Shadow of Death fk-5

by William X. Kienzle

  As the bystanders filed in in a seemingly endless line, they all appeared to have the same expression: I don’t know what’s going on in here, but it must be important.

  With the Rastafarian threat uppermost in their minds, Koesler, Koznicki, and Toussaint were alert to the presence of blacks in the crowd. There were, they were somewhat uneasy to note, quite a few black men in the congregation. Some were well-dressed. Some wore menial garb. Some, evidently African seminarians studying for the priesthood in Rome, wore cassocks in a variety of colors. None seemed overtly dangerous. But who could tell?

  In any case, thanks to the miracle of television, a literally SRO crowd now filled all the pews, as well as the area along the back and side walls.

  “Nel mone del Padre e del Figliolo e dello Spirito Santo. Cosa sia.”

  What was that? Koesler wondered. Certainly not English. Nor was it Latin.

  It was Italian.

  Funny how insular one could become. Automatically, Koesler had equated English with the vernacular. But of course when in Rome, the vernacular was Italian. In addition, he now recalled that Boyle was fluent in Italian.

  Other than enjoying the sheer beauty of the Italian language when spoken gracefully, Koesler concluded he would not derive anything significant from this liturgy. The Cardinal did in Italian speak, thought Koesler, paraphrasing Shakespeare, and those who did understand did nod their heads. But as for me, it was Italian to me.

  He began to mull over the relatively brief history of the contemporary vernacular liturgy. The first document to be approved by the Second Vatican Council reinstated the use of one’s native tongue to the liturgy. It had been such a guarded step. Only a certain few parts of the Mass were to be celebrated in the vernacular. And those only after a nation’s hierarchy had officially requested such a change. And with the approval of the hierarchies of every other nation that shared that language. And finally, only after Rome had approved the request.

  At the time, at least as far as the impatient liberal liturgists were concerned, implementing the decree seemed a tortuous series of red tape-bound steps. And all just so people could understand in their own language what was happening liturgically.

  Little did they know the far-reaching ramifications of that simple change.

  Few could have guessed at that time that this at first insignificant step into a vernacular liturgy would eventually lead to the discarding and virtual desuetude of Gregorian Chant, as well as to the disappearance of Palestrina and most of the other religious classical music that had evolved so beautifully and lovingly down through the centuries.

  Koesler smiled regretfully as he considered some of the lesser and more prosaic consequences of the seemingly innocent exchange of languages.

  From the time of his ordination in 1954 until the mid-sixties, he had used as a language of worship a tongue that few, if any, of his parishioners knew. Which meant that when he spoke during services, almost no one understood him.

  On the one hand, that had led to a nearly universal sloppiness on the part of a great number of priests. When dispensing sacraments or sacramentals to large numbers of people, slipshod elisions became common. And few, if any, were the wiser. On the other hand, constant repetition of a formula in a foreign language frequently engendered thoughtless, absentminded mistakes. Neither of these occurrences could one get away with when speaking a language the listeners understood.

  Koesler’s mind turned to Ash Wednesday. For some reason he had never fathomed, on Ash Wednesday a priest would find attending services people he would see again only on Easter, Palm Sunday, and Christmas. Easter and Christmas attendance was easy enough to understand. Perhaps the popularity of Palm Sunday and Ash Wednesday was explicable since these were the two feasts when the Church gave something away . . . even if it was only a palm frond and a thumbful of ashes.

  In days gone by, the manner of distributing ashes was that a priest would dip his thumb into a container of ashes (the residue of burning old unused palms from Palm Sunday of the previous year) and trace a sign of a cross on the recipient’s forehead while saying, “Memento homo, quia pulυis es et in pulυerem reυerteris.”

  Confronted by a line of people that often extended clear out of the church, many a priest found a way to zip through that formula in record-breaking time. And no one was the wiser.

  Such sloppiness could not work in the vernacular, Koesler thought sheepishly; he recalled any number of times he had caught himself tracing the forehead cross while saying distractedly, “Remember dust that thou art man . . .”

