by John Case
The only natural illumination came from a row of windows high along one wall. But there wasn’t much of it. The winter sun was anemic, and so angled that it lightened the gloom of the ceiling without ever reaching the floor. Nor were the candelabra of much help. There were only a few, and none of them held candles: in their place, small electric bulbs flickered and twitched in the darkness.
They did not look like flames.
Closer to him, halfway up the nave, a bank of votive candles guttered beneath a dark statue. Lassiter took a seat in a pew near the back and waited for his eyes to adjust.
Slowly, the dimensions of the church came into focus. It was surprisingly large. And now he could see that a little crowd was gathered near the altar – vague forms and ghostly patches, bits of white clothing that moved and shifted in the dimness. A baby’s sharp wail told him that he was watching a christening.
A few minutes later the ceremony ended and the crowd made its way in a procession down the aisle, led by the mother and her shrieking child. The priest brought up the rear. He was tall, and his head bobbed above the others like a pale balloon. As he passed – a man in his forties with brown curly hair, a strong chin, and an aquiline nose – their eyes met, and Lassiter was reminded of someone. But who? If the priest hadn’t been so thin, so very gaunt, he might have been handsome. But he wasn’t. There was something ungainly about the way his features came together. And then it hit him: the priest was Ichabod Crane, at once haunted and long-suffering.
For ten minutes the anteroom behind Lassiter bubbled with Italian voices and shrieks of laughter, even as the baby screeched, furious and inconsolable. And then, the sounds of departure: the precise smacking of lips that went with the European double kiss of hello-and-farewell. The muffled abrazos of the men, their voices raised slightly in departure, a little more formal or jolly than normal.
He heard the door to the church creak open, and a rush of cold air swirled at his ankles. For a moment daylight lifted the gloom. There was the shuffling of feet, the tapping of women’s heels, receding voices. He imagined the priest out on the steps, bidding farewell.
And then he heard the door again and, suddenly, the priest was walking past him, down the aisle. Lassiter got to his feet as he heard himself say, in what seemed a booming voice: ‘Scusi, padre!’
The priest turned. ‘Si?’
Lassiter’s Italian was exhausted. ‘Can I talk to you for a minute?’
Father Azetti smiled. ‘Of course,’ he said in nearly unaccented English. ‘How can I help you?’
Lassiter took a deep breath. He didn’t know where to begin. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said, ‘but – I’m staying at the pensione and – I was told you were a friend of Dr. Baresi’s.’
The priest’s smile faded and he became very still. He looked at Lassiter with the wariness of an eyewitness. Finally, he said, ‘We played chess.’
Lassiter nodded. ‘That’s what I heard. And . . . actually, I was interested in his clinic.’
‘It’s gone.’
‘I understand that, but . . . I was hoping we could talk.’
The door to the church groaned, and a gust of freezing air rolled across the floor. A woman in black clothing materialized a few feet away, crossing herself as she walked down the aisle. Lassiter and Azetti watched her as she stepped into a pew, knelt, and began to pray.
Azetti looked at his watch and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I have confession until two.’
‘Oh,’ Lassiter replied, disappointed.
‘But if you’d like to wait . . . or come back . . . we could talk in my rooms. They’re just next to the church.’
Lassiter was grateful. ‘I’ll walk around,’ he said. ‘See the sights.’
‘As you like,’ Azetti replied, and walked toward a dark shape at the end of the aisle. The structure reminded Lassiter of a curtained armoire, but deeper, and when the priest ducked inside, he knew what it was: the confessional.
Two hours later Lassiter and Azetti sat in the priest’s study, sharing a pasta dish that one of the parishioners had brought to the church. Lassiter decided he must have been wrong about the priest’s initial wariness, because Azetti proved a good host. He cut some slices of crusty bread, and poured each of them a glass of wine. He drizzled olive oil onto the bread and sprinkled it with salt and pepper. Meanwhile, Lassiter sat with his back to the electric fire, warming himself.
‘So,’ the priest said, ‘you came for the clinic.’
