by Ian Caldwell
Simon blinks. He says something convoluted about a savings account he opened for Peter. It’s not much, he says, but Mona and I are welcome to use it for our deposit.
I have to turn away. He looks harrowed. I begin to say I’m sorry, I meant to tell him, but he interrupts and tells me: “Alex, I asked for a new posting.”
Our eyes search each other. We seem so far away.
A new posting: back into Secretariat service. Domine, quo vadis? To Rome, to be crucified again.
When I ask him where he requested to be sent, he tells me it’s nowhere specific. Anywhere far from the Orthodox world. With sudden passion he says there are Christians being killed in the Middle East, Catholics being persecuted in China. There is always a cause, and the cause is still all. I look at the open box beside him, on which Peter has tried to write the word kitchen. Our own little china, swaddled in butcher paper. I offer him a hand up. I ask him to join us for Christmas dinner.
* * *
THE CURTAIN FALLS ON Christmas Eve. The nativity scene in Saint Peter’s Square is grander than ever, a stable as big as an inn. Peter is delighted by the life-size ox and sheep that surround the manger. Mona and I take him ice-skating at Castel Sant’Angelo. We return only for Holy Supper.
According to Eastern tradition, the youngest child keeps lookout for the first star in the sky on Christmas Eve. So Peter keeps watch at his bedroom window while I scatter straw on our table and Mona lays the white tablecloth, symbols of the manger in which the baby Jesus was placed. Simon places a lit candle in the loaf of bread in the center of the table, symbol of Christ, the light of the world. As we sit down to eat, we leave the door cracked and an unoccupied chair at the table, recalling that Jesus’ parents were travelers in this season, dependent on the hospitality of others. In past years, this was a melancholy moment, peering across at empty chair and unclosed door. An occasion for brooding on Mona. Tonight, my heart brims. If only Simon could experience the same peace.
Just as we’re about to eat, a sound interrupts us. A knock. Followed by a creaking of the door.
I look up. My hand drops its piece of bread. Monsignor Mignatto is standing in the doorway.
I stumble to my feet. “Please,” I say, “come in.”
Mignatto looks nervous. “Buon Natale,” he says. “My apologies for intruding.”
Without seeming to realize it, Simon whispers, “Not this. Not tonight.”
The monsignor’s face is lifeless. He glances around the room, seeming to notice the absence of furniture except this table and these chairs. The walls are a quilt of ghostly patterns where picture frames have been removed and packed up.
“This is our last dinner here,” I say under my breath.
“Yes,” he says, “your uncle told me.”
His trepidation is so heavy. I look for some sign of why he’s here, but I see no briefcase, no court documents.
Mignatto clears his throat. “The Holy Father’s decision will be issued tonight.”
Simon stares at him.
“I’ve been asked to confirm,” Mignatto says, pressing on, “where the news should be sent.”
“Right here,” I say.
Mignatto adds, “I would like to be present when it comes.”
I start to agree, but he continues, “However, I was instructed otherwise. So whatever the news may be, I hope you’ll call me, Father Andreou.”
Faintly, my brother says, “Thank you, Monsignor. But there’s no need. I know there’s no appeal.”
Mignatto’s eyes fall. He says, “Even so, I may be able to offer perspective. Or comfort.”
Simon nods, but in a way that says there will be no phone call. We will not see the monsignor again.
For a moment, the silence is perforated only by the muted caroling of our neighbors, by the sound of children shouting excitedly in the stairwell. There is joy tonight, elsewhere.
“Monsignor,” Simon says, “I’m grateful for everything you did for me.”
Mignatto gently bows his head. He steps forward and gives Simon a handshake. He repeats, “Buon Natale. All of you.”
* * *
LICK BY LICK, THE candles on the table hollow themselves out. Mona and I read Peter the gospel stories of Jesus’ birth—Luke’s story of the manger, Matthew’s story of the three wise men—but Simon merely stares. His eyes are empty. The light in them is dying. It is just past eleven when Peter falls asleep. We place him on a sheet on the floor. The bed frames and mattresses are already in the moving truck.
