by David Perry
“Your grandmother invited the bishop to lunch?” Adriano asked.
“Si, of course, molto. My grandmother loves him very much. Such a good man.”
“You could have fooled me,” Lee said taking a sip. “Didn’t look that way the other night at Sant’Andrea.”
“Not that bishop, Arnaud”—Marco spat out the name—“he is the new bishop. No. Bishop Sancarlo. The one before. The one that was going to ordain Andrea. Everyone loved Sancarlo. And Andrea. Now, they both are gone.”
“What happened to him?”
“Sancarlo? Forced out by Rome. Right after Andrea…ah…oh…”
“Because of Andrea’s suicide,” Adriano helped him out. “People blamed him for it?”
“No. No one blamed Don Sancarlo. He loved Andrea. He made him deacon. No, Arnaud had been waiting for a reason to get rid of Sancarlo for a very long time. Arnaud had—has—many powerful friends in the Vatican, the most powerful.”
“The Pope?” Lee offered.
“Him too.” Marco smiled slyly. “We are Catholic country. You would no understand.”
“I am Catholic,” Lee said. “We both are.”
“Were Catholic,” Adriano corrected.
“It is different,” Marco said. “Catholic, ex-Catholic—you are not Italian. You no understand. What the Vatican wants, they get, and Arnaud is very powerful in the Vatican.”
“But why would the bad bishop… What’s his name?”
“Arnaud,” Marco answered.
“Why would Arnaud want to get rid of…?”
“…Sancarlo.”
“Yeah, I thought the brotherhood of bishops was quite clubby,” said Adriano, enjoying the gossipy Church bashing.
Marco lit up again.
Adriano accepted. Lee demurred..
“There are bishops and there are bishops,” Marco said. “Depende. Bishop Sancarlo was—is—one kind of bishop. Gentle. Sweet. How do you say, molto progressivo.”
“Very liberal,” Lee stated.
“Si,” Marco said with emphasis. “Molto liberale. Sancarlo is who started helping the refugees here in Orvieto. He—” Suddenly Marco stopped mid-sentence, as he if had offered too much. “Molto gentle. Very kind. Molto,” he added quickly in summation.
“And Arnaud is not?”
Marco hunched his shoulders and looked around like a character in some Cold War spy thriller. He whispered, “Arnaud is Opus Dei.”
“The Work of God,” Lee intoned, the Latin translation.
“That explains his sermon,” said Adriano.
“What?” Lee looked puzzled.
“The other night during the service at Sant’Andrea. His sermon was nothing but empty platitudes and calls for a rebirth of Catholic tradition. It was big on obedience and finding God in everyday life. Blah, blah, blah. Men as backbones of the Church. Women as servants of God—meaning as servants of men. Boilerplate Opus Dei.” The words stung in his mouth. He could see his parents’ pamphlets now, scattered on the coffee table of his childhood.
“I didn’t think you kept up on ecclesiastical institutions,” Lee said.
“It was a Spaniard who founded the sect, Josemaria Escriva. Every Spaniard knows Opus Dei. It’s the Church’s SS squad, answerable directly to and only to the Pope. J2P2 even made that hideous creature, Escriva, a saint.” Adriano almost spat.
“J2 what?” Marco looked puzzled.
“J2P2,” Lee explained. “It’s Adriano’s little nickname for his favorite pope, the late John Paul II.”
“Not!” Adriano huffed. “What a reactionary piece of”—Lee’s foot dug into his shoe this time—“work.” Adriano gulped. “Sorry, Marco. I know you are Catholic.”
“It’s OK. I no practice,” he smiled. “It’s Italy. Everyone is a little Catholic.” He polished off his second drink and motioned for another round.
For a while they discussed the weather, Italian food, and Orvieto’s upcoming Presepe, the Living Nativity that was the culmination of the holiday season.
“So, what about the rumors,” Lee ventured, nursing his drink.
“What rumors?”
“You know,” Lee said. Adriano shot him a warning glance and poised his shoe. “The gossip that Andrea was gay. That the reason the Vatican stopped his ordination was because he was homosexual.”
Marco stopped smiling. You’ve gone too far, Adriano thought.