Lassiter nodded.
‘Well, if you’ve seen it, you know what happened.’
‘I was told it was arson.’
Azetti shrugged. ‘It was closed anyway. Still, it’s a pity. We’ll not see another one like him, not in our lifetimes.’
‘Who do you mean?’ Lassiter asked.
‘Dr. Baresi. He was a very talented man. I’m hardly an expert, but I’m told his success rate was phenomenal.’
‘Really?’ Lassiter said, encouraging the priest to continue.
‘Yes. I think it was because he was not only a physician, but a scientist as well. Did you know that?’
Lassiter shook his head.
‘Ah, well! Then you didn’t know Baresi! He was many things,’ Azetti said. ‘A genius! Even so, I can tell you that I beat him at chess – quite regularly, in fact.’
Lassiter laughed.
‘I think I made so many mistakes, he couldn’t anticipate my moves,’ Azetti confided. ‘He used to complain that I was ruining his game. More wine?’
‘No thanks,’ Lassiter said. He liked this man.
‘His father, grandfather – the whole family – they were all rich. Politics and construction. Very corrupt – even for Italy. So he never needed money. Didn’t need to work. But he studied. Genetics in Perugia, biochemistry at Cambridge. Cambridge!’ Azetti poured himself a second glass of wine, dipped a crust of bread in it, and nibbled at its edges. ‘He worked for one of those institutes in Zurich – won a medal, or some such thing.’
‘For what?’
‘I don’t know – research. But, of course, he gave up on all of that –’
‘All of what?’
‘Science.’
‘You mean, he went into medicine,’ Lassiter said.
Azetti shook his head. ‘No – that was even later. First, he studied theology. In Germany. Wrote a book. In fact, I have it right here.’ Without looking, the priest reached into the bookcase behind him and extracted a thick tome. He pushed it across the table.
Lassiter opened the book, glanced at the title, and shook his head. ‘It’s in Italian,’ he said, instantly regretting the stupidity of the remark.
Azetti smiled. ‘It’s called Relic, Totem, and Divinity.’
Lassiter nodded and pushed the book to the side.
‘He was quite an authority,’ Azetti added.
‘Really,’ Lassiter said without much interest.
‘Oh yes.’
‘This pasta’s delicious,’ Lassiter said. The conversation was getting away from what he’d come to discuss – the Clinica Baresi – and he wasn’t sure how to get it back on track.
‘Baresi related the power of relics to certain, very primitive, religious instincts. Animism, ancestor worship, that kind of thing. The same instinct that provoked a tribesman to eat the heart of his enemy – so he’d absorb the man’s power – prompted Christians to believe that a saint’s bone, or more often, a splinter of bone, carried in a little bag, could protect them from disease.’
‘Sounds interesting,’ Lassiter said, without sounding interested.
‘Oh, it really is. I recommend it. It’s all about sympathetic magic – but then, some would argue, so is receiving communion.’
‘How’s that?’ Lassiter asked.
Azetti shrugged. ‘We eat and drink the flesh and blood of the Lord. To the faithful, that’s a sacrament. To others . . . it’s something else. Magic, perhaps.’
‘Sounds controversial,’ Lassiter said.
The pries
t smiled. ‘Of course. But Baresi didn’t mind. His credentials were impeccable. And he was well thought of by the Vatican.’
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely. The Vatican used him all the time.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘To test relics. If an artifact was questionable, Baresi was brought in and asked to take a look. Most of the time, it was a simple matter. If a splinter of “the true cross” turned out to be teak . . . or if a fragment of St. Francis’s scalp had the DNA signature of an ox . . . You’re familiar with the Shroud of Turin?’ the priest asked, referring to the linen cloth that some believed was Christ’s burial shroud.
‘Sure,’ Lassiter said. ‘Everyone is.’
‘Well, there you are! Baresi was one of the scientists who examined it.’
‘I read somewhere or other that it turned out to be a fake.’
Azetti frowned. ‘That’s what they say. “A nice piece of thirteenth-century linen.” They say Leonardo made it. They say it’s the world’s first photograph.’
