Fifty-Minute Hour

by Wendy Perriam

  The leather strap keeps slipping off my shoulder, sliding on the fur. I haul it back, clasp the case against my hip as I skirt around a boisterous group with Saint Edwin plastic badges, Saint Edwin carrier bags. Most of them are also carrying cameras, so I don’t look out of place. Apparently, you’re allowed to take photos in St Peter’s, even during a solemn papal Mass. Several men are already snapping furiously, taking pictures of their smirking wives, their podgy well-fed priest. There’s an air of great excitement, a sense of celebration spread so thick on everything it’s like a sugar-coating, or instant spray-on tinsel; swarms of people milling round in eager restless flurries, voices bubbling over. Surely they can tell I don’t belong? I’m coated not with gold, but black; carrying my banner labelled ‘Death’. If you took blood-tests from us all, theirs would register exhilaration, fervour; mine reveal I’m dangerously ill. My heart isn’t simply beating, it’s hammering so violently I’m scared the crowds can hear it knelling like a warning above all the other racket in the square. My hands are wet with sweat, my whole body cold and clammy, despite the fur, the sun.

  I squint up at the sun, implore it not to shine. It makes everything much worse, that immaculate and trusting sky, summer-blue in January and cotton-wooled with clouds – weather for a chocolate box, or a cosy Disney movie, not a callous murder. Some ironical Director seems to have set the scene today, laid on soft and sweet vignettes to underline my pain: two lovers with their rosaries entwined; a skinny shaggy mongrel, all bone and bounce and tongue, leaping up to lick a toddler’s nose; the child kitted out in strawberry-pink, which is colour-matched exquisitely with her strawberry ice-cream cone. I stoop down to pat the dog, more for my sake than for his – to hide my face, turn my guilty eyes away from those other fervent friendly eyes which keep meeting mine and smiling, trying to claim me as a fellow – fellow pilgrim, fellow human being.

  ‘Don’t smile,’ I beg a woman who’s attempting to squeeze past me with her gangling teenage daughter, her fat and freckled son – a woman twice my age with a worn but kindly face, who seems to think we’re instant cronies, one happy jolly family. I dodge her, turn away, struggle back the way I’ve come, feeling infectious and polluted, as if I ought to wear a bell, a leper’s bell which keeps tolling out ‘Unclean!’. And yet I’m not wholly bad – I can’t be. I’m doing this for Seton, my one perfect act, to save him, set him free. He’s already made his getaway – left this morning, early, in the cold raw empty dawn; kissed me very briefly, so I was left with just his taste, my lips still smarting from last night, and the first birds breaking silence, sounding out of tune and querulous as his footsteps died away. I can’t betray him, can I, change my mind (again), when he believes in me and trusts me? It’s not often that I’m trusted, or given such a major part to play – the lead, the starring role.

  I force my steps and body back towards the square, though my mind is still on Seton, wondering where he’s gone, wondering what his feelings are – fear for me, dull horror, admiration, longing? I weave my way between the crowds, keep on going this time until I reach the crush of pilgrims seething round the steps, the impatient queue of ticket-holders who must be frisked before they’re allowed into the church. Frisked. The word appals me – a jumpy, nervy, startled word, which seems to leapfrog through my stomach, judder in my chest. I remember my deep breathing, count to five as I inhale, to ten as I breathe out; try to look relaxed and almost nonchalant as I shuffle up each slow and dragging step, avoiding careless elbows, other people’s bags. The queue moves very slowly, while my fear gallops, bloats, distends. I distract myself by admiring the basilica, its grand façade now rearing up in front of me; huge central marble columns dwarfing us mere mortals, more lofty statues preening from its roof. I can only think of bones – Saint Peter’s bones, which were buried here in a crevice in the rock, nineteen hundred and twenty-seven years ago, before all this pomp and splendour was ever dreamed or thought of – a pathetic headless skeleton which some say is still there, crumbling in the crypt.

