"I'm pretty sure the Archbishop isn't interested in the HolyPhone technology, especially not the Call Centre. He is mono-focused on the income."
"How d'you mean?"
"Confession in the Orthodox Church is similar to that in the Roman Catholic one, but it's not identical. There are no confessional booths, for a start. Confession happens when the penitent wants, not on a regular basis. In general, the confessor priest meets the penitent at the latter's request, most probably in a room off the church or somewhere private. He will lay a hand on the penitent's head and invite the penitent to confess."
"That sounds more or less the same, if without a designated confessional."
"You're right. The snag is the Orthodox version is less ritualised, less ceremonial and less regular than the Catholic Church's confession. Herein lies, I suspect, a problem."
Davide's confusion grew. If the local church wasn't interested in the technology of the HolyPhone and its Call Centre with the ability to process payments, why was he here?
Nikos came to the point. "The Archbishop's entire purpose is financial. The Church must repay the large loans which he's obliged the Church to assume at punitive interest rates and with substantial arrangement charges. The Church requires a regular income to service the interest and repay the loans."
The issue for His Beatitude, according to Nikos, came in three parts: how to persuade the faithful to partake of confession more often; how to prompt them to open their wallets; how to process contributions directly into the Church's bank accounts.
Davide grimaced. He thought. He asked Nikos a question.
"Might a part of the third difficulty lie in your Master's fear that the local clergy won't pass on the proceeds to the Archdiocese?"
Nikos's face conveyed relief. Davide deduced this was a can of worms which Nikos would prefer not to explore in depth. He manifested gratitude to Davide that he'd understood. Davide consoled Nikos.
"Don't worry. The Roman Church was the same. In its case, it was the Bishops with their extractive habits who caused alarm in the Vatican. As it happens, technology may be your saviour."
"How?"
"If payment by the sinner is made with credit or debit cards."
Nikos looked sceptical. This wasn't going where he was sure his master wished.
"Or you could go for the SinCard option?"
"I don't understand. SinCard?"
"For the parts of the population who could not obtain credit or debit cards, the Catholic Church invented a prepaid card, like you can buy for mobile phones. The great advantage was sinners paid the money upfront when they bought a SinCard and when they topped it up. Prepaid SinCards could even be presents.
"After someone confessed, they made their contribution by offering the card's number to their confessor, who used the Call Centre's systems to deduct the penitential contribution from the balance on the SinCard."
"The faithful bought SinCards? By the way, I'm sure His Beatitude will insist on a more elegant name. They use these to make contributions each time they confess?"
"Better still, if you adopt the SinCard option, the deposits placed on the card could go direct into the Church's bank accounts."
"But how would the payment work after the confession? The Catholic Church had a system, you say. We don't, and we don't want to pay for one."
"I haven't thought it through... But one example might be for the confessor to have a device, like a credit card payment machine. The sinner would say how much he or she wished to contribute and offer the SinCard. The confessor would enter the amount into the device. The sinner would enter a PIN or a password. The balance on the card would reduce."
The more that he thought about this, the more Davide liked it. He explained to Father Nikos how, in this scenario, no money would change hands, except when the sinner topped up a SinCard, as Davide had had to do for his mobile phone.
Davide's enthusiasm was contagious. Then a stab of doubt pierced Nikos.
"That might handle the income side, and I understand prepaying means the Church will receive its 'contributions' in advance of the sins and their confession. His Beatitude will approve that in an instant. But how do we persuade the faithful to buy SinCards in the first place? His Beatitude will want regular use."
David deflated. He acknowledged he wasn't an expert on such matters spiritual.
"You aren't a Christian?"
"No. I apologise. Religion was rammed into me to the point where it turned me off."
"Don't worry. There are plenty like you. If you are fortunate you will rediscover the True Path... What is it?"
"I've had a tangential, almost irreverent, thought. I may know someone who possesses the understanding you need."
"Are you sure?"
