by David Perry
That had been, what, two years ago now? Grigori thought. A lifetime.
He kept walking toward San Donato, Andrea’s church, and its abacus of salvation, the top ninety sins and the prayers (plus two euros) guaranteed to help free those tormented in purgatory but living in hope of the Resurrection. He had his numbers—nineteen, twenty, thirty-three—and a pocket full of euros. Even if he didn’t believe, Grigori was quite sure what his sins were. And, of course, the clue that he and Andrea had uncovered echoed in his brain:
“Purgatory is the key.”
A loud bang and Grigori threw himself against the rusty railing, his only hope between the tiny bridge and the stony valley below. He looked behind him in terror. His heart strained against his chest. They have found me, he thought.
“Grigori! Ragazzo!” The three-wheeled Ghia rolled to a stop, backfiring with another loud retort as it strained against the steep grade of the viaduct. Andrea’s mother was behind the wheel. “It is a long walk, dear boy. Get in. I will drive you the rest of the way to the gate. Nothing with a motor is allowed in the town, but we can walk the rest of the way to San Donato from there.”
Grigori smiled in relief. “You startled me, Signora.” His hands shook and he lowered them from his straining form. “Yes, thanks.”
“Thank you for coming, for Andrea.” Signora Bernardone patted Grigori’s knee. “Thank you for remembering.”
(17) For those who are tormented by the perversity of their desires
(18) For those who suffer for the licentiousness of their eyes
(20) For those who are punished for their disordered love
(41) For those in this life who just loved God
Of course, he remembered. How could Grigori forget. Perhaps when I die, then I will forget, he thought. Until then, he lived in a painful hope for death.
The tiny dilapidated scooter labored against the incline, bearing its pilgrims to the peak as Grigori remembered Andrea’s words—words that were becoming clearer every day.
“Purgatory is the key”
CHAPTER XX
Puzzle
Wednesday, December 4, 2013, evening, Orvieto
Lee was peeling a grape and doing a crossword. “What’s an eight-letter word for ‘adobe abode’?”
“Beg pardon?”
“An eight-letter word for ‘house.’ Today’s theme is South of the Border,” said Lee. “You know, Spanish words that have entered the English vernacular. It’s Wednesday, an easy day, but my brain isn’t exactly firing on all thrusters.”
“That is so offensive,” huffed Adriano. “‘South of the Border,’ as if only Spanish speakers were struggling to swim the Rio Grande. Nothing against South and Central America…”
“Naturally, since you were born in Venezuela after your family fled Franco.”
“But,” Adriano continued, on a roll, “The language is Spanish, not Mexican.”
“It is the New York Times crossword, dear one, not El Pais.”
“Even so,” Adriano frowned. “Hacienda.”
“Duh, even I should have gotten that. Perfect! It fits. You get a prize.” Lee tossed a grape into his lover’s open mouth. “What about a ‘lady priest’?”
“Is this a crossword clue?”
“No, silly, what Marco was saying at drinks earlier today.”
“Great minds think alike.” Adriano was typing furiously on this laptop, sitting cross-legged next to his husband on the couch. “Already found it. Check this out, courtesy of everyone’s favorite overwrought blogger, Signora Peg.”
Lee motioned for Adriano to read. He loved the sound of his husband’s voice.
Luther Who? Henry the What? All Forgiven on All Souls Day in Orvieto.
On the November second, Feast of All Souls, it is very cold—molto freddo—in the twelfth-century Church of Sant’Andrea. So cold in fact, that portable patio heaters have been brought in to warm the ecumenical bodies—Anglican and Roman Catholic—packed in for the first-of-its-kind religious lovefest to broach this medieval town’s storied tufo.
Before construction of the fabulous Duomo was begun in 1290, Sant’Andrea was Orvieto’s most important church—
“She used the word ‘fabulous’ to describe the Cathedral of Orvieto?” Lee shook his head. “I’m gay, but please, I’d never even consider the word ‘fabulous’ outside of a press release for Ab Fab. She needs to be stopped.”
“May I continue?”
“Si, continuare.”
“I’m impressed. Not bad Italian for a gringo.”
