Relic of Time

by Ralph McInerny

  It was even more difficult to think of Lowry passing on the information to Arroyo. Or was it? He remembered Lowry urging him to go see Arroyo just before Washington had summoned him back and decommissioned him. The much publicized assassination attempt looked more and more like a staged diversion.

  He was in early morning traffic now, by definition madder than that at any other time of day. Cars whizzed by him and even in the slow lane he got the horn, flashes of lights, and then an irate motorist swung out and around him, no doubting cursing the U-Haul as he shot by. It took Traeger’s mind off the problem of Arroyo.

  They would be mounting the copy now above and behind the altar in Don Ibanez’s little basilica. That was probably already done, the doors of the basilica closed. He imagined Clare being joined by the young men and her father. Frater Leone would be keeping his vow. He meant to spend the time until the transfer was complete in prayer and fasting. Traeger took comfort in that. He had no idea how God processed petitions, but he would bet that the prayers of Frater Leone would get through without a hitch.

  Signs indicating that the airport was coming up began to appear. Uselessly he pressed down on the accelerator, but the U-Haul was giving him all the speed the governor allowed. Twenty miles, then ten, and finally he was turning in and taking the road to the area where private planes were accommodated. The windows in the tower angled down from top to bottom. A light glowed atop it. Traeger drove across the tarmac to where Ignatius Hannan’s plane had already taxied from its berth. He turned his lights off and on as he approached. A door opened and Jack Smiley hopped out.

  If everything went as smoothly as getting the package into the plane, the prospect before him looked good. He and Smiley tipped the package, eased it in, and put it on its side in the aisle of the cabin.

  “Are we cleared for takeoff?” he asked Smiley.

  A thumbs-up. Smiley had on the right sort of sunglasses; his cap was crushed in the appropriate way. He pulled the cabin door shut and started forward, where Brenda Steltz was checking things out.

  “Who won?” he asked Smiley.

  He hung his glasses on his ear. “I struck out.”

  Glasses back in place, he went forward and got into his seat. Well, well.

  IX

  “How long have you been flying?”

  Traeger felt the tension drain from him as the plane taxied to the end of the runway. He could hear Smiley on the radio. So the pilot hadn’t been lucky last night; let him be lucky now. But it was Frater Leone’s prayers that Traeger was counting on.

  At the end of the runway, there was a pause of a minute or two and then Smiley gave it the throttle; the plane gathered speed. From the window beside him Traeger saw parked planes and the hulks of buildings flash by, the light on the top of the tower went on and off, and then the plane began to lift. Traeger settled back. Is there any sensation more exhilarating than being in a plane as it first lifts off and then points itself heavenward, rising, rising? This is going to work out, Traeger thought. This is going to work out just fine, as planned, perfectly. For a few minutes at least his doubts and wariness left him.

  At about five thousand feet, Smiley began the slow turn that while still rising would take them out over the ocean. City lights were still on below and then they were gone. The Golden Gate Bridge was catching the first rays of the rising sun. Then there was nothing but water beneath. At first, lights from boats came and went below, fishing boats perhaps, but then there was only the water, more and more visible as daylight increased. Steltz unbuckled and came back.

  “It went well?” With her cap off and her mane of blonde hair visible, not even her uniform could make her less of a woman.

  “So far.”

  She busied herself in the little galley. The coffee was ready to go, as the plane had been, and soon its aroma filled the cabin.

  “Who won the game?” Traeger asked her.

  She turned to him, tried haughty, switched to dumb, then grinned. “We did.”

  Well, well. Perhaps Smiley was just being a gentleman.

  Steltz handed him his coffee in a mug bearing the logo of Empedocles.

  “How long have you been flying?”

  “Since I was a little bird.”

  “That long ago?”

  Her nose wrinkled nicely. She took two coffees up front, but left the door between cabin and flight deck open.

  Traeger had developed the theory that at his age he could appreciate the beauty of women without danger to his freedom. There were two things wrong with the theory. One, it was false, and two, what he called his freedom didn’t match the ringing promise of the word. For weeks he had been surrounded by attractive women, some young, some not so young, but youth in a woman is an equivocal thing. Laura Whipple, née Burke. Carlotta. Clare Ibanez. Catherine Dolan. And Steltz. He was more rather than less susceptible to such women now. The one thing his theory had going for it was that he enjoyed being a spectator of the great game between the genders.

  Catalina Island had long been a favorite destination for sailors, as well as the likes of John Steinbeck, Humphrey Bogart, and other Hollywood types. Once getting there by boat had been the only way, but now there was the airstrip on which they were descending. The only point of the stop was to position themselves for their entry into Mexico over Baja and for Smiley to establish the premise for their unscheduled stop in Mexico City. Something about the instruments, nothing serious, just something to grumble about to the crew topping off the tanks and that would be remembered if any stink was raised about altering their flight plan. Steltz remained in her seat. She looked over her shoulder and lifted her coffee mug.

  “Almost there.”

  “Who won the ball game last night?”

  “I already told you.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “The Giants! Who else?”