"No. Nevertheless, I could find out. If you like?"
Kantara and Kaplica (Cyprus)
The descent from Kantara Castle impressed Kjersti. This was their third day from Nicosia, with yesterday challenging both Costas and herself. The climb up from the Mesaoria to the Castle's battlements was long.
There were two more days of running. Today, the Trek would take them about 40 kilometres along the north coast of the Karpasi Peninsula to the village of Yeni Erenkoy. They'd stay the night there. Tomorrow would be the last day, a tad over 50 kilometres to the outermost tip of Cyprus nearest to Asia and about a half dozen kilometres beyond the sacred Monastery of Apostolos Andreas.
Yesterday had been tough but worth it. She had the material for another running article. Starting in the dreary town of Geçitkale, where the only non-food item to buy appeared to be lace, they'd jogged north across the Mesaoria towards the Pentadaktylos Mountains. A little before Mallıdağ, they'd turned east to skirt the south face of the Pentadaktylos. Up close, the mountains were sharper than from a distance. They were fortunate. It was a clear day. Details stood out.
As in the Troodos, she and Costas traded the lead every 500 to 600 metres. The road dipped and rose around undulating foothills. Neither the rises nor the falls were steep. They made good progress and passed two uninspired agricultural villages, Çınarlı and Ağıllar. Each possessed a Greek name according to Costas. No Greek was visible. She'd have to do some research to include both names when she wrote.
Before they'd begun the day's major effort, Costas had pointed to the bluff on which the Castle sat. It was a long way up and far away, and that was from below. In practice, the strain matched their second day in the Troodos. Except the views stunned as they scaled the approach. By comparison, this was fun for them both. There was none of the misery which Costas had endured before.
Suddenly, they emerged in a car park at the entrance to the Castle. Exhilarated, they took a quarter of an hour to catch their breath. They paid their entrance-dues and climbed their way up inside the ruins.
At the top, they could see South across the plain to Famagusta, east along the Karpasi Peninsula, which faded to nothing in the far distance. The Apostolos Andreas Monastery lay 90 kilometres that way. Then there was the view north over the meagre coastal plain and out to sea to the Turkish mountains above Mersin. It had to be warmer there. Haze hid all but a distant impression.
Costas was knowledgeable about Kantara. He described it as the easternmost of the three great castles built to warn of, and resist, the infidel invaders from Asia's mainland, whether from Turkey to the north or from the Levant to the east and south. High up, in a position difficult to attack, the sight of raiders or invaders stimulated the lookouts to signal warnings to Buffavento and St Hilarion so the defenders and their population could prepare. Only when the Venetians decided to ring Nicosia with its walled redoubt did the importance of the castles, and Kyrenia, dwindle.
Kjersti loved Costas for all this. He dispensed a wealth of relevant historical detail she could use in her articles.
Kjersti refocused. The way down was steep, although at least it was a road. They had to lose almost 600 metres to reach the sea. On the way, they would traverse Kaplica. Kjersti imagined it
would be another of yesterday's drab Turkish-Cypriot villages, more concrete than tasteful, without obvious charms.
They approached and, not long after, they entered the outskirts. Without warning, Costas dived off to the left shouting about a church he wanted to see. In moments, they approached its west end. Up close, it lay abandoned and sad. The netting supposed to keep visitors out was in tatters. They advanced across the threshold to find it more like an animal or bird pen than a place to worship. Costas spoke up.
"The neglect depresses me. This is a wonderful building. Look at that octagon over the transept. When we go outside, you will see how handsome it is, with fine tracery on each face. The portico is almost as good. The central arch and two slightly smaller ones on either side are in delicious proportion."
"The Turkish-Cypriots just ignore Christian buildings?"
"Sort of. No, I'm not sure that's fair. More likely the Turks. They control the North. They feed the North the money to survive. Though secular until a decade ago, it is the Turks who have become ever more Islamist, a trend implemented by impoverished Anatolians imported to render the North more Turkish. My personal impression, but remember I've lived away from the island for too long to be sure, is your average Turkish-Cypriot is way more sympathetic to his Greek-Cypriot fellows than any Turk. That said, inter-communal bitterness remains."