Mona turns on the television for the broadcast from Saint Peter’s Square. Midnight Mass used to be our tradition with Simon until having a newborn made it impossible. People are queued in the piazza, thousands of them, black silhouettes dwarfed by the century-old Alpine fir that has been mounted in the square as John Paul’s Christmas tree. Mona’s fingers slip between mine and squeeze my hand. I kiss her on the forehead. Her eyes never leave the screen; she hangs on every word of the broadcast. But I go to the kitchen and pour drinks. Simon, who has delivered toasts for cardinals and ambassadors, raises his glass but can think of nothing to say. I lower myself beside him.
“Whatever happens,” I say, tapping his glass.
He nods. He smiles.
“We’ll get through it,” I say.
He drapes a hand across my shoulders. Out the window, in the darkness high over John Paul’s palace, there is a star in the east. His stare is locked on it. I close my eyes. Somehow, this is the moment I know. My brother is gone. His body is beside me, but the rest has slipped away. He is here only for our sake, to let us believe we’ve kept him afloat.
“We love you,” I say.
His eyes seem blank. He says, “Thank you for always making me feel like part of your family.”
When he finishes his drink, he stands to wash out the glass. I think to myself: eleven years. That is how long the priesthood has been his family. Since his first year of seminary. One-third of his life. Which means tonight he may experience what no man ever should: to become an orphan for the second time. He reaches for his pack of cigarettes, but he’s interrupted by a knock at the door.
The sound makes Peter wake up.
I look at Simon. The glaze in his stare is gone.
I step forward.
“Fathers Andreou?” says the man at the door.
A layman in a black suit. I recognize him. John Paul’s private messenger. The cursore.
He holds out two envelopes. One is engraved with my name. The other with Simon’s.
I hand Simon’s to him, and he closes his eyes. Mona stands and walks over to us.
I have dreamt of this, and lived in dread of it, but at this moment my fears are silent. I am filled with an unfamiliar stillness.
Trust in the Lord with all your heart. In all your ways submit to Him. He will make your paths straight.
My brother, though, has never looked so frightened. Mona reaches out an arm and says, “Simon . . .”
Peter stares at the messenger. Then he rises, walks toward Simon, and places his head on his uncle’s hip, wrapping his arms around his uncle’s waist. With the might of Samson, he squeezes.
I open my envelope first. The words inside are not what I imagined. I turn back to the cursore.
He waits.
“Simon,” Mona whispers, “open it.”
My brother’s hand is unsteady as he unseals the envelope. I watch him scan the lines. Looking up at the cursore he says, in a thin voice, “Right now?”
The cursore nods. “Yes, Fathers. Follow me. The car is waiting.”
Simon shakes his head. He backs away.
Mona glances over Simon’s shoulder at the paper in his hand. Something flickers in her eyes. She says, “Simon, go.”
I stare at her.
“Trust me,” she whispers. Her expression is electric. “Go.”<
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* * *
IT IS THE SAME black sedan as before. Signor Gugel opens the rear door with the same impersonal expression. The cursore sits in the front passenger seat. I can hear Simon breathing beside me.
Gugel and the messenger don’t speak. High above us, in the windows of the top floor of the Belvedere Palace, Peter is staring down. I watch him until the window disappears from sight.
The streets are empty. The offices dark. Earlier tonight, when Mona and Peter and I walked home from ice-skating, huge flocks of starlings threw themselves across the sky like a net being cast over Rome. Cast, and drawn back, and cast again. But now there are only the stars. Simon’s fingers touch his throat, plucking at the band of his Roman collar.
The car reaches the palace entrance. Then continues past it.
“Where are we going?” Simon says.
Silently we sweep across the road that cuts behind the basilica. The Palace of the Tribunal comes into view. It, too, disappears into the dark.
