Why forgiveness? Because he had taken no time for it today, no time for the Mass he had abandoned, no time to quiet his mind. He slipped across the road, down along the uneven cobblestones, and through the door into the vaulted church.
Inside, the light was spare, enough to cast angular shadows from the statues of saints who filled the raised niches along the circular wall. Hard plaster faces stared down at him, cheeks and hands chipped here and there, pleated robes too rigid at the edges, the caress of Bernini nowhere in evidence on the austere figures. Yet all he felt was their serenity. He dipped his hand into the holy water, crossed himself, and moved to the wooden benches that stood in front of the altar. Sitting, he let the strain of the last ten hours seep from his muscles, a sudden sense of exhaustion overwhelming him. On the verge of sleep, he allowed his head to slip back.
Caught in that honeyed mist between conscious and unconscious, he found himself drifting. For little more than an instant, Slitna, Prjac, the countless other towns he had long ago forgotten, all seemed to rise up in wild assault around him—sounds, smells, tastes, nothing distinct, all of it trapped in dissonant haze, yet so palpable, it forced him to bolt upright, its grasp almost too much.
His heart was racing, his mind lost to an endless array of sensations. One, however, stood out as he tried to reclaim focus. A quiet resolve, strangely familiar, an echo from his days with Petra. Even then, he had understood it as an imperfect reflection of hers, a naïve courage that had all too often bordered on the reckless. Still, it had kept him alive on more than one occasion. Now, as he stared at the grained wood of the pew in front of him, Pearse allowed it to wash over him, resonate within. A moment with her. There might have been more to it than that, but he let it pass.
It wasn’t difficult to understand why it had come to the surface now; he only hoped he could sustain it.
Lips moving silently, he began to pray.
Cardinal von Neurath held the large velvet drape back, his gaze drawn to the lights of Rome as they spread out in front of him. Half past four, still so alive. How many times, he wondered, had he allowed himself to stand in robe and slippers, peering out, the chill from the hour and the lure of sleep both forgotten? Too many to recall. The endless twists and turns of streets disappeared into the labyrinth of the city, landmarks dotting the landscape to give his meditation some bearing—the ivory cream of the Colosseum, the garish white of Il Vittoriano, and always the silent dome, crisp against a blackened sky, beckoning him, calling him. Only him. Perhaps tonight.
The sound of a taxi broke through, fatigue and chill suddenly more intrusive. Still he stared. Rome. It was almost too much to pull himself away.
“Why don’t you get some sleep.” Blaney sat in an armchair at the far corner of the large bedroom, lamp at his side, legs extending to a cushioned footstool. “I can wake you if any news comes in.”
Von Neurath continued to stare out. “No, this is fine.” After a few moments, he turned. “If you want to get some—” The shake of the head across the room told him there was no reason to finish the thought. They had known each other for the better part of forty years, tied together by what had once been so clear a path. In fact, it had been Blaney who had administered von Neurath’s Rite of Illumination all those years ago. All so clear.
Things change. The priest, so devoted to his Manichaean faith, had never wanted more, content to be a spiritual beacon. Keep the teachings of Mani pure. Keep the Word alive. Blaney had always believed that the Word itself was all they needed to bring about the one true and holy church.
Von Neurath had recognized the weakness early on. Faith and teaching could take one only so far. There had to be a practical side to Mani’s vision. And the more that pragmatism had asserted itself, the more Blaney had kept his blinders on, an attitude that made him appear all the more pathetic in von Neurath’s eyes.
A relationship built on mutual mistrust. It was why they would both wait up for the call.
Von Neurath moved back to the bed and sat. “Any confirmation from Arturo on the transfers?” he asked, more to pass the time than anything else.
“About an hour ago,” answered Blaney. “Our Pentecostal, Baptist, and Methodist friends were all very appreciative.”
“I don’t care how much they appreciate it,” replied von Neurath, scratching away at a small stain on the bedspread. “I want to know that they understand what it’s for.” He brushed a few crumbs away and looked over at Blaney. “I can’t start consolidating the fold without grassroots support.”
