The Simeon Scroll

by Neil Howarth

  “You mean cover it up.”

  “That, Joseph,” Walter flashed him a theatrically serious look. “Is an un-Christian thought.”

  A stream of customers filed by, offering their condolences and occasionally their tears. Finally, they were left alone.

  Walter held up his glass.

  “To Luca, a good priest, a good man.”

  Fagan held up his own glass. “Luca - You left us in the shit, as usual.”

  A crinkly smile furrowed Walter’s face. “Aye, that’s the Luca I remember too.” He took a sip of wine and shook his head. “But he meant well.”

  They both burst out laughing at that.

  Walter became serious. “Look at us, misfits, not one of us your normal run-of-the-mill priest. St Jude’s children he used to call us.”

  Fagan reflected on the memory. “The patron saint of lost causes, and we were more lost than any.”

  “But good Catholic boys just the same. Luca saw what unique skills we had, where else was he going to get them from, and he knew how he could use them.”

  “He put me through seminary, don’t you think there was an easier way?”

  “Luca always had a long term view. Don’t you think there are young seminarians out there even now, that Luca has in the pipeline?”

  “So what’s going to happen to them?”

  “Like us, they’ll go out into the world to do the Lord’s work.”

  “I always thought it was Luca’s work.”

  Walter pointed a pudgy finger towards the sky. “He moves in mysterious ways. After all, Luca plucked us from the depths of despair and set us on a better path.” Walter put his glass down on the table and studied Fagan. “So, rumor has it that Cardinal Vogler has had your arse over the burning coals.”

  “News travels fast. I only just came from there.”

  “You know this place, the gossip factory. I heard at lunchtime from my friend in Vogler’s office that you were up for the chop. What was that all about?”

  “Just another one of Luca’s little schemes that ended in a train wreck.”

  “So what happened? Word had it that Vogler was personally oiling the rack.”

  “Oh, he would have hung, drawn and quartered me but I had a guardian angel. At first, I thought it was Luca, but now I realize it must have been the Holy Father. They’re shipping me back to Africa. Flight leaves Monday at noon. I’m going to miss the funeral, but to be honest, I can’t wait to leave.” Fagan refilled his glass. “Out there I feel I can make a real difference, in a way I’ve never done in my whole life. I’ve always tried to believe that God did choose me for this path. Most days it works,” Fagan paused. “Other days, I think I’m just hiding away.”

  “Joseph, maybe I’m speaking out of turn, I usually am. You’re a good priest, a good man, what went on in your past life, maybe that was supposed to happen, in order to bring you to this point, now, to help these people.” Walter stabbed at the table top with a stubby finger. “Stop being so hard on yourself, start believing in yourself as well as in Him.”

  “You’re beginning to sound like Luca.” Fagan held up the bottle.

  Walter shook his head. “No thanks, too much grief. Another drink and I don’t know where that will take me.” Walter struggled to his feet. “Remember, don’t leave without saying goodbye.”

  “I won’t.” Fagan watched as Walter waddled off into the darkness. He knew he should be doing the same.

  Was Walter right? Was this just Luca’s time? And the rest of it, Brother Thomas, Brother Lucien, were they merely random events? But Brother Lucien’s note, handwritten on the lab report. That was not imagined and someone had taken it from his hotel room. Fagan rubbed a hand across his face. He couldn’t focus on the facts anymore. He was dog-tired. It felt like this day had gone on forever.

  Something scraped across the cobbles further down the alley and Fredo, the lottery ticket seller, shuffled around the corner.

  “Fredo, bona sera,” Fagan called across to him.

  “Bona sera, Padre. I am so glad you are here. I came special to see you or Father Walter.”

  “Take a seat, have a glass of wine.”

  Fredo gave a stumpy toothed smile. “Grazie.” The old man leaned his flagpole of lottery tickets against the table then felt for the chair and lowered himself down. Fagan topped up Walter’s glass and placed it on the table in front of him.

