by David Perry
“I remember everything.” The old woman pouted. “I am eternal.”
Everyone laughed, including La Donna Volsini, but Lee noticed for the first time how old she looked, how old she truly was. In the twelve days since the secret drama of St. Patrick’s Well, she had visited Adriano and Lee every day, first in the hospital and later at home—although how she managed the sixty steps to their apartment was still a mystery to him—and always bearing food and good cheer. Today, however, she moved like the nonagenarian that she was. Today, Velzna Volsini looked every bit her age and then some.
“You’re tired and need a rest.” Don Bello wagged a finger at his friend. “It’s been a difficult week.”
“A difficult year,” Adriano interjected.
“Si, molto.” Marco nodded in agreement, giving Adriano a squeeze on his arm. “Especially for mi nonna.”
“Well, tomorrow, the holidays will officially be over, and we can all take a well-deserved rest. Especially you, dear Velzna.”
“I’m not dead yet,” La Donna Volsini said, brushing away the suddenly enfolding arms and protestations pressing in around her. “I’ve got more energy than all of you put together, and I still have plenty of work to do. And let me a-tell you, it’s a good-a thing I did no see that man.” She punctuated this last with a mortar-like spit bomb to the pavement.
“The Pope, you mean,” Adriano said.
“Benedict, yes.” La Donna Volsini pulled herself up. “Him. Pope Emeritus. Papa Horrificus he should be called. It is because of him that Andrea is not with us today. It is because of him that Andrea jumped from the rock.”
No one said anything for a few minutes. Finally, Lee interjected. “Yes, he said as much when he came to visit.”
“Go on, my son,” Don Bello said gently. “What did he say. We’ve all been waiting to hear.”
Lee looked to Adriano as if seeking permission. Adriano merely nodded.
“He apologized,” Lee said simply.
“And he cried,” Adriano said. And then, as if surprising himself, he added, “I felt sorry for him, actually. He was so pathetic. A broken man.”
“I’d like to break him,” La Donna Volsini interjected. “Che disgrazia. The only papa who ever did anything good for-a Orvieto was the last pope to visit here, Clemente Settimo, Guilio de Medici, at least he left us—”
“Now, now, carissima,” said Don Bello, uncharacteristically interrupting his old friend. “Don’t upset yourself, and besides, even you don’t remember the Medici.”
“I remember enough,” said the old woman, glaring at Don Bello. “Certo, you are a’ right. There was another pope who visited Orvieto after Clemente. Papa Paolo il Sesto.”
“That’s right,” Don Bello nodded, touching a finger to his lips. “He flew here by helicopter in 1964 from Castel Gandolfo for the seven hundredth anniversary of the Miracle of Bolsena. Landed right next to the Duomo. I think it was the first time the Holy Father ever flew.”
“And he didn’t have a broom,” Adriano said, as they all laughed.
“What did he say!” It was Marco who brought the conversation back to the obvious. “Pope Benedict. What did he say to you?”
Lee took a deep breath and continued. “First, he sent Magda and Luke out of the room. Then, he sat down between our beds, reached out both of his hands, to hold one of ours in each, and he confessed to being responsible for Andrea’s death.”
La Donna’s lips quivered slightly, but she uttered no sound.
“Yes.” Adriano picked up the thread. “He said that Archbishop Arnaud had come to him with rumors about Andrea and Grigori having an affair. There had already been a lot of gay gossip and scandal last year around the Vatican, and for Benedict, this was too much. He ordered Cardinal Maltoni to send a fax to Bishop Sancarlo here in Orvieto, relieving Andrea of his upcoming ordination. He knew nothing about Maltoni’s involvement in the terrorist ring.”
“And,” Lee jumped in, “as you know, Maltoni had been kind of Benedict’s right hand in the Curia. He trusted him implicitly.”
“‘I was blind, and did not see,’ were his exact words,” Adriano said. “He repeated it twice. Then, he said, ‘Because of my blindness, I condemned a man to death. More horribly, because of my blindness, I committed a soul to eternal damnation.’”
