I hardly know what’s going on – who’s speaking, praying, sermonising, though a lot of it’s in English, in honour of Saint Edwin, and much of it about him, as a stately English cardinal makes the martyr’s case, like a barrister or advocate listing all the reasons why his client should be canonised, then formally requesting that favour from the Pope. I have eyes only for John Paul. I fumble for the binoculars, which I’ve still not given back, train them on his face. His brow is creased in concentration, his eyes intent and watchful, that expression of deep suffering still etched across his features. My whole instinct is to dart across and seize him, not to blow his brains out, but to have him hold me close again. I don’t want to kill this ceremony, all this dignity and ritual which I’ve never experienced in my life before – the slow grave solemn movements of the bishops at the altar as they bow to one another or read from precious Mass books mounted on gold lecterns; the cascade of dark and silver tongues rising from the choir; the deep faith of the organ as it underscores the hymns; the rays of sunlight streaming from the window and falling on the Pope, as if to stress his specialness, his grace.
It’s his turn now to speak. He’s returned to his gold chair and is declaiming in Italian to the whole rapt congregation. I can’t understand the words, but I gulp them down like a famished Third World orphan starved of spiritual food. Then he switches into English, enunciating slowly like a keen and solemn child who’s still a little nervous of the language, still struggles with the harder words, spits them out like prune-stones. He’s eulogising Edwin, reviewing the saint’s life – his miracles, his virtues, his brave and joyful death. He was martyred on Good Friday, and just before the cruel rope tightened round his neck, he said how proud and pleased he was to die on the same day as his Saviour. He welcomed death, apparently, died blessing his brute hangman, looking forward to another life, to an end of pain and suffering.
I refocus the binoculars, note how tired John Paul looks – not just sad, but drained. His hair is slightly greyer on the left side, whiter on the right, receding on the forehead; his pale skin slack and lined. He’s already in his seventies, must crave for peace himself; may bless me as I fire that shot, release him into martyrdom and sleep. Suddenly, he starts to cough, stumbles on his words as he struggles to continue. The attendant bishops hover, tensing in concern. I tense myself, tempted to snatch out my gun and fire it straight away, relieve him from his misery, stop that hacking cough. But Seton’s plan was to wait until Communion, when the general stir and bustle of all the people surging to receive it will cover my own movement; provide me with the perfect chance to shoot, as the Pope comes down from the altar and passes right in front of me with his ciboriumful of Hosts.
It’s an hour or more till then, and I hardly know how to live through all that ache and void of time, let alone stay cool and uninvolved, when I’m continually caught up in what’s going on around me, affected by it, moved by it – the soaring alleluias spilling from the choir, the sense of communion and community which welds ten thousand strangers into one united family, makes them seem at home in a vast and foreign church. I long to be a part of it, envy all these faithful who know the prayers, can join in the responses, understand the ritual, know exactly when to stand and when to sit. (I keep making errors, shuffling to my feet when other people are only genuflecting, or subsiding on my seat when my neighbours are all kneeling.)
I’m especially jealous of those who offer gifts, who are allowed to walk right up to the altar, with bread and wine, or scrolls, or precious boxes, to present them to the Pope. He doesn’t have a problem like my shrink – who regards gifts as bribes or blackmail and prefers to hand them back – but accepts them with real gratitude, even caresses those who offer them, touching children’s faces, squeezing women’s hands. I fight a wild temptation to walk up with my gun, present it as my tribute, and as he reaches out to take it, to fire from point-blank range. I need to get this killing over, can’t endure the tension, the feeling of sick horror which is spreading through my body. The longer I’m involved in this great and solemn Mass, the worse it seems to wreck it – gag the music, smash the mystery, plunge brilliance into black.
