“The President beckoned him?”
“No, the other way around. They stood apart from the group for a few minutes and talked in a low voice. They didn’t know about my gift for listening to more than one conversation at a time. I was talking with a man from Scotland. He was telling me what a success he thought the Warsaw conference had been. I was murmuring agreement, but listening all the while to that whispered conversation not ten paces away. I heard almost nothing of it, but I’m sure I heard the President address the other man as Mago.”
“Mago?”
“Magus. Sorcerer.”
“Perhaps you heard wrong. At that distance. . .”
“I don’t think so. Then the other man said something else and addressed the President as Architetto.”
“Architect?”
“Yes. They ended their tête-à-tête by nodding sagely together, then the President returned to us and continued on as before.”
“Were there many people there with such names?”
“A few. Most of them were introduced only as Carlo or Katerina or Edmund. Sprinkled among them were names like Archer and Abaddon.”
“Abaddon?” said Elijah startled.
“Why? Do you know that name?”
“It’s a name used in the Book of Revelation. It refers to an angel.”
“He didn’t look like an angel.”
“These people may be using names that have symbolic meaning for them. According to Scripture, Abaddon is the angel-king of the bottomless pit. He holds the key to the abyss. He is called a star that fell from heaven.”
“Why a star?”
“The rebel angels were once creatures of light. They became darkness and were cast down to the earth. In the Gospels, Jesus refers to Satan as one who fell like lightning from heaven. The common interpretation of the passage in Revelation is that when the fifth trumpet of the apocalypse is blown, this fallen angel will open the gates of the demonic world, which will then pour out over the earth.”
“What a horrible mythology.”
“It may be more literal than you think.”
“Let’s not get into that, Elijah. What does the name mean?”
“It means Destroyer. This is in sharp contrast to the name of Jesus, which means Yahweh saves.”
“Well, this man was quite human.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He was just one of many. Fiftyish, heavy-set, a closed face, a mouth that looked accustomed to smirking, but seemed mirthless throughout the entire evening. He kept to himself.”
“Was he the killer?”
“He was a killer but not the killer.”
“Who was the killer? How could you distinguish him from the others of his kind?”
“I just knew. Don’t ask me how I knew. You may doubt me more than ever when I tell you what happened next. It’s not much evidence to go on, but it’s all I have. And my every instinct is telling me that I’m absolutely right.”
“Was it anything he said?”
“Yes and no. It happened this way: like any party, it was a scene of constantly changing arrangements, individuals shifting back and forth from one cluster to the next. People drifting out of the salon into the ballroom and back again. There was music, flowers, a striving for vivaciousness that struck me as strained. People were dancing in the next room. Older men were smoking and laughing in a corner. Three women and I were discussing art. They had helped to put together the President’s collection, which is presently touring America. They were knowledgeable people, very sophisticated, though they really didn’t say what they do for a living or who they are. First names only. At one point, the man they called Abaddon walked by, and they drew him into our circle. They asked him if he agreed that Picasso was a forerunner of the modernist revolution in art. He agreed diffidently. He hung on. He sipped his drink and listened to us. I felt his eyes on me. Not the usual male thing. It was cold observation, and curiosity. One of the women said something about the way Picasso fragmented the image of woman, almost as if he hated them. Abaddon looked at her and said something to the effect that Picasso really wanted to get inside women because they were so alien to him. He took them apart, he said, and put them back together again.
“At that point the man they called Mago spoke up. He was just suddenly there beside me; I hadn’t seen him approach. He said that if Picasso had ever had the chance he would have dismembered them alive, piece by piece, because he was really looking for the fountain of life. At that point most of us, I think, began to feel a strong desire to change this grisly subject. But Mago wouldn’t let it go. He made a gesture to a little man standing nearby whom I hadn’t noticed until then. ‘Come here, Chirurgo’, he said. He called him Surgeon. The little man came over and stood there like an obedient dog. I saw instantly that he too was a killer. Chirurgo, Mago, and Abaddon—all three of them killers. I looked into the Surgeon’s eyes and I knew. He was the one.”
“Stefano?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“I did nothing. I looked away as if I had seen nothing. I was bereft of emotions. Something totally detached came over me. I didn’t have to pretend. Something switched off inside of me because it was essential that I reveal nothing. Something else came into play that I didn’t know I had in me. I suppose you could call it cunning.”
“What happened next? What did Mago say to Chirurgo?”
“He said, ‘Tell us, doctor, what is it like to take apart a living human being?’ Chirurgo didn’t blink an eye. He tilted his head a little and said, ‘It’s a science.’ I looked at the hands that had tortured Stefano and saw that they were delicate, clean hands. I smiled at him. Only an angel could have known that the smile was a fraud. Then I said something that I don’t believe, but I said it because I know they believe it: I said, ‘There are times when science must go ahead of the rest of humanity. The scientist must do unpopular things, even things others call evil, for the sake of the common good.’ While everyone around me was murmuring agreement, Chirurgo stared at me as if I were mad. If he were an ordinary doctor, even an ordinary evil doctor, he would have been pleased by the remark. Instead, he seemed lost for words. I suppose the horrible irony of the scene must have hit him: here was the grieving wife of a man he had tormented to death reassuring him that it was all for the best.”
