Exploding. I smiled and resisted the urge to shudder at the thought of rats. “So who owns all these cats?”
His thin shoulders rose in a faint shrug. “I suppose the city does, though it will not protect or feed them. That is the job of the gattara.” He bowed his head in an imitation of an almost courtly bow, and something in the gesture touched me.
“Gattara?” I tried the word out on my tongue and stumbled at the last syllable. Most Italian words that refer to men end in the masculine o, so if Signor Pace took care of the cats, he should have been a gattaro.
“Most of our volunteer cat people are elderly women,” he said, the hint of a smile acknowledging his success in reading my thoughts. “So the language recognizes this truth. More espresso?”
“No, grazie.” I held up my still-brimming cup, then took another sip, inwardly smiling at the thought that a man who apparently spent his life looking after strays had rescued me.
“God is good.” Signor Pace crossed his arms as he watched me drink. “The night is a very dangerous time to cross the street, very dangerous indeed—”
“Signor,” I interrupted, not wanting to hear another lecture on the dangers of nighttime street crossing. “Why do you believe in God?”
A glow rose in his face, as though my question had lit a candle within him. “Why believe in God?” he whispered, his voice fainter than air. “Signorina, he is my life and breath.”
I tilted my head. He spoke so fervently, he could be a pastor. I gestured at the building around us. “So this is your church.”
“It is Christ’s church,” he said, verbally underlining the word Christ. “I care for the building and the sheep of the Master’s flock.”
I lifted a brow, now reading a far deeper meaning into his previous answer. He was referring to the people of this church . . . who, judging by the plain and simple surroundings, were neither very numerous nor very wealthy.
“How many members have you?” I asked, wondering how a Baptist church could prosper in the shadow of the Vatican.
Signor Pace gave me an easy, relaxed smile with a good deal of confidence behind it. “All of them.” His eyes radiated joy and peace. “I am happy to say we have not lost a soul. God has called a few home, but for that we are always grateful.”
I crossed one arm across my middle and smiled at my new friend. He was an odd little man, but he certainly seemed confident of his role in the church . . . and he was sure to know more than I about spiritual matters.
“Signor Pace,” I said, placing my cup on the table, “do you mind if I ask a question? I need to know if God would ever curse a person.”
His abrupt intake of breath told me the question caught him by surprise. He leaned back for a moment, turned his head and looked away as if to consider another voice, then returned his gaze to me. “That is an odd question for a pretty signorina to ask,” he said, looking at me with a smile hidden deep in his eyes. “Was it this question that blinded you to the oncoming traffic?”
My mouth curved in a faint smile. “Probably.”
“Then we must find an answer so you will not be struck and killed tomorrow.” Lifting himself from his perch, he turned and walked into the pew, then sat down and turned halfway to face me, making himself comfortable. “You do not ask easy questions, signorina.”
A blush burned my cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
“Do not apologize. Questions that require digging for deep answers may reveal an unexpected treasure or two for the effort.” He paused a moment and shifted his gaze to the side window, a golden panel of textured glass. “Do you think God has cursed you?”
“No—not really.” I bit my lip, wondering how much of the truth I should tell. “A friend of mine believes God has cursed him. He once committed a great sin, and he thinks he must do something—make an exceptional sacrifice, I suppose—in order to make things right.”
“I see.” Signor Pace kept his gaze upon the window, and in his profile I could see the long, silken fringes that framed his eyes. “Your answer, signorina, is that God does not curse people—not as you and I would think of cursing. We are born under the curse of sin, and those who die without God are never released from that condition. But Christ, in his great mercy and love, died to free us from the bondage of sin. His love is not enslaving—it is liberating. His grace sets men free.”
He turned, his gray eyes blazing into mine with the most extraordinary expression of compassion. “Do you understand? Words are such crude tools when we attempt to explain the great gift of God . . .”
