by David Perry
Lee turned his head.
Adriano watched a grand episcopal mitre sailing through the crowd, sticking up above the heads of the assembled faithful.
“For a would-be atheist,” Lee said, “you certainly know your Catholic paraphernalia.”
Adriano smirked.
The bishop was in full feast day dress, black cassock with red half-drape, bishop’s staff—crozier, as Adriano recalled its Latin name—and a retinue of altar boys and fellow priests, likely from Orvieto’s ring of other parishes, all here today at Sant’Andrea for the church’s namesake commemoration. Just then the organ heaved and huffed into a groaning rendition of the familiar hymn.
“My favorite,” Lee said.
God, Adriano thought. This was going to be a long night.
The air bloomed with a chorus of Italian voices—“Santo, Santo, Santo”—mingling in the cold along with a cloud of incense from the acolyte’s swinging brass sensors.
“I used to be really good at that,” Lee whispered to Adriano. “I mastered the ‘double clink’ pattern when waving around the incense that is the hallmark of an expert altar boy.”
“What are they doing now?” Adriano was on tiptoes, trying to see over the sea of matrons to his left. “They’re stopping.”
The clerics gathered at the left side of the church in front of a huge wooden statue of an athletic St. Andrew, depicted, as usual, grasping his crooked cross.
“What’s the big X he’s holding on to?” Adriano asked.
“St. Andrew’s Cross.” Lee sighed in mock exasperation. “According to legend, Andrew didn’t feel worthy to be crucified like Jesus, so when he was martyred in Greece, he asked to have the crossed turned on its side. You really are a bad Catholic.”
“I try.” Adriano winked coyly. “And all this time, I thought St. Andrew’s Cross was just an S and M thing.”
“It is an S and M thing as well as a holy symbol of martyrdom,” said Lee. “It’s also a perennial crossword clue.”
As the bishop and his entourage assembled at the statue, amid swirls of scented smoke and the moaning organ, an octogenarian lady stepped out of the crowd and laid a white rectangle of carnations marked by an X of red roses in front of the pedestal.
“La Madrina,” Lee whispered.
Adriano nodded. Sure enough, it was. Café Volsini’s doyenne walked right up to the bishop, who bowed stiffly with a slight twitch of his lips, and carefully placed the wreath at the foot of the saint. He made the sign of the cross over her head, but she turned before he was done and headed back to her seat as if she couldn’t be bothered.
As the procession got closer to turning down the center aisle, Adriano looked at the prelate as he passed, sixty-ish, six foot, mordantly slim, and ever so slightly sinister in his gait. “Why do they all look like Darth Vader?” he muttered.
Lee said, “I admit that’s a bishop I wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley. Certainly, a Prince of the Church, as in Machiavelli.”
“This one looks nice though,” Adriano offered as a smiling, elderly, elfish priest walked past them, obviously the junior partner, holding the bishop’s train. “He looks more like Yoda.”
Adriano followed the procession as it made its way to the altar. He noticed the vestments as they swept the well-worn tiles, like embroidered dusters, behind the parade. The incense was nauseating, like everything in every church. Damn, he thought, the things we do to get through a marriage.
Finally, the procession got to the altar and with all the requisite blessings bestowed, the Mass got formally underway. The Chinese tourists stood against the back wall, seemingly at a loss what to do, but now somehow stuck in mid-ceremony and afraid to leave, and even more afraid to snap a photo though they were trying to find the right time to do just that. Dorothy, we’re not in Nanjing anymore! A young mother walked along the rear nave of the church, patting one baby on the back to keep her quiet while pushing another in a stroller. Nothing unusual there, thought Adriano. Catholics were famous for “watching from the sidelines” during Mass. Hypocrites.
Lee, apparently noticing Adriano’s wandering eyes, said, “In the old-fashioned Virginia parish of my youth, people were always walking in mid-service and dashing right after communion to beat the crowd in the parking lot or get a jump on the Sunday football game.”
Hypocrites, Adriano thought again.
Lee turned back to his hymnal.