I cling on to the chair in front, to ground myself, restrain myself; watch the Pope returning to the altar, praying silently, intently, over the chalice and the Hosts. Bread and wine. Suddenly I’m tasting Seton’s mouth again, tasting our own bread and wine in Giuseppe’s shabby flat; following our own ritual, at the table, on the floor. ‘Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus,’ shrill the choir, but I’m hearing something else – Seton’s voice beyond it, crying out in fear. His terror’s rooted in me like our ugly monster-child, kicking at my stomach, wet between my legs. Fear’s even in my eyeballs; hard, behind the sockets, pressing on my skull, like the cruelly hot and heavy fur which drags my body down. I grope back for my chair, the man beside me fussing, trying to touch me up again under the guise of sham concern. The woman on the other side is also looking anxious, whispers something to me, starts fumbling in her handbag, then offers me a glucose sweet, as if I were a child. I shake my head, assure her I’m all right, though I’m aware how pale I’ve gone; can feel the blood still draining from my face. I slump back in my seat, pinch my arm quite sharply to stop myself from fainting. Whatever happens, I mustn’t draw attention to myself.
Suddenly, a bell rings out, imperious and shrill, and I glance back at the altar, see the Pope standing absolutely motionless, holding up the Host above his head; all the bishops stretching out their arms to it, every head but mine bowed low in adoration, the entire congregation kneeling. He turns slowly slowly round in a full circle, to display the Host to each section of the church. The silence is intense and almost spooky. Despite the thousands present, there’s not one single sound – no careless cough or baby’s cry, no rustle or cleared throat; not a murmur from the organ nor whisper from the choir. The moment feels electric, sends shivers down my spine. I bow my own head, hide my eyes, hear that urgent bell again; keep looking down, looking down, aware of some strange force or power surging through the church – holiness, or faith, perhaps – something I can’t share. Then the organ starts to throb again, and after a high and straining solo from a young boy all in white, the Pope prays aloud in what I guess is Latin. The words are just a mumbled drone until he switches into English, repeating the word ‘peace’, spinning out its vowels in his careful stilted English, as if to stress its value.
‘The p-e-a-c-e of the Lord be with you always.’
Peace isn’t something I know that much about – turmoil, yes; violence, yes; bloody scraps and battles all the time. Yet I’ve heard the word so often in this Mass: peace in life, peace in death, peace in hearts and minds. And now the Pope is sweeping round to face us, declaring to us all: ‘Let us offer each other the sign of peace.’
I watch, amazed, as he starts embracing all the bishops at the altar, and they in turn hold and clasp each other, arms around each other’s necks, male enfolding male. I’m so moved, I just stand staring, until the woman on my right reaches out and clasps me in her own arms. I’m squashed right against her corset-bones, jabbed by her sharp brooch, her flowery tea-rose perfume lassoing me as well. Rose transmutes to aftershave as her husband changes places with her, pumps me by the hand. He’s hardly let it go when the dark man on my other side squeezes it in his, no longer just flirtatious, but affectionate, respectful. The people in the row in front are also joining in, embracing one another, then turning round to us. A small boy in his father’s arms leans across to tug my hair; his mother smiles apologies, laps my hand in hers. And it’s not just our few rows. The whole vast congregation are swapping signs of peace, hands stretched out to hands, chairs scraping on the marble as people turn to either side, reach out to friends or strangers further down the rows. Two parents kiss their brood of five; two lovers almost smooch; an old crone in a see-through mac is cheek to cheek with a woman dripping mink. The Mass has broken up, or at least halted for a while, so that everybody present can greet his neighbo
ur, offer him goodwill, display their fellow feeling and their trust.
My own hand feels quite tired. It’s been pressed against great spiky rings, gripped by kids’ hot fingers, snagged on old and horny skin, soothed by soft suede gloves. And people are still courting it, murmuring ‘Peace be with you’; making me accepted, one of their community, a member of their church. A small girl in a corduroy coat skids up to me and offers me her cheek. My own cheeks flame as I plant a clumsy kiss on it, rigid with embarrassment. I’ve never kissed a child before, don’t know what to say. Yet underneath I’m thrilled; thrilled to be included, made one of this whole family, a loved and wanted sibling. I’d been envying them their ties – their families and pilgrim groups, their parish clubs and unions, which allow them to belong. Now, at last, I’m part of it, can share their bonds, their peace.