His voice drifted away, and in the ensuing silence I groped for understanding. And then, like unwelcome guests, Asher’s words came crowding back into my thoughts. “What about the fig tree?” I asked. “And the curse of creation? Didn’t God curse those things?”
Signor Pace lifted his hand and absently fluttered his fingers at me. “You must understand, signorina, God’s ‘curses’ are not the consequence of passion or spoken out of a desire for revenge. They are predictions. When God cursed creation and Jesus spoke to the barren fruit tree, they were predicting the negative consequences that would result from sin. Because man sinned, paradise was lost. Because the fig tree had no fruit buds, it could not live and produce. Both God and Christ recognized negative conditions; they did not impose them.”
“Still,” I whispered, recalling the story from some place in my childhood memory, “the fig tree withered.”
“Si. It did. But that was a miracle, a demonstration of Christ’s power to those who followed him.” Signor Pace tapped his fingers on the back of the pew in a meditative rhythm. “My daughter, why must you worry about such things? You are like a child, fretting about the color of the ribbon on a gift while not caring about the precious item beneath the bright wrapping. God’s grace is the gift, signorina. We can do nothing to earn or deserve it, but still God gives it to us.” He turned and leaned over the back of the pew, his outstretched hands outlining the shape of a box in the air. “The gift comes wrapped in forgiveness. If you accept the gift, you are forgiven, and God’s grace is yours. When you possess grace, you become like a beautiful lamp through whom God’s holiness and truth can shine out upon the world.”
I felt the corner of my mouth droop at the mention of the word holiness. I used to consider myself a moral person—as close to holiness as a human can come, I suppose—but then I walked into a career where I mingled with murderers and drug dealers and lawyers who redefined morality to suit their purposes. Things weren’t any better in Rome, even working for a humanitarian organization like Global Union. In my two months here I had spied on foreign ambassadors and relayed confidential information to men whose motives were definitely suspect. The lampshade of my life was clouded with soot, so the light of God’s holiness wouldn’t shine very brightly through me.
“I’m afraid”—I managed a choking laugh—“that I’m not very holy. I’m not sure God would want to give me any of his gifts.”
“And there you are wrong, my young friend. None of us are holy in ourselves. And if God would be gracious to me, he will be gracious to anyone.” For an instant the pastor’s gray eyes darkened and shone with an unpleasant light. “I do not share my story with many people, but I believe God would have me tell you the truth.”
His pupils dilated with intensity, and I forced a laugh, not certain I wanted to hear what would come next. I glanced over my shoulder; the door was only a few feet away. If I could come up with a good reason to exit, I might not have to hear this wizened old man’s confession. What great sin had he committed—jaywalking?
Pace’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Have you heard, signorina, of the Magliana gang?”
Awkwardly, I cleared my throat. “No, signor.”
He shrugged. “It is just as well. I am not proud of the things we used to do. The Magliana gang is the largest criminal organization in Rome. I believe they still control many of the city’s fences, moneylenders, drug pushers, and pimps. In ’77, I was one of several family
members—”
“Mafia?” The word burst from me in a gasp.
One corner of the reverend’s mouth drooped in a wry grimace. “As I was saying, in ’77, we kidnapped a Roman nobleman, Duke Massimiliano Grazioli, and held him captive for over a month, eventually extorting $2.5 million American from his family. Then, instead of returning the duke to his wife and children, we sold him to a Naples gang who tried to squeeze even more money from the man’s family. The family could not pay, and the Duke was murdered. We broke the code of honor. The family had paid—they deserved to have the Duke back, but someone in our family decided that honor meant nothing.”
I looked down at the floor, growing more uncomfortable by the minute. Why was he telling me these things? I wrapped my palm around my foam coffee cup, wondering how effective a weapon hot espresso might be if a pack of Italian Mafioso came through the doors.
