by Sam Cabot
Er pollarolo co’ la frebre se scopre e prega. Lei fa miracoli.
S’appiccia ’na cannula, se fanno cappelle e cori
de marmo barocco. Li giardinieri, i vinajjoli,
li mercanti, ricopreno ’sto paradiso d’ori.
Ma cqui, non tutti l’alati spiccano voli.
The fevered farmer uncloaks, prays. She cures.
A lamp is lit and tended, chapels built,
baroque and marble. Vintners, gardeners,
and merchants gild this Eden to the hilt.
But here, not all the winged creatures soar.
Below, the five block letters:
T N A M A
“Amante,” Thomas said. “If you add that other e. If it were Italian it would be ‘lover.’ . . .”
“But the rest makes no sense if it’s Italian.” Livia concentrated on the page. “In Latin it’s ‘loving,’ or depending on what comes next, ‘being loved.’ The eam would imply there’s a feminine object in the sentence somewhere.” She thought for a moment, then took her cell phone out.
“Livia,” came Spencer’s dry voice. “A joy to hear from you. How are you progressing?”
“Damiani’s poems are leading us from church to church,” Livia told him. “We’re in San Francesco a Ripa now.” That Jonah had also been here, and that she’d made no move to try to stop him from leaving, she didn’t add.
“Ah, Mario.”
“And there’s another thing. Each poem we’ve found has five penciled letters on it. They seem to form some sort of puzzle, maybe an acrostic, reading back to front and bottom to top. In Latin.”
Spencer laughed. “I don’t mind admitting to you that he was, occasionally, a trial to live with.”
“I can believe it. The words we have so far are amante eam aedificavit. Do you have any idea what that means?”
‘Loving it, built’ . . . Feminine form . . . Nothing comes to mind, no.”
“Or, stretching, ‘being loved, built.’ Did you ever build anything together? Or did you build something for him?”
“Livia, I rarely built him a sandwich. And though I’d readily agree I’m no Neanderthal, I’m hardly a woman. I suppose it might refer to an earlier lover, but I don’t know who that might have been. If he was ever inclined toward your fair sex, I’m unaware of it.”
“All right, it was a long shot. There’s at least one more church to go. Maybe we’ll figure it out there.”
“Call me if you need me. What’s the next church?”
“We don’t know yet. These poems aren’t easy to translate.”
“I imagine not. Livia, take care. I’ve just had a visit from an adorable Gendarme, the same gentleman whose acquaintance you made earlier today. Apparently the narrative of an international art-theft ring has developed a galloping momentum among the forces of the law, and you and your priest have been elevated to leadership positions in this criminal circle. There’s some possibility this fascinating theory can be turned to your advantage, but for now I’d recommend looking over your shoulder at all times.”
Livia thanked Spencer for his warning and pocketed the phone.
“He’s no help?” Thomas asked.
“No. But while we were talking I had a thought.” She pointed to the poem. “‘Vintners, gardeners, and merchants.’ If you were heading from here to the river, one way to go would take you by Santa Maria dell’Orto. It was a guild church—an Arciconfraternita that incorporated guilds of small-holding farmers, livestock breeders, and wine sellers. Could that—?”
“Yes!” Thomas interrupted with a shout. With a guilty look he dropped his voice. “‘She cures’! That church—it was founded on the site of a miracle. The Blessed Virgin appeared and cured a dying farmer.”
“All right.” Livia folded the poem back into her bag. “Come on, let’s get out of here before someone wants to know what we’re up to in Saint Francis’s cell.”
Pretending she hadn’t seen him blush, Livia started down the stone steps. Thomas followed.
“The winged creatures,” he whispered as they made their way to the back of the church. “The ones that don’t soar. More bees?”
From the shadows just inside the door Livia peered out onto the piazza. No Carabinieri. She gestured to Thomas and trotted down the steps, quick-walking away down the street to the right. “Not more bees,” she said as he hurried to catch up with her. “A turkey.”