Everyone sat down, except the young man in leather they had spied earlier, standing against the back wall, face hidden in shadow. Slowly, almost casually, as the congregation was seated and the bishop removed his mitre to preside, the youth walked over to stand next to the statue of St. Andrew and look solemnly at the flowers laid there.
“Check out the talent,” Adriano whispered to his husband.
Lee looked up.
Having stepped into the glow of candlelight next to St. Andrew, Mr. Leather Jacket revealed quite the form sublime poured into his designer duds, sleekly muscular, blond, and, well, dangerous looking, like someone who should be advertising cigarettes or a Harley.
“Somehow, I don’t think that’s a priest.” Adriano smirked quietly.
Leather Boy stood just to the left of St. Andrew’s Cross. Every now and then looking up from the flowers laid there by La Madrina and then staring, fixedly, at the altar, eyes glistening.
Are those tears? Adriano wondered as he followed the line of his stare to the front of the church. No, he wasn’t crying, he was glaring, and right at the bishop. At first, the cleric seemed not to notice, but as if he could feel it, he looked toward the congregation and directly at the young man. His face went gray and his hands started to shake. The bishop’s missal slipped from his grasp with a smack against the marble floor. Yoda bent quickly and scooped it up. The bishop grabbed it with a scowl and pointedly turned his gaze to the other side of the congregation, away from Leather Boy. For a second, his eyes fell upon Adriano’s. In that moment, Adriano and the bishop looked right at each other as if they both knew they would see each other again. I need to warn Lee, Adriano thought, but he didn’t know why he thought that, and soon after it was forgotten. The bishop had turned away. “Looks like a gay bar,” Adriano said in a conspiratorial voice, gently nudging Lee in the ribs. “Love’s young leather flame has company.”
Just like Adriano, Lee thought, to inject the profane in the midst of something spiritual. He knew Adriano hated that Lee didn’t hate the Church, but why did he have to spoil the moment? But, Adriano was right. Something was happening separate from, but clearly connected to, the service going on inside the church. Two plays were taking place simultaneously, one voiced, one in pantomime. A second youth was now approaching the statue of St. Andrew who, while nominally handsome, was not as distractingly so as his predecessor.
The newcomer stood behind the first. He had slicked back hair, black to the point of blue, and was more formally dressed. His tie was slightly askew, as if hastily tightened on the way in, and some sort of name badge peeked out from beneath his jacket. He looked as if he had just come from work. Leather Jacket took no notice until the second man—a doctor, perhaps?—tapped him gently on the shoulder.
It all happened so fast, Lee didn’t think many people noticed, especially since now that the hymn before the Gospel reading was in full swing. As the first youth turned to see who had touched him, fisticuffs seemed imminent. The doctor—Lee could now see a stethoscope hanging from his neck beneath his coat—leaned back defensively and in genuine fright, while Leather Boy advanced on him threateningly. With a speed that belied her age, La Madrina dashed from her pew, put her matronly bosom between them, and hissed, “Basta!” loud enough for Lee to make out over the music. The doctor backed away from the old woman, like a vampire from garlic, but the first one mouthed, “I’ve had enough,” and dashed out the side door of the church. La Madrina slapped the young physician on the arm with a “What do you think you’re doing?” dismissal of her hand, pushed him toward the door, and returned to
her seat. The doctor sank into the shadows.
“Wow, what was that? Quelle drama,” said Adriano.
“Yeah,” whispered Lee. “Maybe you were right. There was a little ‘gay thing’ going on here and La Madrina didn’t like it.”
La Donna Volsini had retaken her pew as if nothing had happened. She didn’t look behind her to see if the doctor had left. Lee felt she wasn’t someone who needed to check on whether or not her commands were obeyed. As the congregation sat to listen to the sermon offered by the bishop, Lee watched La Madrina’s mouth muttering something slowly, and silently, as she looked to the altar. Those aren’t prayers, he thought, seeing the steely glint of her eyes and the firm set of her chin. She was saying something all right, aimed right at the bishop, but it didn’t look like prayers. More like a curse.
