Father Elijah

by Michael D. O'Brien

  “I was drawn to him.”

  “I knew you’d be. He’s without guile, as clear as a bell. He hates romanità with a passion and never uses it.”

  “And Stato?”

  “My boss is the kind of prince of the Church whom everyone admires. Even his detractors respect him. He’s something of a genius when it comes to international diplomacy, and he’s a master of romanità. He doesn’t necessarily like it but he maneuvers with it, and often succeeds in getting his way by using it. The Holy Father knew who he was dealing with when he asked him to take over the office of state.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “Completely. He’s a brilliant administrator, frightfully clever. He’s not exactly a saint—he’s got a temper. But he’s a fiercely righteous man.”

  “Why didn’t the Holy Father choose him to communicate with the man on Capri?”

  “That’s where you’re naïve. The new President knows romanità. He expects visiting delegations to play games with him. The last thing he expects is a missionary who will try to convert his soul.”

  Elijah sat in the dark on a park bench.

  “It’s too much for me, Billy. It’s too big.”

  Billy sat down beside him.

  “Of course it’s too big. Do you think the Holy Father’s so dumb he’d choose, someone who thinks he can handle it? No, he knew you’d run into your weakness pretty fast. That’s where the real work begins, doesn’t it? When we find out it’s too big for us.”

  “I wish I could talk with our friend Peter at this moment, Billy.”

  “He’s praying for you, lad. The Holy Spirit’s guiding this thing too. Besides, you got someone else helping you.”

  “Who?”

  “Me!” cried Billy, brandishing his invisible sword.

  Elijah did not smile.

  “Onward to Mordor!” cried Billy, laughing in the dark.

  IV

  Assisi

  Elijah meditated on the green of Umbria and tried to ignore the screeching tires of the Jaguar. Billy’s ability to maneuver the back roads of the hill country was admirable, but tended to stimulate rushes of adrenaline.

  “There’s Mount Subasio”, said Billy as they rounded a curve in the hills. “Halfway up is the town. The first thing you’ll see is the walls of the basilica and the convent.”

  “I see them. Like a fortress.”

  “It’s a bit of a museum piece. But don’t let that deceive you. There’s a nice thriving modern town behind those walls—houses, restaurants, theatres, convents, tourists, pilgrims, even some ordinary folk. The kind of stock that Francis and Clare were born into.”

  “I feel as if I am coming into a valley of God.”

  “Everyone feels something when they see Assisi for the first time. But it’s really quite an ordinary place.”

  “Billy, I feel something I have felt nowhere else.”

  Billy threw him an analytical look.

  “You’d be amazed at how many people have sat in that passenger seat and said those very words.”

  “What is it about this place?”

  “It’s beautiful isn’t it?”

  “Yes. But Mount Carmel is beautiful. Many places can boast of beauty, many of them more beautiful to the eye than this.”

  “It’s the light of Umbria. When it falls on that village perched up there on its rocky spur, add a few larks, the groves, and the river—it’s a recipe for medieval romance, old chap. You just got bit by the virus.”

  “It’s something more, but I can’t guess what.”

  “I always expect to bump into Dante and Beatrice here. It’s the thrill of plunging back through the centuries and finding that the mythological past was real. It was somebody’s present. Francis and Clare walked in those streets and loved it. Their world was more real to them than ours is to us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean their world was so beautiful and dangerous.”

  “So is ours.”

  “Our world’s pretty damn ugly, if you ask me. Look what we’ve done to it. We think we’ve licked the inconveniences by good old technology. By the way, is the air conditioning too cold for you?”

  “Just right, Billy.”

  “Good old technology.”

  “I think we live in the most ugly and dangerous time of all.”

  “It’s ugly and haunted by a sense of unreality, but is that dangerous?”

  “Isn’t the time of false peace the most dangerous?”

  “If it is false peace. But if it’s a time of real peace then the lad who runs about shouting the end is near needs to see a shrink.”