“I’m not a total Luddite,” Lee said as he tossed another grape at Adriano, who caught it in his mouth. Although a whiz at remembering numbers and dates, Lee was somewhat sensitive about his nonpropensity for language. He had signed up for an Orvieto library card this afternoon and had to be saved by Adriano when he hadn’t understood a field marked “ESEMPIO: GIO BONETTI.”
“‘Esempio’ means example,” Adriano had patiently pointed out. “It’s where you write your name.” Lee had smiled, signed his name, and tried not to look like an American.
His husband’s voice pulled him back to the present.
Originally the site of an Etruscan road, the location later played host to a sixth-century church before construction of the present Sant’Andrea around the year 1100. In 1281, Sant’Andrea saw the coronation of Pope Martin IV—since he had been forbidden from entering Rome—complete with attendance by Charles of Anjou. Perhaps most famously, it was here at the Church of Sant’Andrea in 1209 that Pope Innocent III called for the Fourth Crusade—the so-called Albigensien Crusade—to eradicate the heathen heresy of Catharism that had perverted the Catholic faith and was rife, itself, here in Orvieto.
“Oh yeah, those evil vegetarian, equality-of-the-sexes Cathars.” It was Adriano’s turn for editorial comment as he stopped reading. “They had the right idea, screw the Church and defy the Pope—”
“And get slaughtered as a result in 1244 at Montsegur Castle in France. Hmmm, I didn’t know about the Cathar connection to Orvieto. That’s interesting. You learn something new every day. Go on. This is fascinating. But what does this have to do with the woman priest?” Lee asked.
“I’m getting there, or should I say, Peg is finally getting there.
A mélange of US, South American, and African Anglicans from all over the Italian boot (including some who have traveled over an hour from The Eternal City herself to be here) have hoofed it up to Orvieto for a history-making occurrence: a woman on the altar (and I’m not talking nuns offering communion as lay ministers to overburdened padres). The Rev. Victoria “Vicky” Lewis—like an American actress in a collar—wears well her ebony cassock and virginal surplice. There’s a lot going on with Rev. Vicky. Like Churchill, she is half Brit, half Yank: American mother and British father. But, whatever her lineage, tonight she is most assuredly in charge. A smattering of local Catholics have snuck in as well (trying desperately to suppress genuflections and other overtly Roman gestures) to see if it’s true. A female priest on a Roman altar. And we ain’t talking Hestia or Vestal Virgins here.
Little old Italian ladies gasp in amazement as “Gio” Sancarlo, the much loved, almost idolized some would say, Catholic bishop of Orvieto and Todi rushes in following an afternoon service at the Duomo. He is warmly welcomed with a kiss on each cheek by Vicar Vicky, as she is commonly known. “Una donna sull’altare!,” is heard to murmur as shock shivers across the congregation. And, not just any woman, but a female Episcopal priest, the American branch of Anglicanism, which shocked the Christian world by electing an openly gay bishop and even elevating a woman as its primate.
“I wonder if Brian knew Vicar Vicky,” Lee interrupted, looking at his friend’s ashes on the bookcase behind the sofa. “That name sounds so familiar.”
“Silly question, my love. As you well know, Brian knew everyone in the Anglican Church. He called it the Pansy Mafia, remember?”
“Hmmm, go on.”
Officially, the Pope and the
Archbishop of Canterbury get along in an “imperfect communion” as fellow Christians. Of course, things were perfect until Henry VIII asked Pope Clement VII for a divorce—another local footnote as Pope Clement was living here in Orvieto at the time—but since the Reformation-heavy days of the late 1520s, well, things have never been quite the same between Roman Catholicism and its copycat Romano-lite Anglican Church.
But, here in Umbria, Christian love springs eternal as the broad-minded Bishop Sancarlo seems happy to help “a broad,” as it were, saying that he is committed to “warm relations” with Vicar Vicky and her tiny flock. Touchy-feely “We’re all Christian here” PR aside, the service is controversial. When the All Souls service ends, even Vicar Vicky is stunned, albeit pleasantly so, when Bishop Sancarlo joins her on the altar for a simultaneous benediction of their assembled faithful.