‘What did Baresi think?’
‘He thought it was a hoax – but a very dark one.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘As he says in his book, the history of relics is actually quite sinister – and the shroud may well be a part of that tradition. At one time relics were so important that if a saint fell sick, people gathered outside his house, waiting for him to die. And when he did, they went into the house and came away with parts – fingers, teeth, ears – whatever they could get – and sold him off, piece by piece.’
Lassiter gaped.
‘Oh, yes! It’s said that within two days of his death, St. Thomas of Aquinas had been boiled down to the bones.’ Azetti laughed. ‘Gruesome, isn’t it? And sometimes the saints were hastened on their way – with poison.’
‘But the shroud – it’s only a piece of cloth, legitimate or not.’
‘Yes, but it’s suffused with juices – and bilirubin.’
‘What’s that?’ Lassiter asked.
‘It’s a by-product of the blood that’s usually excreted. But sometimes, under extreme stress – torture – people sweat bilirubin.’
‘And it’s in the shroud?’
‘Baresi found traces of it. And even though he felt the shroud to be a hoax, he feared that someone had been murdered to make it.’
‘Good God,’ Lassiter said.
Azetti nodded. ‘In the thirteenth century, of course, relics were powerful. A church with a famous relic could draw thousands of pilgrims – and pilgrims meant money. Eventually, of course, the Reformation took place, and a lot of the relics were burned.’
‘Burned,’ Lassiter repeated. The word reminded him of why he was there. He took a sip of wine. ‘What I don’t understand is: How did he go from relics to medicine?’
‘Oh . . . well, he obviously had a calling. I think he was nearly fifty years old when he enrolled in medical school. Bologna. Obstetrics and gynecology.’ Azetti frowned. ‘I think it was during his residency that he developed an interest in infertility. And after that, he set up the clinic. Which was quite a surprise.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, it’s an emotional subject – as you know. And Baresi was . . . awkward . . . uncomfortable around people – and here he was, asking women to undress! And then, too, he was Catholic. And devout. So there were conflicts.’
‘Why?’
Father Azetti rolled his eyes. ‘Cardinal Ratzinger spoke for the Church when he issued his catechism. The Church opposes any attempt to interfere with natural conception.’
‘Birth control.’
‘No! The Church is just as opposed to fertility clinics as it is to abortion clinics.’
‘You wouldn’t think so.’
‘Oh yes. They have spoken out directly, and at great length. Children are to be conceived in an act of sexual congress, in the normal way. Just as contraception interferes with God’s will, so does reproductive – what do they call it? – technology. Virtually everything that takes place at a fertility clinic is specifically forbidden.’
‘Interesting. And yet . . . Baresi went ahead anyway. . . .’
The priest looked away. ‘He felt he had a special dispensation.’ He sighed. ‘Besides – he’s hardly the only one to ignore the Vatican on these issues. Birth control is forbidden, but in Italy – a country that is still almost entirely Catholic – people have small families, and the population is stable. And yet I can promise you that, as a nation, they do not practice chastity.’
Azetti shrugged and refilled his glass. ‘And now – what are we going to do about your wife? Does she need counseling?’
Lassiter looked at him blankly.
‘Is she at the pensione? I’m surprised you came so far without calling ahead. She must be very disappointed. If you’d like me to speak with her –’
‘No, Father –’
‘I’m a good listener,’ Azetti interrupted.
‘I think there’s a misunderstanding,’ Lassiter said.
‘Oh?’
‘I’m not married.’
The priest looked confused. ‘Then . . .?’ He turned his palms toward the ceiling.
‘I’m here because my sister went to the clinic. Several years ago.’
‘Ah! Well! Your sister! Was her trip successful?’
‘Yes. She had a wonderful baby boy.’
Azetti smiled at the news, and nodded. But then the smile faded to a frown. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘I mean, why are you here?’
‘She died in November.’
The priest winced. ‘I’m so very sorry. And the boy? I suppose it’s up to the father now – and you.’