The courtyard of wet cobblestones looks like black glass, like the Tiber on a choppy night. Simon is leaning forward, placing his hands on the front seats. My phone buzzes. A text from Mona.
Are you at SP?
I type: Almost. Why?
The car slows. Gugel cuts the engine and steps out, opening an umbrella. “Fathers,” the cursore says, “follow me.”
To the south is the gate separating us from Saint Peter’s Square. Out in the rain are the hundreds of faithful who would stand here on Christmas Eve even if the sky were falling, the world ending.
The cursore leads us through the side entrance. In the sacristy, a few old priests are vesting frantically. My own pre-seminary boys are here, dressed in red cassocks and white surplices, helping the old-timers into their robes. Two of them come rushing toward us, pushing a clothes rack on wheels. “For you,” one of them says to Simon.
It’s a choir cassock, the kind worn by a priest attending another priest’s Mass.
Simon stares at it. “No,” he says.
My heart is thudding. The robe is purple. The choir cassock of a bishop.
My phone buzzes. Mona’s answer.
Special homily tonight.
I signal to my boys not to listen to Simon. To do their jobs. They can vest a priest faster than any altar boys on earth. And though Simon begins to protest, he must sense what’s about to happen. If he stays in his black cassock, then he is about to be mistaken for a bishop in mourning. And on this day, the day of our Lord’s birth, there can be no mourning.
Simon lowers his head. He takes a deep breath. Then he extends his arms. The boys strip off his black cassock and slip on the purple one, the white rochet, and the capelike purple mozzetta. On top goes a pectoral cross.
“This way,” the cursore says, moving faster now.
The passage looks like the marble doorway to a sepulcher. I glance over my shoulder. One of my boys lifts a hand in the air as if bidding us good-bye.
In the passageway, the air is changing. Growing warmer. Vibrating with noise. My skin tingles. We travel through another doorway—and suddenly we’ve arrived.
The ceiling vanishes. The walls rise infinitely to the basilica roof. The vibration has become a deep, cosmic murmur.
“This way,” the cursore says.
The sight stops me short. All my life I have attended a Greek church that can hold two hundred people. Tonight, from the high altar over the bones of Saint Peter to the stone disc near the entrance where Charlemagne was once crowned, this basilica holds ten thousand Christian souls. The nave is so full that laymen have given up searching for seats and have begun crowding the side aisles. The congregation bristles and pulses, spilling to the edges of sight and beyond.
The cursore leads us forward. The altar is surrounded by ring after ring of the faithful, rising in dignity as they approach. First the laymen, then the nuns and seminarians. We reach the monks and priests, and I stop, knowing my place. I see other Eastern Catholic priests here, and some of them, recognizing me, make room.
But Simon won’t leave my side. The cursore gestures for him to continue, yet my brother stops as well. “Alex,” he whispers, “I can’t.”
“It’s not your choice anymore,” I say, forcing him forward.
The cursore leads him through rows of ambassadors and royalty, chests glittering with medals. They reach the priests of the Secretariat, and I watch Simon hesitate before stepping in. But the cursore touches him gently on the back. Not here. Continue walking.
They come to the rows of the bishops. Men far older than Simon, some twice his age. The cursore stands back, as if this is as far as his kind may come, but Simon only stands and stares like an altar boy. The bishops, seeing one of their own, begin to part. Two of them reach out, clapping hands on Simon’s back. My brother takes a step forward. Beyond them, in the innermost circle, a cardinal in white and gold—the colors of tonight, of hope and exultation—turns to watch. I can see the emotion in Uncle Lucio’s eyes.
The cantor starts to sing. The Mass has begun. Simon’s head is bent down, not looking at John Paul. He seems to be sunk in some private battle. His body shudders. I see him cover his face in his hands. Then a sound rises. Voices. The Sistine Chapel Choir.
Lord Jesus Christ, only Son of the Father, Lord God, Lamb of God, you take away the sin of the world: have mercy on us.