“Our Anglican brothers and sisters,” Bishop Gio added with a wink to the congregation and his liturgical lady friend, “are surely our closest siblings. As the prayer of St. Francis says, ‘Make me an instrument of your peace. Where there is hatred let me sew love.’”
Afterward, Bishop Gio and Vicar Vicky, as always joined by the lovely-if-somewhat-light-footed deacon Andrea, invite the congregation to cross to the medical center and give blood for use by Orvieto’s seemingly unstoppable immigrant population.
As the visibly surprised crowd exited the church, one wondered how strong were the stitches being sewn in this interfaith coat of many collars. And, more to the point, one has to wonder, what does Rome think about this cozy crazy quilt being woven here in Orvieto?
—written by Lady Peg, A Square Peg on a Round Rock
“She doesn’t think much of Episcopalians, does she, our Peg?” Lee suggested.
“Evidently not. Nor of Andrea either,” Adriano said.
“Yeah.” Lee frowned. “That was quite the bitchy comment. ‘Lovely-if-light-footed Deacon Andrea.’ A bit Tea and Sympathy with thinly veiled homophobic arsenic. When was that blog from?”
“Last year, November second. Exactly a month before Andrea’s suicide.”
“Or whatever,” Lee said.
“So, you think there’s something strange to all this?”
“I don’t know, does seem odd.” Lee shrugged. “Call it a publicist’s intuition. I can tell when a story is being put to bed, as they say. A guy gets a devastating bit of news on Friday morning. Everyone sees him at Mass that night. A few hours later he dies mysteriously. Twenty-four hours later, his funeral draws an enormous crowd and the Vatican Press Office shuts up like a clam. I know a PR campaign when I see one. I’ve created enough of them in my time.”
“You read too many Hardy Boy mysteries when you were an unspoiled youth.”
“Nancy Drew,” Lee corrected. “But yes, possibly.” Lee chewed his lip. There was something here, but just out of range. His brain couldn’t quite grab on to it, or let it go. “Do you still have the link to the article about Andrea’s funeral?”
Adriano clicked on his keyboard and called up the link. “Here it is.
“I wanted to be a priest, and dedicated my whole life to this goal, but it was denied me,” typed Bernardone, who had been born in Civita di Bagnoregio. The note found on his computer continued. “I am fragile and I ask for forgiveness.”
“Bagnoregio.” Lee’s lip was practically doing a hula. “That’s where Deacon Andrea was born.”
“And, one of the towns Lady Peg was saying we needed to visit.”
“She may be right, but not quite yet. There’s something else I want to check out. I’ve heard that name before. Vicky. Keep scrolling.”
“Bingo.” Adriano read out loud.
After the funeral, Andrea’s coffin was carried into the crypt of the cathedral attended by only Bishop Sancarlo, don Andrea’s mother, and the Rev. Vicky Lewis, and three young local men.
“How much you wanna bet that two of those local men were the doctor and Leather Boy from Sant’Andrea’s the other night?”
“And Marco makes three,” Adriano added. “You think someone is hiding something about Andrea’s death?”
“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling. The Church getting involved so late in the process of Andrea becoming a priest is strange. Local bishops always have the last word when it comes to ordaining priests. If the Vatican wasn’t happy about something, they’d have called Andrea’s bishop, and long before a week before ordination. It’s suspect.”
“Well, I suspect everything when it comes to the Church, so I’m with you there,” said Adriano.
Lee’s lips were twitching like one of those vibrating airport massage chairs, a clear sign of his mind on overdrive.
“Google her name and Brian’s name.”
Adriano entered the names “Brian Swathmore” and “Vicky Lewis.” Even for an Italian modem slightly newer than medieval, the results popped up quickly.
“Thank yee, gods of the internet.” Adriano turned the screen around again for Lee.
“EpiscopalianChurch.org.” Lee scrolled down the page and clicked on a picture from 1985, then read the caption. “Representatives from the Anglican Communion gather in Cambridge.”
Among a group of eight rather staid-looking clerics, two faces stood out instantly: one, a pretty blonde woman, the other—
“It’s Brian! They knew each other!” Lee exclaimed, looking to his mentor’s flag-wrapped urn.
“Well, they were at least standing next to each other in a picture about twenty-eight years ago.”