  “Then a great deal depends on how well the prophet listens to God, and how well he reads the signs of the times.”

  “Right. As the well-known prophet Chicken Little once said, The sky is falling, the sky is falling!”

  “You are teasing me with your unique British sense of humor.”

  “Just trying to cheer you up, Davy. You’re looking altogether too somber for my taste. Assisi’s going to be just what the doctor ordered. You’ll see.”

  “I feel it already.”

  “It’s the romance of the past, I expect. For tourists it’s historical romance. For religious guys like you ‘n’ me it’s religious romance.”

  “I must disagree. For myself, it’s not a romantic feeling. Do you remember when we spoke of a great crime the other day? An unmentionable crime that none will acknowledge?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s as if the antithesis to that crime had occurred here. Some great blessing that came to mankind, but which is now falling into deep forgetfulness.”

  Billy did not at first respond. Then he said, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ve read too many tourist brochures.”

  “The presence of Saint Francis is here, not like a fossil memory lingering in the subconscious. Rather, one expects at any moment to look to the side of the road and see a little poor man in sackcloth, holding up his arms to us. He has holes in his hands. He is here. I feel it.”

  “Well, hold onto your hat, Davy, ‘cause we’re gonna do some hairpin curves up ahead. If we pass Saint Francis, tell him I can’t stop at these speeds. Besides, I never pick up hitchhikers.”

  “Never?”

  Billy’s face clouded over.

  “Correction. There was one. I’ll tell you about it sometime.” He wheeled into the parking lot of the basilica, hopped out, and stretched.

  “Buon giorno, Assisi!” he said with pleasure, flipping up his sunglasses and rubbing his eyes. His gold silk shirt looked cool and unruffled. Elijah began to perspire heavily in his Carmelite habit.

  It was cooler inside the portals of the sacred convent. They introduced themselves to the guestmaster, a wizened little Italian who grinned when Billy handed him a note for the prior, written by the Cardinal Secretary of State.

  “We’ve been expecting you. Come, this way, I’ll show you to your rooms.”

  He bustled ahead of them, guiding them through the complex of the monastery to a secluded wing, which overlooked the plain lying between Perugia and Foligno. A warm breeze came through the open windows of the hallways.

  “We’re putting you in the annex. It’s extra quiet here. Private too. Come and go as you please. You’ll want to see the Giotto frescoes, no doubt, and the tomb of the Saint? Everyone does. Monsignor Stangsby shouldn’t forget to show you the little Church of San Damiano. That’s where the crucifix spoke to Francis. And don’t miss the Portiuncula inside Santa Maria degli Angeli! That’s the little church where Clare made her vows of poverty. Oh dear, there’s always so much to see, and it’s so busy now. The tourists have started in full flood. If you want some peace and quiet, go after visiting hours. I’ll give Monsignor the keys. Just let me know when you’re ready. Now here’s a private dining room for you. It’s not fancy. Even the Pope eats here when he comes. Don’t put on the dog for me, Brother, he says. Simple, he says, I love simple best of all, he always says to me. Such a s
pecial man, our Holy Father. How is he? How’s his health? Good? Glad to hear it! Tell him hello for me.”

  He led Billy to a guest room beside the dining hall, then dragged Elijah to the one beside it.

  “My apologies, Father. What did you say your name was? Now, Monsignor Stangsby gets the Pope’s bedroom, because he’s a rung up the ladder, but you get the corner room with the view, so I’d say you have the best of the bargain. My apologies, Monsignor. You’ll find a refrigerator in the kitchenette. Fruit, coffee, bread. Make yourselves at home. There’s the private chapel at the end of the corridor. No one else is staying in this wing. Pax et bonum. Goodbye. Ring for me if you need assistance. Pax et bonum.”

  The friar backed down the hall, smiling and blessing them verbally, bowing repeatedly and retreating until he parted the double doors, leaving the two visitors standing in a ringing silence.

  Then the song of larks came in on the breeze. Elijah felt indescribably happy.

