by Peter Murphy
“You’d hardly know the place anymore. And now, with the euro, there’ll be no stopping us. Our Donal has been selling apartments in Spain and the whole country is going mad for them. Gina was just telling me that they’re going to buy a part of a little island for themselves too.”
“And would you think that all the changes are for the better, Mrs. Boyle?”
“They are and they’re not, Father, but we all have to get used to bit of change now and then. Only . . .” She paused to take a drink from her wine. “Some days I can’t help but feel that it’s all happening too fast. It’s enough to make your head spin.” She looked a little pained for a moment but smiled at him. “It must be so nice for you here where nothing ever changes.”
“Oh, we’ve change here, too, only Romans are slow to adapt. I suppose they’ve seen it all before.”
“Well, back home nobody even bothers about the British anymore. Nowadays, it’s all the Germans this and the Germans that. It’s like they’re running Europe again.”
“You might be right, Mrs. Boyle.”
“I suppose they still dislike them over here because of the war and all.”
“I suppose they do, but probably not the war you’re thinking of.”
Mrs. Boyle sipped her wine again as if she was getting ready to ask him a favor. “Do you still see the holy Jesuit, Father?”
“I do,” Patrick lied—another little white one. He had been avoiding John since his breakdown. “Only he hasn’t been too well lately. His old mind is beginning to slip.”
“That’s too bad, Father, because I was hoping to ask him a favor.”
“Is it something I could help you with, Mrs. Boyle.” He knew what she was going to ask and dreaded it, but he was still a priest and he had to try to offer what comfort he could.
“I doubt it, Father. Not unless you’ve seen my Jerry around.”
“No.” He laughed. “I haven’t; but then again Jerry was never a great one for spending time in churches.” Mrs. Boyle laughed too, but he could tell she still wanted something. “Was there something else you wanted to ask Fr. Melchor?”
“There was. I wanted to ask him if there’s anything that could be done for Danny. I know it’s a lot to ask, but he worked miracles for Mrs. Flanagan. Do you think he might be able to do something like that for me?”
Patrick was flustered, but Mrs. Boyle was looking straight at him. God forgive him, but he was going to have to go along with it all for now. “Well, the next time I see him I’ll be sure to ask. But he mightn’t be well enough for it anymore.”
“Will you be seeing him before I leave?”
**
Giovanni and Signore Pontecorvo had broken the news to him. They sat him down between them and sipped on little glasses of grappa—a private stock Giovanni reserved for his closest friends. John had been preaching again to the crowds in the Foro Romano, warning them about the trap of revenge, even as his country was pushing the world toward war in Iraq.
And now, brethren, I appeal to you by God’s mercies to offer up your bodies as a living sacrifice, consecrated to God and worthy of his acceptance; this is the worship due from you as rational creatures.
Apparently, he’d been putting on quite the show, too. Standing on a rock and pointing all around him with a book in his hand, reading the letter of St. Paul to the Romans. One of Giovanni’s nephews had been leading a tour and had called immediately and stayed on the phone until his uncle could get somebody there.
“I told Marcus to distract him,” Giovanni explained while Signore Pontecorvo nodded sympathetically, as though it was something that could have happened to any of them.
Marcus had tried. He had smiled up at John and waved, but John had a faraway look in his eye and continued regardless.
And you must not fall in with the manners of this world; there must be an inward change, a remaking of your minds, so that you can satisfy yourselves what is God’s will, the good thing, the desirable thing, the perfect thing.
Romans had seen worse and passed with a smile. And the tourists thought it was part of the tour and began videoing.
Thus, in virtue of the grace that is given me, I warn every man who is of your company not to think highly of himself, beyond his just estimation, but to have a sober esteem of himself, according to the measure of faith which God has apportioned to each.
John had even begun to direct his sermon to them, looking from camera to camera.
“Americans.” Giovanni shrugged as he retold it all. “They really know how to put on a good show.”
Each of us has one body, with many different parts, and not all these parts have the same function; just so we, though many in number, form one body in Christ, and each acts as the counterpart of another.
The Asian tourists were confused and their interpreter couldn’t explain. “A talking statue,” Marcus suggested, and everyone seemed happy with that and gazed at John with amazement.
The spiritual gifts we have differ, according to the special grace which has been assigned to each. If a man is a prophet, let him prophesy as far as the measure of his faith will let him.
John had paused, as if to see if they understood. He had raised his arms to encompass all of them.
Your love must be a sincere love; you must hold what is evil in abomination, fix all your desire upon what is good. Be affectionate toward each other, as the love of brothers demands, eager to give one another precedence . . . bestow a blessing on those who persecute you; a blessing, not a curse. Rejoice with those who rejoice, mourn with the mourner.
Another tour had joined them and soon Marcus’s words were passed around. “Talking statue, talking statue,” rippled off to the edges of the growing crowd.