  “You heard about Father Luca?”

  Fredo fumbled for a cigarette. As he lit it, tears welled up in his old eyes. “Yes Padre, it was a very bad thing, my heart is very sad. Padre Luca was a good man. Only last night I am here with him, at this table. He gives me a glass of wine and a cigarette. He was always good to me. Many people think I am crazy.” Fredo made a circular movement with his finger beside his head. “But not Padre Luca - never.”

  “Were you here when he left?”

  The old man nodded. “That is what I came to tell you. I was here. Padre Luca, he says goodnight. I hear him go, down the alley, towards the steps. I sit here for a while, drink my wine.” The old man grinned. “His feet always make a special sound. One foot, he drags it as he walks. I hear him stop, then something else.”

  “What did you hear?” Fagan found himself holding his breath.

  Fredo took a long pull on his cigarette and exhaled slowly. “A voice, like a cry, but soft, and suddenly cut off. Then nothing.”

  “Maybe he tripped like they said?”

  Fredo shook his head. “No, my eyes have gone, but my ears are still good. First I hear the sound, there is a pause, then I hear him fall. And when he falls, he makes no sound.”

  “Did you go to him?”

  “Eventually. These legs of mine have trouble getting down those steps. But finally, I reach him.” Fredo exhaled a grey blue plume of smoke then watched it float off on the evening breeze. He looked back at Fagan. “But already it was too late.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  Fredo nodded. “From the public phone, down in the square.”

  “Did you tell them what you heard?”

  Fredo gave a cackle then broke into a hacking cough. “Padre Joe, you can be very funny,” he said struggling for breath. “Do you think the police will believe me, a blind man, who is also a little crazy? No, they will throw me in a cell for the night and tell me to sleep it off.” Fredo’s face became serious. “That is why I come here to tell you, Padre Joe. You were his friend. You will know what to do.”

  Fagan wished he did.

  Fredo drained his glass. “Now, I must go.” He struggled to his feet and reached out a wrinkled, bony hand. He gripped Fagan’s shoulder in a surprisingly powerful grasp. “Padre Joe, I know you will do the right thing for Padre Luca.” His eyes were once more filled with tears. Finally, he let go and took hold of his pole of lottery tickets, then hobbled off into the night.

  Fagan watched him go and felt the anger stir inside him. Part of him, the part he didn’t like to acknowledge, desperately wanted to find who had done this and squeeze the life out of them.

  The door of the bar opened, and Maria appeared, a pack of cigarettes in her hand.

  “Do you mind if I sit down.”

  “Please,” Fagan gestured to the empty chair. “Glass of wine?”

  “No, grazie.” She eased her generous form into its confined space and lit a cigarette. “How are you coping?”

  “Not sure really. I guess I’m still in shock.” Which was even more true after what Fredo had just told him.

  Maria exhaled a plume of smoke and gave a wry smile. “He was a character, Padre Luca. I am going to miss him. This place will not be the same without him.”

  “I don’t think any of us will be the same without him.” He studied Maria across the table. “I know lots of people have asked you this already, but tell me about last night. Was Luca alone, did anyone speak to him?”

  Maria shook her head. “It was like any other night. Padre Luca was later than normal. He had had dinner with a frien
d. I only saw Fredo talking to him, that was shortly before Padre Luca left.”

  “Was there anything different. Were there any strangers in the bar?”

  “Why do you ask? Luca had an accident. He was not getting any younger. These things happen.”

  “Maria please, it’s important.”

  Maria took a long pull on her cigarette and slowly exhaled the smoke. “Well, there was a man, but that was earlier before Padre Luca arrived. We do not get many strangers here, but this man stood out anyway. He was big, tall and wide, and strong. He had no hair on his head, and he had a strange look as if he was smiling all the time. I realized it was because he had a scar on his cheek.” She touched the side of her mouth then moved her finger towards her ear.