  There was a stirring in the church of St. John XXIII as people sat down rather firmly. Those still standing on the periphery leaned heavily against the wall.

  Koesler shook his head penitently. He had daydreamed through the Mass. Evidently, now Cardinal Boyle was about to address the congregation. He had removed his liturgical vestments and stood attired in black cassock with cardinal-red accessories: piping, buttons, combination cummerbund-sash, and zucchetto. Koesler was again made aware of what an eye-popping color cardinal red was. Its 3-D-like vividness was almost breathtaking.

  The Cardinal approached the lectern, adjusted his glasses, and, without script or notes, began to speak. In Italian.

  Lost again! Koesler tried to understand what the Cardinal was saying, but failed. This puzzled him somewhat. Throughout this week in Rome, Koesler had managed to communicate rather well with the locals by means of a combination Latin-English-Italian.

  Suddenly, it dawned on him: He had gotten on so well only because the Italians had taken the trouble to try to understand him, while, at the same time, they had spoken very slowly, simply, and distinctly.

  As he sat and listened to the Cardinal speak at a normal—and, thus, to him, incomprehensible—pace, Koesler’s appreciation of and gratitude to all these kind and considerate Italians grew.

  Evidently, the Cardinal had completed his remarks, whatever they were, for he stepped back from the microphone.

  The monsignor who had earlier been seen leaping near the front door as a dead giveaway that the procession was not coming, stepped forward to make an announcement.

  The announcement was made first in Italian, then in English. The English version ran something like: “Anna now, Hissa Eminenza Boyla, shesa gonna give-a hissa beneditzionay to-a heverybody. You come-a hup to-a da communionay railing.”

  At that, it was better than Koesler could have done in Italian.

  Those standing along the walls were first to form a line that began in front of the altar dedicated to St. Joseph. In no time, a double line stretched almost completely around the interior of the church.

  As far as Koesler could ascertain, no one from the Detroit contingent had joined the line. The Detroiters seemed to be remaining in their pews. After all, there was no hurry; the buses would not be returning to their hotels until after the ceremony. And they weren’t going anywhere without their buses.

  But unexpectedly, there were two exceptions, both from Koesler’s pew.

  First, Toussaint rose and quickly strode up the center aisle to stand beside Cardinal Boyle. The clergy surrounding Boyle would have prevented Toussaint from this approach except for two considerations. Few people ever remained in Toussaint’s path when he was going somewhere. One would have been as inclined to stand in the path of elephants enroute to their water hole. And secondly, Toussaint’s clerical garb provided him with entree.

  When he reached the Cardinal, who had not known of Toussaint’s presence in Rome, Boyle greeted him warmly.

  Toussaint was followed like a shadow by Koznicki, who had excused himself as he made his way around Koesler, then purposefully continued up the aisle. Koznicki, in turn, might not have been able to approach the Cardinal except that, like Toussaint, and for the same reason, people seldom deliberately attempted to block the Inspector’s trajectory. And, as he approached the Cardinal, Boyle motioned him to come closer.

  So, as Cardinal Boyle turned to welcome the lines awaiting his ble
ssing, he was flanked by Ramon Toussaint on one side and Walter Koznicki on the other. Koesler could not imagine a more dedicated brace of bodyguards.

  As each person reached the head of the line, he or she knelt before the Cardinal, who gave his blessing and might or might not exchange a few words, depending on the initiative of the recipient.

  The line shuffled and moved slowly, almost imperceptibly. Noise in the church was at a low decibel count. It consisted of shoes shuffling along the tile floor, people shifting in pews, soft speech, and whispers. All in all, it was mesmerizing. Koesler had all but drifted off into a light nap when . . .

  . . . all hell broke loose.

  It began with a startlingly loud shout. Instantly, Koesler was on his feet heading toward the front of the church. In this endeavor he had little luck because as those in the rear seemed to be trying to approach the altar, those in the front seemed to be trying to escape it. Thus, a pile of humanity gridlocked the center aisle.