“Where is Vicar Vicky now?” Lee asked.
Adriano’s fingers clicked out a keyboard concerto. “St. Paul’s Anglican Church.”
“Here in Orvieto?”
“No.” Adriano shut his computer lid and opened his mouth for another grape. Lee obliged. “A bit down the road from here.”
“Far?”
“No, not far. All roads lead there,” Adriano said.
Lee smiled broadly—a road trip to the mother ship. “Rome!”
CHAPTER XXI
Dinner with a Medici
Passover Saturday, April 4, 1528 (Julian Calendar), Orvieto
“Next year in Jerusalem.” Clement rose from the table with a smile toward his host.
“Or in Rome,” replied Moses de Blanis to the easy laughter of everyone assembled.
The six Passover guests raised their goblets.
“Blessed are You, Lord, for the land…” said Cardinal Egidio de Viterbo.
“…and for the fruit of the vine,” Wazzan finished the blessing for his friend.
“Amen to that,” said Moses, beckoning his guests to his terrace overlooking Orvieto. “As Prince Kohelet says in the Torah, ‘There is a time for every purpose under the heaven,’ and now is the time for feasting.”
“Feasting?” Gio, the young Swiss guard looked perplexed. “Didn’t we just eat?”
“Sofia, what are you doing bringing so ignorant a gentile into our midst?”
Clement listened as her father taunted gently.
“We must teach him the hospitality of the Jews!” Moses walked between his daughter and the handsome Swiss guard, with an arm over each of their shoulders. “That was merely the ceremonial food of Passover. Now, we celebrate with a traditional supper.”
Clement watched as Moses pushed back the curtain, revealing a rooftop patio lit with torches against pink and blue streaks of the waning sunset. A few hundred yards away, the Duomo’s gilded facade loomed up, reflecting the lights of both. In the distance, a pastiche of village fires punctuated the Umbrian hills. Below, the River Paglio made its way languorously to the sea. Nearby, the mountains gave birth to the Tiber, beginning its patient journey toward Rome. In the center of it all, a table groaned with food of all kinds, surrounded by couches and cushions for a reclining meal.
“Magnificent,” Clement whispered, taking in the view. “Your hospitality and your home do us honor. Thank you, Lord de Blanis.”
“Moses, please, Holy Father. Call me Moses.”
“And you must call me Giulio.”
“Dear God,” said Cardinal Egidio. “There may yet be hope for mankind when popes and Jews are on a first-name basis.”
The laughter continued as the group reclined at the table and two servants, a young man and woman, placed silver platters before each guest.
“Your Holiness…?” Moses said.
Clement raised a friendly eyebrow.
“Giulio,” Moses continued. “If it is amenable to Your Hol—To you—after my household staff has served us, I would like to dismiss them so that we may enjoy a more colloquial and private evening.”
My God, this is a shrewd and clever man, thought Clement, leaning back against the delicately embroidered pillows. He knows why I’m there. And, of course, as with all aristocratic Jews, his servants are Catholic. Clement looked at them, husband and wife. A couple of Orvieto. Undoubtedly, they would be in the cathedral tomorrow for Palm Sunday Mass. Certainly, they have recognized me by now. Tomorrow, all of Orvieto will know I have dined with a Jewish banker, a woman, a Moorish scholar, a common soldier, and perhaps the most secular cleric since my cousin Pope Leo X, Cardinal Egidio.
“May I offer them my blessing before they depart?” asked Clement, in as purposefully casual a manner as possible.
It was de Blanis’s turn to smile. “You need not ask permission for anything in my house. I am quite sure it will not only be their first papal blessing, but the first for this house. I hope, however, that it will not be the last.”
“Call them in, please,” said Clement.
The couple walked in from the kitchen with their eyes downcast. They appeared to be in their early twenties.
“Look at me my children,” said Clement, and the husband and wife simultaneously fell to their knees in genuflection. “Approach me.”
Kneeling before the Pope, first the man and then his wife kissed the papal ring. Clement placed his hands on their heads and spoke in Latin. “May God make you like Ephraim and Menasheh and like Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah. May God bless you and guard you. May the light of God shine upon you, and may God be gracious to you. May the presence of God be with you and give you peace.”