Lassiter shook his head. ‘There wasn’t any father. She was raising him alone. And, anyway, the boy died, too. They were killed.’
Azetti looked away. After a moment he asked, ‘And how did this happen?’
‘Someone killed them while they were sleeping, and then their house was burned.’
Azetti didn’t speak for a long while. He cut another piece of bread and dipped it into the wine. Finally, he said, ‘And that’s what brought you here?’
Lassiter nodded. ‘The man who killed them was Italian. I don’t think he and my sister had ever met. And then I learned –’
The priest scraped back from the table and, getting to his feet, began to pace. He seemed agitated, as if by a dangerous idea. He interrupted. ‘A boy, you said?’
Lassiter nodded, following the priest with his eyes.
‘I wonder . . .’ Azetti said.
‘What, Father?’
‘I wonder if you have any idea – you may not know, of course, but . . . I wonder if you know which procedure your sister had? Because there were several –’
‘I know there was an egg donor. I think they call it –’
‘Oocyte donation.’ The priest pronounced the phrase as if it was a fatal disease. He continued pacing for a moment, and then he scratched his head, stopped and looked at Lassiter. ‘But, of course,’ he said, ‘these things happen. There’s so much violence. Especially in the United States. Did your sister live in a city? These are difficult times.’
Lassiter nodded. ‘You’re right. There is a lot of violence. But my sister and nephew weren’t the only ones.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A boy was killed in Prague. About the same time. Same circumstances. Another one in London. Canada . . . Rio . . . God only knows where else. That’s why I’m here: they were all conceived at the clinic.’
The priest collapsed into a straight-backed chair, lowered his head, and closed his eyes. Then he raised his elbows to the table and pushed his fingers through his hair. For a long while he said nothing at all, and in the silence, Lassiter noticed that rain was beginning to fall.
After a minute the priest straightened in his chair. He placed his hands carefully, palm to palm, and lowered his head until his forehead rested on the tips of his middle fingers. His face was hidden, his chin
nearly buried in his chest. He muttered something that Lassiter didn’t understand.
‘What?’ Lassiter asked.
‘Well, “it’s God’s will,”’ Azetti cried. He pushed his palms against the tabletop and looked toward Lassiter. His eyes were wild and unfocused. ‘Or maybe not!’
‘Father –’
‘I can’t help you,’ the priest said, turning away.
‘I think you can.’
‘I can’t!’
‘Then more children are going to die.’
Azetti’s eyes were filled with tears. ‘You don’t understand,’ he said, and taking a deep breath, composed himself. ‘The confessional is sacrosanct. Whatever’s said is sealed forever. It’s supposed to be sealed forever.’
‘What do you mean, “supposed to be”?’
The priest shook his head.
‘You know who’s behind this, don’t you?’ Lassiter asked.
‘No,’ the priest replied, and Lassiter could see that he was telling the truth. ‘I don’t. I honestly don’t. But I can tell you this: every aspect of Baresi’s life is part of what you’re looking at – his work as a scientist, his religious studies, his work at the clinic.’ With that, the priest took a second deep breath and fell silent.
‘That’s it?’ Lassiter asked.
‘That’s all I can say,’ the priest said.
‘Well, then, thanks for your help,’ Lassiter replied, his voice thick with sarcasm. ‘I’ll keep that in mind. And if one of the mothers asks why her son had to die, I’ll tell her about your oath – about how it’s a matter of principle. I’m sure she’ll understand.’ He grabbed his coat and got to his feet.
‘Wait,’ the priest said. ‘There’s something else.’ Before Lassiter could say anything, Azetti strode from the room and into his study, next door. Lassiter heard him rifling through a desk. Finally, a drawer slammed shut, and the priest returned.
‘Here,’ he said, thrusting a letter into the American’s hands.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Baresi sent it to me from the hospital, a few days before he died. I think it will answer some of the questions you have.’ Lassiter glanced at the letter, which was written in hand on both sides of three onionskin pages. High overhead, a bell began to toll.