by David Perry
“You really have been reading too much Dan Brown,” said Adriano.
“What about the stamps on the back, huh? What about Opus Dei?” Lee’s voice was rising in excitement.
“Maybe it was just the Pastor’s way of saying ‘done,’ kind of a holy checkmark. Opus Dei for ‘prayed for’ or ‘needs two more Hail Marys’ or ‘Sorry, you’re a miserable sinner and you’re going to hell.”
“There is no hell,” Lee stated flatly. His parents’ faces, his grandmother’s, popped into his brain. He tried to push it away, but couldn’t. “I wish there were a hell, for some crimes, but I don’t believe it. Everyone can be forgiven.” He was trying hard to believe it now.
“But you believe in God’s waiting room,” Adriano rolled his eyes. “Hell, no. Purgatory, yes.”
“That’s the point,” Lee said with some urgency. “No one, well, not many people talk about purgatory. It’s a pretty esoteric concept, even for good Catholics.”
“No one says ‘Go to purgatory,’ as a curse, you mean.”
“Exactly,” Lee said. “Listen, I’ve done too many crosswords over the years with Brian Swathmore. He was relentless until he figured something out. The real question is, Whose box is this? Andrea’s? His mother’s? Someone else? Also, why would a refugee have two scrolls sewn into her blouse? And what do they say?”
“Well,” Adriano said with a satisfied look, turning around in the swivel chair. “That I think I can answer.”
“You finished the translation.”
Adriano nodded and started to read, in Italian first, followed immediately in English.
Per quelle che per la loro incontinenza sono tormentate
For those who are tormented by incontinence
Per quelle che portarono poco rispetto chiesa
For those who do not respect the Church
Per quelle castigate per la loro accidia nelle opere di pieta
For those who are punished for their sloth in doing works of mercy
Per quelle dei quistirati e scordati
For those who have died and been forgotten
“It’s the text from the purgatory board in Bagnoregio!”
Adriano just nodded and continued.
“Read the other one.” Lee’s lips were practically on vibrate. They were close to solving it. He knew it. Of course, the “it” was still unidentified.
Per quelle che in questa vita poco amarono Dio
For those in this life who just loved God
Per le anime di quelli che, ti furono nemici
For the souls of your enemies
Per quelle che sono piu care a Maria Santissima
For those most dear to our Lady, Holy Maria
Per le anime di questa famiglia che ancora penanon in purgatorio
For the souls of this family that still languish in purgatory
Lee asked the obvious rhetorical question. “Why would an African refugee have Christian prayers sewn into her clothes, written in Arabic?”
“I have to admit, I thought you were being a little weird about this whole purgatory thing, but this is a little woo-woo,” said Adriano. “The prayers are identical to ones we just found in a semi-abandoned church in a town with twelve people. I mean, exactly the same words”
“Not exactly. There’s one big difference,” Lee said, slapping his knee. “I can’t believe I didn’t see this before. I’ll be right back.” With a quick kiss to his husband’s forehead, Lee was up, out of the apartment, and dashing downstairs before Adriano could respond. Less than two minutes later he was back. “I knew I had seen these before. Look.” Lee was holding a book and smiling.
“What does this have to do with the Titanic?” Adriano asked, taking Magda’s birthday gift.
“Esempio,” Lee said in quivering triumph. “Don’t you see! Ah. Here it is!” Lee had rifled through the purgatory prayer box and pulled out a card with obvious success. “Read this!”
Adriano exhaled but complied.
“ESEMPIO
(41) Per quelle che in questa vita poco amarono Dio
For those in this life who just loved God
(43) Per quelle che frastornarono gli altri alla devozione
For those that distracted others from devotion
(49) Per quelle che perdettero tempo in luchare e ridere
For those who wasted time in mockery and laughter
(56) Per quei padri e quelle madri che non educano i loro figli
For those fathers and mothers who did not educate their children”
“So what?” Adriano asked.
“Look at the title of the book.”
Adriano read. 41.43 N; 49.56 W.