  “I’m going to catch a snooze”, said Billy. “Come in for half a mo’ and see the pontifical suite.”

  Elijah peeked into Billy’s room, a small cell with cot, desk, and chair. A private bathroom contained a shower, sink, and toilet. The only decoration was a single icon above the bed—a copy of the cross of San Damiano that had spoken to Saint Francis.

  “Palatial, isn’t it?” sighed Billy.

  “Full of romance”, said Elijah.

  “You think you can tease me with Israeli humor, don’t you! No such luck! Begone!”

  “Have a good rest, Billy.”

  “Thanks. You too.”

  “Good night, Andy.”

  Billy shook his luggage. “Good night, Father”, said a wee voice from inside the suitcase.

  Elijah went back to his own room and lay down on the cot. He realized suddenly how very tired he was, a fatigue that reached into his bones. He fell asleep and did not wake until a bell rang for supper.

  The meal porter, a massive young friar in a frayed robe, pushed a trolly into the dining room and placed a tray beside the setting for one.

  Elijah introduced himself.

  “I am Jakov”, the brother replied.

  After some pleasantries, he dug out of Jakov that he was a Croatian Franciscan, a refugee from the Balkan wars.

  “Is perfect joy”, he said with an enigmatic look.

  “Perfect joy?” said Elijah, straining to understand what was being communicated.

  “Perfect joy”, the friar repeated, bobbing his head up and down. He was alone in the world, he explained, his family had been massacred.

  He pointed to the sky and said, “Brother Francis is my family, no?”

  “Your brother and your father”, suggested Elijah.

  The friar stood motionless, staring into middle space, reliving an experience.

  “Is Monsignor Stangsby not eating?” said Elijah.

  “Oh, I forget it too much. He leaves a letter for you, Father. He is gone for make visiting with the friends at San Crispin’s. He talk you tomorrow.”

  The brother removed a letter that had suffered considerably in his apron pocket. He attempted to unfold and unstain it, putting it on the table by the plate. Elijah thanked him and the brother departed.

  Dear Davy,

  Have gone to see some people at S. Crispin’s on Agnes Street. We’re going out to dinner at a real restaurant. Sorry to abandon you, but you know it’s good for your soul. The Pope’s friend, Father Matteo, will track you down after seven o’clock or thereabouts. Relax. There’s no such thing as time in Assisi. Pax et Bonum!

  Yours,

  B.

  Elijah consumed a meal of sliced eggs, cheese, celery, crusty white rolls, downed a miniature carafe of the driest red wine, and finished with a basket of green grapes.

  When he went out of the dining room the sun was low, bursting through the window at the end of the corridor. He went to the chapel and knelt there before the Presence. The peace he felt was different from that of Carmel or Rome. It was saturated in the charism of this extraordinary shrine, a sense that could not be described without resort to crudely rendered metaphors. It was an incense that hung in the air. Like childhood restored after a long corruption. Like a maiden singing in the dusk. It was like an ode to beauty that was beauty itself, incarnating beauty while it tried to avoid the folly of talking about beauty. Assisi was like something, but like what? Like something one had always known, but never seen. Something perceived from afar, like a wind from the promised land that greeted the stranger and sojourner coming up out of bondage from Egypt.

  It was joy, no doubt about that. But a joy unlike any other joy he had ever experienced. Unexpected joy in a dark time. Curious joy. There was no other word that approximated it. A taste of sweetness like the fecundity of grape arbors in the terraces below, sweetness on the tongue and a promise of scent on the night air. It was sensual in the best meaning of that word, saturating every sense at once, so that the flesh was known, finally, as a thing of such goodness that man blessed his Creator from morning to night for having made him. Here in this medieval town where once an extraordinary little fellow had burst forth with songs to God, as a passionate lover speaks to his bride, here the restoration of man to his own true home was no longer the dream of saints. It was the wedding feast. It was a word made flesh.

