I Am God

by Giorgio Faletti

  It was here that an exhibition of paintings, sculptures and crafts involving kids in the care of institutions similar to Joy had been organized by a committee whose name Father McKean could never remember. It was a way of allowing them to communicate with people, both personally and through their artworks. When the idea had been suggested, Father McKean had approached Jubilee Manson and Shalimar Bennett. The two of them were still in the middle of a difficult journey, but eventually he had become convinced, as had John, that this experience could only do them good.

  Shalimar was a white girl from a normal middle-class family. They had managed to get her off heroin, as well as the self-harming that had covered her arms with scars. Father McKean wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, not even the Inquisition, but she was his favourite. She had a face that inspired tenderness and a wish to protect her. And light seemed to radiate from her eyes whenever anyone complimented her on her work, which was halfway between sculpture and jewellery. Original and colourful bracelets, necklaces, earrings were all made from materials that were not so much random as rudimentary.

  Jubilee, a seventeen-year-old black boy, came from a very different kind of family, one where there were no rules and where in order to survive you had to fight. His mother was a prostitute and his father had been stabbed to death in a fight. His brother Jonas claimed to be a rapper, under the stage name Iron7. In reality, he was the head of a gang mainly involved in drugs and prostitution. When his mother had found crack in Jubilee’s room, she had realized that her younger son was about to follow in his brother’s footsteps. In one of her rare lucid moments, by some lucky intuition, she had taken him to see Father McKean at Joy. The same afternoon she had killed herself.

  Once past his initial difficulties, Jubilee had adapted well to the life of the community and soon after his arrival had shown marked artistic gifts, which had been encouraged and cultivated. Now some of his most interesting works – although quite immature and needing allowances to be made – formed part of this exhibition in Central Park.

  Father McKean and Mrs Bones reached the area where three of Jubilee’s paintings were displayed on easels. The influence of pop-art, and particularly Basquiat, was obvious but the bright colours, and the originality with which they were juxtaposed, showed great promise for the future.

  The young painter was standing next to his works. Mrs Bones stopped in front of the pictures, in order to cast an eye over them.

  ‘And this is our young artist.’

  She examined the works with great attention, not devoid of a certain bewilderment. ‘Well, I’m no critic and this certainly isn’t Norman Rockwell. But I have to say they are … they are …’

  ‘Explosive?’

  Having suggested this definition Father McKean winked at Jubilee, who was trying hard not to laugh.

  Mrs Bones turned to the priest as if she had seen the light. ‘Of course. That’s exactly what they are. Explosive.’

  ‘That’s what we all think.’

  Having gratified both the artist’s ego and Mrs Bones’ obsession with patronage, Father McKean started to find her presence annoying. A short distance away, he saw John Kortighan talking to a group of people and threw him a glance that contained a desperate plea for help.

  John immediately grasped the situation. He freed himself from the people he had been talking with and came towards them.

  Father McKean made as if to get away. ‘Mrs Bones …’

  In return, she gave him a look in which there was a little too much fluttering of the eyelashes. ‘You can call me Sandhal, if you prefer.’

  Just then, John reached them and released him from his ordeal.

  ‘Mrs Bones, this is John Kortighan, who works with me. He’s the principal architect of the smooth running …’

  As he introduced him, Father McKean turned his head to look at him. John was standing with his back to the water, and the priest’s eyes were drawn past him, past the crowded balcony, all the way to the cycle track that ran alongside the little lake on the left.

  Standing there with his hands in the pockets of his jeans was a man in a green military jacket. Father McKean felt as though the breath had been knocked out of him. A wave of heat rose to his face. He somehow managed to finish the introduction.

  ‘… of our little community.’

  John held out his hand, diplomatic as always. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Bones. I know you’re one of the principal architects of this event.’

  The woman’s little laugh came to him as if in a trance. ‘As I was saying to Father McKean, I’ve always been ready to do something for my fellow human beings.’

  The words seemed to come from a great distance, as if muffled by space and fog. He couldn’t take his eyes off that man standing alone, looking in his direction, while bicycles passed close by him. He told himself jackets like that were very common and that an event like this was bound to attract the attention of outsiders. It was perfectly normal for a person to stop and look to see what was going on.

  It was a reasonable attempt to reassure himself, but he knew that wasn’t the case. He knew this was no ordinary person but the man who had whispered those sacrilegious words to him inside the confessional along with his murderous intentions.

  I am God …

  The faces and the noise and the people around him had vanished. Only that disquieting figure drew his attention, his thoughts, his eyes. His longing for mercy. Somehow he was certain that the man had seen him and that, of all the people there, he, Father McKean, was the one he was staring at.

  ‘Excuse me a moment.’

  He didn’t even hear what John and Mrs Bones said in reply.

  He had moved away from them and was making his way through the crowd, straight to the other end of the balcony. Losing and finding again the sombre eyes of that stranger who had taken up residence inside him like a harbinger of doom. He wanted to reach him and try to talk to him, try to make him see reason, even though he knew it was a desperate enterprise. On his side, the man continued to watch him as he walked, waiting, as if he had come to the Boathouse Café with the same intention.

