by David Perry
He had told him, “Suicide is not a sin because you are taking your own life. It is a sin because you are taking away the ability of God to love you in this life. Suicide is not the sin of murder. It is the sin of hopelessness. It is the sin of losing faith in God’s love. God is a God of love, not vengeance. The love of God is beyond measure. It is infinite.”
Who am I kidding, Luke thought, looking to the cemetery across the valley from Orvieto. Andrea did not jump from that cliff. I pushed him. I pushed him as much as if I had put my hand to his back. Andrea kept my secret and I betrayed him by revealing his, a secret he didn’t even know he had. I delivered Andrea into the hands of Archbishop Arnaud as Judas delivered Jesus over to the Sanhedrin. Andrea, Bishop Sancarlo, Vicky…they walked in to give blood for migrants and left refugees themselves.
He turned solemnly from the window, the silent condemnation of the closed mortuary drawer confirming his complicity in it all. A morgue. The hospital of Orvieto was nothing but that anymore. A morgue.
“Andrea.” A single tear ran down Luke’s cheek. He would allow himself no more.
But enough, enough of this wallowing in self-pity. I have a job to do. I have yet one more sin to add to my soul. Luke turned from the window. One more level of purgatory in which to descend. Death can not come too soon for me, but first, I promise, death will come for others, to avenge Andrea.
CHAPTER XXVI
Parrots, Porn Stars, and Popes
Friday, December 6, 2013, breakfast, Hotel Byron, Rome
It was big news in Rome. The porn star’s parrot got blessed by the Pope.
“I hope it didn’t bite the hand that blessed it.”
Adriano pulled the newspaper down and looked over the fold at Lee. “Even for you, that’s a terrible joke.”
Lee smiled and returned to his full English breakfast.
“What about a gay parrot and the Pope?”
“The porn star wasn’t gay. He was straight,” Adriano said, shaking out a crinkle in the newspaper. “I’m not sure about the bird. The Pope was riding around St. Peter’s doing his weekly blessing and this parrot suddenly landed on his hand, so he blessed it. Turned out the little critter belonged to an aging Italian porn star. He’s actually mayor of some small town now, although according to this there were rumors that he ran a prostitution ring with a heavy curiatorial clientele, if you get my drift. But of course now he’s found Christ, so he’s the perfect manly Mary Magdalene. A sinner forgiven, complete with dove—ah, sorry—parrot of peace on his wrist.”
“Gimme that,” Lee said, biting into his English muffin and reaching for the paper to see. “You’re right. The papers are full of it this morning.”
“Full of it is right,” Adriano sneered. “I suppose your friend Giorgio Maltoni at the Vatican Press Office is distributing the photo with a caption The new Francis blessing the animals or some such crap. Blessing some hooker’s pet doesn’t equal sexual liberation. You of all people should see it’s a PR stunt. I think you’re being purposefully naive.”
“Cynic,” Lee said. “He’s cute. I grant you that.”
“The bird or the porn star?”
“Both,” Lee said. “He looks kind of familiar.”
“The bird or the porn star?”
“Very funny. I think he was in one of those low-budget Italian exports from the eighties, you know, history porn, Gladiator Glutimas Maximus or something like that. We passed the DVD around when I worked onboard ship. It was hetero porn but you work with what you’ve got when you’re at sea. It was in Italian, but that wasn’t an impediment to the action. It was one of the few pieces of pornography that succeeded in being dull. I could never even make it through to the end, so I never actually figured out the plot.” Lee held up his hands while saying “plot,” miming air quotes. “I think I still have the DVD somewhere in a box back in San Francisco.”
“Sorry I missed it,” Adriano said with an arched eyebrow.
Lee made a kissy-face and returned to his breakfast.
For the moment, they were the only guests in the Hotel Byron’s break-fast-room-cum-lounge. The bar was stacked with a buffet of bangers, eggs, baked tomatoes, and roasted potatoes, just like the Queen Mum would have made, minus the gin and tonic. Perky Cedric had practically flown out from behind the desk to show Adriano to his seat and whip up his cappuccino, and if encouraged, undoubtedly other options. Hotel tramp.