“Gay. Straight. Virgin. Who knows?” Marco leaned back in his chair. “He was simply Andrea.”
“Lee,” Adriano said, stepping on Lee’s foot so hard the shoe leather was creasing. “Let’s not bother Marco anymore. He doesn’t want to talk about it.”
“No.” Marco twirled the ice in his glass. “It doesn’t bother me. I just have no talked about it in a long time. No, it doesn’t bother me. It’s nice to remember Andrea.”
“What about the bishop?”
“Arnaud?” Marco blew out smoke as if choking on the name. “No, Sancarlo,” Lee asked. “The ‘good bishop.’ You said he was ‘molto progressivo.’ Very liberal. Was Sancarlo gay?”
“Ha!” Marco let out an enormous guffaw, almost upsetting his glass as he waved his arms. “Bishop Sancarlo, gay? No, no. He was no a gay. That’s a-funny. No offense, I mean, be gay is no problema, it’s…”
“No offense taken,” Lee replied.
“You mean he wasn’t celibate?” Adriano jumped in, his own curiosity now aroused.
“Celibate? Ah, celibe. You mean, did he have a woman here in Orvieto?”
Adriano shrugged.
“No,” Marco said with sudden force. “No. Vescovo Sancarlo was a good man. He loved his Church. He wanted to make it better, more modern, that is all. He believed in his vows, he was celibe. Even if he wanted to, he would never break his vows, not now. Above all, he loved his Church.”
“You said Rome, Bishop Arnaud, wanted him gone,” Adriano said. “Where did he go?”
“A monastery. He retired. Andrea’s death was too much for him. A month after, he left and Arnaud become the new bishop. The people here, they hate Arnaud. Arnaud is not Orvietano. He does not belong here. Rome put him here.”
“So, Bishop Sancarlo was from Orvieto?” Lee asked.
“Si, si, naturalmente. An old family, molto vecchia.”
“Like your grandmother,” Adriano said.
“Si, like my grandmother.” Marco paused, his face morphing into a huge grin, something between goodwill and a friendly-if-warning tease. “Si, like mia nonna. Mia nonna is many things. You’d be surprised!”
They clinked their glasses and Adriano thought to himself, I wouldn’t be surprised at all.
CHAPTER XVIII
At Sea
Wednesday, December 4, 2013, late afternoon, the Mediterranean Sea
The steel hatch slammed open. A young man pushed past Maryam and the huddled refugees. Heman scrambled up the ladder and into the light. Several hundred faces turned skyward for an answer. Where were they?
“؟ ىرت اذام”
The youth waved for his fellow prisoners to follow, then rushed away in further exploration.
The sun hurt Maryam’s eyes as she crawled out onto the deck. For a week, there had been nothing but darkness. She hadn’t bathed in many days, not since long before she was put upon the ship. Her thin burka, long since torn and with its face cover discarded to make breathing a bit more possible, stuck to her thin, quivering frame in sweat-blotched sheets. But now the air—fresh air! She filled her lungs. They were free.
“؟ مقاطلا يه نيأ”
An elderly woman called from below. Her lips were cracked from thirst. One arm was strapped in a bloody sling.
Minutes passed. The scout, eyes wide in panic, returned. Over and over he screamed, “انع اولخت دقل!اهدحو نحن!اهدحو نحن!”
Abandoned. They were alone.
Slowly at first, then faster, the crowd poured out of the stinking hold and onto the deck. The storm had ended, for now. All around, the Mediterran
ean spread in deadly calm. The ship sat low in the water. Too low. Somewhere there was a leak. The bulkheads had been much farther up from the water when they had sailed—what, a week ago?
“ةاجنلا براوق تلو!”
She looked to where a man was pointing. All gone. The lifeboats were all gone. A girl next to her clutched her mother’s skirt and began softly to cry.
On the horizon, a single cloud loomed gray. Like a match sparking to life, a small flash of lightning lit it from behind. Another storm.
“Oh,” she cried out in pain. The baby pushed against her organs. Please, she thought, please, do not come. Please do not let me live to see you drown. If you die, die in my womb. Please, Allah, spare me from witnessing the death of my child.