"You mean from 1974 and the Turkish invasion?"
"Be careful. The Greek Colonels botched everything by promoting their coup here. It was their coup which prompted the Turks to invade, thereby dividing Cyprus. Both sides deserve blame, though my family argues that the Turks had itched to invade for decades. They insist it was only LBJ's strong-arm which prevented a Turkish invasion in the 1960s."
"LBJ?"
"Sorry. Lyndon Baines Johnson – the US president who succeeded JFK."
"You're fascinating. I'd no idea."
"Why should you? Cyprus is a small irrelevant island. Some proclaim it to be strategic. It isn't, though this is one of our local delusions. If you want detail, ask my cousin Eleni."
"The hard lady I met when you lay damaged after your fall?"
"The same."
"Why her?"
"I told you, she's an architect. She complains to anybody who will listen about the wonderful pre-1700 churches we have here. Like this one. She believes the governments on both sides of the Green Line should do more, though neither have spare money. But, as she will admit if you press her, she dares not kick up too much fuss while her uncle is Archbishop."
Costas contemplated again what might be. If only a government, or the EU or UNESCO, would step in to restore this luminous building. No chance of that, nor of a nearby congregation to appreciate it.
"Shall we resume? We still have most of today's run ahead."
"And here are our faithful followers!"
Costas and Kjersti hailed Iphi on her motorbike, with Aris sitting behind. Kjersti noted their familiarity. They seemed comfortable with each other. Indefinable, with no overt evidence of affection, she sensed a tie.
Chapter Seven
Nicosia (Cyprus)
Nikos cycled to Tower 25. It was early and the morning was still cool, for Nicosia. This time of day saw the city at its best. That best deteriorated fast when people rushed to work and unleashed bedlam in the streets. Every vehicle sped. Stop at traffic lights? Why?
At one such red light, Nikos watched with incredulity. The car next to him edged forward, despite the bright white stop line delineating the junction. In seconds, it was its whole length beyond the line – astride the pedestrian crossing zone – and well on its way to cutting into the crossing traffic. It rared to go.
The lights turned green. Its driver fluffed his gears. The car stalled.
Nikos grinned with an impious pleasure when frustrated horns blared behind the hapless driver. He left the chaos behind and pedalled towards the morning's meeting with His Beatitude.
Inside Tower 25, he walked straight into the Archbishop's study. He wasn't surprised to find His Beatitude rubbernecking at the rising metalwork of Nea Hagia Sophia. The sight brought out the best and worst in his master. The best occurred when he bathed in the certainty of undying fame; the worst arrived when his impatience arose at the construction's slow progress. This all too often stimulated irrational ire and awkward disquiet.
"Kalimera, Your Beatitude."
"Ah. I've been waiting for you."
Nikos wasn't certain whether the Archbishop was in a good humour or not. 'Nikos' was the normal indicator of good, 'Spanos' of bad. The omens remained uncast.
"Today, you'll tell me of your discussions about the Catholic confessional machine? What I must know is whether it can be the salvation of our finances."
"Yes, Your Beatitude."
"Useful, or a waste of our money and time?"
"I think you'll be pleased."
The Archbishop didn't invite Nikos to sit. He waved his wasting, liver-spotted hand for Nikos to talk. Nikos outlined the background. He halted, sensing agitation. He jumped ahead.
"SinCards may be our answer."
"SinCards? What in God's name are they?"
Nikos explained. He summarised the Vatican's version of the SinCard, a mechanism to contribute after confession. He likened it to a debit card. The Archbishop's face suggested increasing restlessness.