Lee noticed Cedric, now re-ensconced behind reception, checking out an early morning departure, a middle-aged priest, not bad looking from beneath his mantle of sunglasses, scarves, a big fur-trimmed hat with brim and ear flaps pulled far down over his face, and a black woolen cape with a lining delicately trimmed in red. Lee noticed that his skin was quite tan, unusual for an ordinate in wintry Rome, and his shoes were newly shined. Vatican vanity. Also, he seemed in quite the hurry to leave. He brushed by Adriano and Lee’s table as he rushed out the lobby door to hail a taxi. A miasma of heavy, cloying cologne preceded and followed his exit. It was slightly redolent of cinnamon. The effect was nauseating in its intensity to Lee.
“What time are we meeting Vicky?” Adriano was waving away the smelly haze with his hand.
“Nine a.m.,” Lee answered, checking the clock underneath the bust of Victoria over the bar. It read 8:30 a.m. “Just enough time to finish your bangers.”
“Whatever you say, Lord Grantham.”
“Is Don Bello joining us?”
“No,” said Adriano. “He had some business with the Vatican and then was taking an afternoon train back to Orvieto. He invited us to come by San Giovanale when we’re back in Orvieto. He wants to show us the frescoes.”
“Sounds suspiciously like ‘Come up and see my etchings sometime,’” Lee said, popping the last bit of English muffin into his mouth.
“Are you jealous of an old man?” Adriano smiled, finishing off his cappuccino. Lee leaned across the table and wiped off his husband’s residual foamy mustache.
“No,” Lee said. “Just observant. Don Bello has, what would Marco say, ‘a soft part in his heart’ for you. It’s sweet. Very ‘the disciple that Jesus loved’ sort of thing. Here, read this. Some more research about our charming hostess from last night, in her own words.” Lee handed his iPad across to Adriano.
Adriano looked up. “You’re obsessed.”
“Read,” Lee prompted.
Upon This Rock
2 November, 2012
Story by the Reverend Vicky Lewis
The Church of Sant’Andrea in Orvieto is alive with history: first a pagan temple, then an Etruscan site of worship and for the last thousand years, one of the most historic Roman Catholic churches in the world. Tonight, in a sign of ecumenical peacemaking, that historic church will host an historic service celebrating the Feast of All Souls. After our prayers for all those awaiting the resurrection in purgatory, we’ll all go to give blood—another type of soul-infusing hope—for use by the immigrants whom God has washed up here on our shores.
Orvieto is used to such history-making.
Once home to pontiffs on the run, Orvieto is now home to another religious refugee of sorts, a church without a home. Although our congregation is small, every Sunday morning, around twenty people gather for Holy Communion. They are young and old, American and British, a few Italians and a retired schoolteacher from Hong Kong when it was still a royal colony. What they have in common is their religion. These are Anglicans and Episcopalians: A small, often misunderstood faith here in the heart of Roman Catholic Italy. They come every Sunday to worship their God. I am their priest.
When I was eighteen, God called me.
My mother was an American Roman Catholic. My father is a British Anglican. Which path would I choose? After much soul searching, I become a Catholic nun. I joined a Benedictine convent near my home in Belfast where I lived and loved my community for twenty years. Then, I turned forty. My midlife crisis became also a crisis of faith-and gender liberation. I wanted to be a priest, something denied women
in the Roman Catholic Church. And so, my life turned again. I moved to the United States to study at the Episcopal Divinity School in Cambridge, Massachusetts. At the age of forty-five, I was ordained a priest in the American Episcopal Church. For about ten years, I led a small parish outside of Boston. Then, on a trip to Italy I saw Orvieto. It was love at first sight.
“That’s quite a roundabout journey,” Adriano said, looking up. “What’s the big deal in wearing a collar? Who cares? I have so little patience for this religious bullshit.”
“Are you done?”
“Yeah, OK, I know. Keep reading. You like my voice.” Adriano smiled.
“I do.”
Adriano continued.