“I’m sure they’re getting the message out, Erich.”
A quizzical look crossed von Neurath’s face before he turned to the stain again. “‘Message’? That’s a rather precious way of putting it, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps. It’s what you would call the ‘soft sell,’ I think.”
Von Neurath laughed to himself; it seemed to catch Blaney by surprise. “I didn’t realize you were so good at it.”
“Hardly.”
“Oh, don’t underestimate yourself, John.”
“No, I’ll leave that to you.”
Von Neurath looked up from the stain. “Have I struck a nerve?”
Blaney said nothing.
Again, von Neurath waited. “You’ve really grown to dislike me, haven’t you?”
“Not at all.”
“Don’t tell me that you’re disappointed?”
“Disappointment implies expectation.”
A smile. “Touché.”
“We see things differently,” said Blaney.
“Yes, we do. I know the message isn’t enough. One has to be certain that they understand it.”
“Well, then, I’m sure you have the people in place for that.”
“We, John. We have the people in place.” He began to scrape away again. “Painting the world in black and white isn’t that easy with all those other colors out there. One pure church won’t just suddenly appear because you hope it will. You have to lead them to it. And the only way to do that is—”
“To manipulate them?” said Blaney.
Von Neurath didn’t bother to look up. “A little crude, but, yes, that sounds about right.”
Blaney nodded to himself. “‘And when the light descends, and the darkness recedes, who shall be worthy of the mystery that has been hidden since eternities?’”
“‘He who can make the world whole,’” answered von Neurath. “Epistle of Seth.”
“I don’t recall all that much about ‘manipulation’ in the epistle.”
Von Neurath now looked up. “And what would you propose? Unless we have a willing constituency among our Protestant friends, no amount of papal encyclicals will make anything whole again, infallibility or not. The olive branch goes only so far.”
“If, in fact, you’re the one holding it,” reminded Blaney.
“I don’t think that will be much of a problem.” The cardinal turned back to the bedspread, the stain clearly getting the better of him. “Sometimes the Word isn’t sufficient to motivate people to action.”
“I’m not sure Mani would agree with you.”
“Mani wasn’t dealing with such a complicated world.”
“Oh, yes, I forgot. Poor, naïve little Mani.”
Again, von Neurath laughed. “Sarcasm doesn’t really suit you, John. You’re much better when self-effacing. I’d stick with that.” Von Neurath stood, stepped to a small washbasin on a nearby table, and began to dip a washcloth in the water. Wringing it out, he returned to the bed and went back to work on the stain. “Nobody’s quite sure who or what the agents of darkness are nowadays. Too many would-be demons to choose from. If I can simplify that—”
“If we, Erich. We.”
Von Neurath waited before continuing. “If we can simplify that, all the better. One clear threat. One ultimate demon to send them back into the arms of the true church.”
“Even if that demon doesn’t exist?”
A wry smile crossed his lips. “The last I c
hecked, Islamic fundamentalism was alive and well.”
“Playing on people’s irrational fears isn’t what Mani had in mind.”
“We’ve been through this. And it’s a little late to be questioning the method.”
“I’m not questioning it. I’m simply interpreting its emphasis.”
“Nothing brings people together like ignorance, John.” Von Neurath seemed satisfied with his work and tossed the cloth back onto the table.
Now Blaney waited before answering. “‘And nothing but ignorance can make the light—’”
“‘Wither and die.’ Yes. I know the verse. Shahpuhrakan, three-five. You might also recall Book of Giants, chapter six: ‘And through the darkness He will conceive a light so worthy that it will say—I am born of the darkness, and yet I am the light itself!’ Ignorance bearing wisdom. Not much to interpret there. Whether these fundamentalists actually pose a threat or not—whether Mr. Bin Laden and his ilk have more in mind for us than just some senseless bombings—we both know we can use their presence to create a genuine unity. Fear of a common enemy is a powerful incentive. We simply have to make sure that that incentive is strong enough. From there, it’s a small step to the true church. Then you’ll see the power of the Word.” He paused. “If that isn’t light born of darkness, I don’t know what is.”
“It all depends on how you use that enemy.”