Lee turned to see what had become of the young doctor. He was kneeling in front of the statue. He kissed the statue’s carved feet, got up, and dashed for the door as if to make sure he was gone before the old woman saw him again. As he stood, Lee saw that the young doctor had left something behind, a flickering candle in front of St. Andrew and beside the bloodred floral cross placed by La Donna Volsini.
It wasn’t until he was home later, Adriano playing computer games next to him in bed, that Lee had a thought about the boy in the leather jacket. There was something vaguely familiar about him. He had seen him before—he was sure of that—but could not remember where. As he fell asleep, he had another thought. I’m sure I will see him again.
CHAPTER VI
A Voice in the Wilderness
Saturday, November 30, 2013, evening, Rome
She didn’t expect him to answer.
He couldn’t. It wasn’t allowed. Not that he would take her call anyway. Why would he want to speak with her after last year?
She put down the receiver.
One year.
Maybe he’ll call me?
You foolish woman, he won’t call. He was never going to call again. He’d never even speak her name again. It was done. Over. It was over before it started. An abortion of love. A relationship cold, and stillborn.
It was raining in Rome. The Vittorio Emanuele Monument hovered in blurred and watery reflection from her window. As she looked, the lights flickered to life against the colossal memorial.
Time to go. Quickly, she checked herself in the mirror but as always, wished she had not. Stuck in the groove between reflection and frame was the thin piece of paper inscribed with the coordinates that proved the complicity of her life.
(48) Per quelle che patiscono per causa della loro orecchie
(56) Per quei padri e quelle madri che non educano i loro figli.
(13) Per quelle per le quali il Padre desidera che si preghi accio siano liberate da quelle pene
(43) Per quelle che frastornarono gli altri alla devozione
Those four lines bore the proof of her sin, the key to her own private purgatory. She put on her collar with practiced ease. No need for a mirror. She didn’t want to see herself anyway.
Opening the door, she walked down to her congregation in the church below.
Heretics.
CHAPTER VII
Magda
Sunday, December 1, 2013, midmorning, Orvieto
“Magda’s not coming,” Adriano said.
He knew his husband well. They had spent a quiet, romantic dinner at home, just the two of them, a perfect way to begin Lee’s thirties.
Lee looked up from his book, Magnificence and Malfeasance: Medici, Metrodorus, and the Medieval Papacy, a birthday gift last night from Adriano. “What a surprise.”
“Here’s the email.” Adriano turned the laptop around on the kitchen table so that his husband could read.
Adriano & Lee,
Sarah has been in hospice for the last few weeks. I have been seeing her daily. I know you two, more than anyone this last year, know what that’s like. She has made it clear to me that she wants me to plan her memorial. In consultation with her palliative care nurse, it would seem that her time of transition is rapidly approaching.
I have decided that I should cancel my trip to Italy. I really appreciate the invitation and was looking forward to it.
I am terribly disappointed that I won’t be able to see you. At this time, however, the responsibility of fulfilling Sarah’s wishes are of paramount concern to me now.
Regards, Magda
“Well, we knew it would be something,” Lee said, putting down his book. Adriano nodded his agreement.
With Magda, there was always something: press secretary’s imminent death (the case here), World Series parade, July Fourth fireworks, Running of the Olympic Torch, a senator’s retirement amid scandal to be “dealt with.” All of these had been and were the purview of Magda and all had been used as excuses against taking a vacation. Something always came up, and always at the last minute. She could advance a papal visit to California (and had) but couldn’t stay away from work for more than a full charge of her three cell phones, one personal, one for the mayor, and one whose number and list of contacts was more secret than NORAD’s nuclear codes.
“When was the last time she had a vacation?” Adriano asked, peering over his glasses.
“Bush was president, the first one,” Lee offered drolly.
“That was twenty years ago!”
“Twenty-five. If she took all of her accumulated vacation time, the City and County of San Francisco would go bankrupt.”
