by Glenn Cooper
Tremblay looked at the card’s file number and said, ‘It’s a good thing nuns wear sensible shoes.’
They walked for several minutes through the seemingly endless grid of shelving. Elisabetta felt a strange association. It was like being in some kind of latter-day catacombs. In the past bones were revered. Now it was paper.
‘Many of these files,’ Tremblay said, ‘are more “secret” than the documents in the Tower of the Winds. Officially, there’s the hundred-year rule that keeps most of the Vatican’s correspondence and documents closed for one hundred years, to protect them from being released to the public during the lifetime of those concerned. From a practical standpoint, everything later than 1939 is strictly off-limits.’
‘But not for you,’ Elisabetta said.
‘I have no restrictions.’ He checked the numbering on the cases. ‘I think we’re close.’
They finally came to a halt in the middle of a row. Tremblay used his finger to pick out the numbers on each pale yellow file box.
‘This one,’ he said. ‘Sometimes it’s helpful to be tall.’ He reached high above his head and wriggled a box free. ‘It’s a long way back to the Reading Room. Do you mind if we just look at it here?’
The box was almost empty; it contained only a dozen or so loose papers. Tremblay removed them, put the box at his feet and held the papers so that both of them could see.
The first page was a typed letter on University of Rome letterhead dated 12 June 1982.
Elisabetta’s mother’s signature was bold and confident, written with an italic-nibbed fountain pen. It brought tears to Elisabetta’s eyes but she sniffed hard once and stifled her sobs.
‘It’s her letter asking for permission to use the Archives,’ Elisabetta said, reading it quickly. ‘It’s on the subject of her book, Pope Pius’s excommunication of Queen Elizabeth.’
Tremblay put the letter at the back of the stack.
There were other, similar letters, requesting readmittance to do further searches. One of the letters summarized the documents she had already reviewed: Regnans in Excelsis, the Papal Bull of 1570 excommunicating Elizabeth, Queen of England for heresy; a letter from Matthew Parker, Archbishop of Canterbury to Pope Pius V (1571); a letter from Edmund Grindal, Archbishop of Canterbury to Pope Gregory XIII (1580); a Papal Bull of 1580, Pope Gregory XIII’s Clarification of the Regnans in Excelsis; a letter from the Papal Nuncio in France to Pope Clement VIII informing him of the death of Elizabeth (1603).
Tremblay looked to see if Elisabetta had finished, then turned to the next page.
It was Flavia’s cover letter dated late 1984, referencing the gift of her book on the excommunication of Elizabeth to the Vatican Library.
Then another letter, this one dated 22 April 1985 to the Chief Archivist asking to return to do research for her second book. Flavia wrote: ‘In the course of doing work on my Queen Elizabeth book, I happened upon an interesting correspondence between the English mathematician and astronomer John Dee, and Ottaviano Mascherino, the astronomer who built the Tower of the Winds. I would like to search the Archives for further letters between the two astronomers to elaborate on my hypothesis that, while the religious schism between Rome and England was absolute, there was nevertheless vigorous and persistent scientific and cultural intercourse among the luminaries of the day.’
‘Did you know of this?’ Tremblay asked.
‘No. Nothing.’
The next page caused Elisabetta to inhale sharply.
It was a memo to the file from the Chief Archivist, dated 17 May 1985, withdrawing Flavia Celestino’s Archive privileges. It asserted that she had obtained unauthorized access to File Box 197741-3821 and that her notes had been confiscated.
‘This seems suspicious,’ Tremblay said. ‘She could only have received files specifically requested. As I said, there’s no browsing allowed.’
A lined piece of notebook paper was stapled to the memo. It was in Flavia’s distinctive italic.
‘Her notes!’ Elisabetta said.
The notations were sparse:
Letter from Dee to Mascherino, 1577:
Brotherhood
Common Cause
‘When I am observing the full eclipse of the moon on 27 September from London, I take heart in knowing you will be gazing on the same sight from Rome, dear brother.’ Lemures
‘My God!’ Tremblay exclaimed. ‘She found direct evidence. I’ve never seen this letter she refers to. Come with me. The file box that’s referenced – ones with these numbers are up on the Diplomatic Floor with the older documents.’