“That’s what seemed to bother him the most,” Lee said, squeezing his husband’s hand. “Andrea’s death broke his heart. But knowing that he had pushed Andrea to suicide, a mortal sin, broke his life. It’s the real reason he resigned from the papacy.”
“Did he offer you his blessing?” Don Bello asked quietly.
“No,” Adriano said with a wry, sad smile. “Although, of course, Lee asked.”
“He refused to bless us,” Lee said. “He said he was not worthy. Instead, he asked us to bless, and forgive, him.”
“Mamma mia,” was all Marco could say. “Nonna, you’re crying!”
And, indeed, she was.
For the first time since the end of the war in 1944 when she had helped a young Don Bello and a German colonel bury the bodies of the seven martyrs of the Camorena, including one very special to her indeed, La Donna Volsini cried. She wept all the way to San Giovanale.
CHAPTER LXI
Resurrection
Monday, January 6, 2014, sunset, Convento dei Cappuccini
His cell was cold. Outside, an evening fog wrapped around the tower in a misty vise.
He wasn’t going anywhere. Hadn’t gone anywhere, for over a year. He’d likely die here, alone with his thoughts. Better that way. He didn’t want to see anyone, and he was sure there was no one interested in seeing him. Well, at least one person who didn’t want to see him, or hear from him.
He had sanctioned enough perversity in her life, in their lives. His was a voluntary purgatory, but a living penance nonetheless. Only the living can know that death is not a punishment.
With nothing else to do, he prayed, playing out his sentence on the map of his mind:
(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
Guilty as charged, my Lord God.
As he had done for a year, the priest looked out his window and stared toward the cliff.
Across the valley, he could see the flickering flames, the campfires and celebrations in the garden of San Giovanale for the Epiphany and Living Nativity.
The Magi were arriving: Gaspar, Melchior….
“Balthasar,” the man said to himself. “I could not give her the one gift she truly wanted. Instead, I killed the gift I never should have brought.”
It was time.
Slowly, but very deliberately, he arose from his cot and stepped outside of his cell. A young monk was passing by.
“Brother,” he said. “I need you to drive me somewhere.”
“Of course, Reverend Bishop. Where?”
“Orvieto.”
CHAPTER LXII
The Holy Family
Wednesday, January 8, 2014, dusk, Orvieto, the Garden of San Giovanale
The mood at the manger was quite festive.
Several hundred people bundled up against the cold at Orvieto’s western edge, darkness having driven away what little warmth had remained of the day, replaced now with campfires, torches, mulled wine, and bruschetta toasted over coals and slathered with olive oil. Plus, a plethora of local artists, artisans, and artfully costumed locals in Biblical dress. At the center, under Grigori’s carefully hung electric star, was the manger main stage,
with Joseph, Mary, and Baby Jesus.
“It’s Maryam!” Adriano was the first to notice, pushing through the crowd and pointing. Lee followed behind, carefully maneuvering his bandaged torso. “She’s playing, well, her namesake, Mary!”
“And, as usual, the newest baby in the parish playing the Son of God,” said Don Bello with obvious pride. “I think our young Dr. Luke makes quite a good St. Joseph as well, don’t you?”
In truth, it was a touching tableau, and one whose diversity seemed quite apropos given the revelations and ramifications of the last two weeks. Lee looked around at the jostling crowd, young, old, straight, gay, rich, poor, pagan, pure, princess, and prostitutes, the usual gathering for the end of the holidays, all, of course, encouraged by bread, circuses, and healthy doses of cheap red wine.
“He looks quite pleased with himself, and with his company,” Adriano noted, seeing the broad smile on Luke’s face and a visage whose focus was laser-like on Maryam. “He can’t take his eyes off of the Virgin Mary.”
