The Last Pope

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  The plane seemed to land normally, just the usual rattles and jolts. In about twenty minutes they would be deplaning, but the passengers were already jostling to collect their belongings first and get out.

  “We have just landed at Heathrow. The temperature in London is twenty degrees centigrade. Please remain seated with your seat belts fastened until the plane has come to a complete stop, and . . . we wish to thank you for choosing to travel with us,” the flight attendant trailed off mechanically. No more than two or three people were listening, certainly not Sarah, so used to flying, not only on her trips to Portugal but also to other destinations, in her job as a London correspondent for one of the largest international news agencies. It was a convenient and interesting career for foreigners, getting paid for simply bringing news from their hometowns. She still had two days of vacation left before having to get back to the newsroom, to the daily flow of news and the never-ending search for sensational events.

  The plane finally stopped, and as the passengers hurried to leave, she got her carry-on and handbag. Going down the aisle, she called her parents to let them know she’d arrived safely, and that she would call them later. She trekked through the long carpeted halls, decorated in green and black, and stood in line for customs. Citizens of the European Community, Switzerland, and the United States on one side, other nationalities on the other, all ready with their passports or equivalent documents. Sarah was waiting dutifully behind the yellow line so as not to disturb the spectacled man ahead of her, nor pressure the customs officer at the booth.

  “Next, please.” He didn’t sound friendly at all. She could have chosen another window. The female officer in the next booth looked much nicer. Too late now.

  Sarah held out her passport with her best smile, and he looked at it.

  “It’s nice to be back. How’s the weather been?” she asked, hoping to smooth out the situation.

  “You can’t see the weather from in here,” the officer grunted, sounding even surlier. He had probably gotten up on the wrong side of the bed, or maybe had had an argument with his wife, if he had one. “There seems to be something wrong with your passport.”

  “Something wrong? I can show you my ID, if you wish. I’ve never had a problem with my passport.”

  “Could be a system error.”

  The ill-tempered officer’s name was Horatio, according to the tag on his uniform. The phone on the counter rang. “Yes, but there is something wrong with the passport.” He listened for a few moments more and then hung up.

  “Everything seems to be in order now. You can go.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  The unpleasant attitude of the man had put Sarah’s nerves on edge. Now all she needed was to find a taxi driver just like him to top off her less than smooth arrival. But first she had to claim her baggage, so all in all it would be about an hour before she got home, assuming her luggage wasn’t lost.

  IN A SECURITY OFFICE elsewhere in the airport, while Sarah dealt with the customs officer, an alarm had flickered on a computer. A young officer in his twenties responded to the routine alarm. The stripes on the shoulders of his white uniform shirt indicated his rank as a security officer. He was trying to determine the source of the flickering red alarm. Probably it was a false or expired passport, or maybe just one in bad condition. He carefully observed the image on the security camera: a beautiful woman, thirtyish, facing window 11, the one manned by Horatio—a very meticulous, dull widower for whom everything had to be in perfect order. Still, he had to notify his superior.

  “Sir.”

  A fiftyish man, graying at the temples, came in and leaned over the computer screen.

  “Let me see.” He glanced at the information, typed something in, and new details appeared. The name Sarah Monteiro and other data scrolled by very fast. “Don’t worry, John. I’ll take care of this.” Picking up the phone, he called Horatio. “It’s Steve. Let her go. Yes, don’t worry, let her go. Everything is in order.” Still holding the handset, he called another number. “She just came in.”

  WELL, THINGS WERE NOT going too badly, after all. In barely half an hour she was already in a taxi, leaving Terminal 2, on her way home.

  “Belgrave Road, please,” she told the driver. In another half hour, maybe forty-five minutes, depending on traffic, she would be soaking in a very welcome bubble bath, almost overflowing her tub. She was thinking of a soothing combination of strawberry and vanilla, an effervescent mix that would relax her muscles and bring peace to her spirit.