‘Wait,’ Elisabetta said. ‘We’re not finished.’
There were two more sheets in Flavia’s file.
The first was a memo to the file from a physician, Dr Giuseppe Falcone, addressed to no one but marked ‘Hand-delivered, 6 June 1985.’
On the request of the Vatican I examined the patient, Flavia Celestino, who is under the care of Dr Motta at the Gemelli Hospital. She is in serious condition with diarrhea, vomiting, anemia, liver and kidney dysfunction and periods of disorientation. My differential diagnosis includes hemolytic uremic syndrome, viral encephalomyelopathy, amyloidosis, and intoxication with heavy metals or arsenic. The latter would have to be my leading suspicion. I have spoken with Dr Motta. He informs me the arsenic and toxicology tests are negative and while surprised I have to accept what he says. I believe he has considered all relevant possibilities but at this stage there seems to be little to be done for her.
‘She was poisoned,’ Elisabetta whispered. Now she made no attempt to staunch her tears and Tremblay looked on impotently.
The last page was a copy of the death certificate, dated 10 June 1985, listing Flavia’s cause of death as kidney and liver failure and noting that a post-mortem was not requested by the coroner.
‘I’m sorry,’ Tremblay said, touching her hand. ‘But we have to find the Dee letter.’
He placed the file box back in its place and with long strides backtracked rapidly toward the Tower. Elisabetta followed, her body and mind so numb that she could hardly feel her feet against the floor.
Going up the stairs, Tremblay cursed his weak constitution but forced himself to keep going until they’d reached the second floor of the Tower. At the landing Elisabetta was worried that he might pass out from air-hunger.
‘It’s this way,’ he gasped.
Here in the Archive of the Secretariat of State, they passed through room after room of seventeenth-century walnut cabinets. Tremblay had written the file number on a scrap of paper and he referred to it as he searched the rooms. He finally found it, high up. Facing the tall library ladder he said, ‘I’m so puffed out I don’t trust myself.’
Elisabetta climbed the ladder and pulled open the door he was pointing at. He called out the file number to her. She found the box.
After climbing down she laid the file on top of one of the low cabinets in the center of the room and let Tremblay open the box.
It was full of parchments tied in a ribbon, all from the sixteenth century.
With a practiced eye he scanned the Latin, French, English and German scripts, looking for the one he wanted. Two-thirds of the way through the pile he stopped dead at a modern sheet of paper with a handwritten note in ballpoint ink.
1577 Letter from John Dee to Ottaviano Mascherino, removed to a personal collection. Signed, R.A. 17 May 1985
‘Who is R.A?’ Elisabetta asked.
Tremblay shook his head sadly. ‘I have no idea, but by God I’m going to find out. Let’s go. There’s nothing more for us to do here. I have work to do. I’ll contact you as soon as I have something. Please, say nothing of this to anyone.’
The phone rang in the librarian’s office.
‘This is Signorina Mattera in the Secret Archives. Yes, Your Excellency. Thank you for getting back to me. I wanted to inform you that Father Tremblay requested access to a red-flagged file today. It was regarding a woman who did research here in the 1980s, a Flavia Celestin
o. Yes, Your Excellency, per protocol, he was granted access and now, per protocol, I have duly informed you.’
TWENTY-TWO
ELISABETTA UNLOCKED THE front door of her father’s apartment and blinked in confusion. Zazo was in the kitchen.
‘Where were you?’ he said with exasperation. ‘Haven’t I told you to stay put?’
‘I had an appointment.’ She didn’t want to lie but she said, ‘At the school.’
Zazo started to lecture her, ‘Elisabetta …’
‘What are you doing here?’ she countered. ‘How come you’re not in uniform?’
As he told her what had happened Elisabetta’s tears flowed again. ‘This is all my fault.’
‘How is it your fault?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘It just is.’
Zazo laughed. ‘You used to be so intelligent. What happened? Stop crying and make me some coffee.’
Later, while she washed their cups and saucers, Elisabetta asked Zazo if he wanted to go to church with her.