  Death seems to smite my own bones as the security man runs his metal-detector up and down my coat, along both sleeves, down each black-stockinged leg. I’m so rigid, so shit-scared, I’m sure he’ll guess there’s something wrong from just the tension in my limbs; call an ambulance, if not a Black Maria. I can smell his breath – garlic doused with peppermint – see the coarse black stubble pricking through his chin, shadowing his squarish bullish jaw. I haven’t brought a handbag (need one hand free, at least), but a second flint-eyed officer has just reached out for my camera-case and is checking it inside. He hasn’t got a metal-detector, but even so, I realise it’s all up; shut my eyes, wait to feel the handcuffs snapping on my wrists, his vicious truncheon jabbing at my back. Two minutes crawl like months, and when I dare to look again I’m still standing on the steps, but the security men are miraculously behind me, and checking someone else. My camera-case is hanging on my shoulder. They’ve put the camera back all wrong, crushed my cigarettes, which I slipped in down one side, but it still weighs heavy, still bears its crucial load. I simply can’t believe it. I want to shout, berate them: ‘Look, you didn’t find the gun. If you’re so lax, so fucking casual, you’ll endanger the Pope’s life. Arrest me. Stop me now!’

  No one stops me. I’m right on the top step, the bronze doors of the basilica only a pace or two away. I push the heavy central door, urged on by a marshal, step into the church, feel dazzled for a moment by its sheer overwhelming grandeur. The whole place seems to writhe with decoration. Your eye can’t rest or settle, but is constantly tugged back and forth by gilding, carving, sculptures, bronze, and shimmering mosaics. Pilasters lead your gaze up to the ceiling, which is so awesomely elaborate you’re forced to cast them down again, overcome and reeling; admire the complex patterns of the floor. Every surface gleams, every inch of floor and wall has been burnished, chiselled, fretted. Cherubs pout and simper, solid angels hover in mid-air, majestic Popes stretch out their hands in frozen marble blessings. There’ve been two hundred and sixty-three Popes since the original Saint Peter, and half of them seem buried in this church, judging by the monuments, the papal tombs and effigies. I close my eyes a second, see myself embraced not by Giovanni Paolo, but by the first apostle, Peter; the unbroken line of Popes between cementing time and history; John Paul himself the only living institution still surviving from the Roman Empire. I let my eyes drift open, almost surprised to see twentieth-century people in the pews, dressed in modern clothes and even jeans, instead of ancient Romans, wearing togas, flowing robes.

  I’ve seen St Peter’s before, of course – we’ve been here half a dozen times to check our plans, get our bearings, orientate ourselves. And a weird friend of Giuseppe’s showed us round our second day in Rome. That was what I call our guided tour, and far better than the official ones, I reckon, since the guy spoke fluent English and talked nonstop for two hours twenty minutes; told me all the stuff about Saint Thecla, and so much else my head was almost bursting. But every time I’ve been here the place has been half-empty – just a few score gawping tourists, a disembodied priest (or three) penned in the confessionals, and one or two old dusty crones huddled by the candle-stands and talking to themselves. Today it’s crowded, totally transformed – Saint Edwin banners fluttering from the walls; the scent of heady hothouse flowers choking down the usual smell of damp piety, cold marble. And the atmosphere’s quite different – explosive and electric, as if the whole place has been charged.

  I’m still standing semi-mesmerised when an usher in a stiff white shirt and what looks like morning dress checks my ticket, inclines his head most graciously, then motions me to continue up the aisle. I walk slowly on, past throngs of jam-packed pilgrims already sitting waiting in the rows and rows of chairs. They seem just blurs of colour – black swathes of silent nuns, a twitchy giggly Boys’ Brigade with blue and scarlet banners; the sudden shout of purple slashed with orange as I pass a tall Swiss Guard, halberd shining, helmet scarlet-plumed. Someone suddenly j
umps up from a seat beside the aisle, leans across the central wooden barrier and grabs my free left hand. I freeze in instant terror. They’ve realised who I am, got wind of my wild plan, are about to march me out again, clap me into jail. Half-paralysed, I turn my head a fraction, see that pretty, rather vacuous-looking woman who lent me her lace hankie when I was blubbing in that bar on New Year’s Eve. What did she say her name was? I don’t think I even heard it, was too lost in my problems.

  ‘Mary,’ she says, reminding me, and gesturing to herself. ‘It’s Nial, isn’t it? I hardly recognised you.’

  No, you wouldn’t, I think rudely. I’ve changed my gender, changed my role. Trust her to be a Mary – fair and sweet and fey, and looking almost smug today, with a happy trusting smile spreading from her glowing face to her plumply rounded body. I’ve no wish to stop and burble sweet inanities – not now – it’s far too dangerous, will only draw attention to myself, but she’s already started whispered introductions, seems to have at least three scowling husbands and a whole scout-troupe of small boys. And I assumed she was a loner, like myself. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I murmur sotto voce, as each male shams a smile.