74
Thomas stood beside Livia in a recessed doorway on Via Anicia. Across the street the deepening afternoon had already cast the Baroque façade of Santa Maria dell’Orto into shadow, silhouetting the pyramidal obelisks on its roofline against an intense blue sky. The pace they’d maintained on the way here had been fast, Thomas too intent on breathing to speak; but now that they were staring across at this façade, he said to her, “The turkey’s a New World bird. You don’t have those in Italy.”
“We do. In there. It’s enormous. Condor-size. The guilds that made up the Arciconfraternita used to compete to make the most impressive donations. The poultry guild trumped everyone when it presented a robing cabinet for the sacristy with a giant turkey on it, to commemorate the arrival in Italy of the first pairs of turkeys for breeding purposes.” She added, “They didn’t catch on.”
“You know,” Thomas said, gazing across the street, “you sound just like me.”
She grinned. “That’s not a good thing, I take it?”
“No. You’ve seen this turkey?”
“My first area of specialization was representations of the New World in European art.”
So, thought Thomas. I was in Boston studying your world while you were here, studying mine. But no, not “while”: Livia’s studies had been decades earlier. And he might have been studying Italy, but in no way had he been studying her world.
He realized she was waiting for him to speak. “The turkey’s on the robing cabinet?” he managed.
“‘The fevered farmer uncloaks.’ That’s bound to be it.”
“All right, I’m convinced. So, how will we get in? Can you pick a lock that big?”
“As a matter of fact, no. I’d need heftier tools. I’m impressed you know that.”
“I had a cousin,” Thomas said.
“I’d like to hear about him.”
“Her.”
“Even more. But as for getting in, it shouldn’t be a problem. It’s open until six.”
“Open? Santa Maria dell’Orto? It’s been closed to the public for years. I’ve never been inside, any of the times I’ve been in Rome.”
“It’s not only open now, it’s in use. It was restored a few years ago. Saved by the Japanese.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Japanese Catholic expats. They’ve made it their home church. They—” She stopped as the church doors swung wide. A portly priest with wavy white hair came to stand in the doorway, dressed in his vestments for Mass, ready to greet and chat with worshippers as they filed out. About two dozen did, all of them Asian.
“Well, thank you, Japan,” Thomas said, then froze at the unexpected echo of Lorenzo’s voice. The future of the Church lies in Africa. In Latin America. In Asia! Do you know why? Because they believe.
“Thomas? Are you all right?”
“I— What? Yes, I’m fine.” Thomas shook off the picture in his mind, Lorenzo’s sharp, determined face, his ornate office, his hand gesturing with the ever-present cigar.
“I’m fine. But look—we may have a problem.”
He pointed across the street, where the priest stood on the pavement chatting with the last of the parishioners.
“What’s that?”
“They’ve just finished Mass. As soon as everyone’s gone the priest will be heading back to the sacristy. He’ll disrobe. Maybe there’s even a sacristan, in which case they’ll probably chat. Unless he’s
in a hurry to get somewhere, it could take a while before the sacristy’s empty.”
Livia said nothing, but he felt her eyes on him. He looked over at her. “What?”
“Nothing. I was giving you space. You look like a man with a plan.”
Slowly, he nodded. “Do you know where the sacristy is?”
“Left of the altar.”
“All right,” Thomas said. They watched as the priest took the hand of an old woman, the last of the worshippers to leave the church. “I’ll distract him. You wander around as though you’re looking at the church while you wait for me, then head back there. I’ll buy you as much time as I can.”
“What are you—” Livia began, but the old woman started down the street and the priest turned to head back into Santa Maria dell’Orto.
“Let’s go,” Thomas said, and stepped from the doorway into the street. “Father?” he called in soft Italian as he approached.
The priest turned, his round face open, waiting.
“Buonasera, Father. I’m Thomas—O’Brien. Father Thomas O’Brien, SJ. From Boston.”
The two men shook hands as the white-haired priest said, “Well, all the way from Boston? A pleasure, Father O’Brien. Marcello Franconi. I was in Boston, oh, ten years ago now. For a conference. A beautiful city.”