‘No more churches for me for a while,’ he said. ‘But I’ll walk you there.’
It was one of those wind-whipped afternoons where dense cumulus clouds blocked the sun intermittently, turning the light from yellow to gray and back to yellow again. Zazo couldn’t decide whether to keep his sunglasses on or not. He gave up finally and stuffed them into the inside pocket of his jacket where they got entangled with the phone records.
‘These were my undoing,’ he said, waving the papers at his sister.
‘Have you looked at them?’
‘No. Maybe later tonight or tomorrow. Whenever I sober up.’
‘Please don’t drink,’ Elisabetta said.
‘Are you a nun or a Puritan?’ her brother joked. ‘Of course I’m going to drink. A good long toast to the end of my career and to the new Pope, whoever he may be.’
They stopped at a corner, waiting for the crossing light to turn green. ‘I’m sure they’ll just give you a slap on the wrist. Zazo, I’m so cross with you. You couldn’t leave it alone, could you?’
‘No, I couldn’t.’
‘Me neither,’ Elisabetta confessed as she started across the street at the green signal.
Zazo caught up with her. ‘What did you do?’
‘I called the University at Ulm and found an old colleague of Bruno Ottinger’s. It turns out that Ottinger was a mean old fellow, a right-winger.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Nothing else too remarkable. He didn’t have many friends. The initial K didn’t mean anything to the colleague. Nor did Christopher Marlowe.’
‘Is Papa still working on the numbers?’
Elisabetta nodded.
‘Here’s hoping he’ll have more luck than with Goldbach,’ Zazo said dismissively.
‘Don’t be mean.’
Suddenly he said, ‘I’m really going to miss you.’
She gave him a tight-lipped smile, holding on to her composure. ‘I’m going to miss you too. And Papa. And Micaela. And my school.’
‘Then don’t go.’
‘It’s not my choice.’
‘Whose choice was it? It wasn’t God’s, you know.’
‘I don’t know whose decision it was but of course it was God’s choice.’
‘Someone wants you out of the way. It’s obvious, Elisabetta. First someone makes a call from your office to the newspapers, a call that gets you fired. Then you’re transferred a day after someone tries to kill you. This is not the hand of God. It’s the hand of man.’
The dome of the church came into sight.
‘Maybe we’ll find out the truth of this affair one day, maybe we won’t. What’s important for me is that I resume my life. If that’s in Africa, so be it.’
‘You know,’ Zazo said slyly, ‘the people you just mentioned won’t be the only ones who will miss you.’
‘Who else?’
‘Lorenzo.’
She stopped and stared at him.
‘He hasn’t said anything, of course,’ Zazo said, ‘but I can tell.’
‘But I’m a nun!’
‘Maybe so, but sometimes women leave the clergy. I can’t say that he’s thinking this, but I can see there’s something in his eyes. He’s my best friend.’ Zazo dropped his voice. ‘Next to Marco.’
‘Oh, Zazo.’
‘Let me tell you something else,’ her brother said, touching her black sleeve. An old woman with a shopping bag stopped to take in the scene of a nun and a young man having an intimate discussion on the street. Elisabetta smiled politely at her and she and Zazo began walking again. ‘I know why you became a nun.’
‘Do you? Why?’
‘Because Marco was perfect for you. There wasn’t ever going to be anyone who was as good.’
She gestured at the sky, ‘And because of that I married Christ instead? Is that what you’re going to say? Don’t you think that’s awfully simplistic?’
‘I’m not a complicated guy,’ he said.
‘You’re my brother, Zazo, but you’re also an idiot.’
They were at the Piazza S. Maria in Trastevere. He shrugged and pointed toward the church. ‘I’ll wait for you in the café.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘If I can’t protect the new Pope I’ll protect you instead.’
A Mercedes Vito panel van slowly poked its nose into the Piazza from the street they’d been walking along. It was a pedestrian zone. Before Zazo could motion to the driver that he’d made a mistake the van went into reverse and disappeared. In a short while a man with a reddish beard emerged from the van in a side street, walked back, and sat on the edge of the Piazza’s fountain to smoke a cigarette. He was halfway between the church and the café and seemed to be taking pains to keep both Elisabetta and Zazo in sight.