  ‘Perhaps we could meet afterwards,’ she mouths. I nod, arrange to find her by the obelisk at noon. More sham, more empty lies. There won’t be any ‘afterwards’, and I shan’t be meeting anyone save jailers and police. I mumble something indistinct about having to find my seat, toss her a goodbye. I’m feeling strangely shaken by the whole coincidence, and still more scared to fire that shot at all. I need this congregation to be faceless and anonymous, just cardboard cutouts, stolid plaster dummies; not living feeling people with families, soft hearts. I could spatter all those boys with blood, give them nightmares, screw them up for life.

  I shrug the thoughts off angrily, try to clear my mind of everything save each slow step up the aisle; fix all my concentration on my laboured hurting breathing, the dead weight on my arm. I’ve practised this same walk towards the altar – once with Seton, twice alone – but it never seemed so far before, so endless. Five hundred feet, Seton guessed approximately, but I’ve walked five miles already and still not reached the ornate baldacchino where I turn right at the transept for my seat. And it felt completely different when we were rehearsing it stone-cold, without the props and costumes, without the congregation, this air of sheer excitement which only fuels my fear. Another usher stops me, but flutters quite obsequiously once he sees my ticket, waves me further on. I’ve no idea how Seton got that ticket, a special VIP one which somehow gives me clearance to glide right to the front, upstage all those pious paid-up pilgrims. I can feel their eyes boring through my back as I’m guided to the transept, shown into the second row, which is so close to the altar, I not only have a perfect view, but feel a fraction less paranoid about missing when I shoot.

  I’m surrounded not by anoraks and schoolkids, but by suave and ritzy men in formal suits; women in rich furs like mine, diamonds flashing on their hands, gold medals at their throats. My own medal’s rather different – the silver salamander which the fortune-teller gave me, pinned on to my dress as my badge of courage and sanction for my mission. I touch it for a second, to give myself new strength, then try to take the scene in, eyes darting back and forth. I simply didn’t realise how sumptuous it would be – even the flowers themselves arrayed in vast battalions, a whole forest of exotic blooms: gladioli, tiger lilies, forced and perfect roses, streaky two-tone tulips, double-frilled carnations, and some fantastic-looking specimens I’ve never seen before, with speckled purple petals, fleshy yellow tongues. And the whole display backed with fern and greenery, looped with satin ribbon, and smelling so extravagantly my own cheap perfume dies. The colours cut like knives – the sharp and stinging scarlet of poinsettias echoed by the cardinals who are sitting right behind; the deep mauve gladioli reinforced by the showy vibrant purple of the bishops. I’ve never seen so many churchmen – whole rows and squads and gangs of them; gashes of wild colour, sweeps of flowing robes; celibates like peacocks making up in pomp for what they lack in prick-power. And at least two hundred spare priests in simple black and white, corralled on their own behind the altar, like some huge reserve or backup, impressive in its numbers.

  And now the choir are trooping in, dressed in deeper purple with frilled white smocks on top; the boys in wide white collars, the men solemn-eyed, intense. The television cameras immediately close in. I’ll be immortalised myself in just another hour or so, caught on film for ever – not cherubic choirboys shuffling into place, but one lone and murderous woman lunging forward with her gun. John-Paul is bound to see me, if not this actual morning, then in the rerun on the news. Will he be proud of me, I wonder; staggered by my nerve, or feel guilty and appalled that he wouldn’t deign to see me when I called at his hotel?

  The handsome man beside me suddenly touches my left arm. Startled, I swing round, see him smiling quite flirtatiously, offering me his binoculars, a natty little gold pair in a silk-lined leather case. I stutter out my thanks, and he answers in some language I don’t recognise at all, his throaty whisper sounding near-obscene. Imagine being chatted up in the most solemn church in Rome, and when my whole mind’s on Death, not Eros. I suppose he’ll want to meet me afterwards, like Mary. ‘Afterwards’ is getting really busy, except I daren’t think beyond the Mass. I wish he’d just back off and let me concentrate, instead of using the binoculars as an excuse to touch me up, leaning right across me to show me how they work. Lots of other people are whispering and gossiping, getting up to greet their friends, taking pictures, changing films. I’d no idea it would be so sort of fidgety. I’d imagined prayerful silence, a sacred reverent hush. But I can’t afford to alienate my neighbour, make him either hostile or suspicious, so I smile as warmly as I can while I focus the binoculars. The vast splendour of St Peter’s suddenly contracts to looming detail – an eye, a wing, a furrowed brow, leaping into close-up; emotion caught and frozen as I track into the statues, arms flung out in wild and frantic gestures, expressions dazed or agonised, robes billowing in storm-clouds.