“For the first time in my life,” Signor Pace continued, his voice drifting into a hushed whisper, “I felt guilty about an act I had committed. Despite warnings from my family, I went to the authorities and confessed to my part in the abduction scheme. My brother, my wife, and my children had to leave Rome. I served twenty years in prison and was released. Because I maintained my silence about my co-conspirators, the Magliana gang leaves me alone. And I am grateful to serve my Lord as caretaker of this church and the gatti—the cats.”
“So—your work is your penance?” At least this concept was familiar; I’d heard Asher voice the same sentiment at least a half-dozen times.
He gave me an indulgent smile, like a parent amused by the thoughts of a child. “This work is my offering. It cannot save me, but it might lead to the salvation of others. While I was in prison, you see, a minister shared the gospel of Jesus Christ, and I accepted the gift of grace. My salvation rests upon what Christ did two thousand years ago at Calvary.”
Two thousand years ago . . . I closed my eyes as my mind traveled back to the day Asher rose up in pride and struck the face of God. He had been doing penance ever since that dark day, and yet he had never found the peace I saw in the lined face of this elderly ex-convict.
Vittorio Pace. A man of peace.
“Thank you, Reverend Pace. I shall never forget your story.” I stood and brushed the wrinkles from my damp skirt, then gave him a formal smile. “You are a most remarkable man.”
“Call me Vittorio, please. Everyone else does.” For an instant, a measure of wistfulness stole into his expression. “I did not tell you the truth to earn your praise, signorina. Will you think about what I have said?”
I nodded, trying to maintain a measure of dignity as I reached for my purse. “I owe you my thanks, Vittorio. Can I make a contribution to your church?”
He rose from the pew, shaking his head. “You are still confused, signorina. God does not want an offering from you . . . until you have accepted the gift he offers. He longs to give you freedom. He longs to tell you there is no condemnation and no curse for those who belong to Christ Jesus.”
Something in his gentle smile cut me, spreading an infection of doubt. Hesitating, I nearly sat down again, but I was so tired my nerves throbbed. Besides, if I wanted a theological discussion, I could always provoke Asher into another argument.
Smiling my thanks to my diminutive hero, I pushed the door open and walked out to the busy street.
A note from Signora Donatelli hung on my door when I returned. “Please find me,” it said, and as I pulled the sticky note from the door, I wondered what sort of emergency could require my presence. Had Global Union failed to make one of the weekly payments for my residenza? Or had one of her twins broken something in my room?
I crossed the tiled hallway and knocked at the heavy wooden door that led to the Donatelli family’s private corners. I heard the protest of a chair as it scraped across the floor, then a little round face with a pair of too-big teeth peered up at me through a crack in the doorway. “Mama! La signorina!”
He—either Mario or Marco, I couldn’t tell which—left the door open, and the warm scents of tomato sauce and herbs wafted out to greet me. I crossed one arm across my belt and silently hoped my landlady’s note had resulted from an overabundance of pasta. Maybe she’d offer me a bowl, then send me up to bed. The experiences of the day had drained me, and I wanted nothing more than to fill my rumbling stomach and then crawl between her stiff sheets. I was ready to close my eyes to thoughts of Rome and Asher and events of the past two thousand years . . .
I think my countenance fell when Benedetta appeared in the doorway with only a yellow envelope in her hand. She pinched her lower lip with her teeth in a worried expression, then handed me the letter with all the gravity of a military general exchanging his command.
Not a letter—a telegram. From New York.
I thanked Benedetta, then took a step back to the wall as I ripped the envelope open. The message inside was brief:
Kirsten in accident; lost the baby. Thoughts and prayers appreciated.
Sean
Like a slippery snake, grief rippled through my churning stomach, swimming up my throat and almost surging into my mouth. I choked it down, crumpling the featherweight yellow page as my hand contracted into a fist.
Through my peripheral vision I saw Benedetta and her son staring at me even as my eyes clouded with tears. Benedetta said something in Italian, but my benumbed brain refused to decipher the words.