I shake a final friendly hand, subside back on my seat. It’s only now I realise what peace means – that sense of stillness in my gut, instead of churning tension, that sudden ease of breathing as my chest and lungs unclench, and I remove my lethal camera-case from my shoulder to the floor. I know now I can’t shoot, disrupt this precious peace, abuse my family’s trust. I glance up at the sun, which is still streaming through the window, the lattice of the pane patterning its beam with furrowed lines. ‘Afterwards’ is suddenly restored – a sunny lazy afternoon with normal things like shopping, strolling in the park, instead of Mass and morning aborted in one shot. I can even meet that Mary by the obelisk, invite her for a beer; let lunch merge into evening as I celebrate the fact there is an evening, and I’m free to spin it out, stay up the whole night, watch darkness switch to light again, and life.
I’m not betraying Seton – in fact I’m saving him. If I fired the shot, they’d be bound to hunt him down, hound him back for questioning, fling him in a cell. People here know that we’ve been lovers – Giuseppe’s friends and neighbours, the couple in the flat above, that weird man in the wine-shop. I’ve given him his freedom, allowed him to escape. Or perhaps the plot was just a game, a symbolic killing, dressed up as a charade. I glance down at my far-fetched coat, my preposterous strappy shoes with silver diamanteé on the heels. Yes – fancy-dress, a children’s game, as spurious as Saint Thecla, whose cult was suppressed more than twenty years ago, her life declared a total fabrication, her story a romance.
I remove my coat, fold it on my knees, feel miraculously unburdened in my silky-nothing dress, without the weight of murder pressing on my back. My salamander sparkles, seems to dart and writhe, alive. So it was a lucky talisman, kept me safe in the leaping flames of danger. I let my body sag, utterly exhausted after coming through the fire. I’m the only one still sitting. The whole church seethes around me as people throng and hustle towards all the different priests who are distributing Communion in each and every part of the basilica – a score in both the transepts, dozens in the aisle; others still processing to their stations, preceded by a marshal, and holding up their sumptuous jewelled ciboriums. An endless stream of worshippers is flowing up and back, weaving round the chairs, negotiating obstacles, dodging fractious children who have strayed from parents’ laps; television cameramen recording the whole hubbub. I’ve often had a longing to receive Communion myself, to swallow a frail wafer and feel it turn to God, but I’m too weak to move a muscle, weak with sheer relief. We’ve reached and passed the moment when I should have fired the shot, and instead I’m simply relaxing in my seat.
I listen to the altos slam out a wild ‘Exsulta!’, exulting still myself, even trying to pray – pray for Seton, for his peace. If Saint Edwin can grant miracles to dreary frumpy widows, then why not him, as well? I want us to meet up again – Seton and myself – with no sour recriminations, no anger, violence, fury, just closeness, even love. It feels really strange to pray, makes me flushed and almost randy, as if it’s affecting not my soul, but my body and my cunt. I keep my eyes fixed on the Pope, watch him giving out Communion, an infinity of taut pink tongues thrusting out in front of him as he tops each with a Host. I’m glad it takes so long. Every extra minute he’s alive and functioning increases my delight. I don’t need a Host myself, or bread turned into God. I’m feeding on elation, which is miracle enough.
At last, he and all the other priests glide back to the altar, where he gives his final blessing, holding up his elaborate silver crozier. The blessing seems to leave its mark quite literally, as if the precise and solemn cross he’s tracing in the air has imprinted on my flesh, even etched into my bone like letters on a stick of rock. I’m safe now and protected, my gun disarmed, its bullets merely playthings, harmless children’s toys. The camera-case weighs nothing as I return it to my shoulder – having slipped my coat back on – then hold it close against me as I skim up to the front. The Pope’s processing out now and I want the perfect view, want to follow right behind him, monitor each step. The priests all stride out first, followed by the bishops, and lastly Sua Santità, moving very slowly, blessing everyone, smiling, nodding, giving of himself. The church is going wild, everyone applauding, calling out his name, scores of people in the nave climbing on their chairs, busy with their cameras, or holding up their kids to him. I’m cheering, too, and clapping, my throat hoarse from all the crazy things I’m yelling, things about my father, him being still alive. A marshal stops me pushing any closer, keeps the goggling crowds back as Giovanni Paolo makes his stately progress down the aisle. I can hardly see him now, just a glimpse of golden mitre, a glint of his tall cross.
