by Ian Caldwell
That was when, after Simon’s sixth or seventh fight, my friend Gianni Nardi heard about the fights. Not about Simon, but about the street-boxing ring. So we went.
I must’ve known Simon had been elsewhere all that time. Most weekends, until the night he arm-wrestled at that bar, he’d come home from college to check on Mamma and take me to American movies at the Pasquino. Now it was every other weekend or less, and he was bringing me gifts from the city as if he felt guilty.
But I was thirteen and full of appetites I couldn’t fathom. Full of emptiness I couldn’t fill. I was getting so used to my family’s piecemeal extinction that Simon’s disappearance was just one more. I had living of my own to do. Gianni’s dad was a sampietrino, a custodian of Saint Peter’s, with keys to the toolsheds on the basilica roof, so Gianni and I would sneak up there and host picnics for our girlfriends, drinking wine and staring down at Rome like kings. He was seeing a girl named Bella Costa, and I had Andrea Nofri, then Cristina Salvani, then Pia Tizzoni, whose body was so far outside the curve of fourteen years old that I expected the statues on the basilica roof to turn around and stare. I never gave a thought to what Simon was up to. Even if I had known, I wouldn’t have believed. Back then, I was the fighter in our family. Simon had a Roman body—the letter-opener silhouette, the fan belts for muscles—but I had Father’s Greek genes, the pack-dog neck and unbreakable back. I fought other boys for the joy of it. So when Gianni heard there was street boxing at the old dogfighting pit, I dragged him there. Because a bare-knuckle fight was something I needed to see.
The first fight was two bums off the streets, playing for laughs. They managed six rounds before the crowd became restless, then the barker called a second bout in which a short Turk laid out a jiggling man in overalls. Finally came bout three. And with no explanation, the crowd of boys on all sides of us stood up and grew quiet.
Down into the pit crawled a pale white fighter, glistening like soap. He scratched his soles on the dirt as if they were new Sunday shoes. And at the sight of him, every boy in that house screamed as if he were pierced with nails. Eyes-shut, bloodthirsty wailing. The fighter kept his back to us, but when he pulled off his shirt—stripped it off like a skin of glue—I felt my throat tighten. Because I knew those muscles. I knew the way they strained around that backbone like wings.
“Oh,” I heard Gianni say. “No shit. Get outta here.” He grabbed my shirt. “Alex, that’s your brother down there.”
But I was already pushing my way into the crowd. The kids were chanting now. Slapping their legs.
Pa-a-a-a-dre, Pa-dre, Padre.
Men in the front rows threw money into piles for bets. A second fighter jumped in. He was pink-skinned and hunchbacked. A Russian, people murmured. And for the first time in my life, my big brother looked like just a boy. A kid in a sandbox. He was nine or ten inches taller than the Russian, with forearms like cement mixers, but the rest of him was so thready that God seemed to have stretched him from chewing gum.
Someone hit a wrench on an overhead pipe, and Simon came off his corner first. I shouted his name, but it vanished in the rush of noise. I pushed myself toward the edge of the pit, and then—I don’t know why—I just stood there. I watched. Because what I wanted, desperately, was to see this happen. To see Simon hurt this man.
Our parents had always hidden us from places like this. When I fought at school, my father strapped me. But now that we’re alone, Sy, I thought, you can show me. Because I have this in me, too. So tonight, do this for me. Put your fist through this man’s jaw.
Each step Simon took in that pit, I tracked with my own legs. The rhythm of his feet, the instinct that told him how long to dance and when to stop, was in me, too. The Russian had meaty hands, fists that must’ve left craters in heavy bags, but they were slow. And by the time they reached Simon, we were gone. We came with straight rights that cracked like bones breaking. And back he went, still swinging. He was bleeding from the face now, black around the ribs. And still he came back for more. So more is what we gave.
The kids were roaring. I split the skin around my mouth, screaming so loud.
Come on, Sy! I shouted. Hit him!
But the words that came out were:
“Come on, Sy! Kill him! ”
And all of a sudden, down there in the pit, Simon stopped. Flat-footed—dead in his paces—he stared into the crowd.
The Russian scraped along the back wall, buying space.
I felt a shadow fall over me, so dark that Simon couldn’t have seen me if Rome was burning.
But he could feel me there. I wanted to run, but his stare closed in.
The Russian was coming now, barreling down on my brother. All I could do was point.
Simon turned just in time; the Russian caught the hairs on his chest. But for some reason, Simon staggered. He stared at me, and the rhythm fell out of him. Even the kids up above saw it.
“Padre!” a boy in the crowd yelled.
But Simon never took his eyes off me.
I will never come here again, Sy. I swear to you. But this one time, for me, finish this. Even if they have to piece this man together in the hospital, show me you understand.
And from the look on Simon’s face, hanging from the blacks of his eyes, I knew he did understand. He turned back and tilted his hands, inviting the Russian back.
Just for an instant, the Russian looked for me in the crowd.