  I turn my gaze from stone to flesh, as I realise those around me are using their binoculars not to admire the carvings, but to focus on a group of pilgrims sitting near the front in the main body of the nave. At first I see just a seething mass of heads, which the sharp lenses individualise into a hat, a wart, a feather, a long fair chunky pigtail, a coarse but waxed moustache. Then, at last, I understand the reason for the scrutiny, recognise that woman who’s been splashed all over the newspapers and interviewed on television – the one who claimed she was miraculously cured. It was Giuseppe who alerted me, first pointed out the headlines, jabbing with his finger and shouting ‘English! English!’ – one of his new words – then kept switching on the news for me, so I could follow the whole saga, salute my fellow countryman. She did stick in my mind, in fact, not just because she’s English and has that absurdly inappropriate name of Mrs Lena Pain, but because she seemed so ordinary – a plain and dowdy matron, with every curve damped down: her body clamped into a corset, her hair curbed in a perm.

  I also felt an envy when I read about the case; craved a miracle myself, a release from my own pain, which may not be as obvious as a swollen gammy leg, but still shrieks for help and healing. She’s not even alone, as I am back in London, but has this doting wonder-son – a scientist, I think they said; someone really brilliant, whom she claims is so devoted to her he’s refused to leave, or marry. I can see him now, hanging on her arm, his smile cracking the binoculars, his face bland and rather nothingish, like hers. If only I could swap with them, that happy special smiling pair, surrounded by admirers, picked out by God or destiny to win life’s lucky draw. I feel even more an alien when I compare myself to them. I’m totally alone – isolated, terrified, not hero-worshipped by the crowds, but probably torn to pieces by them once I’ve fired the gun.

  I rest my eyes a moment, check my watch instead; realise the great ceremony is just about to start. The basilica is pac
ked now, and an air of tense expectancy is spreading like a fever through the craning congregation. It’s like some huge royal wedding, where everyone is waiting for the bride; every head turned towards the door. Suddenly, the lights strobe on, and the mosaics’ brilliant colours flame still more intensely; the organ blazing gold and purple as it thunders into life. The pure voices of the choirboys soar above its baritone, and the whole church seems to pulse and throb as it welcomes the procession now flowing up the aisle. Thirty, forty bishops in sumptuous golden vestments and tall white patterned mitres follow a group of younger men in frilled white lacy gowns. The whole vast congregation has now risen to its feet and is cheering and applauding as the procession shimmers past. I struggle to my own feet, dazed and overawed. I never realised people clapped in church, but this show is so magnificent I suppose it’s like a theatre-audience applauding some impressive set when the curtain first goes up. Bishop follows bishop in a swishing dazzling pageant; the first ones now so close to me I can see the appliquéd detail of their vestments – shining trumpet-lilies, grapes in velvet clusters, glossy satin vine leaves, ears of ripened wheat.

  The applause is growing wilder, and there, behind the bishops, is Sua Santità himself, resplendent in rich gold brocade and carrying a silver cross so tall it tops his mitre. He’s blessing the huge crowd, smiling, nodding, turning back and forth, as if to give everyone a share of him. He’s the bride, the superstar, and those pilgrims are all hungry for him, trying to press closer, reach their hands (and cameras) across the central wooden barrier which is there to stop them mobbing him. He turns slowly towards the transept and it‘s my turn now to eat him with my eyes – the man who dared to hold me, embraced me like a father. The choir is singing some exultant hymn of praise, voices rising with the incense which smokes round the altar; incense spreading into tree-shapes, spiralling in columns, cutting through the sunlight which streams through one high window, gold smoke meeting silver. My nose and throat are choking with its pungent musky smell, my ears assaulted by the choir who seem to hurl their hymn to heaven.