“Yes. Yes, it does. I wasn’t aware you were so interested in the more mundane workings of all of this.” He waited for a response. “No, I didn’t think so.” He stood and returned to the window. “Keep the faith pure, John. That’s what you’ve always been so good at. All to make the church whole again.” He waited. “Sometimes I wonder what you think that really means.”
“Light set free. Triumph over darkness. It’s not all that complex, Erich. ‘The vain garment of this flesh put off, safe and pure; the clean feet of my soul free to trample confidently upon it.’”
Again, von Neurath laughed to himself. “Abstractions are so easy, aren’t they? Especially when you can hide behind them.”
“And what does that mean?”
Again von Neurath waited. “We make the church whole, John, and it’s our turn to build from the ashes. Our turn to set doctrine, tend a flock, not just quote from a psalmbook. We’re not exactly a feel-good bunch, now are we?”
Blaney said nothing.
“Two, three hundred elect among us? The rest, told to obey for a life of perfect asceticism? That requires a good deal of control. Limitations. How many of them, do you think, will be that keen to let their ‘souls trample on the world of the flesh’? We’ll have to take a lot of things away from them so that they can see how the Light can be set free. The triumph over darkness demands a great deal of discipline, a healthy dose of … reeducation. Not everyone’s going to understand what we’re doing for them.” Again, von Neurath waited. “So don’t tell me you’re uncomfortable with how we’ll be dealing with our enemies, real or not. You know as well as I do that it pales in comparison to what we have in store for our own followers. That kind of ascetic ideal requires sacrifice. And we don’t have the luxury to pick and choose which ones we make.”
Neither said a word for nearly a minute. Blaney stared at the phone, willing it to ring. Von Neurath suddenly turned to him. “It’s defense, isn’t it?”
“What?” asked Blaney.
“Defense,” he repeated. “‘Satisfied slave turns up in armor.’”
It took Blaney a few seconds to realize what he was saying. “Oh … Yes.” He now recalled the cryptic he’d given him earlier in the day. The word game they’d been playing for years, like all good Manichaeans. The mysteries hidden within language. There might have been a great deal of mistrust and disrespect in their relationship, but at least they had the cryptics to keep them on common ground. “That didn’t take long.”
“Satisfied, fed. Slave, esne. Turn them upside down,” said von Neurath, “and you get defense, armor. Clever.” Perfunctory praise.
“I do what I can,” said Blaney. The phone rang; he picked up. “Yes. … I see. When? … No, that won’t be necessary. … All right. Keep me informed.” He replaced the receiver.
“Well?” the cardinal asked.
Blaney looked up; it took him a moment to focus on von Neurath. “What? Oh. No, that wasn’t about His Holiness. We have a bit of a problem. The priest at San Clemente has disappeared.”
“I thought Kleist was taking care of that?”
“As you said, I’m not very good with the mundane, but obviously he hasn’t.”
“And the monk?”
“I can take care of that. The priest should be Herr Kleist’s focus now.”
“Agreed.” Von Neurath waited before continuing. “Do we know he has the scroll?” Blaney remained silent. “Do we know if he even understands what it is?” Again, no answer. Von Neurath stared out into the lights. “Then we do have a problem.”
Pearse felt a tap on his shoulder, his first sensation a grinding stiffness in his neck. For several seconds, he had no idea where he was, his eyes as yet unwilling to open to more than slits. He lay on his side, legs drawn to his chest, hands wedged between cheek and the hard wooden surface below. Trying to sit up, he nearly toppled from his perch. He placed a hand on the bench in front of him to steady himself. As his eyes strained against sleep, he noticed the church had grown brighter, a hint of sun peeking through the opening at the apex of the dome. Streaks of light cascaded across the top third of the walls. The saints, however, remained in dusky gray.
“Scusi,” said a voice to his left. “Ma non si può dormire qui, giovane.”
Pearse turned to see a priest standing over his shoulder, a man easily in his late seventies, thick black-rimmed glasses covering most of his face. His eyes refracted to enormous proportions through the lenses, giant brown balls filling the weighted glass. Still, there was a pleasantness to the face, thin lips drawn up in an expression of concern and understanding. When he noticed Pearse’s clothes, his eyes seemed to grow even larger behind the frames.