The wind picked up. A single wave broke over the bow. Everything tilted, and it started again, the groaning creak of steel under stress. People scurried for the cargo compartment.
No. I will not die in the dark. Not again. Not like the basement blackness she hid in during the war. She closed her eyes to the memory. “Ohhh!” she cried out, clutching her gut. The pain in her womb was intense. She could barely stand. She pushed against the swarm retreating back into the bowels of the vessel. She continued onward. If she were going to die, she would face it outside. She would confront it head-on. She had not come this far to drown in darkness. No. She would live and once she got to land she would start her life again. The men who had put her on the ship had promised her a job when she came ashore. A real job, in Europe, safe from the battlefields of home. A job so she could help her brother and pay off this passage.
She hoped it was working in a beauty salon, or a restaurant, but she didn’t care. She’d clean toilets if she had to, as long as she was away from the explosions and the bullets. And now, she had a reason to live, her child. The father… The father had taken her virginity as the deposit for this passage, a forceful and painful payment that had raped both her body and her soul of innocence. But no matter, the child must live. All children were a gift from Allah.
Ahead above the pitching plates she could make out the bridge, the highest place on the ship. That would be the last place to go under. Fighting against the agony in her gut mixed with the nausea of seasickness, she pulled herself along the rail and struggled upward to the gangway.
To make sure it had not come unstitched, she clutched the receipt to her salvation, sewn into the lining of her coat. The man who had put her aboard the ship had shown it to her, only once, and told her, “Do not lose this. It is the ticket to your new life. When you arrive, friends will greet you. Remember to tell them this: ‘Purgatory is the key.’”
Just before the last stitch was made, she had looked at what was written on the two thin pieces of cardboard, a few lines scrawled in ink, now hidden in the folds of her clothing:
طقف هللا اوبحأ نيذلا ةايحلا هذه يف كئلوأل ةبسنلاب
باذعلا يف سوفنلا عيمجل
نآلا كنأو ،ملاعلا اذه يف مكتدعاس نيذلا كئلوأل ةبسنلاب
ركذتن نأ نكمي ال
مهربص دافن ببسب نوناعي نيذلا كئلوأل ةبسنلاب.
On the back, another message:
طقف هللا اوبحأ نيذلا ةايحلا هذه يف كئلوأل ةبسنلاب
كئادعأ ءالؤه نم سوفنلا كلتل
ةسدقملا ايرام ،ةديسل ءازعألا كئلوأل ةبسنلاب
باذعلا يف فعضت لازت ال يتلا ةلئاعلا هذه حاورأل
It meant nothing to her, these Arabic phrases—like prayers, but not ones known to her. No matter. She did not need to understand. She only needed to deliver the message and get to Italy. There she would be free. But first, she’d have to live through the voyage.
“Caro fratello. Ti amo!” She spoke to herself in the only Italian she knew, carefully practiced over the phone between blackouts and riots.
Dear brother. I love you. I am coming.
CHAPTER XIX
Reunion
Wednesday, December 4, 2013, late afternoon, Civita di Bagnoregio
Civita di Bagnoregio: the town that dies.
Grigori looked up at the nearly deserted village and started the long climb to the summit. An apt description, he thought, as he walked along the thousand-foot pedestrian bridge that was Civita’s only connection to the outside world. His steps were heavy, like his heart. Not like the first time he had come here. That first time—with Andrea. Then, the town was full of life, like Andrea, like both of them. Now, the town, winter-deserted and buffeted by Grigori’s windy grief, earned every bit of its name. For Grigori, hope, love, and a new life had both been born and died here.
Civita di Bagnoregio: the town that dies
What a beautiful death it was. Separated from the world yet in the middle of it. Dangling from an eternal rope, hung from heaven as if awaiting execution, shimmering against the clouds in reflected glory. One day, the chord, worn thin by millennia of rain and earthquake and eruption, would come unstrung. Someday, the entire hamlet would plunge into the valley hundreds of feet below. Already, several homes dripped from the hill, half-ruined walls and crumbling stone cornices teasing gravity and defying their fate——for now. Yes, Bagnoregio would die, but not yet. Not today. It had been dying for eons.