“It is, but nothing compares to Rome.”
Father Franconi smiled almost ruefully, as a kind parent would who can’t deny that his child is the most extraordinary in town but doesn’t want to embarrass the parents of lesser children.
“This is my friend,” Thomas went on. “Ellen Bird. She’s a painter.”
“Signora Bird.”
“Father.” Livia shook the priest’s hand. In Italian more American-accented than Thomas’s, she said, “I’m from New York, but I’ve been living in Rome for many years.”
“I came over to see her,” Thomas said. “To visit. Father, I—I’m glad I saw you here. I want you to hear my confession.”
Father Franconi’s face registered mild surprise. He looked from Thomas to Livia, and in his eyes a new light dawned. “Of course, my son.”
“Thank you. A priest’s work is never done, is it?”
“Until we’ve all attained the Kingdom of Heaven, I suppose it never will be. Please, come this way.” They entered the church, Thomas and Father Franconi making use of the holy water font. Father Franconi closed the doors behind them. “Signora Bird, make yourself comfortable while you wait. You’re a painter? You’re welcome to view the church. You might find a few things of interest. We have some fine Zuccari frescoes. Father O’Brien, please come this way.”
An old Asian man sat waiting near the altar. Father Franconi called across the church to him in Japanese. The old man answered, then, at Father Franconi’s response, smiled and bowed. He headed for the door as Father Franconi said to Thomas, “We don’t have the budget for a sacristan but Kaoru’s retired and he enjoys helping. Actually he’s invaluable. I just told him to go home, though. If I can’t get out of these by myself by now, I never should have been wearing them in the first place.”
He led Thomas to a confessional to the right of the church doors. That was good: as far from the sacristy as they could get. They entered, Thomas kneeling on the penitent’s side this time, not sitting on the confessor’s.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“How long has it been since your last confession?”
Thomas thought. Yesterday; but that was a lifetime ago. That was a different man. This Thomas Kelly, the one who stole books and consorted with vampires, who unsealed reliquaries and climbed Berninis, who knew his friend had been hiding a world-shattering truth from him for decades and his Church had been double-dealing for six hundred years—this Thomas Kelly had never been to confession.
“Father O’Brien?” came Father Franconi’s quiet voice through the screen.
Right. Father Kelly wasn’t confessing this afternoon. Father O’Brien was, and he could say anything he wanted. He could make stuff up. “Three days.”
Father Franconi said nothing, waiting for Thomas to explain what had driven him into the confessional at Santa Maria dell’Orto all the way from Boston.
Thomas had to speak. He opened his mouth, unsure what he was going to say, something to buy Livia time. What he heard, in his own voice, was, “Lust, Father. I’ve been—experiencing lust.” Wait. This was just a diversion. Father O’Brien was supposed to be making stuff up.
“Your friend,” Father Franconi said. “Signora Bird.” Not phrased as a question, but not an accusation, either.
“Yes.”
“Have you acted upon these feelings?”
“No. No. I haven’t touched her. She says it’s natural, it’s not my fault, but—” But she’s a vampire, so what does she know?
“She’s aware of your feelings for her, then?”
“I didn’t tell her, but she knows.”
“Well, she’s a wise woman. Of course it’s natural. The Lord places temptation in our path so we can have the privilege of overcoming it. If you haven’t acted on your feelings you’re well on your way to defeating them.”
“But I . . .” Thomas stopped, unclear on what he’d been about to say.
“But you still feel bad. Especially that you came all the way to Rome.”
Bad that I came to Rome isn’t the half of it. “Yes, Father.”
“‘I should have known better,’ you’re thinking. ‘I should have stayed home. What was I expecting?’ Is that it?”
I know what I was expecting. I was expecting to be of service to my friend and my Church. “Pretty much.”
“But something called you here.”
A friendship based on a shocking and enormous lie. “Yes.”
“Has it occurred to you that what you’re experiencing right now is part of God’s purpose for you?”