Not him, Simon mouthed, waving him in. Me.
The crowd came back to life, people shouting like cannibals. The Russian stepped up, jabbed and pulled back.
Simon bobbed. But nothing more.
The Russian came one-two this time—and Simon let the punches slap him so loudly, it shut those kids up.
“Come on,” he said, opening his hands. But this time, his hands didn’t fist up; they stayed open.
So the Russian drove a blow into Simon’s ribs, and Simon barely stayed on his feet. He winced as he straightened up.
Now the Russian came with a one-two-three: a jab that almost missed Simon’s shoulder, except that it came with a cross rolling behind it like a freight train. That cross knocked Simon out of his stance, bending him over.
My brother’s hands shot up instinctively, to protect his head. But he forced them down. And now a smile broke over the Russian’s face when he brought the left hook to finish. Because if this kid was going to take a beating—if he was going to dangle his head there like a bobber—then this would be no left hook to the body.
No fighter I ever saw, before or after, wound up for a punch like that. The Russian dropped his right hand to the bottom of the ocean, not even bothering to keep up his guard, and threw a left hook that crushed Simon’s cheek as if he’d been hit by a bolt from a cattle gun. My brother’s head almost jumped off his neck, but instead his body popped up in the air. Then he lay there, dead in the dirt.
I jumped over the pit wall, wailing, screaming, not knowing what I did; but there were hands on me, grabbing my shoulders and pulling me back. I threw punches, but Simon was already moving on the ground, pulling himself up. He turned in my direction and stared. Fat parachutes of blood fell from his mouth, but he locked me in, like there was no one in this seminary but us brothers, trying to get our thick heads around this lesson.
And the Russian just waited there, holding his punches, because he knew what was coming.
Above us, in the high seats, the kids were coming unglued. Stop! they were shouting. And No! And Why won’t he fight? I shook my head at Simon, the spit hanging from my mouth, and I screamed, Don’t do this. Please.
But he wiped an arm across his bleeding mouth, tapped the sides of his head, and stepped back into that fight.
The Russian sent an uppercut through his chin that would’ve split a tree in half. It shattered what was left of Simon’s jaw, and when his head snapped back, everything was done. Before he ever h
it the ground, my brother was gone.
And then.
My God. Those kids, how they loved him. They burst from on high like water from a broken dam. An army couldn’t have stopped them. While I sat there, hogtied in the first row, wave after wave of them came into the pit, surrounding Simon’s body, not letting the Russian take another step. What the men in that pit would’ve done with my brother—left him out on the street, carted him to the next rione to keep police off the scent—I never knew, because those kids swarmed Simon like the whole future of their race depended on it. They carried him on their knobby backs through the crowd and out the door. I watched them take a collection right there, hands in pockets, to find cab fare to the hospital. Half of them looking like they hadn’t eaten in a week, pulling lint off their last coins.
When I finally caught up to them, Gianni was explaining who we were, how we would take Simon home, where we had doctors. And they stared at us like we had come down in a chariot of fire. Because they had heard that one word, that one magical word, that parted seas and brought dead men back to life.
Vatican.
“Save him,” one said to me. “Don’t let him die.”
Another said: “Take him to Il Papa.”
Il Papa: John Paul.
The last thing I ever saw of that place, before the taxi pulled away into the night, was those kids huddled together, watching Simon leave. Watching my brother vanish from their streets. And praying while they watched.
* * *
IT’S A GOOD CHRISTIAN thing my brother does now, I think to myself, as I sit alone at the table where he refused to mount a defense. He believes in his heart that he does this for the good of someone else. I don’t know who. I don’t know why.
But I know I have to stop him.
CHAPTER 16
I CHECK ON PETER before I leave. He was watching cartoons, but the TV is now off. The open toiletry bag on the dresser, speckled with water drops, tells me he brushed his teeth. He has even plugged in the nightlight. I kiss his forehead and move his sleeping body away from the edge of the bed, wondering if he will grow up to be as inhumanly self-reliant as his uncle. Wondering if he will someday break my heart, too.
On a sheet of Lucio’s stationery by the main telephone, I write:
Diego—
Running an errand for Mignatto. Be back in an hour or two. Please call my mobile if Peter wakes up.
—Alex
Then I call Leo and ask him to join me on a walk to Sister Helena’s.
* * *
THE CONVENT IS UP the flanks of Vatican Hill, a dead zone at night. Below us, in Rome, the world is powdered with electric light, but here in the gardens the darkness is so thick it seems liquid. Leo and I navigate by memory.
He doesn’t ask why we’re here. He doesn’t say a thing. When the silence begins to feel heavy, I decide to tell him.
“They’re charging Simon with the murder. They think he killed Ugo Nogara.”
Leo stops. I can’t see his expression in the dark.
“What?” he says. “What the hell did Simon do?”
“I don’t even know. He’s refusing to defend himself.”
“What do you mean, refusing?”