  Fagan’s heart thudded hard against his chest. A face appeared from the depths of his memory. He shook his head. He was overreacting. It could have been anyone. But Fagan could not shake the image, crystal clear in his mind - six foot six, built like a linebacker, bald as a boiled egg, with a bullet scar on his right cheek that had sliced through the nerves and left him with a permanent half smile.

  “Padre Joe, are you all right?”

  He realized Maria was staring at him.

  “Sorry, what you said triggered a memory. Was the man still here when Luca arrived?”

  Maria shook her head. “No, he left before Luca arrived.”

  “Did he speak to anyone?”

  “I saw him talking to old Giorgio. I think he bought him a drink.”

  “Is Giorgio inside?”

  “No, he was in earlier, but he left.” Maria stubbed out her cigarette and extracted herself from the chair. Her face was concerned. “You look tired. You should get some rest.”

  Fagan nodded.

  Maria disappeared back inside. Fagan watched her go. Maybe he was leaping to conclusions, but deep down, he knew his instinct was right, especially after what Fredo had told him.

  His name was Eugene Blanchet. They had a personal history together that was not based upon brotherly love. Fagan had left him with the scar as a parting gift and Blanchet had put a bullet in his lung in return. Somehow he knew if he put him in a lineup, Maria would easily pick him out.

  Fagan’s mind was racing. What had Luca done? This had to be linked to the island Abbey. What did Brother Lucien want to tell him? What had Luca stirred up? What was so important it had got them both killed?

  Fear stirred in the bottom of his gut. He was no stranger to fear. There had been a time when he had relied on it, channeled it, to stay alive. But this time he was not afraid for himself. Luca had said this was an investigation for the Holy Father, but had never said why? Pope Salus was trying to make radical changes, not just to the Church but to the whole world. And with that came dangerous enemies. If Blanchet was involved, it had to be bad news, around him only bad things happened. And that could mean only trouble for the Holy Father.

  He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out the airline ticket. A one-way ticket to freedom. All he had to do was get on the plane, fly away from all this, and not look back. But he knew that was not going to happen, no matter how desperately he wanted it. Okay, Luca was gone, and he couldn’t change that, but the Holy Father was here and very much alive. William had been there for him when he had needed him. He knew he couldn’t walk away from him now.

  He picked up the ticket and tore it in half, then in half again and dropped the pieces into the ashtray. A burning candle flickered gently in a colored jar in the center of the table. He picked up one piece of the ticket and held it into the flame. He waited until it was fully alight, then dropped it into the ashtray and let it set light to the other pieces, watching the flames rapidly consume his one chance of getting out of here. He couldn’t help wondering if this was his life going up in smoke?

  18

  Trastevere, Rome

  Luca’s apartment was on the second floor of a converted grain mill by the side of the Tiber. Fagan wasn’t looking forward to staying in Luca’s place, but this was where he usually stayed, and something inside him would not let him stay anywhere else.

  He made it to the front door and fiddled with the key. It never wanted to open for him. Luca used to tell him, gently, gently, and always seemed to be able to unlock it with the deftest of touches. Finally, the lock yielded, and he managed to open the door. He stepped inside, and the world kicked him in the teeth one more time.

  The place had been trashed.

  He stood taking in the devastation. Every drawer, every cupboard, torn open and the entire contents dumped on the floor. Cushions were slashed, as was the upholstery on the small settee and chairs, their stuffing ripped out and deposited on the floor. Whoever was searching had made no attempt to hide their presence.

  He wandered throughout the apartment, the scene of devastation in every room was the same. A set of hand painted scenes of Luca’s childhood neighborhood in Little Italy, had hung on the wall of his bedroom in thin wooden frames with fine glass coverings. Fagan knew they had been Luca’s most treasured possessions. Now the walls were bare, only dark smudged outlines remained. Fagan could see them now, smashed and barely recognizable on the bedroom floor. He felt an anger surge through him, an overwhelming urge to punch the wall. But he resisted the urge. He thought of calling the police. But for what? What would they do about it? Would they bring Luca back?