“She is lovely, isn’t she?” Don Bello giggled. “I think, indeed, perhaps our sad young doctor may yet find love and human companionship. He was in love with a lovely young girl from Orvieto. They got married. She got pregnant, but there were complications. She died in childbirth, the baby too. Luke blamed himself and was quite despondent. For weeks, Andrea didn’t leave his side. Frankly, I think our Andrea kept him from doing harm to himself. He pulled him back from the brink. For someone with such a proud connection to Orvieto, our Luca has had quite a sad young life.”
“What do you mean?” Perhaps now, Lee thought, we’ll find out the whole story about Magda, et al. “What proud connection to Orvieto?”
“Luke and his mother are Orvieto royalty,” Don Bello pronounced simply. “Magda’s father was the German officer who saved Orvieto during the war. Quite simply, he’s the reason we’re here. Obviously, Magda was born quite a few years later, after her father returned to Germany. Where is Magda anyway?”
“She flew back to San Francisco a few days ago,” said Adriano. “As usual, duty called.”
“Well,” said Don Bello, “she has always been something of a mystery, but nonetheless, no matter where she is, she will always be an Orvietani.”
“How did Luke end up here?” Lee asked.
“Evidently Luke was the product of a brief and not terribly successful marriage between Magda and a young Italian diplomat,” said Don Bello. “It was a short marriage, but a shorter divorce. Annulment, rather. Magda didn’t leave anything to chance.”
“Not a surprise,” said Adriano sotto voce.
“As a baby, he went to live with his grandfather in Cologne, Germany.”
“The German officer who spared Orvieto from bombing?” Lee interjected.
“Quite right.”
“And you,” said Adriano, with a sudden epiphany, “were the young priest who communicated with Magda’s father, the German commandant, in Latin and coordinated Orvieto becoming an open city with the British officer.”
“Reverend Vicky’s father,” Lee said, filling in the blanks.
“Nihil habeo quod defendam. Et loquens iustitiam adnuntians recta,” said Don Bello with a slight bow. “You speak the truth. I have no defense.”
“I got it,” said Lee. “My seminary studies were worth something.”
“It’s quite obvious they were worth a good deal.”
“Why didn’t you tell us this before, or why didn’t Magda?” asked Adriano. “Why all the mystery?”
“My dear boy,” said the old priest with a painfully patient nod of his head. “Orvieto has not survived for three thousand years by easily giving up its secrets.”
Adriano and Lee both crossed their arms and just stared.
“All right,” Don Bello said with an annoyed frown. “Come into the church. I’ll pour us a drink and answer all your questions. Well, most of your questions. Ye gods, after what you’ve been through, I guess you deserve a few more answers, but keep track of the time. I don’t want to miss the entrance of the Three Kings.”
“And then?” Lee turned from contemplating the eleventh-century frescoes in San Giovanale to face Don Bello. They were sitting around an ancient wooden table in the sacristy, sipping vin santo from spare chalices. Over the last forty-five minutes, Don Bello had laid it all out. The human sex trafficking network that was coordinated by Cardinal Maltoni. The cooperation with first Bishop Sancarlo and later Archbishop Arnaud in passing along coded prayer cards for the Church of San Donato at Civita di Bagnoregio. Deacon Andrea having realized the significance of the cards, and more to the point, the significance of the numbers on the prayer cards: coordinates for terrorist attacks—the ones with the Opus Dei symbol stamped on the back. And unmarked cards being the coordinates for where African girls and women were dropped off to be picked up as sex slaves for their Italian mafia masters. The final tightening of the noose on Christmas Eve by Grigori and his special forces and Maltoni’s expertly obfuscated death—now, according to official Vatican new sources, an early morning car crash—and finally the capture of three would-be terrorists who had been in search of the final clue hidden in Maryam’s blouse. The events at St. Patrick’s Well? They never happened.
“And then, you showed up,” said Don Bello. “We certainly didn’t expect you two to become involved. Magda was quite upset when she found out somehow you two had gotten mixed up in our little undercover drama.”
“I bet,” said Adriano. “Magda is quite formidable when pissed off.”
“Si,” exhaled Don Bello. “Molto.”
“Blame it on my love of crosswords,” said Lee.