There is no possible answer. “It’s just . . . Simon.”
“He’ll spend the rest of his life in a cell at Rebibbia.”
“No. You’ve got to keep this secret, but they’re trying him in a Church court.”
He is a long time chewing on it. “Why would they do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“He won’t talk to you?”
“He’s under house arrest.”
More silence.
“If you can figure out where they took him,” I say, “that would give me someplace to start.”
The Guard has sentries all over the papal palace.
“Of course,” he says. “I’ll find him.” But his voice drifts in uncertainty. Quietly he adds, “Simon didn’t do it, though. Right?”
My brother at his strangest, at his most inscrutable. Even to a friend, Simon seems capable of anything. God knows what a panel of three judges will think.
* * *
FINALLY, FLOATING OVERHEAD, WE see lights burning on the hilltop. We’ve reached the old medieval tower that has a new Vatican Radio antenna rising from its roof. Connected to it by a wall covered with satellite dishes is another of John Paul’s construction projects: a convent for our tiny community of Benedictine nuns.
“I’ll stay back,” Leo says.
He doesn’t ask what we’re doing. He knows Helena lives here.
I ring the convent bell. No one answers. A light is on in one of the windows, but there are no sounds inside. Still, I wait. Every Benedictine house in the world, for the past sixteen hundred years, has obeyed a rule that guests must be greeted as if they’re Christ.
At last the door opens. Before me is a round-faced woman with plain eyeglasses in a white wimple. Everything else—black veil, black tunic, black cincture, black scapular—blends into the darkness.
“Sister, I’m Father Alex Andreou,” I say. “My son is the boy Sister Helena watches. Would it be possible for me to speak to her?”
She studies me in silence. Only seven nuns live in this priory—it isn’t even large enough to qualify as an abbey—so the women all know each other’s business. I wonder how much they know about me.
“Would you wait in the chapel, Father,” she says, “while I fetch her?”
But in the chapel the other sisters might overhear us. “If it’s the same to you,” I tell her, “I’ll wait in the garden.”
She unlocks the gate and acts as if I have every right to be here, even though the sisters do the sowing and harvesting, and the pope gets the produce. There are no Benedictines in my church—Greeks have an older tradition of monasticism—but I admire these women and their unselfishness.
While I wait, I pace the garden rows. Every Vatican boy steals fruit from these trees, and every pope turns a blind eye. Finally a sound comes from the gate: the faintest swish of a habit. When I turn, Prioress Maria Teresa hovers before me.
“Father,” she says with a small gesture of deference. “Welcome. May I help you?”
She has a gentle face, younger than its age, darkened only by the pockets of loose skin beneath her eyes. But her expression is solemn. I’ve come during the Great Silence, the hours after compline prayers when Benedictines don’t speak. Only the rule of hospitality trumps the Silence.
“Actually, I’d hoped to speak to Sister Helena,” I say.
“Yes. And she’ll speak to you, briefly, in a moment.”
I assume the prioress has come down as a courtesy, since Uncle Lucio is the cardinal-protector of her branch of Benedictines, the man who represents their collective interest at the Vatican. And yet there’s no deference in her voice when she continues, “This will be the only time I allow Sister Helena to involve herself, or our community, in this matter. I hope you understand.”
She must know about Simon.
“Whatever you’ve heard,” I tell her, “it’s not true.”
Her hands are hidden behind her scapular, making even her body language impossible to discern. “Father,” she says, “those are my wishes. Please finish your affairs with Sister Helena as briefly as possible. Good night.”
She bows slightly, then drifts back to the door. A familiar silhouette waits there, lowering her head as the prioress passes. Then she comes gliding toward me in the dark.
The wrinkles of Helena’s face are a web of sadness. She doesn’t even make eye contact. “Father Alex,” she whispers, “I’m so sorry.”
“You heard about Simon?”
She looks up. “What about him?”
I’m relieved. News of Ugo’s death and the break-in may have gotten out, but not news of the charges against Simon
.
“I need to ask you about what happened at the apartment,” I say.
She nods, unsurprised.
“Before it happened,” I continue, “did Simon say anything to you?”
The lids of her eyes pinch closed. “Before it happened? My memory must be playing tricks.” She sighs in frustration. “I spoke to Father Simon before it happened?”
But her memory doesn’t play tricks.
“Did you?” I ask.
Now when she looks at me, the sadness is gone, swept away by a sharp inquisitiveness. “Father, what’s happening? What are they saying? A policeman came to the convent a few hours ago, but he was sent away before he could ask any questions.”
“Please. Did you talk to Simon beforehand?”
“No.”
“Not in any way?”
“Father Alexander,” she says, “I haven’t traded words with your brother since I cooked him dinner at your apartment the last time.”
“Months ago.”
“At Christmas.”
Behind her, at the convent door, the prioress calls out, “Sister Helena, please finish your visit.”
Quickly Helena says, “Tell me the truth. Is someone in trouble?”