A procession of children brings flowers to a statue of the baby Jesus. They smile and giggle. The sound lifts Simon’s head. As the homily draws nearer, I pray that Mona was right.
The book of gospels is brought to John Paul, and he kisses it, making the sign of the cross. Ten thousand people go utterly silent. The clicking of cameras stops. There is not even a cough. Here is the only pope many of us have ever known. We all surely know, in our bones, that this will be the last time we see our Papa at this high altar. Through this man, God has made miracles. I pray He will do it one more time.
John Paul’s voice is low and slurred.
“Tonight, a child is born to us. The Christ child, who offers us a new beginning.”
I watch Simon. His eyes are fixed on the Holy Father.
“The evangelist John writes that ‘to those who did accept the Lord, he gave power to become children of God.’ But what does this mean? How are we to become children, like the Christ child, we who are heavy with sin?”
Simon flinches. His shoulders sag again, and he leans forward as if to grip the rail in front of him.
“It is possible only because the child who comes in darkness brings a message of hope: no matter how we have sinned, our Redeemer comes to bear those sins. He comes to forgive us.”
For a moment, my gaze is drawn upward to the pier where the basilica’s relics are kept. I think of the Shroud. I wonder if it is hidden in the reliquary between those walls of stone. If, for now, Ugo was right. Saint Peter’s is the Shroud’s new home.
“We cannot serve the Lord without first welcoming His forgiveness. Tonight, the Christ child offers us all a new beginning. Let us take it.”
The microphone is moved away from John Paul’s mouth. The same perfect silence falls. Something has changed in Simon’s posture. His head isn’t hanging on his neck. The Creed comes, then the prayers of the faithful. When the Holy Father raises the host for consecration, a bell tolls and ten thousand voices sing, Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world. Have mercy on us.
On all sides, priests begin to offer communion. Seats empty, forming lines to receive it. Adeste fideles, sings the Sistine Chapel Choir. O come, all ye faithful. Simon watches the other bishops around him. Yet as their ranks thin, he can’t seem to pry his hands from the rail. Can’t take a step forward. An archbishop in front of him turns and shakes his head, as if to say Simon mustn’t receive communion here.
Nowak.
His Grace takes Simon by the hand and leads him away. They
weave through the other bishops, toward the aisle that leads back to me. But instead of turning in my direction, Nowak brings Simon toward the high altar.
My brother shakes his head. They stop. For a moment, at the foot of the stairs that lead down toward the bones of Saint Peter, or up toward Pope John Paul, they are motionless. Nowak says something to my brother. I will never know what it is. I will always prefer to keep this moment a mystery.
When the words are spoken, His Grace puts both hands on Simon’s shoulders, and my brother stands at his full height. He looks up the stairs. In the Holy Father’s hand is the host. Far above us all, in the windows of the dome, is the veil of heaven, torn by the stars. Simon makes a small prayer, crosses himself, then takes the first step.
I watch my brother rise.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THIS BOOK TOOK ten years to write. The following people helped me finish it—and helped prevent it from finishing me.
No one understands Father Alex and his world better than my long-suffering literary agent, Jennifer Joel of ICM, who not only read but marked up four thousand draft pages of The Fifth Gospel over the course of a decade, including almost a dozen passes over this final version of the novel. Midstream in that process, catastrophe struck and my initial book contract was scrapped, so Jenn waded into the worst publishing climate in recent memory with nothing but my half-finished manuscript and a determination to fight for my survival. She postponed business trips and canceled family vacations. She traveled hundreds of miles to visit me at my home because she refused to give up on this novel and its maddeningly slow author. I defy anyone to find a literary agent who has given more to a book, ever.
Jofie Ferrari-Adler at Simon & Schuster took me on when I was heartbroken and cynical, eight years into a novel that still wasn’t done. He put on no airs and gave me just what I needed: the freedom to do the things I do best, the wisdom to fix the things I don’t, and no runaround in between. His infectious love of this business even convinced me, all over again, that the world of books is a joyful place to call home.