“Oh,” he continued in Italian, “I didn’t realize you were a priest.” The revelation, however, granted only a momentary reprieve, the slow realization that a priest had been lying asleep in his church even more troubling. He didn’t seem to know how to respond. “Were you … in prayer, Father?” An odd question, but the best he could do.
“I … Yes. I came in to pray,” answered Pearse. “I didn’t mean to …” For some reason, his hand rose to his neck.
Again, the old priest appeared to be at a loss, the gentle face etched with confusion. A priest asleep, with no collar. How could one explain that? “I have some extra ones,” he nodded, eager to move beyond his misgivings, or at least to distance himself from them; he started toward a set of stairs at the far end of the altar.
Pearse looked around; the church was empty. “Do you know what time it is, Father?” he asked.
“Just after five,” the old man answered without turning around. “When I always come in.” A wavering hand appeared, pointing to the top of the steps. “It’s just up there. The collar.” Pearse stood and followed, his legs tight from the cramped position of a lengthy nap.
The office was austerity itself, two straight-backed wooden chairs, no cushions, each standing guard before an equally uninviting desk, another chair stationed behind, all of them under the watchful gaze of a crucifix holding firm against the decay of crumbling walls. The domed ceiling of the small enclosure rose to perhaps eight feet at its height, the room clearly an afterthought, as if the space had been grudgingly ceded by a miserly sanctuary. The old priest shuffled to the desk, opened one of its drawers, and pulled out a new collar. “I always seem to forget if I have enough. Whenever I pass by Gammarelli’s, I think I should stop and get one.” Pearse nodded, recalling the sartoria ecclesiastica just off the Piazza Minerva. “An old man.” He smiled. “I must have twenty of them tucked away in here.” Pearse stepped across, took the collar, and fitted it int
o his shirt.
“Thank you.”
“You’re not Italian,” said the priest.
“No. American.”
“You have no place to stay?” he asked, continuing before Pearse could answer. “We once had a father from Albuquerque,” the pronunciation thoroughly mangled. “He said he had lost all of his baggage, his papers. He had no collar, either. We gave him a hot meal.”
“Albuquerque. Really?” Pearse smoothed out the collar, at the same time rubbing the cramp from his neck. “Actually, I have rooms at the—” He cut himself short. “Not far from here.” He smiled. “I come from Boston … a small parish.” He had no idea what had provoked the impromptu confession, but it seemed to have the desired effect. The man listened intently. “I came in to pray early this morning. I must have been more tired than I realized.”
“Of course.” A sudden gleam filled the old man’s eyes. “Would you like to take the Mass?” he asked, an eagerness in his voice, eyes wider still.
Pearse began to shake his head, then stopped. Why else had he come in? When else would he have the opportunity? Given the last twelve hours, he had no idea what to expect beyond the doors of the church. If last night had been any indication—save for a momentary flash of distant resolve—certainly nothing of the familiar. He needed to reclaim something of his own. Something to take away with him. “Yes.” He nodded, moving toward the old man. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”
“I thought you might.” The priest reached into a second drawer and pulled out all the necessary accoutrements—linens, chalice, wine, wafers. He moved slowly but with great care, the tarnished silver and weathered pieces of linen reclaiming a lost splendor in his hands. Setting them on the desk, he then turned to the small closet by the door and removed an equally ancient alb, then a lace stole, the cincture hanging on a hook at the side. Pearse moved toward him and helped him into the vestments, a bit of smoothing necessary on the wrinkled fabric; together, they retrieved the items on the desk and headed back to the sanctuary, taking labored steps, Pearse more and more relaxed in the old man’s presence. The priest said nothing as he draped the corporal across the altar table, Pearse waiting until he had cast it just so before carefully setting down the pieces he had brought himself, all in neat order. A look of genuine delight rose on the old man’s face as he turned to pour a healthy swig of wine into the chalice, a few drops of water.
The Book of Q Page 12