  Traeger decided that he needed to have his mind scrubbed out. Maybe he should have a talk with Frater Leone. He remembered Neal Admirari going off with the priest to the basilica, then coming back with a springy step. And he remembered Admirari’s reaction to the mention of Catherine Dolan. Good Lord, he did need his mind scrubbed out. It is the curse of the bachelor to imagine that everyone else is making out like crazy. Smiley and Steltz would roar at his suspicion. Wouldn’t they?

  Traeger ended by apologizing to the lady whose miraculous image was there in the aisle, packaged in foam. Shame on him. For weeks that image had been a problem, the cause of violence. And also of desolation among the simple faithful. Traeger said a prayer or two, one for his wife, may she rest in peace.

  X

  The band was playing Dvořák.

  The airport of the capital was miles from the city but nonetheless as they approached it they could see the bowl in which the city sat, a blurred vision through the noxious air. Smiley was chattering away to the tower in what he referred to as Flenglish, the universal language of aviation, which Shakespeare would not have understood. They were in their descent now, the powerful little Empedocles jet coming in for a landing. The wheels went down with a satisfying thump. Traeger tried not to feel the elation that soon his mission would be accomplished.

  Smiley, taking directions from ground control, taxied toward a waiting crowd. Traeger saw a band, banners, vested priests, a bishop in miter with crosier. This hadn’t been part of the plan at all. There was to have been a swift and secret passage to the basilica, the installation of the image, and then the great announcement. Traeger almost looked forward to the role he would play then, explaining how the restoration had come about.

  Smiley taxied slowly toward the crowd, which seemed to move toward them. He cut one engine and looked around at Traeger.

  “Did you expect this?”

  “They probably heard the Giants got lucky.”

  Steltz narrowed her eyes.

  Smiley braked the plane; Steltz came back to open the door and let down the steps. With Smiley’s help, Traeger eased the foam package through the door. As they went down t
he steps, the band went into action. A surpliced priest, swinging a censer, came toward them, stopped, wheeled, and led them toward the bishop. In one movement, the group fell to their knees. The band was playing Dvořák, “Going Home.” Traeger felt a catch in his throat.

  With help from his crosier and several priests, the bishop got to his feet. He came forward then and kissed the foam container that now Traeger alone held. Smiley and Steltz, as per plan, would take off in minutes and resume their altered flight plan.

  Traeger ceded the packaged image to four monks who had black skullcaps on the crowns of their heads, monks from the basilica. A hearselike vehicle would carry the image to the shrine. The bishop gave Traeger a triple blessing, but he traced the cross on himself only once. He was told he could sit beside the driver of the vehicle and he slid in. The driver gave him a hundred-kilowatt smile. He had a crushed cap like Smiley’s. The bishop and his party went to their vehicles and the parade began.

  For that was what it was. They snaked through Mexico City, whose streets were lined with weeping, cheering people. The bishop without his miter appeared through the roof window of his limousine and cast blessings right and left. It was an event, no doubt of that, and why not? The image whose theft had caused such desolation was on its way to its place behind the high altar of the shrine. Soon pilgrims could pass under it, sending up their prayers to the patroness of Mexico and of all the Americas.

  Finally the procession, which grew and grew in length, reached the great plaza before the basilica. The bishop, his miter once more in place, and vested priests, robed monks, thousands of tourists, followed Traeger and the foam package inside. Traeger was holding it high, despite its unwieldy size, as he had seen priests carry the lectionary to the pulpit for the reading of the gospel.

  Traeger walked up the main aisle toward the altar. When he stopped, he eased his burden to the floor. Immediately he was surrounded. Television cameramen jostled for position, anxious to capture the great moment. The bishop bowed to Traeger, who got out his knife and knelt. Cutting through the tape that held top and bottom together, he felt he was involved in an ad hoc liturgical ceremony. When all the tape had been cut away, Traeger lifted the top and stepped back. The bishop, again on his knees, took Traeger’s place. Two monks came forward to take the image from its container.

  One of them wore a pectoral cross, apparently the abbot of the monks to whose care the shrine was entrusted. He, like the bishop, knelt. But only for a moment. The bishop waited as several monks prepared to take hold of the framed image. The monk with the pectoral cross, who obviously was in charge, suddenly fell back and let out a cry. Traeger could not understand what he said. But the bishop did. He actually dropped his crosier and elbowed his way in among the monks.

  A moment later he turned to Traeger, horrified anger in his eyes.

  “This is a copy!” he cried. “This is only a copy!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  I

  Death to the gringo!

  Every means of communication from satellite to word of mouth and everything in between spread word of the attempted hoax at the shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

  Those who had crowded into the basilica in the hope of seeing the sacred image lifted once more into its customary place fell back in horror. The bishop in all his glory had collapsed weeping on the floor of the basilica.

  A copy! It is all a trick.

  The awful truth rippled through the basilica and on to the crowd in the plaza.

  Off it went on radio and television.