  Koesler’s height helped him see part of what was going on. As soon as he had heard the shout and stood, he saw Toussaint dive forward, taking someone to the floor with him. Not a second later, Koznicki followed Toussaint down.

  Then, things became further jumbled. Several other people seemed to fall onto the squirming figures before the altar. Most likely they had been pushed on by those behind trying to see.

  Pandemonium ensued. Women screamed, men shouted; most of the Detroiters tried to get closer to the action as most of the locals fought to get out.

  Koesler noted that Joe Cox, Pat Lennon, and Irene Casey, who had been seated near the front of the church, had managed to get very close to the action. In fact, Koesler watched in bewilderment as Cox and Lennon were absorbed into the pileup. Irene undoubtedly would have suffered the same fate had not Cardinal Boyle stepped forward and assisted her up to the step next to himself.

  Koesler looked every which way to find a passage to the altar. He spotted the by now familiar jumping-jack figure of the small round pastor clambering along the rear section of the center aisle headed for the narthex. Once out of the melee, the monsignor began leaping up and down again, and shouting, this time for the police.

  They came soon enough, and promptly, like an icebreaker, began clearing a path to the altar. Koesler followed in their wake.

  He hadn’t seen such a sight since the Super Bowl. And that had been via television, not on the spot.

  Bodies were sprawled every which way. All one could see was arms and legs and heads and rumps, purses, hats, and shoes.

  The police began righting people, starting at the top of the pile and moving downward. It reminded Koesler of a referee unstacking a pileup of football players to ascertain who has possession of the ball. From what he had seen, Koesler was positive that when the police got to the bottom of the pile, Toussaint would be on top of whomever was the cause of all this ruckus. And Koznicki would be on top of Toussaint. Koesler began to feel sorry for whomever was at the bottom of the pile.

  The carabinieri peeled Cox off the pile. Making no move to smooth his rumpled jacket or pull his clothing together, he located his notepad and pen inside his jacket pocket and began taking notes. A reporter to the core.

  Next up was the redoubtable Joan Blackford Hayes. Oddly, she seemed totally unmussed.

  The police righted Lennon, who shook loose from their hands and began rearranging her clothing. “When I catch the sonofabitch who was pinching,” she addressed the still squirming pile, “I’m going to make some human pasta!”

  Then the carabinieri reached Koznicki, the Inspector got to his knees as he displayed his identification. They stepped back and allowed him to assist Toussaint.

  The deacon very slowly and cautiously raised himself from the man he was covering. “I would appreciate it. Inspector, if you would take the weapon.”

  Koznicki painstakingly gripped the man’s wrist. His arm had been twisted behind him by Toussaint. Koznicki removed a vicious looking knife from the man’s hand. There was blood on the blade.

  “Are you cut?” Koznicki asked anxiously.

  “Just slightly, I think,” Toussaint replied.

  Together the deacon and the Inspector lifted the man to his feet. Immediately, the Italian police handcuffed him. Koesler elbowed to his friends’ sides. “Ramon, you’re hurt!”

  “It is not so much, Bob.” There were several gashes on the back of Toussaint’s right hand.

  “We’ll get you to a hospital immediately.” Koznicki, using his pen and his handkerchief, tied a tourniquet around Toussaint’s arm.

  Now that Toussaint had received first aid, all attention was focused on the assailant. He was a black man of moderate build, plainly dressed except for the scarf on his head. He had said nothing and appeared determined to say nothing.

  “Another random attack?” Koesler’s sardonic question was addressed to Koznicki.

  But it was Toussaint who answered. “I think not.” He jerked the scarf off the man’s head. Long black ringlets sprang free.

  “Dreadlocks!” said Cox in awe.

  “How did you know?” Koznicki asked.

  “Partly intuition,” said Toussaint. “I was looking for someone. The scarf looked as if it was covering more than the ordinary amount of hair. But mostly it was his eyes.”

  Koznicki looked intently into the man’s eyes, then nodded.