Jesus once said, “Where two or three are gathered, there I am also.” Certainly, in the beginning of our little mission church, there were few more Episcopalians in Orvieto than that. However, our Savior was soon to present itself in the person of the Right Reverend Giovanale “Gio” Sancarlo, Roman Catholic Bishop of Orvieto. As he enfolds all he meets in the warm embrace of his ecumenical love, Bishop Sancarlo greeted me at once as a priest: as an equal of liturgical lineage—even if his Church hierarchy did not. A spiritual friendship was born and continues to be fostered. This summer, in Orvieto’s historic Roman Catholic Church of Sant’Andrea, Bishop Sancarlo and I co-presided at a service of sacred readings taken from the Bible, the Torah, Koran, and selected Buddhist texts. In addition to a mixed crowd of about two hundred Catholics, Anglicans, Episcopals and others, in attendance in the front row were a rabbi, an imam, a visiting guru from India, and even a representative from the Vatican, Archbishop Arnaud. I will never forget Bishop Gio’s words at the end of the service.
“As it says in the Prayer of St. Francis, make us all instruments of God’s peace. Where there is hatred, let us sew love. Where there is sadness, let us bring joy. All of us here—Christian, Jew, Buddhist, Muslim, and more—all of us are part of the Golden Thread that binds and connects all human souls.”
“This is torture.” Adriano looked up in mock pleading.
Lee reached over and took back his iPad. “I’ll finish.”
“Bless you.”
Lee took over.
The Past Is Prologue.
How appropriate it is for words of religious healing to take place here in Orvieto, the nativity of the original schism that broke apart the Catholic and Anglican Churches. For it was here in 1528, that Pope Clement the Seventh received the representatives of England’s King Henry the Eighth requesting divorce from his wife so that he could marry Anne Boleyn. When the Pope refused, King Henry broke away and established the Church of England. For five hundred years, these two sides of the same religious coin have been striving for reconciliation. Would it not be a thing of wonder should that breach be healed by a female priest of the Anglican Communion and a brave and generous Bishop of the Roman Catholic Church—here in Orvieto—upon this rock?
Lee put down the iPad and pinned Adriano with a glance. “So, whad-dya think?”
“She does writes beautifully, I have to admit, Adriano said, popping a strawberry into his mouth. Certainly, her descriptions of Orvieto are more authentic and genuine than the dreck scooped up by Lady Peg.”
“That’s it?” Lee said. “That’s all you have to say about that article?”
“What else do you want me to say?”
“Don’t you see,” Lee said. He knew Adriano was getting irritated with his curiosity, but he didn’t care. He knew he was onto something. He pushed on. “Vicky and Bishop Sancarlo were stirring things up in Orvieto, religiously I mean. Andrea’s suicide was the excuse to get both of them out of town and clamp down on Orvieto’s growing apostasy. Bishop Arnaud must have plotted, sitting there with a pew full of heathens, Jews, and Muslims, while Vicky and Bishop Sancarlo made kissy-face up there on the altar of Sant’Andrea. I bet you that’s the moment he decided to do something about it.”
“Oh come on, Lee.” Adriano slapped his hands down on the table. “Are you saying that someone killed Deacon Andrea, then made it look like a suicide, just to embarrass Bishop Sancarlo and force him and uber liberal Reverend Vicky to hightail it out of town?”
“No, nothing that drastic,” said Lee, although, secretly that and darker thoughts had crossed his mind. “I’m saying that Andrea’s suicide was the last straw with a Vatican already burdened by sex scandals, calls for the ordination of women, and even recently an effort for the Catholic and Episcopal Churches to reunite.”
“You sound as anti-Church as I do,” remarked Adriano, with a look equal parts ironic and triumphant.
“Let’s go,” said Lee, at a loss for a response. “Reverend Vicky is waiting.”
Adriano rolled his eyes and stood up, returning a wave from Cedric across the lobby behind the front desk. Lee grinned too—as sweet and poisonous as aspartame—and let his husband lead the way to St. Paul’s Church next door. Lee’s mind was doing cartwheels as evidenced by his extreme lip chewing, a bad habit only exacerbated by a mystery in need of solving. There was something more behind Deacon Andrea’s leap from the walls of Orvieto. More than just disappointment at being denied a Roman collar. And part of it, Lee was convinced, had to do with that picture in Reverend Vicky’s dining room. He had a sneaking suspicion that the person taking that old picture of young Vicky and her two clerical escorts in the St. Paul’s rectory dining room was none other than the kindly pastor of San Giovanale, Don Bello.