“What happened then?”
“Mago and Abaddon stepped into the breach. Simultaneously, betraying no emotion, no concern, both of them flicked their eyes at Chirurgo and at each other. Between the three of them there passed an unspoken conversation, which took a split second to transpire. Then all three of them flashed a look at me. They could read nothing in my eyes. I turned to the woman on my left and asked her if she thought the other cubists disliked women as much as Picasso had. She launched into a dissertation, and the moment was over. The killers wandered off in different directions as if nothing had happened.”
Elijah, who had listened to this story as if hypnotized, suddenly exhaled loudly. He caught his breath. “This is awful!”
“Awful? Of course it’s awful—and a great victory.”
“Are you sure?” said Elijah shaking his head. “Could you have imagined it?”
“No. I saw it”, she said evenly. “It’s my best evidence that the President’s circle is completely without conscience and bodes no good for mankind.”
“What will you do? Should you go to the police?”
“To tell them I saw three men looking at each other?”
“What then?”
“I can assure you I have no intention of buying a gun and shooting that pitiful little man.”
“Anna, if they sense even the remotest threat from you, if they suspect that you know. . .”
“They are creatures who live in a world of shadows. They think themselves safe. There is no power on earth that can touch them.”
“You spoke earlier of justice. How do you hope to bring them to justice?”
“By seeking an
all-embracing justice. I’m going to go in as far as they will let me, and I’m going to learn anything I can. They are going to slip. They are going to give away something damning And when I have it, I’m going to bring their house tumbling down on their own heads. The ruin of that house will be awful indeed.”
Elijah could not shake off a feeling of dread.
Anna straightened her shoulders and looked around at the walls of the restaurant.
“I think I’ve had about all the orange velvet I can stand for one night. And wasn’t that the fourth time they ran through their canned music? One can listen to Goodbye Sorrento only so many times.”
He reached across the table and took her hand. “You are a very brave woman.”
She shrugged. “What time is it?”
“Nine-thirty”, he said.
“I don’t want to end the evening on this note. Why don’t we find a place to walk?”
They drove in his car back to the center of the city, parked near the college, and strolled toward the Tiber.
“I have just thought of one good thing about our reputed romance”, she said.
“What could that be?” he replied glumly. “We can play at spies and hope we’re being found out. It feeds the plot.”
“And what about real communication?”
“We must learn to read between the lines that are between the lines. There will be times like tonight when we can speak openly. In one way or another, I will let you know what’s happening. We’ve got a fine cover.”
“You must take extra pains to avoid giving yourself away in any manner”, he admonished.
“I will.”
“When we speak truthfully, we must be absolutely sure there are no bugs.”
“Of course. And when we play our charade we must try to appear as if we’re avoiding surveillance.”
“And fail at it.”
“Right. We’ll fail at it. Can you keep all this straight in your mind?”
“I think so.”
“If I discover anything definite, I’ll let you know via our fake love notes. I’ll say that I’ve found a priceless work of art and want your advice about purchasing it. Then we’ll have to find a way of meeting.”
She took his arm. “Don’t worry. It helps the charade.”
“I know. I was just appreciating it too much.”
He saw her smiling up at him under the light of a street lamp. She held his arm lightly, without possession or release.
“Listen, Anna, if you insist on throwing yourself into peril I want you to do a favor for me.”
“What is it?”
He fumbled in his coat pocket and removed a small brass reliquary. He opened it and showed her the contents.
“I want you to carry this with you wherever you go. It contains my greatest treasure.”
“A sliver of wood and a few beads?”
“I won’t tell you where the sliver comes from because you would not believe me. The beads are stained with the blood of holy woman. A martyr. Whatever happens, always remember that you are not alone.”
She took the reliquary and slipped it into her pocket.
“Do you promise?”
“I promise”, she said and turned away to face the night.
XVIII
Advent
The world news grew worse. Small wars broke out here and there. The media was full of the President’s valiant efforts to delay further violence. China was demanding the return of Taiwan. A cache of undeclared atomic weapons was discovered in Belarus by UN supervisors, fanning widespread fears that the former Soviet states were not abiding by the disarmament agreement and were an armed camp waiting to explode. El Salvador erupted in a bloody revolution. Mexico was in political chaos. The Japanese and American economic axis was once again destabilized by trade war. The papers regularly reported the decline of the Pope’s health and the endless rumors that he would soon resign or be declared incompetent by the college of cardinals. There was much conjecture about who would be the next Pope. Among the top contenders the media listed a new name: Cardinal Vettore.
Elijah watched and waited, taught his classes, and prayed.