  The taxi went around Victoria Station, overcrowded as usual, and continued on Belgrave. The street, lined with cheap hotels and busy sidewalks, was very London. A porch supported by two columns, some plain and others a Corinthian imitation, depending on the taste of the architect, or owner, fronted most of the houses. With exposed red bricks or a new coat of paint, these Victorian houses were at least a hundred years old but very well kept.

  The taxi was approaching her home at the corner of her block when it had to brake suddenly. Sarah almost bumped her head against the glass separating driver from passengers. A black car with tinted windows had passed them, then abruptly cut in and stopped. The taxi driver honked hard, in a rage.

  “Get the fuck out of the way!” he shouted. The driver in the car ahead of them lowered his window, stuck his head out, and hollered, “Sorry, mate,” and sped away. Seconds later the taxi stopped in front of Sarah’s house, and the driver graciously took care of her luggage. Inside she found a mountain of mail strewn on the floor. Postcards from colleagues, the inevitable bills to pay, junk mail of all kinds and sizes, and some mail she didn’t feel like opening then. She took her suitcase to her bedroom on the second floor, went into the bathroom to fill her tub, and changed into something more comfortable. She was finally home. In two minutes she was enjoying her honey-scented bubble bath; she was out of vanilla, but the result was equally soothing—relaxing. She had already forgotten the surly customs officer at the airport, and the disturbing incident in the taxi. Downstairs by the entryway, in the midst of the scattered correspondence, was an envelope clearly displaying the sender’s name: Valdemar Firenzi.

  5

  A lot could be said about the painting this man was contemplating. Infanta Margarita, a very young Spanish princess, was in the center, flanked in the right foreground by Isabel Velasco and Agustina Sarmiento, the two dwarfs, and María Bárbola and Nicolás Pertusato, with his foot on a dozing mastiff. In the dark background, Doña Marcela de Ulloa was with an unidentified man—something unusual, because the artists of that period didn’t usually include anonymous faces in their canvases. Everything had its meaning, and since he wasn’t a known figure, the artist, who had included his own self-portrait on the left, must have wanted it that way. This artist had held his post for life, painting the illustrious figures of Don Felipe IV and Doña Mariana, who were reflected in the mirror at the back. Only because of that mirror could one see the whole scene in the painting, since his canvas faced away from the viewer. The queen’s chamberlain, Don José Nieto Velázquez, was standing by the back door. It was a magnificent painting, no doubt, but the man of advanced age looking at it was of greater interest at the moment. Though it was almost closing time at the Prado in Madrid, the man in gallery three seemed unaware of this and kept looking, almost without blinking, at one of the museum’s jewels, Las Meninas, the famous masterpiece by Diego Velázquez.

  “Sir, the museum is closing. Please walk toward the exit,” a young guard advised. He was meticulous and needed to make sure that his polite suggestion was being followed. He had seen that man almost every day in the museum, in this same gallery, and always looking at the same painting, hour after hour, while tourists kept strolling by. It was almost like one picture looking into another.

  “Have you ever looked carefully at this painting?” the man asked.

  The guard glanced around and, seeing no one, said, “Are you talking to me?”

  The man kept gazing intently at the
painting. “Have you ever looked carefully at this painting?” he repeated.

  “Of course. This painting is to this museum like the Mona Lisa is to the Louvre.”

  “Nonsense. Tell me what you see.”

  The guard felt intimidated. He had gone past this painting every day, aware of its importance but never knowing why. He was so used to it, like his own street, that he had taken it for granted and not really looked at it. Anyway, it was time to close the museum, and what counted now was getting this man out of there and making his last round so that he could go home. And after that he still had at least half an hour of travel.

  “Sir, you cannot stay any longer, the museum is now closed,” he said more firmly, but still politely. The man seemed hypnotized by the Velázquez painting, which was pretty enough, the guard thought, though he could add little to that. He studied the elderly man more intently, and noticed his left hand was trembling. A tear was running down the right side of his face. It might be best not to antagonize him and instead say something innocuous.