Cedric answered the phone on the second-and-one-half ring. The management insisted on picking up calls instantly, but Cedric preferred efficiency balanced with a bit of nuance. I’ve got things to do after all, he thought.
“Hotel Byron, this is Cedric. Cheerio! How may I be of service?”
“Excuse me, do you have a Lee Maury and an Adriano Llata de Miranda staying at your hotel?” The feminine voice was smooth and even, well trained and deliberate, clearly British, upper-class. Polite, but only because the speaker had been so trained.
“May I ask who’s calling?” Cedric was icily flamboyant in his response. Who does she think she’s dealing with? He wondered if she could tell he was Cockney. Snotty Brits always acted like they were born at Windsor. “I’m afraid I can’t give out personal information about our guests, I mean, if they were here, I couldn’t tell you even if they were, or weren’t.”
“Of course, I understand.” The voice switched tone, becoming almost apologetic. “I should have identified myself. This is kind of embarrassing. I work for the British Consulate here in Rome. Evidently, Lee and Adriano are friends with the British Consul in San Francisco. They have a Christmas surprise for the lovely boys but it got mis-addressed and, well—as I said, this is rather embarrassing. Anyway, the package has ended up here at the Consulate in Rome and I just need to know where to send it. Also, I’m so sorry, I should have identified myself. I’m Pippa.”
“Pippa!” Cedric almost squealed. “Like the Duchess of Cambridge’s sister?”
“Exactly.” The voice laughed. “Didn’t she quite steal the show at the wedding? I mean really!”
Cedric giggled. “I know, quite, well I mean, Kate did look beautiful, but that dress of Pippa’s—gasp and swoon! Oh, I do go on. I’m so sorry. What can I do for you, Pippa?”
“Well.” The voice giggled, but just enough. “As I said, this is embarrassing. Lee and Adriano are friends with Her Majesty’s representative back in San Francisco, and he has sent them a Christmas gift. Well, the gift went to San Francisco and then got forwarded here because we hear they’re staying in Italy.”
“Oh yes!” Cedric said, suddenly wondering why he had been so suspicious. “They’re both staying here. Would you like to have the gift delivered here?”
“No!” her voice said sharply, then, softer, “No. We don’t want to spoil the surprise, and of course, Christmas is still weeks away. We want to deliver it to their home here in Italy. We understand they’re in the country Italy for several weeks. But, well, as I said, it’s so embarrassing. Our
records don’t show what town they’re staying in. Did they tell you when they checked in? I called the Italian Consulate who keeps records of visitors arriving, but, well, you know the Italians. Soooo unhelpful. They wouldn’t tell me anything. If I know the town I can have the package delivered to the carbiniere there, and Lee and Adriano can pick it up.”
“Well of course,” Cedric said. So typical. He felt for her. The Italians could be so, so, ltalian. Let me just check.” The young desk clerk flipped through the Hotel Britannia guest register. “Ah, yes, here it is. They’re visiting from Orvieto.”
“Orvieto,” the voice said with a slight intake of breath. “You’re sure?”
“Oh yes,” Cedric said. “Quite sure. They signed in last night.”
“Did they leave an address?” The voice was sweet and stiff, like a frozen popsicle.
“No,” Cedric said, “just Orvieto. But you said you can leave it with the carbiniere, yes? This should be enough. I mean, Orvieto is small. Won’t be hard to find two American puftas there, right?” Cedric laughed, and then wondered if he’d gone too far.
“Quite.” The woman called Pippa laughed back. “Quite so. I’ll have no trouble finding them at all. Now, one thing.” And her voice became conspiratorially cozy. “You won’t tell Lee and Adriano that I called, will you? I wouldn’t want to spoil their surprise. Plus, well, I’d get in a good deal of trouble. Let’s just keep this between ourselves, yes?”
“Scout’s honor,” Cedric said, crossing his heart, even though Pippa couldn’t see. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“Thanks again, Cedric, and have a Happy Christmas. So nice to hear a friendly English voice.”
“You too, Pippa. Happy Christmas.”
As he hung up the phone, Cedric saw the return phone number flash quickly in front of him on the console, then disappear. He just caught the country code, +972, then it was gone.
Funny, he thought, the country code for Italy is +39. Oh well, maybe she was calling on a mobile. Stranger things had happened.