Do not repay injury with injury; study your behavior in the world’s sight as well as in God’s. Keep peace with all men, where it is possible, for your part. Do not avenge yourselves, beloved; allow retribution to run its course; so we read in scripture, Vengeance is for me, I will repay, says the Lord. Rather, feed thy enemy if he is hungry, give him drink if he is thirsty; by doing this, thou wilt heap coals of fire upon his head. Do not be disarmed by malice; disarm malice with kindness.
One of Giovanni’s other nephews, the one in the Carabinieri, arrived and shuttled John home.
“I want to thank you for doing all that,” Patrick said when Giovanni was done.
“Prego.” Giovanni shrugged like it was no skin off his back.
“Still, mille grazie.
***
“I’m sure we can arrange something,” Patrick assured Mrs. Boyle, but he wasn’t so sure. John had been dispatched to a nursing home and tended to by the most discreet nuns. They were well used to casualties like him, especially at times like these. But by all accounts, he’d settled down again and was free to come and go—as long as he had someone with him.
“Well that’s a great relief, Father, knowing that I can count on you.”
On his way home, Patrick crossed the piazza and stopped to look at Bruno’s statue. It was as it had been for over a hundred years. The night he thought he saw something different was nothing more than his mind playing tricks with him. He missed his uncle and, having only really gotten to know the man after he’d died, wished he could just sit down and talk with him.
Anything else was just the type of madness that lurked in the corners, waiting to take old priests to their resting homes. He had seen it with Dan Brennan, and now John. It would happen him too if he didn’t watch himself.
*
“So?”
“So, yourself.”
They were sitting at the island in the middle of Deirdre’s recently remodeled and extended kitchen. It had needed updating and she had needed distraction. Life without Martin around was hard to get used to, but things were better with Grainne. Even though Deirdre was still furious with Billie for slapping her
, it did seem to have smartened her up a bit. She was much easier to get along with, but that might have been because she didn’t have to compete for her mother’s attention.
“You’ve come a long way, baby.” Miriam raised her glass in a toast. “How old are you now?”
“Don’t ask. I’m forty-five and looking every year of it.”
“Really?”
“You were supposed to say I didn’t. That’s what women do for each other.”
“Lie to each other?”
“Well, I think I look good for my age.” She was going to add that Eduardo did, too, but that would have been insensitive. Karl and Miriam had just separated.
“I’m fifty-nine, Deirdre, and I’m tired. I’m so tired of people. Nobody is what they say they are anymore.”
“Nobody ever was, Miriam. The only thing that’s changed is that you see that now. When you were a nun, people knew not to tell you what they were really thinking. Come to think of it”—Deirdre wanted to steer them back toward happier thoughts—“that part is still the same.”
“How dare you.” Miriam had taken the bait and was all ready to bluster her way forward. “I’m the most honest, open, empathic, kind . . . Did I mention honest?”
“Yes you did. You’re repeating yourself.”
“Well it bears repeating. And you could pass for thirty something.”
“Something?”
“Six . . . five . . . four . . . three?”
“Fine, thirty-three. It’s the perfect age for me.”
“It didn’t work out too well for Christ.”
“Miriam, one of the many things I’ve learnt along the way is that you have to let go of your ex.”
“Easy for you to say. Mine was the Son of God.”
“Mine has an Irish mammie.”
“Do you still hear from her?”
“She calls every few weeks and still sends money to the kids. She’s okay. She never mentions Danny but I know she calls him too. And she’s been back to Rome.”
“And how is the eternal bastion of misogyny?”
“She saw Fr. Reilly.”
Miriam softened at that. It had been so hard on her. She and Karl broke up when he took a contract in Iraq. He insisted that it was just a consultancy—that he was only going to advise on cultural sensitivities—but she didn’t believe him. He was joining in on the gold rush.
“Do you really think,” she had asked him, “that after you destroy their government, seize all their wealth, and throw the whole country into civil war that they will still want to buy whatever it is your paymasters are selling?”
“He didn’t even answer,” she had told Deirdre on the phone. “He just walked off and packed his bags and we haven’t spoken since.” He had left a note trying to explain that he was still a soldier at heart. And he was still an American, and he had to do what he could.
That was when Deirdre insisted that she come for a visit. She even made it sound as though Miriam would be doing her a favor—now that she had to deal with Grainne without a wingman.
“Woman,” Miriam had corrected and showed up a few days later.
“I’m here to escape the toxicity of my adopted Christian nation’s response,” she announced after she had taken off her coat and scarf. “Preserving freedom and democracy has always been a bloody business and truth has always been the first casualty. My relationship with Karl was the second.”
“Well,” Deirdre considered as they hugged. “You’re very welcome. Only, I’m afraid I just have French wine.”
“Freedom wine? Make mine a big one.”
*
“She says he’s fine.”
“Who?”
“Fr. Reilly. Jacinta had dinner with him in Rome.”
“Oh, poor Patrick. I hope he survived it okay.”
“Maybe you should go over and find out.”
She had time on her hands. She’d lost her job teaching in a community college. She knew she would when she’d asked her students to write letters to the president. With her record she was lucky they didn’t send her to “Gitmo.”