  Father McKean suddenly found two black men barring his way.

  One was just a little shorter than him and was wearing a hooded down jacket that was much too big for him and much too heavy for the season, a black cap with the peak at the side, jeans, and a pair of heavy sneakers. On his chest, a glittering gold chain.

  The man who loomed behind him was huge. It didn’t seem possible that a man that size could actually move. He was dressed all in black, and his head was covered in a kind of bandana that looked like one of those hairnets men used to wear at night to straighten their hair.

  The thinner of the two men put his hand on Father McKean’s chest and stopped him. ‘Where are you going, priest man?’

  Annoyed by this hitch, Father McKean instinctively turned to look to his right. The man in the green jacket was still there, observing the scene without expression. Reluctantly, he turned his attention back to the person in front of him.

  ‘What do you want, Jonas? I didn’t think you’d been invited.’

  ‘Iron7 doesn’t need an invitation if these assholes can get in. Right, Dude?’

  The big man merely nodded impassively.

  ‘Well,’ Father McKean said, ‘now that you’ve demonstrated how strong you are, I think you can leave.’

  Jonas Manson smiled, revealing a small diamond encrusted in one of his incisors. ‘Hey, hold on a minute, priest. What’s the hurry? I’m the brother of one of the artists. Can’t I admire his work like everyone else?’

  He looked around and, beyond Father McKean, glimpsed Jubilee still standing next to his paintings and commenting on them to other people.

  ‘There he is. There’s my boy.’

  The man who called himself Iron7 pushed Father McKean aside and headed towards his brother, followed by the impressive hulk of Dude. People instinctively stepped aside for them. Father McKean walked behind them, trying to
keep the situation under control.

  Jonas reached the paintings and, without even greeting his brother, assumed a dramatic studio pose in front of them. On seeing him coming, Jubilee had fallen silent, taken a step backwards and started shaking.

  ‘Hey, great stuff. Really great stuff. What do you think, Dude?’

  Again the fat man, without speaking, confirmed his chief’s words with a movement of his head. John, who had grasped the tricky nature of the situation, approached, trying to put his body between Jonas and his brother.

  ‘You can’t stay here.’

  ‘Oh yes? Who says so? You, runt?’ The rapper turned to the giant and smiled. ‘Dude, get this asshole out of the way.’

  The man reached out his huge hand, grabbed John by his shirt collar, pulled him towards him as if he were weightless and then pushed him back again so that he hit the balustrade. Father McKean intervened to stop John trying to react. If a fight broke out, others might get involved.

  ‘Let it be, John. I’ll deal with this.’

  Jonas let out a vulgar laugh. ‘Oh, great. You’ll deal with this.’

  In the meantime a void had formed around them. All the people who had been standing nearby, while not quite sure exactly what was happening, had decided that it was better to move away from these two gaudy characters with their rude behaviour and unappetizing faces.

  ‘You and I have to talk business, priest.’

  ‘We don’t have any business with each other, Jonas.’

  ‘Get off your high horse. I know things aren’t going too well in that place of yours. I’d like to give you a hand. I thought twenty grand might come in useful.’

  Father McKean wondered how this delinquent had found out about Joy’s financial difficulties. Certainly not from his brother, who was terrified of him and avoided him like the plague. It was clear that right now, given how empty the community’s coffers were, twenty thousand dollars would be like manna from heaven. But they couldn’t take it from a man like that, with the kind of things he was involved in.

  ‘You can keep your money. We’ll manage.’

  Jonas put his index finger on the priest’s chest and started to prod him as if trying to perforate his sternum. ‘Are you refusing my money? Do you think it’s dirty?’

  He paused, as if reflecting on the implications of what he had just heard. He again looked at Father McKean.

  ‘So my money is no good …’

  Then he pointed to the people around him and his anger exploded.

  ‘But these assholes’ money is all right, is that it? These men in their jackets and ties who look so respectable and buy the whores and the other shit that I sell. And all these women who act like little plaster saints but go around grabbing as much black dick as they can get hold of.’

  A rustle and a moan behind him. Without turning, Father McKean realized that one of the women present had fainted. The rapper continued spreading his venom.

  ‘I only wanted to do some good. Help my brother and that fucking place where you live.’

  Jonas Manson put his hand in his pocket and when he took it out he was clutching a knife. Father McKean heard it open with a dry snap and saw the blade glitter in the light. The noise around them increased, becoming the shuffle of feet on the wooden terrace. A couple of women screamed hysterically.

  With the knife in his hand, Jonas turned towards Jubilee, who was watching him in terror.

  ‘Did you hear that, little brother? Did you hear how high and mighty this priest thinks he is?’

  Jubilee took another step back, while Jonas approached the paintings. Father McKean moved to try to intercept him, but Dude moved with an agility that was impressive for someone of his size. He put his arms around the priest’s chest to immobilize him, and squeezed, knocking the air out of his lungs and sending a sharp pain shooting through his muscles.