Nikos rushed through a compressed version of his conversations with Davide in which they'd refined the practicalities. Davide's best suggestion was a pre-paid card like those used for telephones. He gave the example of how Apple sold 'gift cards' for iTunes. Nikos guessed a mention of the latter would appeal to the assumed modernity of the ageing Archbishop, a monk who loved to delude himself that he was up to date with the latest trends. This from someone who'd spent 30 years hidden away in a remote monastery with minimal luxuries.
He was right. The Archbishop relaxed.
Next, Nikos explored the financial advantage for the Church, explained that the money from the sale of each SinCard could go directly into the Church's bank accounts. This generated a murmur of appreciation, the first that morning, with what sounded like an unholy grunt.
"OPAP!"
"OPAP?"
"You know. The once Greek-owned, now Czech gambling shops. Or the 'Megabet' chain."
"I'm sorry, Your Beatitude. I don't follow."
"Where better to sell SinCards than in a place of sin – betting shops. One snag, though. They cater mostly to men. Where could we sell to women?"
Enlightenment dawned for Nikos. The Archbishop had solved, in his zeal for revenue, a part of what had puzzled himself and Davide.
"Supermarkets, Your Beatitude? At the checkouts? Or what about hairdressers?"
"Brilliant, my boy. Just top up your SinCard when you buy your groceries or have your hair done or when you bet. The perfect integration of guilt into the threads of the lives of the faithful."
"That mightn't reach everybody. What about the smaller villages."
"Use peripteros, the corner shops where you buy top-ups for mobile phones. They know what to do. Can we add any shop which accepts credit or debit cards? Could we make adding a deposit to your SinCard a sacred alternative to leaving a tip?"
The Archbishop's small head glistened with a gloating satisfaction. It was the only description Nikos could think appropriate.
"We should allow the seller to keep a small percentage."
"Might that not encourage sinning, Your Beatitude? Isn't that the opposite of God's intentions?"
"Don't be naive, Spanos. People will always sin. Our challenge is how to take advantage. If this pays for my Nea Hagia Sophia, so be it. No?"
Nikos rushed to agree. His master was on a roll. Better to indulge him than raise theological reservations. Leave that to the Bishops. Nikos was sure they'd only object until they'd negotiated a sliver of SinCard income for themselves.
Nikos moved onto confession transfers. The Archbishop displayed confusion. Nikos elaborated. The issue was how to deduct a
contribution from a SinCard after each confession. Nikos highlighted the desirability for the Church for SinCards to 'empty' as soon as possible, thereby encouraging replenishment. He ran through Davide's options.
The first involved what Davide had called a standalone reader, which could deduct the agreed amount from the balance on the SinCard. The advantages were that the reader could be independent, battery-powered, simple and unique to the Church. The disadvantage was it would require original design and manufacture. Davide had advised this would be expensive and divert substantial Church resources. The Archbishop didn't like this. He wanted income, not expenses.
The second alternative was to adapt the credit and debit card devices already utilised in the likes of shops, hotels and restaurants. Davide had warned this was overpriced, for the local payments company would want its cut. The Archbishop's impatience bubbled.
Nikos hastened on. The third option was to create an app for smartphones, as most parish priests possessed one these days. By connecting small, cheap card readers, which were available from multiple sources, a priest could deduct the sinner's 'contribution' from the sinner's SinCard balance, as well as inspect what remained. This would..."
"...give our priests a sales opportunity to promote the top-up of the balance in anticipation of the next confession. I like it, Nikos. Your idea is exquisite."
Amiability emanated from the Archbishop. This made Nikos reluctant to raise the last difficulty. He gritted his teeth.
"The biggest remaining issue is how to persuade the faithful they should confess more often than they do today. As we know, confession in the Cypriot Orthodox Church is occasional rather than the regular obligation which the Roman Rite imposes."
The Archbishop mulled this over. Though he'd never mentioned it to Nikos, Tassos or anyone else, this bothered him too. To refashion social habits was tough.
"Do you have any suggestions, my son?"
Resurrection (The Corruption Series Book 4) Page 16