I nodded, not having the faintest idea why, and moved toward my room on legs that suddenly felt as though they belonged to someone else. After unlocking my door, I dropped my purse and the wadded page onto the table, then moved to the bed.
I should have been with my sister. Though some feeble voice in my brain kept repeating that I couldn’t have prevented the accident, a stronger voice insisted that everything would have been different if I had been home. If you drop a pebble into a pond, every part of the pond experiences the ripple, and things would definitely have been different if I had been in New York. She might not have been driving; she might have even been with me. A woman eight months pregnant had no business behind the wheel of a car, anyway. Why wasn’t Sean driving?
I moved toward my laptop and pressed the power button, then plugged the modem into the telephone switch and waited for it to complete the Internet connection. E-mail was faster than a telegram, but I had been away from the computer all day. Sean must have tried to contact me and then called Western Union only when I didn’t respond via computer . . .
I winced at the sight of a message in my mailbox, then clicked on it. Sean had signed on using Kirsten’s screen name, but here, at least, were the details I sought:
Claudia—
I’m so sorry to tell you that Kirsten was injured in a car accident last night. She was on her way to pick me up at the train station when some idiot ran a red light and hit her. Travis is fine, thank God, but Kirsten was pretty banged up. She’s fine, except for some bruises, but the trauma sent her into labor. The baby would have been fine, if a bit small, but he wasn’t in the correct position for birth, and the umbilical cord somehow wrapped around his neck.
He was beautiful . . . and I’m pretty sure we’ll bury him next to your parents.
Kirsten is upset, of course, and she wanted me to contact you. She’s at Southampton Hospital and will be there for at least a few more days. Call if you can—I know she’d appreciate hearing from you.
Sean
I turned to the telephone and mentally clicked the time difference off on my fingers. It was two in the afternoon in New York, so the hospital should be accepting telephone calls. Sure enough, when I finally got through I was transferred to Kirsten’s room immediately. Sean answered. We spoke for a moment, I thanked him for the telegram and the message, then he handed the phone to Kirsten.
I didn’t know what to say to her, but right after I said hello, she burst into tears. I made soothing sounds and quiet clucking noises, and she finally calmed down. I told her I was sorry, I said I wished I’d been there, and s
he said I shouldn’t blame myself, it was a freak accident. We wept together, and then Kirsten mumbled something about not coming home on her account.
“But I want to.”
“No. There’s nothing you can do, and I don’t want to get in the way of your work. Stay where you are, Claude. When you’ve made your mark on the world, then you can come home. Until then, at least—”
She fell silent, and I knew she had choked on her emotion. “At least what, K?”
The answer came in a hoarse whisper: “Sean’s here.”
Fresh tears stung my eyes as I grasped her meaning. Sean was with her. It had taken a tragedy to pull him away from his practice, but if he was with her in the middle of a weekday, he had canceled appointments and reordered his universe to be there.
Good.
I told her I loved her, she said the same, then we hung up.
I don’t know how long I sat there staring at the phone and drowning in a sea of conflicting emotions. Part of me wanted to be away on the next flight, but the pragmatic voice that ruled my days said, Stay, there’s nothing you can do. I couldn’t ease Kirsten’s pain, nor could I bring that beautiful baby back.
I hunched forward, feeling myself compressed into an ever-shrinking space between the weight of my sister’s grief and my own ambition. What should I do? Emotion-driven Asher would probably tell me to go; practical Maura Casale would advise me to stay. And Kurt, though he’d be quick to acknowledge the emotions involved, would say Kirsten would grieve until she healed and nothing I could say or do would speed that process.
Slowly, I stretched out on the bed, burrowing into the heavy feather pillow. Asher would undoubtedly pray about the decision. And then, no matter what happened, he’d say it was God’s will.
Maybe I should do the same.
My heart was squeezed so tight I could barely draw breath to speak, but I hugged the pillow to me and forced the words out: “God, if you’re there, show me what to do. Make the way clear for me, please.”
The Immortal Page 28