“I don’t see how, Father.”
“You’re doubting yourself. Your vocation. The need for priestly celibacy. You’re thinking, in a different world—perhaps a better world—you might be able to serve your Church and yield to this temptation, also.”
Actually, I’m thinking I might as well yield to it, since I don’t see any possible way—or reason—to go on serving my Church. Thomas didn’t speak. Father Franconi waited, then went on.
“The Lord knows what you’re going through, Father O’Brien. Do you think he doesn’t see you struggle? Yes, the vows you took were written by men. Poverty, chastity, obedience. They might as easily have been self-improvement, fecundity, and silliness.” At the surprise of that, Thomas laughed. “Very good, Father O’Brien. You haven’t lost your sense of perspective. Here’s my point: they might as easily have been, but they weren’t. And when you took your vows, it wasn’t to the men who wrote them that you dedicated yourself. It was to God. You promised God you’d live your life in a certain way. He was pleased to receive your vows, and he stands ready to help you live up to them. This is not about what should be or could be. It’s about what is.”
Again, Thomas didn’t answer, this time for a completely different reason. He couldn’t. He was thinking: God knew. About the Noantri, about the Church’s perfidy. Of course he did. Some would say, and permitted it? but Thomas was unconcerned on that score. As Father Franconi had said, we make our own choices; God gives us that privilege. The point was, whatever God’s unknowable plan for the Universe, the Noantri were part of it. Part of it because the devil had sent them to test the faithful, or part of it for some other purpose: it didn’t matter. What the Church said and did about their existence might be at odds with reality, even at odds with God’s intentions, but if there was anything a Jesuit was prepared for it was living with, investigating, even celebrating, that very contradiction.
Another thing Father Franconi had said: Thomas’s vows had been made to God. Not to the Church
. How simple. How basic. As long as he was a priest he’d keep his vows. His relationship to the Church, and therefore to the priesthood, once all this was over, was a different question. He didn’t have to negotiate that path now. That thought filled him with a relief so profound it was like the cessation of pain.
“Of course,” he said. “The struggle’s the whole point, isn’t it, Father?”
“Well, I don’t think God’s especially pleased that you’re struggling. But as long as you have something to struggle against, I’m sure he’s proud that you’re doing it. Are you ready for the Act of Contrition?”
“What’s my penance, Father?”
“None, I think.” Thomas could hear the other priest smile. “You paid this account in advance.”
“Thank you, Father,” Thomas said, and began, “My God, I am heartily sorry . . .”
75
Raffaele couldn’t believe it. He’d finally gotten a hit.
Once there was nothing more to be learned at Jorge Ocampo’s squalid flat—which was not that long after they’d gotten there—Raffaele and Giulio Aventino had hit the streets. They’d taken copies (Giulio, on paper; Raffaele, in his iPhone) of photos of Ocampo and his ladylove. She turned out to be a comparative literature student at La Sapienza by the name of Anna Jagiellon. She also turned out to be nowhere to be found, including in the Russian poetry seminar where her paper on Akhmatova was supposed to have been presented today. The two detectives went out to show the photos around, to see what they could see.
The Carabinieri had a number of uniformed officers doing the same, of course, and in the general way of things detectives were too valuable to waste on this kind of canvassing. As Giulio had pointed out, however, it was either do the photos, or go back to the station and discuss with the maresciallo the current situation: that Ocampo had slipped through their fingers twice already; that Livia Pietro and Thomas Kelly had completely eluded them; and that furthermore they were basing their investigation on the idea that either they had a serial anti-clerical nutcase on their hands, who might or might not be after the aforementioned elusive Pietro (who was in no way, however, a cleric); or they were chasing an international art-theft ring of which the aforementioned Pietro might or might not be a part, in a conspiracy theory promulgated by, horror of horrors, a Gendarme. Raffaele had considered the possible outcomes of such a conversation and agreed the street was preferable. They’d split up, each taking a direction out from San Francesco a Ripa, the last church where Ocampo had been seen.