‘What are you doing here?’ Zazo’s father asked as he dropped his briefcase in the sitting room.
‘Runs in the family,’ Zazo mumbled. He repeated the entire story while Carlo poured himself one aperitif – and then another.
‘First Elisabetta gets in trouble, now you. What’s next? Something with Micaela? Bad news always happens in threes.’
‘Is that superstition or numerology, Papa?’ Elisabetta asked.
‘Neither: it’s a fact. What are we doing for dinner?’
‘I’m going to make something.’
‘Make it simple,’ Carlo said. ‘I’ve got to go out tonight.’
‘A date?’ Zazo asked.
‘Funny. Ha, ha. A retirement party for Bernadini. He’s younger than me. The writing’s on the wall.’ Carlo opened his briefcase and swore.
‘What’s wrong?’ Elisabetta asked.
‘I was going to spend an hour working on your puzzle but I left the goddamned book in my office. Let me have the old one.’
‘No!’ she protested. ‘You heard that it’s valuable. You’ll spill your drink on it. I’ve got a paperback in my room. You can even write in that copy if you like.’
Elisabetta cooked a bowl of pasta with pecorino and chopped a garden salad while Zazo drank a couple of his father’s beers.
‘Micaela’s coming over after supper,’ she told him.
‘I’ll take off when she gets here.’
‘You don’t have to wait if there’s someplace you’d rather be,’ she said.
‘It’s okay, I’m hungry.’
‘Well, get Papa then. Tell him it’s ready.’
Zazo rapped on his father’s bedroom door. When there was no reply he knocked louder and called out.
There was a testy, ‘What?’
‘Supper’s ready.’
Through the door came, ‘Wait a minute. I’m busy.’
Zazo returned to the kitchen, put a fork into the pasta and twirled a taste. ‘He said to wait a minute. He’s busy.’
They waited ten minutes and Elisabetta tried again. Carlo sent her away, promising he’d be ready in another minute.
Ten minutes later they heard his door swi
ng open. He stepped slowly into the kitchen, scowling, with the Faustus paperback and a notebook in one hand.
‘Are you okay, Papa?’ Elisabetta asked.
Suddenly Carlo’s scowl turned into a giant smile, like that of a kid playing a trick. ‘I’ve cracked it! I’ve solved your puzzle!’
TWENTY-THREE
London, 1589
MARLOWE PRACTICALLY SUCKED in the rough and tumble of London as he strolled through the crowded, jostling streets of Shoreditch. He smiled at every blackguard, whore, blackamoor, cheating monger and filthy urchin he brushed past. I was born to live in such a place, he thought.
Today was a day of high expectation and even the stench of the open drains couldn’t diminish his pleasure: in a short while he would see the first performance of his new play, The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus.
Marlowe had donned his best suit of clothes, the same that he had worn four years earlier when, pockets laden with Walsingham’s payments, he had posed for a commissioned portrait. In an unheard-of act of hubris, which had thoroughly seized the imagination of his fellows, he had presented the portrait to the Master of Benet on the occasion of his leaving the college in 1587. Somewhat flummoxed by the gift, Master Norgate had had no choice but to hang it in his wood-paneled gallery next to a bevy of vastly more notable academics and alumni.
In the painting, he had assumed a cocky pose with his arms folded, his lips pouty and rebellious, his hair flowing and his moustache wispy. His doublet was close-fitting, black with a red velvet lining, trimmed with gold buttons down the front and up the sleeves. His linen shirt was open-necked with a floppy cobwebbed collar, far more rakish than the usual starched and ruffled collars that graced the worthies on Norgate’s wall. The garments, which had seen their share of use in England and the Continent, were a bit worn now, but they still looked splendid and fit perfectly. Still, if the play were a success he’d already laid a plan to visit Walsingham’s tailor for a new ensemble.
London, this dense metropolis of 100,000 souls, was now Marlowe’s oyster. In a short time he’d repeatedly pried open its unyielding shell, plucking out one treasure after another; he had little doubt that Faustus would give him his most lustrous pearl yet.