  ‘Hold still, priest,’ Jonas said, ‘this is a family affair.’ He turned to Jubilee, who seemed to be about to faint. ‘And you don’t even say a word. You just let this piece of shit insult your brother.’

  He made a quick movement, there was a tearing sound, and a long diagonal cut appeared on the painting in front of him. He was about to do the same thing to the next painting when from somewhere on their right came a voice.

  ‘All right, guys, you’ve had your fun. Now put the knife down and lie on the ground.’

  Father McKean turned his head and saw a uniformed officer, standing on the lawn holding a gun aimed at Jonas. The rapper looked at him nonchalantly, as if having a gun pointed at him was a normal occurrence.

  The officer made an impatient gesture with his weapon. ‘Did you hear what I said? Lie down on the ground with your hands behind your head. And you, gorilla, drop that man.’

  Father McKean felt the pressure lessen, and air started returning to his lungs. Dude let go of him and joined his boss. Slowly, as if it was their own thoughtful concession rather than something imposed by a third party, they lay down on the floor and put their hands over their heads.

  While the officer kept his eye on them and radioed for backup, Father McKean, free at last, turned towards the lake. He peered anxiously around the shore and the cycle track, searching for someone he couldn’t find.

  His nightmare, the man in the green jacket, had vanished.

  CHAPTER 28

  Vivien listened anxiously to the variations in the noise of the engine as the helicopter descended.

  She didn’t like flying. She didn’t like being at the mercy of a vehicle she couldn’t control, in which every patch of turbulence made her jump and every change in the turning of the blades got her nervous. She looked out the window at the ground coming closer. Hanging in a black mass of darkness that seemed to have invaded the earth, the lights of the world lay beneath them. The triumphal light of a great city and the more isolated lights of the smaller towns surrounding it like satellites. The helicopter tilted and made an agile turn to the right. Below, directly in line with the front of the vehicle, signal lights marked the runway of a small airport.

  The voice of the pilot over her headphones took her by surprise. Not a word had been spoken since the start of the flight.

  ‘We’ll be landing shortly.’

  Vivien was glad to hear it. She hoped that by the time she started on the return journey she’d have a result that would allow her to face that interlude of emptiness and darkness in a different mood.

  Darkness had overtaken them halfway through the journey, and Vivien had understood why it had been necessary to use a helicopter equipped with blind flight, even though she couldn’t figure out how the pilot could possibly make anything of that mass of screens he had in front of him.

  Beside her, leaning towards the window on his side, his head tilted slightly back, Russell had taken off his headphones and was sleeping, even snoring a little. Vivien sat looking at him for a few moments in the reflected light from the control panel and remembered his head resting on the pillow, his regular breathing in the semi-darkness, on the night she had got out of bed and gone to the window.

  The night when the world had exploded, in every meaning of the word.

  As if that image had been thrust forcefully into his sleep, Russell opened his eyes. ‘I must have dozed off.’

  ‘Unless you snore while you’re awake, I’d say you’re right.’

  He yawned and turned to look out the window. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Almost there. We’re descending.’

  ‘Good.’

  Vivien went back to studying the terrain beneath them which, after that brief absence, was preparing to receive them again, although many miles away from the place they had started. She felt the urgency of the situation sucking her down like a vortex, and the responsibility weigh on her more than the pressure of the air above her.

  After her conversation with Jeremy Cortese, it had taken most of the rest of the day to get a result. Bellew had contacted Commissioner Willard, who had immediately arranged the backup needed for that
kind of research. An unspecified number of officers had dispersed to the hospitals, large and small, of Manhattan, the Bronx, Queens and Brooklyn.

  Code RFL.

  They had extended the search to hospitals in New Jersey, calling on the support of the local police. Bellew, Vivien and Russell had waited in the second-floor office.

  Vivien divided her time between longing for the captain’s telephone to ring and fear that her own cellphone would ring, bringing bad news from the clinic where Greta was being treated. Russell sat down in an armchair, and had put his legs up on the little table in front of him and stared into space, demonstrating a power of abstraction she wouldn’t have thought him capable of. The captain continued reading reports, but Vivien was prepared to bet that he had not absorbed a single word on those pages. The silence became like a spider’s web none of them wanted to escape. Words would only have led to other conjectures and other hopes, whereas what they needed now was something concrete, a message from reality.

  By the time the phone on the desk rang, the light beyond the windows was stamping the approach of dusk on the walls. The captain lifted the receiver to his ear.

  ‘Bellew.’

  The captain’s impassive expression didn’t give anything away to Russell and Vivien.

  ‘Wait.’

  He had taken a pen and paper and Vivien saw him quickly write something.

  ‘Terrific work, boys. Congratulations.’

  The receiver was not yet back in its place when the captain raised his head and held out what he had just written. Vivien took it gingerly, like an object that had just been pulled out of a fire.

  ‘We have a name. From Samaritan Faith Hospital in Brooklyn. A couple of nurses remember the guy well. They say he really was a monster, disfigured all over his body. He died just over six months ago.’