  He closed his eyes and prayed a thanksgiving. When he opened them again the chapel was dark and night had fallen. Only the sanctuary lamp illuminated the interior of the room. He became aware that another person was there also, a friar, motionless in the back pew.

  He thought it must be the guestmaster or the young Croatian, but as he passed the kneeling figure on the way out, the other friar looked up. Elijah saw that he was a man of advanced age.

  The friar stood and followed him into the corridor. “Father Elijah?” he said in a frail voice.

  “Yes?”

  “I am Don Matteo.”

  The friar bowed to him and did not appear to notice Elijah’s hand extended in greeting. Elijah returned the bow.

  “Don Matteo, the Holy Father sends you his embrace and apostolic blessing. He asks for your prayers for an urgent intention.”

  “I will pray”, said the friar. He was an unimpressive figure, pale, sickly, his hands hidden in folds of dark brown cloth. His habit was patched and looked several sizes too large for him.

  Elijah waited silently, at a loss for words. It now struck him that his purpose in coming to the convent at Assisi had not been described in precise terms.

  He will strengthen you, the Pope had said.

  “The Holy Father wishes you to rest here”, said Don Matteo.

  “Did the Holy Father communicate to you the nature of my mission?”

  “I know the nature of your mission.”

  “He said that you would strengthen me.”

  “The Lord will strengthen you. Spend much time before Him in the Blessed Sacrament. Bask in the radiance of the tabernacle. Tomorrow before breakfast we will say Mass in the chapel, hidden from the eyes of the curious.”

  “Is there anything else I should do?”

  “Fast a little, if you like. Remember that obedience is the great fast. Practice interior mortifications frequently throughout the days that you are with us. It is better than giving up a chocolate bar.” Father Matteo smiled gently.

  “Should I read?”

  “Read Matthew 24, and anything else in Scripture the Holy Spirit prompts you to read. I suggest that you keep your mind free. Be still. Wait for God.”

  “I crave silence, Father. It has been three days of continuous noise since I left Israel. My mind is reeling.”

  “The world is a noisy place. Yes, keep silence. Then, when you are rested, visit the tomb of Francis and pray before his crucifix.”

  “It would be a great joy for me if you would accompany me to these places.”

  “We’ll go together. But I see that you are very tired. Tonight and tomorrow you must rest. Pray and rest.”

&nbs
p; With that, the old friar bade him a good night and limped off through the doors to the enclosure.

  Elijah fell asleep listening to the choir of insects and night birds praising outside the screened window of his room.

  * * *

  Don Matteo returned before dawn. No amount of knocking on Billy’s door was able to rouse him from sleep, and thus Elijah concelebrated Mass alone with the friar. In his many years as a priest he had never attended a Mass offered with such rapt attention. The friar lingered over each word. At the Consecration, Elijah wondered if he had lost the other priest to unconsciousness, for the friar stood without moving, holding the host aloft for several minutes. As the folds of his habit fell back from his wrists, his hands were exposed. Elijah saw that he wore black woollen gloves from which the finger sections had been removed. His exposed fingers were long, white, extremely fragile, yet the palms hidden beneath the gloves appeared to be thick, as if swollen.

  The sun rose at the moment of the elevation and burst through the stained glass window, throwing burning colors across the room. Father Matteo’s eyes were closed; he did not seem to notice the epiphany of light. Time itself was suspended above the world, held within his hands, transfixed by the rapture of his upturned face. The broken fragments of color had begun to cross the tiles of the central aisle when he lowered his arms and continued with the words of the canon.

  During their prayer of silent thanksgiving after Mass, Elijah noticed again that the friar slipped into what appeared to be perfect composure of body, a stillness that approached languid immobility. The eyes were closed, the attention fixed within. The friar remained kneeling for so long that Elijah could not persevere in that position. His joints were aching. He left the chapel briefly to go to the bathroom, and when he returned the friar was gone.

  The remainder of the day was spent in silence, with periods of reading and sleep alternating with hours of stillness before the Blessed Sacrament. He felt the tension of the preceding days melting away.