Suddenly, a shot rings out from further down the nave, and just a fraction later, a second shot seems to explode the church away. There’s a moment’s total silence when sheer reeling incredulity fights with sickened shock. Then everything is uproar – people tangling, howling, Swiss Guards flashing halberds, screams of pain and panic as seething pilgrims thresh towards the doors. I kick and claw my own way not towards the exit, but in the direction of the shots, hardly caring if I’m injured I’m so wild to reach the action. It’s impossible to make it to the central wooden barrier, but I leap up on a chair so I can look down on the aisle; glimpse a sight so hideous it knifes into my memory, leaves an open wound: bodies, bits of bodies, blood and brains splashed everywhere – on the chairs, the wood, the marble, even on the innocent – a child’s white coat red-splattered, an old man weeping crimson. I taste vomit in my throat as I focus on the details: the Pope’s right foot turned inwards as he lies bleeding on the floor, the shoe scuffed and strangely modern in contrast to his flowing golden robes, now rucked up on one side and exposing a thin leg. His grey eyes are still open, dead eyes staring upwards, looking baffled and surprised.
The second corpse is just a hump, a hump beneath a coat. I recognise the coat – the missing middle toggle, the semen stain where we used it as a mattress. I seem to reel and fall towards it as a security guard thrusts me from the chair, gestures to the exit, where other guards and marshals are trying to calm the crowds, direct them safely out. I’m so appalled, so shaken, I can barely move at all, but I let the crowd walk for me, support me in their packed and jostling scrum. I listen to the babble, the brutal lying stories passed from lips to lips. ‘Shot the Holy Father, then shot himself, blew his brains out, blew his evil head off.’
I shake my head, keep shaking it, tasting blood now, not just vomit. ‘No,’ I say to no one. ‘He wasn’t even here. He left – he left this morning, before anyone was up. He’s not in Rome at all.’ It could be someone else’s coat. Duffel coats are all the same, just clones of one another. And most of them have stains or missing toggles. I close my eyes a second, see the coat again, see something else I’ve been trying to blank out: a bulky golf umbrella being examined by the ashen man who was kneeling by the corpses – a bodyguard, a doctor? Its colours were distinctive, not easy to forget – stripes of cream and orange, with a sturdy fretted handle which left faint patterns on my palm when I held it through that endless papal audience.
I struggle to turn round, fight the tide of pilgrims pressing on all side
s. I must get that umbrella, wrest it from the man; claim it as my own, so no one can blame Seton. Of course he wasn’t here. He trusted me to shoot, relied on me to do it, so he could leave the country, start a safe new life. I think he’s in Bulgaria with Stefan, or perhaps he’s gone to France, to walk in the Auvergne, or follow lonely rivers …
A bad-tempered marshal blocks my way, heaves and prods me back towards the exit, swears at me for causing more disruption. There’s enough chaos as it is. A television cameraman has had his camera trampled and is weeping with frustration, wrestling through the crowds to try to save his work; a second one is shinning up a ledge, face contorted, feet slipping on the marble, but still doggedly recording all the action. Cardinals, policemen, are pouring in from nowhere, bossy men in uniform, nurses in blue cloaks. They’re bawling through loudspeakers now, in English and Italian, trying to keep order, stop everybody panicking.
I’m very calm myself, though I don’t feel well at all. There’s this fierce pain in my head and heart, and I keep fearing I’ll throw up. I’m forced to stop a moment, rest against a pillar; glance down at the cherub sculpted near its base, a plump and smirking baby trailing clouds of gauze. I return his marble smile. He’s the only one who’s happy, the only one who’s real, who knows it’s all a game, just a charade, a masquerade.
Fifty-Minute Hour Page 49