“Those are the coordinates of where the Titanic sank, perhaps the most famous and most published coordinates in the last hundred years. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of books about the Titanic.”
“So?” Adriano repeated with a sigh that was becoming more than exasperation.
“They’re the same numbers on the prayer card. Just read the numbers.”
“41.43. 49.56.” Adriano looked, mouth open. “You’re right!”
“Here, try another one, one of the ones with the Opus Dei symbol on the back.”
Adriano found one and pulled it out. “Here, this one. Wait. It looks like it did have an Opus Dei stamp on it, but someone’s erased it out. You can just make the original ink from the stamp before it was rubbed away.”
“Good enough. Let me feed the coordinates into Andrea’s computer. Dictate.”
“(48) Per quelle che patiscono per causa della loro orecchie
For those who suffer for because of their ears
(56) Per quei padri e quelle madri che non educano i loro figli
For those fathers and mothers who did not educate their children
(13) Per quelle per le quali il Padre desidera che si preghi accio siano
liberate da quelle pene
For those whom the Father wants freed of their pain
(43) Per quelle che frastornarono gli altri alla devozione
For those who bewildered others with devotion”
Lee was typing away. “OK, I think this is it. 48.56 N; 13.43 E. That’s smack-dab in the middle of the Danube River in Passau, the border between Germany and Austria.” Lee looked up perplexed. “Another coordinate in the middle of a body of water. What about this one?” Lee handed Adriano another card, this one clearly stamped with the symbol on Luke’s ring.
Adriano read the card:
“(40) Per quelle che confidate nella misericordia di Dio, facilmente peccarono
For those who trusted in God’s mercy, easily they sinned
(71) Per quelle che sono piu vicine a finire i loro tormenti
For those who are closest to ending their torment
(74) Per quelle che aspettano soccorso dai parenti e sono abbandonate
For those who expected help from their families but were abandoned
(1) Per le anime di tuo padre e di tua madre
For the souls of your father and your mother”
“OK. That must be 40.71 N; 74.01 E.” Lee was watching Google Earth take its miraculous digital spin of the earth, then home in on its destination. He wondered if this was how US soldiers targeted drones. “Hmmm. That’s somewhere near New York harbor off lower Manhattan, actually, I’ve seen those coordinates before.” He quickly picked through the box, looking for another card stamped Opus Dei. His visage suddenly drained of all color. “Read this one,” Lee said with a face of blank certainty. “I know these numbers.”
Adriano read and translated:
“(38) Per quelle che penano per pigrizia
For those who are in pain because of laziness
(87) Per quelle che sono comparse a quelche persona non hanno avuto soccorso
For those who have cried out for rescue but been denied
(77) Per quelle che invita si raccomandarone a Dio con poco fervore
For those who do not worship God with sufficient fervor
(5) Per quelle alle quali particolarmente sei tenuto
For those of your particular intentions”
“Another shipwreck?” Adriano asked.
“No,” said Lee, taking back the card and reciting by rote the numbers he would never forget. “38.87 N; 77.05 W. Not a shipwreck, a plane. Those are the coordinates of the Pentagon. And the one by lower Manhattan. The World Trade Center.”
Lee felt faint.
“Oh my God.” Adriano squeezed his husband’s hand, remembering their conversation earlier today and Lee’s revelations about his parents’ death. “Are you…”
“I’m fine,” Lee said with finality. “Really. Here, try this card. It’s one of the last ones with the Opus Dei symbol. Also, it’s weird. The first two lines repeat themselves.”
Adriano read while Lee took his place at the computer:
“(40) Per quelle che confidate nella misericordia di Dio, facilmente peccarono
(40) Per quelle che confidate nella misericordia di Dio, facilmente peccarono
For those who trusted in God’s mercy, easily they sinned
(3) Per le anime di questa famiglia che ancora penanon in purgatorio
For the souls of this family that still languish in purgatory
6) Per quelle che in vita loro ti hanno perseguitato”
“40.40.3.6 coordinates.” Lee typed into the computer. “It’s in Spain.”