On the Monday after the first Sunday of Advent he received a letter in a pink envelope. It had no return address but was postmarked from Paris. The thick vellum paper inside was tinted violet. The words were in Anna’s handwriting.
Dearest David,
I think of you at every waking moment. I had forgotten such happiness existed. When we were together I realized that you are restoring me to life.
Our love must remain a secret. Our reputations depend on it.
Maria
*
Dear Maria,
Life in Rome is bleak without you. I too had forgotten that such love still exists on this barren earth. I carry you like an icon in my heart.
With love eternal,
David
Elijah wrote the reply with feelings of uneasiness, but he reasoned that the words were not untrue. The invisible watchdogs could interpret it however they liked. He mailed it to her address in France.
A letter of another sort arrived a few days later. It was from Smith. He was in Regina Caeli prison, and he was in serious trouble. Would Elijah come to see him as soon as possible?
Because Elijah was a priest, the prison officials waived the usual restrictions. Ordinarily, he would have had to converse with Smith across a desk in the visitor’s room, where prisoners usually discussed their cases with family and lawyers, separated by a glass screen.
A guard conducted him to the interior of the complex and let him into Smith’s cell. Smith was seated on a bunk, staring at the window.
He got up slowly and went over to Elijah and embraced him.
“Father Smith, what has happened?”
Smith’s eyes were red, and his hair was dishevelled. “The continuing saga of one stupid cleric from Idaho. Stay tuned, it’s going to get worse.”
“Why are you here?”
“Why? Because the Lord has ordained that at last I’m to have a cell of my own. Like the desert Fathers”, he said waving his arms about, his mouth twisting bitterly. “Do you like the ambiance? Charming, isn’t it?”
Smith broke down and sobbed.
“I should have stayed in Boise and become a soybean broker like my brothers. Why did I ever become a priest!”
“What are they accusing you of?”
“Nothing much. A good old-fashioned crime, American as apple pie. Embezzlement or whatever the legal term is, I’m not really sure. The long and short of it is I’m being extradited back to the States for trial.”
“But how did this happen?”
“You mean, is it true? Of course it’s not true!”
Elijah put a hand on the shoulder of the priest. “I know that.”
“Well, that’s a relief! You’re the first person I’ve met in the longest time who doesn’t think a person’s guilty until proven innocent.”
“Who is accusing you?”
“The publisher of Catholic Times and the State of Illinois. They say that when I was editor of the paper I siphoned off funds for myself. Hundreds of thousands of bucks.”
“But as editor you would have had no control over money or accounts.”
“Right. But that doesn’t faze them a bit. They’ve concocted some lurid sex scandal between Mrs. Evans—the accountant—and myself. We were in cahoots, they say, planning to take off to a tropical paradise with the cash. They say we built ourselves a love nest there and were interrupted only because I was transferred to Rome.”
“Surely this will be cleared up in short order. There is no evidence.”
“Of course there’s no evidence! The whole thing’s a lie. But all that money is missing.”
“What does Mrs. Evans say?”
“She’s in shock. My lawyer talked to her yesterday, and he thinks she’s having some kind of nervous collapse because of what’s happening. She’s at home. They released her on bail.”
“Is there a possibility that she may have done something illegal?”
Smith fixed him with an incredulous look. “If you knew Gertrude Evans you’d know how crazy that is. She’s seventy-two years old and has about thirty grandchildren. As long as I’ve known her, she’s kept three perpetual novenas on the go. A purse full of scapulars and rosaries, daily communicant, never says a mean word about anyone, arthritis of the hip, saves stamps for the missions, and thinks Grace Kelly should be canonized.”
“Could she have had a moment of weakness?”
“Sure”, said Smith with a scowl. “Maybe that’s it. I did catch her knitting booties on company time once. There’s a criminal streak in her all right!”
“When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow.”
“What is the general’s reaction?”
“The general?” said Smith with a laugh. “My captain, my captain? Oh, we had a cozy little chat just before the police came. He asked me if I’d done it and of course I denied it. He replied that the people who are concerned about the case—that means the archbishop’s office, my provincial, and my silver-tongued replacement—have found some rather damning evidence. He suggested that my root problem is psychological and that if I’d just make a clean breast of everything, they might be able to keep me out of prison.”
“What would they do with you?”
“Psychotherapy. The order has offered to replace the missing money, which is nice of them, don’t you think?”
“Wouldn’t that indicate to the government that they believe you are guilty?”
“Uh-huh. But I don’t relish going to jail. A nice rehab center would be much better.”
“Would it?”
“I might like the antlers.”
“I don’t think you would.”
“No, I guess I wouldn’t”, said Smith rubbing his face. “You know, I don’t think I’d mind it so much if they hadn’t dragged Gertie into it. She’s given her life to that paper. She had such a simple faith in all of us. She could have gone to live with her daughter in California a long time ago, but she really believed in our work, suffered through those cold northern winters for the sake of it. If they’ve broken her heart, I’m going to thump the bastards.”
Father Elijah Page 44