But not the church. Grigori knew that was in the middle of the tiny central piazza. It would be the last to go, this delicate and humble church with its lonely single bell tower and sun-bleached salmon plaster facade. A century from now, or two, or five, or maybe ten, when a truly devastating tremor occurred, or if the center of Italy again erupted en masse, the final edifice to tumble into the abyss would be the Church San Donato.
Andrea’s church. He closed his eyes and recited without speaking:
(17) Per quelle che sono tormentate per i loro disordinati amori desideri
(18) Per quelle che per i loro occhi troppo licenziosi patiscono
(20) Per quelle che sono castigate per i loro disordinate amori e desideri
(41) Per quelle che in questa vita poco amarono Dio
He was sure the prayer board was still there, a medieval construct in the midst of a modernity in limbo. Of course, not much modernity had an impact on Bagnoregio. Grigori doubted very much whether anyone still prayed for the souls in purgatory, besides him.
Besides Andrea.
(17) Per quelle che sono tormentate per i loro disordinati amori desideri
(18) Per quelle che per i loro occhi troppo licenziosi patiscono
(20) Per quelle che sono castigate per i loro disordinate amori e desideri
(41) Per quelle che in questa vita poco amarono Dio
Grigori would never forget the words. They were carved on his psyche more indelibly than the carefully written text he knew was still there, haunting him, inside the church just ahead.
The wind whipped at his face. He trudged on.
There were ninety levels of purgatory, according to the antique wooden petition pegboard inside the Church of San Donato. Ninety reasons for people to pay and pray to free the souls of the dearly departed. The first time that Andrea had shown it to him, Grigori had laughed, and derisively at that. He knew all about paying the Church, and what the Church expected in return. No one went to heaven free of charge.
“Grigori, you should be ashamed of yourself,” Andrea had lashed out at him. “It is the only reason we are here on earth, to help others, the living and the dead.”
It was the first and only time he had ever seen Andrea angry. He didn’t risk it again. Andrea’s compassionate smile had turned dangerously dark.
He remembered Andrea telling him the story of Saint Donato and the Emperor Julian. Andrea had brought Grigori home to Bagnoregio to meet his mother, one of the last eight people to still live on the spectacularly desolate volcanic stump. At night, it was like being on another planet, completely separated from the rest of eart
h by the surrounding volcanic canyons.
“The Saint and the Emperor grew up together, the best of friends,” Andrea had explained as they roamed through the ancient sanctuary in the middle of the gloriously decrepit town. A smattering of Roman tourists were browsing the tourist stalls, brought outside onto the square that day of their first summer, their last summer. “Both of them actually became deacons in the Church. But, when Julian became emperor he rejected Christianity and tried to return Rome to paganism while Donato became a leader in the Church, a bishop in fact. Of course, that’s the official version of the story. Since after Julian’s death, Rome again became officially Christian. Many people believe that, in point of fact, Julian was actually quite enlightened, and that he didn’t want to suppress Christianity. Rather, he wanted to acknowledge all beliefs as equally valid.”
Grigori and Andrea had stopped for gelato. Andrea, in his deaconal collar, was sweating from the humid August sun. Grigori reached inside his designer shorts and paid.
“Zeus equal to Yahwey, and Venus equal to Mary, you mean?” Grigori offered Andrea a taste of his cone and angled for one from his companion. Nocciola. He had never liked that flavor, but it was Andrea’s favorite. There were a lot of things he was learning to like.
“Something like that,” Andrea had smiled, a crooked dimple of facial expression poised between seduction and sanctity. “So, you see, Julian and Donato were a lot like us, the closest of friends, one a believer, the other not.”
“Are you calling me a heathen?” It was Grigori’s turn to tease.
“Of course not,” Andrea had smiled again.
It was a flash of white that seemed to swallow Grigori’s breath in a way he had never experienced with anyone, man or woman.
“I would never so impugn the reputation of a decorated soldier and a guard to the Pope!” Andrea offered another lick from his cone. Grigori accepted, leaving behind a hazelnut mustache. Andrea wiped it away with a wink. Grigori wondered if anyone noticed. He didn’t care.