“I know where it is,” Adriano said with a chill in this voice. “It’s Madrid. Atocha. The train station that the terrorists blew up killing over one hundred and fifty people. It was Spain’s 9/11.”
“Who would put the coordinates of terrorist attacks on prayer cards? And, why?”
“I don’t know, but I’m beginning to think we should call the police.”
“Or Don Bello,” Lee said, turning back to the keyboard. “He seems to be at the center of everything.”
“Hmmm. Our very own Don Mateo.”
“Who’s that?”
“A TV detective on Spanish television. My parents love that show.” Quickly, Adriano changed the subject. “Lee, check his favorites.”
“What?”
“His favorites. Andrea’s history tab on the computer. Here, let me.” Adriano pushed his husband aside and started playing the keyboard. Then he leaned back. “Check it out.”
Lee leaned over his husband’s shoulder and read, search after search after search with the same coordinates they had just found themselves. “Whatever is going on with these prayer cards, Deacon Andrea was involved somehow.”
“Or was figuring out how someone else was involved.”
Lee looked at Adriano.
“I’m going to phone Don Bello, or Luke, or someone. I’ll be right back. My iPhone is downstairs,” Adriano said.
Lee turned back to the computer as his husband ran downstairs for the cavalry. Down in the lobby, distant laughter could be heard and Christmas greetings exchanged as the front door slammed.
“Meow!”
Clemente was rubbing against Lee’s legs persistently and looking up at him quizzically. “I know, Clemente. It’s strange.” Lee leaned down to scratch his companion’s back. When he looked back up at the screen, he noticed it—a document on the desktop of Andrea’s computer that he hadn’t seen before. His whole body went cold. He knew what it was before he opened it. Andrea’s suicide note. There staring at him in terse, digital prose, was the proof of Andrea’s last act and the clue to what led him to the edge of that cliff.
I wanted to be a priest, and dedicated my whole life to this goal, but it was denied me. I am fragile and I ask for forgiveness.
Lee had seen the words before, read them in the article about Andrea’s suicide, but like the purgatory cards now scattered around him like tainted confetti, again it wasn’t the words that drew Lee’s eyes to the screen. It was the numbers, the date next to the document that indicated when it was created. Of course! The numbers. The date!
“Jesus Christ,” Lee whispered, hearing footsteps returning. He turned to greet his husband.
“No,” the shadow said from the doorway. “Not yet.”
CHAPTER LV
Coronation
February 24, 1530 (Julian Calendar), Bologna
Clement was alone—for now.
The Church of San Petronio was blessedly empty, and quiet. But it wouldn’t stay that way for long. Already, he could hear the stirrings of the masses on the square outside the basilica.
Ave Caesar! Imperator Invite!
The Pope ground his teeth without giving breath to the name of the person he was about to crown Holy Roman Emperor: Charles. As if being dragged kicking and scheming to Bologna wasn’t bad enough, today was Charles’s thirtieth birthday.
He better not be expecting a cake. Clement harrumphed. Holy God, in what have I offended Thee? Answer me. Blasphemous, I know, he thought, to paraphrase the words of our Savior in jest, but really, Caesar? Oy vey. What a world when Belgians get empires.
“Gaul is divided into three parts”—Clement remembered the self-congratulatory tone of Julius Caesar’s Gallic Wars diary—“one of which the Belgae inhabit, the Aquitani another, those who in their own language are called Celts, in ours Gauls, the third. Of all these, the Belgae are the strongest.”
“Well, perhaps not strongest,” Clement growled sub voce, “but at least the luckiest by birth, and certainly endowed with—what was it the Jews called it? Chutzpah?” Charles V certainly had that, asking for a papal blessing over his crown not quite three years after he had attacked Rome with a legion of lust-filled Lutherans, pillaged the Vatican, tortured and killed thousands of citizens, and forced Christ’s Vicar on Earth—namely Clement —into exile. Not to mention the 140 Swiss Guards whose bloodied corpses were left to rot on the steps of St. Peter’s after having bought time for his escape to Orvieto.