  “His eyes are clouded,” Toussaint continued. “He has the appearance of someone under the influence of some chemical substance. Probably marijuana—ganja.”

  “Wow!” was Cox’s contribution.

  By this time, Lennon, too, was taking notes. Irene Casey stood nearby garnering details for her second-day story.

  “Look!” said Koesler. He pointed to a small image on the floor where the scuffle had taken place.

  “The black fist!” said Koznicki.

  “Can someone tell me just what the hell is going on here?” As the words left Lennon’s mouth, she remembered where she was and immediately regretted the epithet. She caught a quick glimpse of Cardinal Boyle, still standing on the altar step looking concerned. She fervently hoped his preoccupation with what had just taken place precluded his being aware of her inappropriate language.

  “In point of fact, yes, young lady,” said Koznicki. “I believe enough pieces have fallen into place so that we can tell you the story. But first,” he turned to the carabinieri, “someone see to this man’s wounds!”

  8.

  Even for Rome it was a tiny street, a cul-de-sac near the Aurelian Wall. And even though it was late Saturday night, very little was going on here. Every so often, a couple, arm-in-arm, would leave one of the flats, walk down the street, and disappear around the corner. Or a wage-earner would make his way home hurriedly. Or a wide, round wife and mother would stagger home under a load of groceries. At least the street itself was quiet.

  In a basement flat in one of the buildings, a mournful and angry rite was taking place.

  The windows of the flat had been boarded up and no sound escaped the room. Like everything else in Rome of any age whatsoever, the room seemed ancient. Here and there, niches that had once held small statues, busts, or urns were now empty. The room, bare except for a couple of long benches against the walls, was devoid of any decoration or appointment save for a large framed color portrait of a bushy-haired man in uniform with many medaled decorations on his chest: Haile Selassie I, late emperor of Ethiopia, Lion of Judah, and oblivious patron of the Rastafarians.

  The small room was nearly filled with men, all of them black, most of them with dreadlocks, all of them smoking marijuana in one form or another—standard-sized cigarettes, gigantic spliffs, or chillum pipes.

  One man was mournfully beating a single bongo-size drum at a funereal tempo.

  “Hellfire and damnation!” shouted one man.

  The drum continued to sound. Some of the men shuffled back and forth across the floor. Others slumped on the benches against the walls.

  “We and we has failed
Selassie I,” another man bellowed.

  “Shame on our house!” called out another.

  “Bredren!” commanded one man, evidently the leader. “Jah not be happy with us and us. He put into our hands dem condemned tings. We and we failed to make da sacrifice. Jah not pleased!”

  “Dread Rasta!”

  “But der be peace!” the leader called out. “Selassie I bring peace to his Rastas!”

  “Praises due Selassie I!”

  “Our and our condemned ting goes now to Babylon England place where other condemned ting be! Our Rasta bredren make da sacrifice. Make a sacrifice of both condemned tings!”

  “Dread Rasta! Praises due Selassie I!”

  “Now, bredren,” the leader continued, “it be time for our unityfication with da Rasta men in all of Babylon. First off, we and we make our sacrifice, we and we make da longing prayer to Addis Ababa and den we and we go way for tree days of grounation.”

  “Praises due Selassie I!”

  Each of the men unsheathed his knife. One left the room to return with a small goat that had been tethered to an iron fence outside the basement landing. He led the goat to the room’s northwest corner, the general direction in which lay England.

  With a single stroke of his long knife, the leader slaughtered the goat.

  The others approached the dead animal. One by one, each bathed his knife in the blood.

  “Dread Rasta!” the shouts rose, “praises due Selassie I!”

  9.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Kamego speaking. Welcome aboard our Trans World Airlines charter flight to London. The weather is clear all the way and we anticipate no turbulence. We will be cruising at an altitude of 25,000 feet. Our flying time is approximately two and a quarter hours. So we should be touching down at about 10:30 a.m. London time. Have a good flight.”

  The flight attendants began serving a brunch, with a beer, wine, and liquor lagniappe. However, few aboard desired any alcoholic beverage.