma of confused thinking, he decided to put all such thoughts aside, to clear his mind totally and postpone any decision until he was thinking more cogently. He went to the garden and offered his services to a monk who was preparing the soil and planting rows of beans. It was the simplest of tasks, yet something that he’d never done, and so it required concentration. Bending down and working on his knees was backbreaking, but it served its purpose; he stuck with it all day and slept without waking that night.

  The next morning he arose at the same early hour as the monks, but instead of going to chant in the chapel he jogged around the complete perimeter of the abbey grounds. After breakfast, he went directly to the library where he located a number of books in English, and forced himself to read continuously until noon when he did a half-hour of weight lifting with some improvised weights from the blacksmith shop. In the afternoon, he joined the brothers in the fields and helped until he was ready to drop. After supper, he took a leisurely walk through the garden and was in bed, sound asleep, by the time the sun set.

  This routine succeeded partially in keeping his mind occupied . . . that is, until the last night. That night he dreamed for what seemed the entire night. Dreams of his parents, dreams of his childhood, dreams of priests punishing him, dreams of screwing dozens of women, but mostly dreams of Maria . . . holding Alpha in her arms.

  If he were to return to Boston and leave her in Rome, what would become of her? What kind of a life could she possibly have? Was it conceivable that she could find fulfillment, living the cloistered life she currently led in the Vatican? That seemed unlikely for such a young, vital woman who should by all rights have a normal family life . . . a loving husband, other children. But how could she possibly meet anyone suitable when she was living in a virtual vacuum? He toyed with the preposterous thought that some member of the Curia would be swept off his feet, give up the priesthood, and marry her. Not likely.

  And what about Alpha? Psychologists agree that the first four or five years lay the emotional foundation for every person’s life. So how would the boy grow up, being looked after by Maria and a bunch of nuns . . . his male role models some aging priests . . . and the Pope on special occasions? What kind of a freak would Alpha turn out to be under his current secluded circumstances? He needed a real dad, someone to take him on hikes, show him how to hit a baseball, teach him to swim and ski and shoot baskets.

  But if Marc were to remain in Rome, part of the little trio, what would eventually come of it? Would he marry Maria? That’s the direction things seem to be going. But what kind of a husband would he be? What kind of a couple would the two of them make? After all, there was a considerable age difference between them. But more importantly, would they turn out like his mother and father? Constant squabbles? Was their argument about his evening with Steve a precursor of things to come?

  Or would he find the constraints of marriage more than he could handle? What about all the babes he wouldn’t have? The Cynthias, the Janes, the Fredas, and all the others. All that great sex—proven sex—in exchange for an immature young woman who might—or might not—have the imagination to let herself go, to be really fulfilling in the sack. And even if the sex were good, would that grow stale after a while? Just one woman? Was he capable of being monogamous, or would his years of instant-gratification-bachelorhood prove impossible to change?

  And if he were to settle down with Maria, would he be an adequate father for Alpha? Could anyone be an adequate father under the present circumstances? It didn’t require a seer to figure out that Alpha was going to be a super-coddled kid unless things changed soon. Was Marc ready to tackle being super-dad?

  Also—and this was the last possible scenario that raced through Marc’s churning mind—did Maria want to marry him? Had he misinterpreted her recent possessiveness as a symptom of love, or might she not react similarly with any close friend? Sure, they had grown very intimate because of sheer proximity and isolation from the outside world, but did that amount to love? What if he were to suggest marriage, and she said no?

  He was roused out of his thoughts by an insistent knock on his door. It was Fra Gregory. “Your car will be here in a half-hour, Doctor. I have breakfast ready for you in the kitchen if you’d care to join me.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass this time,” an exhausted Marc said.

  The Abbot looked at him closely. “You look very tired.”

  “I didn’t get much sleep.”

  “I’m sorry. But I hope that your time here has been helpful . . . that you’ve been able to come to some conclusions.”

  “Yes . . . I think I have,” Marc replied noncommittally.

  *

  That afternoon Maria was in her bedroom playing one of Alpha’s favorite games . . . dangling a blue satin ribbon in front of him. Each time it moved before his eyes he rose to the challenge, grinned a toothless grin, and reached for it. With every passing day, his interests and abilities increased, giving Maria endless pleasure and surprise. Yet there was no denying that she felt lonely, that she wanted to share her pleasure with Marc.

  A young nun knocked on the door to ask if Maria would be dining alone. “Of course,” Maria answered, trying not to sound bitter. During Marc’s absence, she’d dined alone every night except once when the Pope invited her to join him and some visiting clerics for dinner in his apartments. Even though the Pope did his best to make her comfortable, to make the co
nversation light, to even crack a few bad jokes, the other guests seemed completely in awe of her. Their questions and comments were mostly obsequious, she thought, and she couldn’t help feeling as if she were on display. She’d rather eat alone with her baby in her lap than undergo that experience again.

  Alpha managed to grab the ribbon and pull it from Maria’s hand, giving him enormous satisfaction, and he laughed at the thrill of it. She held him close in her arms.

  “Oh, I wish your grandfather could see you, Alpha. He doesn’t know what he’s missing. Of course, I’m sure he’s seen your pictures, but that’s not the same as holding you and smelling how sweet you are. Oh well, don’t you worry about it because you probably wouldn’t like him anyway . . . he’s so mean. But maybe, by the time you’re older, he’ll change.”

  Alpha looked straight into her eyes, as if he were understanding every word, then he frowned and suddenly appeared about to cry. “You’re thinking about Marc, aren’t you? You miss him very much, don’t you? I miss him too. I don’t know why I was such a . . . so mean.”

  There was another knock on the door, a sharp rap. It was the same nun, looking overwrought. “Signora, excuse me. I just heard some bad news on the radio. Doctor Solovino was recognized on the Via Veneto, and there were so many people that he was crushed.”

  “Oh, my God! Is he all right? Where is he now?”

  “He was brought to the Vatican infirmary,” the young nun replied. “Shall I call there?”

  “No, you stay with the baby,” Maria instructed, handing Alpha to her and then running out the door.

  *

  Maria was frantic even though an infirmary nurse assured her repeatedly that Marc was not seriously injured. Finally, Doctor D'Annunzio, the medical chief of the Vatican, allowed her into Marc’s room.

  “Are you okay?” she demanded as she rushed in, just barely restraining herself from throwing her arms around him.