Orvieto.
Clement sighed. It seemed a lifetime ago, those six months of blessed, forced retreat in which he had connived to save—nay, resurrect—what was left of his papacy.
To whit: Charles was being crowned in Bologna not Rome; in San Petronio, not St. Peter’s. Charles wasn’t happy about it, but Rome still wasn’t quite up to an imperial coronation. Not yet three years on from its sacking, the citizens of the Eternal City were in no mood to see money wasted on spectacle. Most of them were still struggling to eat. Clement had returned, briefly, to Rome and his Vatican apartments—what was left of them, covered with pornographic cartoons of Clement and the Medici. Some of them, actually, showed talent but the subject was always the same. Disgrace, disembowelment, and death for Pope Clement VII.
Well, thought Clement, pulling himself together and continuing his stroll through San Petronio, that will come soon enough, but not quite yet. He laughed to himself. My God. Cardinal Farnese and the rest of the unholy college were practically ready to bury him last year. He had been sick and thought himself that the end was near. But, no such luck. He had survived. They’d have to wait a bit longer for white smoke over the Vatican. He still had a few good years left. Well, years, at least. However many cycles of the sun were still left to the last true Medici prince, they likely would not be good.
Of course, he wasn’t really the last. There was still Alessandro. There was still his son.
The Pope stopped in front of the Chapel of the Magi. Splendid, he thought, admiring the spectacular marble balustrade and the frescoes depicting the Three Kings at the Nativity alongside a representation of the life of Bologna’s patron, San Petronio. There was a nicely executed coronation of the Virgin Mary. Clement frowned. Typical. Virgins get crowned, but courtesans do all the work. If sex was so bad, why hadn’t God found another way to keep the species alive? But, of course, the chapel’s namesake aside, it wasn’t the Magi who had artistic pride of place here. It was Lucifer, a grotesquely magnificent demon surrounded by illustrations from Dante. In his Satanic mouth, he gobbled a heretic and in a bizarrely hermaphroditic display, squeezed out another through his vagina. C
lement shook his head. His cousin Pope Leo may have been a sodomite, but he had nothing over the artist Giovanni da Modena when it came to kink. The Pope stood, strangely compelled by the hellishly intriguing fresco, in all its gorishness, devouring the damned. Just over his left shoulder, one would-be Satanic snack was being tenderized with red-hot pitchforks by a demon in waiting. Lest anyone doubt the sufferer’s identity, his name had been quite clearly painted underneath: Mahomet. Mohammed.
“Is my mother in hell?”
The question clawed its way out deep from where it had long been buried in Clement’s brain, stirred to life again by the image of Modena’s fresco of the tortured Moor, a stream of putrid water from beneath the earth, released as if by earthquake.
“Is my mother in hell?” repeated the young voice.
Clement, then still Cardinal Giulio de Medici, had squirmed visibly under the query and avoided the questioner’s eyes that long-ago day in Rome during the reign of his cousin, and best friend, Pope Leo X. Finally, he had looked down at his inquisitor, barely eight years old and precocious beyond his years. Alessandro. His son. No, no…must be careful. His cousin, or as everyone referred to him, his nephew, nepoti.
“Of course not, Alessandro. Of course not. Your mother was a good woman.” Yes, he thought, and beautiful too. “A very good woman, indeed. Why would you think such a thing as that, my Simonett, your mother in hell?”
The dark-skinned boy pursed his lips and looked down at his feet as if ashamed. “Cousin Ippolito and Lorenzino said my mother was in hell.”
Giulio de Medici had gasped, a mixture of horror and true anger. “How dare they!” the Cardinal had roared, clapping his hands to summon a servant. “Quickly, bring me the young Medici cousins, Ippolito and Lorenzino. Seek them out this instant!”
“NO!” Alessandro had screamed. “No, please Uncle Giulio, no! Please don’t say anything to them. They hate me already! They’ll kill me if they find I’ve told you! Please!”