“Oh, please. I’m the last thing the poor man needs to see these days. John is in and out of hospitals and I’m sure Patrick is busy enough with him.”
“Maybe he could use some help? Unless, of course, you’re one of those pseudo-liberal types that talks about things but never gets off their arses to actually do something.”
“No, Deirdre. I can be accused of a great many things but that isn’t one of them. It’s only that . . . well he used to have the biggest crush on me.”
“That’s so cute.”
“No, I mean when I was back in Dublin—after he’d become a priest.”
“It’s still cute. Besides, you’re both much older now.”
“Thanks, and by the way I lied. You look at least thirty-seven, at the very least.”
“More Freedom wine?”
“I don’t mind if I do.”
“So, you’ll think about it?”
“Yes, Deirdre, I will think about it. Now can I have some?”
*
Patrick still looked boyish and, even though his hair was thinning, it wisped out around his ears and his collar. He was still awkward, too, and when she put her cases down he didn’t know what to do. Miriam did and hugged him tightly. “Oh, Patrick, it’s so good to see you again. Are you well?” she asked as she let go and stood back to look at him.
“As well as can be expected. And how are you? How was your flight?”
“It wasn’t bad, once we actually got on the plane.”
“Did you have any trouble?”
“Not after they went through all of my bags; but I made it and it’s wonderful to be back in dear old Rome.”
“Well it’s wonderful to see you again and I have a car waiting.”
One of Giovanni’s nephews owned a taxi and his uncle didn’t hesitate to offer his services. “He’s waiting just over there.” Patrick picked up her cases and she followed to the shiny gray and silver car. He had arranged lodgings for her, too, in a convent that now functioned as a guesthouse. He hoped she didn’t mind.
She didn’t. She was there to pitch in and help save the body and mind of John Melchor, her second oldest friend in the world.
The plan was that Patrick would get John to Giovanni’s and everyone would meet them there. Signore Pontecorvo and Miriam would be sitting at a table at the back discussing books and Giovanni would steer Patrick and John there as if it was all coincidence. Giovanni had left instructions with the waiters that the surrounding tables were to be reserved so they could have some privacy. They would lay it all out, rationally and reasonably. They would make it clear that they would always be there for him, but he had to accept that he couldn’t go around preaching anymore, and that he should move into a retirement home.
But John threw a spanner in the works. He was fussy and, even though he’d agreed to go for dinner, he wasn’t very hungry. He said the nuns, whose cooking lacked subtlety but not quantity, had stuffed him like a goose. He’d put on some weight and looked well. He wasn’t so wild eyed anymore. Patrick had to think on his feet and convinced John to go for coffee instead.
John agreed but insisted on going to a place he liked on the Campo De’ Fiori. He said he didn’t like the water in Giovanni’s and, even though Patrick usually avoided the place, he decided not to push it; but he did stop to make a call while John was busy offering tourists directions.
“Change of plan,” he told Giovanni and gave him the details. They would meet there, but Patrick had to dawdle to give them a chance to get there first.
They were sitting in the patio shade, pretending to study their menus as the early tourists passed through, some stopping to read Bruno’s plaque. They still hadn’t worked out how they were going to handle it when John arrived�
��they were still a bit divided on what they were going to say.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here . . .” John greeted them all as if he was perfectly lucid.
When Patrick signed him out the nuns had warned him. John could be lucid for hours and then something would just come over him. The medication helped, but he didn’t always take it. They asked Patrick to have a few words with him about that—it was for his own good.
“And Miriam? News of my madness has spread, I see.”
“John.” Miriam rose and hugged him, almost startling him. “Can an old friend not drop by to say hello?”
“Now I know how serious it is.” He laughed and hugged her for a moment. “But is it serious enough to warrant an intervention?” John smiled at each of them but no one smiled back. Giovanni and Signore Pontecorvo looked as if they didn’t understand and shrugged, while Patrick and Miriam exchanged sidelong glances.
“Not at all, John, it’s just you haven’t been yourself and we all wanted you to know that we’re still here for you.” Patrick joined in as they had planned. They were to play good cop, bad cop, like the two detectives long ago. They had no choice; someone had to tell him. The Society of Jesus had been patient but they were recommending a home in Tuscany, somewhere out of the way. Either that or a discreet clinic in Switzerland.
“So I am to believe that I have gone mad?”
“Well no, John. Nobody is saying that. It’s just that you haven’t been well, and we thought a nice trip would do wonders for you.” Patrick added to the pile of little white lies he used to tell Dan Brennan.
“So even my Irish friends think I’m mad.” John asked and turned to the two old Romans who had been nodding while Patrick was speaking. “And you two statues, what do you have to say for yourselves?”
“John,” Miriam interrupted before they could answer. “There’s no need to use the word madness. You know what has happened to you. You’ve been dealing with a lot of stress and you just need some time to come to terms with a few things. It’ll be like going away on a retreat.”