  He already knew it deep down, but now it was crystal clear. Fredo, the lottery ticket seller, may be blind and a little crazy, but he was right about Luca. His death was no accident.

  Whatever it was they were searching for, it appeared they had not found it. The place had been meticulously taken apart from end to end, with no suggestion that they had stopped, having found what they were looking for. Fagan allowed himself a smile.

  Knowing Luca, who believed in filing everything in his head, there was nothing to find.

  Fagan did his best to clean up the mess. Luca had not had a lot in life but what he had was now ruined. So cleaning up consisted mainly of gathering up his few meager possessions, stuffing them into black plastic bags, then dumping them outside with the trash.

  He stood in the living room contemplating the remnants of Luca’s existence. A bottle of Luca’s Sicilian wine, miraculously still intact, stood on the desk in the corner, like a final defiant gesture. He considered opening it but thought better of it.

  He wandered through into the bedroom, what was left of it. Lying on the floor by the bed was a battered leather backed bible. Fagan picked it up. By its look, it was old and well leafed, probably Luca’s constant bedtime reading. He flipped open the cover. Inside was an inscription written in a hand he recognized.

  Though our outer man is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light, momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal.

  Remember - fight the good fight for the transient today, for that will bring the eternal tomorrow.

  Your humble friend, William.

  The Holy Father and Luca had first met in seminary. Perhaps it dated back to then. This was undoubtedly where Luca got his strength. Certainly, he had dedicated his life to fighting the good fight. Fagan recognized the quotation, from Corinthians. He sat down on the bed and found the page, his finger traced its way down to the passage, and he started to read.

  Avignon, France.

  “Is it ready?”

  A young monk appeared in the narrow doorway, a smile beaming on his face.

  “It is ready, Father.”

  Father Gerhard Muller stepped into the tiny cellar. Studio spotlights illuminated the space. The priest’s gaze fell upon the tomb. They had brushed off the dirt and the detritus of the passing centuries, and repaired its cracks and crumblings with delicate skill and almost invisible touches. At last, it was ready for the world to loo
k upon, and wonder.

  “Maintain the security, and remember, not a word to anyone.”

  Father Muller made his way out of the depths of the cellar. He followed a narrow stone staircase, so tight he could barely pass through it and made his way up into the nave of the Abbey, then along a passageway and out into the fresh air of the evening. He crossed a well trimmed lawn, then climbed a set of steps up to the Abbey wall. He was breathing heavily when he reached the top. Lights from the ancient city of Avignon, the home of the French Popes, twinkled below.

  This would be a crowning moment for this great city, eclipsing anything seen here since the Pope had lived in the palace down below him. What they had in the tiny chapel below, encased in its environmentally sealed container, would change the whole world in a way not seen since Christ himself had died on the cross to save all of mankind. And he, Father Gerhard Muller, would have the privilege of presenting it. He knew that pride was a sin, but he hoped the Lord would forgive him this one discretion.

  He took out a cellphone and pressed the dial button. Though the hour was late, the call was answered on the second ring. The person on the other end wasted no time on pleasantries.

  “Is it done?”

  “Everything is ready. We have the provenance, the carbon-14 dating, the expert opinion, and now the tomb is ready. I have sent you the photographs. They are stunning. When will you make the announcement?” The priest could hardly contain the excitement in his voice.

  “I will not,” the voice said on the other end. “Not yet. For this announcement, we are going to the very top.”

  Fontainebleau, France

  Dominic De Vaux hung up the phone. He poured a large measure of Napoleon cognac into a diamond cut crystal glass and sat down at an elegantly veneered Louis XIV writing desk. He picked up an iPad and flicked through the high definition images that Father Muller had sent him. He was right, its beauty was breathtaking, a piece of master craftsmanship. It was like looking at a Leonardo de Vinci painting that no one had ever seen before. Simple in its structure, some might even say dull, yet a work of art, priceless, and carrying a message that would change the life of every single person on earth.