  “It is a beautiful painting, Las Meninas.”

  “Do you know who the meninas were?”

  “Those girls in the painting.”

  “The meninas are the two women on either side of the Infanta Margarita.

  Meninas is the Portuguese word the royal family used for the princess’s nannies.”

  “Well, there is always something to be learned.”

  “The artist on the left is the same painter who did this—he expected the nannies to convince the child princess to pose for him. As you can see in the image in the mirror, King Don Felipe and Queen Doña Mariana had already done their part. They brought the dwarfs and the dog to try to convince the infanta, but the princess didn’t feel like it, and the painting as planned was never done.”

  “Excuse me, sir, but it was. It’s there in front of us.”

  “I’m referring to the intended painting, as the image in the mirror suggests.”

  “Maybe you’re right, but the painting exists, and it’s done.”

  “I mean that the painting inside the painting was never finished.”

  “Well, if you look at it that way, you might be right.”

  “Just notice how a simple child’s tantrum changed the course of things by not allowing the completion of a family picture.”

  “It allowed another picture, a much better one, to be painted.”

  “Perhaps. The thing is that a decision at a particular time could affect a work, or a whole life, a whole personal behavior, a whole—”

  The man began coughing, and would have fallen were it not for the quick reflexes of the guard, who caught him. As best he could, he helped the man sit on the floor.

  “I’m thirsty,” the man explained in a hoarse voice.

  “I’ll go get some water.”

  The guard of the Prado’s gallery three left in a rush. The elderly man, still leaning against the wall, took a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket, a crumpled letter. He placed it on the floor beside him. Next to it he put a picture of Pope Benedict XVI.

  The water fountain was some distance away and the guard couldn’t return as quickly as expected. He had called another guard for help. When he finally got back, carefully carrying a glass of water, there was no one in the room but the sick man still on the floor, in the same position. The guard crouched down and saw that the man was not as he had left him. The elderly man sat motionless, eyes wide open. He was dead. The young man jumped up, startled, and called for help on his radio. Summoning all his strength, he took a closer look at the man—whose eyes were still fixed on the painting he had been looking at for hours.

  6

  The Plaza de Mayo in Buenos Aires was the center of historical protests for the Argentine people. Both the Casa Rosada, the president’s house, and the Metropolitan Cathedral stood facing it. From its columns, a young man burst into the spacious nave, running as fast as he could.

  He was panting and covered with sweat after his mad rush from the residence of the parish priest, Padre Pablo—a simple enough name for a priest who didn’t particularly wish to be identified. At that moment, the cathedral was closed to the public, but the priest knelt at the foot of the altar, hands joined in prayer.

  Then he noticed the young man, who usually stood back a few steps, waiting for the priest to finish his prayers. On this occasion there didn’t seem to be enough time.

  After crossing himself, the parish priest got up and turned to the youth.

  “What’s wrong, son? Were you looking for me? Did something happen?”

  “No, padre. A man . . . knocked on your door . . . looking for you.”

  Padre Pablo noticed how flushed the young man was.

  “Manuel, you’re dripping with sweat. Did you run all the way here?”

  “Yes, padre.”

  The aging priest put his hand on his visitor’s arm.

  “Come sit with me. Calm down, and tell me what happened. Who was this man? What did he do to get you in such a state?”

  “I don’t know him. He seemed to be from Europe, Eastern Europe.”

  The priest became agitated, as if suddenly remembering something, and then he, too, started to perspire.

  “What did he want from me?”

  “To see you right away. I told him that was impossible. Then he said that everything was possible in the eyes of the Lord. But the worst thing was—”

  “The worst—did he do anything to harm you?”

  “No, padre, but I could tell he was bad.” Then, lowering his voice, he added, “He had a gun.”

  Pablo wiped the perspiration off his brow with his handkerchief. He closed his eyes and remained quiet for a few moments, without saying a word. He opened them again, and in an exercise of self-control, slowed his breath. “What did you tell him?”