  Within minutes it was known everywhere in the world. And beyond. An orbiting NASA craft, one of whose crew was from Guadalajara, received the news as they were passing over Central America. And there among the dials and switches and winking digital readouts was a picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe. The astronaut crossed himself and kissed his thumb. The rest of the crew bowed their heads. Within the hour the ACLU issued a statement protesting this breach of the wall between church and state in outer space.

  Once more people flooded into the streets. The cities of Latin America had known nothing like it before, not during revolutions, not for the World Cup, not at carnival, not when news of the theft first came.

  Insult and sacrilege had been carried to a second degree. This was more than could be borne.

  It had been scarcely a month since the theft of the image and the intensity of the reaction had somewhat diminished, although indignant, scandalized anger smoldered on in the breasts of the people. Needless to say, those engaged in battle along and beyond the northern border, crossing themselves as they took aim at another image of God two hundred yards away, had a more direct and satisfying outlet for their rage. It was not for themselves they fought, nor was it for Mexico. Ah no, it was for the Virgin.

  Once men had gone off on crusades for similar causes. The protection of the holy places where the great episodes in the life of Our Lord had transpired. The recovery of the true cross, of the nails that had been driven into his sacred body. Was it any less noble to take up arms for the recovery of the sacred image of Our Lady of Guadalupe?

  Although there were, of course, mercenaries and adventurers involved in this armed conflict, the majority on both sides were true believers. But how could a passion for secure borders compete with devotion to the Mother of Jesus?

  Even in areas where the most blood had been spilled, armed engagements had become less frequent, more defensive than offensive. One could almost imagine a prolonged armed truce. But perhaps that is what secure borders are. Peace has been defined as the tranquillity of order. For those in combat, peace is not getting shot at.

  On the diplomatic level, exchanges had continued. The American government was asked to return what it did not have. The Latin American republics demanded that the Yanquis get it. Insults were hurled by politicians without authority. But undeniably, four weeks after the outrage in the basilica in Mexico City, the first fervor had subsided.

  And now a crude hoax had been attempted!

  When the transfer was planned, there was to be utter secrecy throughout. Of course the monks knew that the image was being brought back. But given the delicacy of the operation, all announcements were to be made after the fact. Such were the arrangements that Don Ibanez had made for the return of the miraculous image of Our Lady of Guadalupe. But what is a secret except something you are told and asked not to pass on? Word got out. Rumor at first, and there had been many rumors. The pilgrims who wandered dazed across the plaza and into the basilica felt the sense of loss most keenly. Where was the Virgin they had come all this way to venerate? Vendors had developed optimistic scenarios. Soon everything would be as before. Was her return too much of a miracle to expect of the Virgin?

  The bishop was informed by the abbot. That seemed an obvious courtesy. From the moment of the theft, he had conducted himself in a way that provided a model for all. The theft was an insult, it was a crime, it was sacrilege. It was all those things. But why had it been allowed to happen? Let others with penetrating hindsight speak of the lax security at the basilica. Let some even grumble about the monks in whose care the basilica was entrusted. The bishop stood in the Plaza Major, beautifully vested, arms extended, tear-stained face raised, and took all the blame upon himself.

  It is I who have sinned.

  It is I who became too familiar with the presence of your holy image, as if it were owed to us.

  This terrible thing had been sent upon them as a sign and a warning. The absence of the Virgin’s image called attention to her absence from their hearts.

  This sermon, more than anything else, calmed passions in the city and in the country and beyond. It appealed to the penitential spirit latent in every heart pumping with some Indian blood.

  Great acts of asceticism were performed. Many fasted. Some moved bare-kneed across the plaza to the basilica. Two men dragged a huge cross for two hundred miles. Sharing the burden, they then had drawn lots to see which of them would be crucified at the shrine. Only quick
action on the part of the now extremely alert security forces prevented the execution of this pact.

  But it captured the minds and imaginations of millions. The bishop visited the one man in jail and the other in the hospital, where he was recovering from the loss of blood. The one nail that had entered him had found an artery. When the bishop blessed him, he blessed him back. With his unbandaged hand. He was written of as the Good Thief.

  And now, when the prayers and acts of penance seemed finally to have been answered, when the procession in which the holy image, still wrapped in its foam case, moved ever more slowly to the basilica, collecting people as it went, it was as if a great collective hallelujah had gone up.

  She is back! She has returned!

  The beads of rosaries moved rapidly over crooked index fingers, counted off by the thumb. Santa Maria, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosostros pecadores.

  The expectation, the pent-up joy that everyone seemed to have stored up as a final and complete expression of gratitude for the great event, was about to burst—and then, pfffft. The first reaction was deflation. The great crowd in the plaza seemed to collapse as, inside the basilica, the bishop had collapsed on the floor overcome by grief.

  And then came anger.

  Rage.

  Soon, there was a great armed surge northward, through Sonora, across the border, with Phoenix the objective. Within the week, the streets of Phoenix would teem with people indistinguishable from the crowds in the streets of South and Central America. A ragtag band would now claim to be in control of one of the great cities of the American Southwest, control meaning the occupation of several buildings and of a television station.