Having survived five mayoral administrations in any city was no mean feat. In San Francisco, where politics was blood sport, it was bordering on miraculous. Over two decades, Magda Carter—a name that always made Lee giggle, but never to Magda’s face—had made herself indispensable. Mayors came and went but Magda stayed. Lee was convinced that she knew where Jimmy Hoffa was buried—or maybe not. Adriano called her “the real Mayor of San Francisco.” Her title was as shifting as the fog through the cables of the Golden Gate Bridge: permanent, amorphous, and ever-changing. At the moment, her card read “Manager of International Affairs,” but that meant nothing. In reality, she was Ambassador Without Portfolio. She was simply “Magda,” and her word was law and her justice, implacable. She was teutonica in stilettos.
“She scares me,” Lee said.
“Oh?” Adriano pursed his lips and wiggled his finger across the table at his husband. “You just don’t know how to handle her. She’s a pussycat.”
“More like a saber-toothed tiger.”
“Has she ever had a boyfriend?” Adriano asked.
Lee put down his book in faux exasperation and pinned his husband with a look. “Who could survive that? Don’t you remember the Italian ambassador’s party at the Consulate in SF?”
“Poor guy.” Adriano almost moaned with the memory. “His pants probably fit better after his encounter with Magda. More room.”
“Madga is married to her work. You know that. Nuns may be brides of Christ, but Magda is faithful to the Mayor of the City and County of San Francisco—whoever holds the title—period.”
“And,” said Adriano, finishing the sentence, “woe be it to the person who so thoughtlessly flirts in disregard of that committed relationship.”
“Exactly.” Lee put a stinger on the conversation.
Many had been the man who had unknowingly wandered into Magda’s vixen-ish snare only to come out bruised, battered, and submissive. “Maybe she’s a dominatrix,” Adriano offered.
Lee laughed.
She’d make a good one, Lee thought, all legs, hair, and gravity-defying bosom, a cross between Cate Blanchett in the last Indiana Jones movie and Lucy Liu in Charlie’s Angels. Naturally, men flirted with Magda—even I get that, he thought, and I’m a complete Kinsey Six. Magda was a stunner, no doubt about it, but it was dangerous to tell her. She was a professional and that was that. She did not broach being noticed for her looks—which, in fairness to heterosexual males, and probably lesbians too—were very hard to disregard. The closest Lee had ever gotten
to a compliment was saying “nice shoes” after arranging for a helicopter visit for the Governor’s wife to an aircraft carrier during Fleet Week. The FAA and the Navy brass frowned upon such midair PR stunts. Permission had been promptly and officiously denied when Lee had called to secure the permits.
“Gimme the phone,” Magda had snarled, and grabbed the receiver from Lee’s quivering hand. “Hi, this is Magda Carter. Lee is working for me.” Pause. “Thank you, Captain. Zero- nine hundred hours will be fine. I’ll let Sacramento know. The flight deck sounds lovely.”
Military speak came easy to the fifty-ish uber bureaucrat, as it was rumored that she was an orphaned military brat and had grown up on army bases somewhere in West Germany. However, no one really knew her provenance or age and no one was going to ask. Lee had heard—where, he didn’t remember—that she had almost died at birth. He could just imagine the attending surgeons, petrified over the nativity they were about to midwife. They needn’t have worried. Lee was sure that at the crucial moment, Magda had simply yelled, “Open up!” and like Athena, sprung forth fully formed.
Since the Fleet Week incident—maybe four years ago now?—Lee had started all calls on her behalf by saying, “Hi, this is Lee Fontaine Maury calling for Magda Carter.” The conversations usually proceeded more smoothly that way, and thereafter he seldom had any trouble finding preferred VIP parking at official events. She had once even gotten Lee’s car through the cross-traffic of a presidential motorcade in San Francisco’s financial district. She had been in a hurry, and the police, responding to a call from Magda, had swiftly waved Lee’s Subaru across the intersection after a brief and completely understandable inspection by bomb-sniffing German shepherds. Although it was nowhere written down in the terms of their work agreement, under “Other Duties as Assigned” Lee had become, somehow, Magda’s chauffeur and amanuensis.
Lee made a good Magda puppet. As he had once quipped for Adriano, mimicking his chief client’s voice, “I work best behind the scenes, out of sight, but you’re good with people.” Magda had spoken as if that character trait was to be despised, but nonetheless deemed necessary for her purposes. “And remember, when you work for me, you have one and only one client.”