  “That you’d gone to the hospital to visit a friend.”

  “Why did you lie, Manuel?”

  “Forgive me, Padre Pablo, but I couldn’t think of anything else. The man looked evil—he had a tattoo on his left arm, of a serpent.”

  “Did he try to get into my house?”

  The boy, still upset, hesitated before answering. A gun was not something he saw every day, much less when talking to a complete stranger.

  “No, padre,” he said finally.

  “It’s okay, Manuel. Go back and take care of your things.”

  Now calmer, the young man stood up, kissed the priest’s hand, and walked to the center aisle, crossing himself.

  “Manuel . . .”

  ”Yes, Padre Pablo?”

  “Did you see that man again on your way here?”

  “No, no. I was so upset that as soon as he left, I came to tell you. I didn’t see anything and didn’t look. I started running like crazy.”

  “Fine, Manuel. You may go. God bless you, and keep your faith in Him.”

  Father Pablo quietly knelt and started praying devotedly even before the boy had gone.

  He heard footsteps, not the boy’s, but someone else’s, someone with a decisive stride. Padre Pablo felt something on his shoulder, but rather than a hand, it was cold metal.

  “I was expecting you,” the priest said.

  “I’m not surprised. Some people have very strong instincts. Were you expecting something in particular?”

  Padre Pablo crossed himself and got up, eyes fixed on the man. “My future is in God’s hands, the same as yours and everybody else’s. What is mine is well kept, don’t you worry. You didn’t come to give me anything that wasn’t already rightfully mine.”

  “Maybe I came to take something away.”

  “That would depend on how each of us sees things.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Buenos Aires, New York, Paris, Madrid, Warsaw, Geneva. There are so many places in the world.”

  There was a pop, and the priest tumbled over the pews. The man with the serpent tattoo was the same one seen in Rome, with a foreign accent, probably from Eastern Eur
ope. He stood closer to Padre Pablo, who was bleeding profusely from his right side and trying to cover his wound with a bloody hand.

  “God is not here to save you, my dear sir. You’d be better off telling me where they are.”

  “God has saved me already. You will never find them.”

  The man leaned over Padre Pablo and spoke in a confidential tone .“You know, padre, an assistant is good precisely because he helps do what one has to do, such as finding things. The most inexperienced and anxious are best. You can’t imagine the amount of information they are able to gather. I didn’t find them and I know you’re not going to tell me where they are, but with a clue here and another there, a letter, a note, an e-mail, a photo . . .”

  The dice were cast for a new game, one in which the priest would not take part, since he was about to abandon all games. Padre Pablo could only hope that the man with the serpent tattoo on his wrist knew a good deal less than he pretended to.

  Showing the priest a photo, the man said, “I’m sure he’ll be more willing to cooperate. I’ll give him your regards.” Then he fired a second shot, this time to the head. He calmly walked to the center aisle, crossed himself, and left by a side door.

  7

  It was always a joy to come back, even if only for a couple of days, and to breathe the Baltic Sea’s salt air, which wafted over the city God had chosen for his birth. Coming to this part of the world was like an omen, an unmistakable sign of the importance of the mission entrusted to him. He walked around the familiar streets of Gdansk, Poland’s economic center and the cradle of the famous Solidarity movement. He had always known a great mission awaited him, and he was right. When he was on Chmielna Street six years before, it had been confirmed by a phone call in the middle of the night. Now, going past the small apartment where he had grown up and spent his early adult life, he remembered his parents, who died when he was young. It was all a divine design, completing the circle of perfection he admired so much. The phone call didn’t happen by chance—nothing ever did—but by specific providential design. This was the first time in six years that he had been back in Gdansk and seen the Wisła again. The Master had asked him to wait there for the next stage of the plan, and the Master always knew what he was doing. He was one of the Illuminati, a saint guarding the higher interests of the Holy Trinity on Earth.