“Blame it on Lady Peg’s big mouth,” said Don Bello with a bite. “Malicious, gossip-spreading witch. Mea culpa.” He crossed himself.
“I don’t get it,” said Adriano. “Why was she so hateful to Grigori, and so fawning towards Archbishop Arnaud?”
“Dear boy. For a sophisticated urbanite, you can be quite naïve. Lady Peg was, is in love with Arnaud.”
“And Arnaud didn’t reciprocate,” said Adriano.
“Because he was celibate?” asked Lee.
Don Bello guffawed and errant holy wine dribbled down his chin. He mopped it up with his cassock. “Let us just say Arnaud did not return her affections. That is all I will say about that. My secrets alone are for me to reveal. Other’s secrets…they are for others to reveal…or not.”
“And what about Arnaud?” asked Lee, suddenly confronted with the memory of watching the Archbishop’s left eye gored out in St. Patrick’s Well by Maltoni’s cigarette. “Why is he still here? Why isn’t he in jail?”
“My dear boy,” said Don Bello, “Archbishop Arnaud was how we captured Maltoni.”
“I thought he was in league with Gorgeous George,” said Adriano.
“Well, yes, and no,” equivocated Don Bello. “When he worked at the Vatican, he was quite literally Cardinal Maltoni’s right hand. Not only officially according to curatorial rank, but by virtue of their association.”
“Opus Dei,” Adriano stated.
“Cherto,” said Don Bello. “To accept Opus Dei is to squeeze out all other Christian associations, and to my mind, there is nothing Christian about Opus Dei. Maltoni demanded obedience. When Andrea jumped, it was too much for poor Giovanni, Bishop Sancarlo. He retired to a monastery and Maltoni put Arnaud in his place. But, what Maltoni didn’t know was that Arnaud was working with those of us here in Orvieto and the Italian special forces.”
“Arnaud was a double agent?” Adriano gasped. “A spy?”
Don Bello chuckled. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far. Let’s just say, we convinced him to cooperate with us. It was actually quite dangerous and stressful for him.”
“He was Snape from Harry Potter,” said Adriano with a slight laugh and a snap of his fingers. “Too bad not to be good.”
“Who is we?” Lee asked.
“Well, the Orvietani, of course,” said Don Bello. “Me, La Donna Volsini, Luke, Marc
o, Grigori, and Reverend Vicky. Arnaud, Vicky, and Bishop Sancarlo, Gio, have been friends for years.”
“How can three people so different stay friends?” Lee asked.
“Dear Lee,” said Don Bello with a kind but nonetheless ruthlessly curled lip. “That is the stupidest question you have ever asked. People don’t need to agree with each other to be friends, or sometimes even like each other. They just have to love each other and love God. They each had a vocation, and each had a different path to that vocation. Of course, Andrea’s death caused quite a rift among that little trio. They met in Rome a number of years ago when they were each beginning their vocation, during an ecumenical conference. They even had a nickname for themselves.”
“The Magi,” said Lee with sudden clarity.
“Quite right,” said Don Bello. “How did you know that?”
“The photo on Reverend Vicky’s bureau in St. Paul’s Outside the Walls in Rome,” said Lee. “I saw it when we had dinner. It was inscribed ‘Magi,’ and a date—”
“Yes, I know the photo very well,” interrupted Don Bello. “I took that photo. I was their spiritual guide, as you might say during the conference. Each of them brought unique gifts to the Church…”
“…hence the Magi,” finished Lee.
“Exactly.” Don Bello nodded, smiling at the memory. “Gio with his radical compassion, Arnaud with his unshakable faith in the institutional church, and Vicky with her irrepressible and intellectually superior curiosity.”
“Vicky was the ringleader?”
“Interesting choice of words, Adriano,” contemplated Don Bello. “Let’s say she was the center of the wheel around which spun the Magi’s spokes. She was subversive, in a sense, the most like Jesus of the three. She was the fearlessly doubtful…a modern-day feminist Martin Luther. She challenged Gio and Arnaud in ways that neither had ever been challenged.”