The Fifth Gospel

by Grubb, Michelle

  Flic smiled. “Me neither, but there’s so many things to believe in. Just believe in yourself if that’s what you’d like to interpret it as meaning.”

  The maître d’ nodded and placed the piece of paper securely in her back pocket.

  Laura reached across the table and took Flic’s face in her hands before kissing her sloppily on the cheek. “You’re made for this shit, Felicity Bastone.”

  *

  Flic was riding with Anna and Dee in a black limousine to the airport. She was now well and truly on show and the circus had only just begun.

  Ethan had prepared a memo with some news headlines from around the world. The impact of the book was astounding.

  Dee read aloud some of the headlines as the limo sped toward Heathrow airport. “Holy Father, Holy Prophecy. Gay Pope, But Is He Happy. Twisted Exploitation from a Wannabe Novelist.”

  Flic cringed at the last one.

  “Some of these are actually quite amusing,” Dee said. “Oh, this has got to be my favorite—Holy Father, Holy Violation.”

  Flic glanced at Anna. Riding in a limousine with Dee reading headlines that clearly disturbed her was probably not endearing her to becoming happier with the current arrangements.

  “Some of them are far from favorable.” Flic was concerned it was all going sour.

  “It’s just an angle.” Anna snapped out of it. “Imagine if the press wrote something like: English Woman Writes Book about Pope’s Sexuality. Not exactly catchy is it?”

  Flic shook her head and she understood, but as a journalist, she didn’t write sensationalist pieces, and thank God, none of her pieces attracted such pathetic attempts at word play headlines. She wondered what idiots thought up such tripe.

  “Try not to take it personally. You know the business. But remember, any press is good press at the moment.”

  Anna had appeared nervous when she delicately positioned herself away from Flic in the vast backseat of the limo. Dee and Flic easily filled any silences, and it seemed that speaking about work, a subject on which she always spoke with confidence, eased Anna’s obvious tension.

  *

  It was ironic, being less than an hour flight away, but Flic had only ever been to Ireland once, and she barely remembered a thing. If she entered a few bars it might all come back to her, but on the way to Grafton Street, she didn’t recognize one single landmark.

  The famous Dublin Book Emporium was a labyrinth of shelves and reading nooks with a large café on the mezzanine floor. Anna had briefed Flic regarding the layout of the store, and from photos, it looked like the kind of bookshop she could become lost in for days. Tonight’s appearance involved a direct address to the audience, a small reading, and then questions from the floor. With the exception of question time, everything appeared straightforward, but there was no way of filtering the difficult questions. She would just have to do her best and answer them as honestly as she could. Dee and Anna had discussed this with her and had decided that Flic should remain resolute on her reasons for writing the book and subsequently her opinion that a gay pope made little, if any, difference in his ability to lead the Catholic Church. What she was adamant to mention though, was that perhaps the church, in light of the revelation looking more and more likely to be true, should reconsider its stance on many subjects, not simply that of homosexuality.

  Not only were Griffin’s selling the book, they were also selling a brand. Felicity Bastone was that brand. Her style, her attitude, her clothing, her hair, her transport, the hotels she stayed in, they were all designed around an avant-garde, yet wholesome look. In this respect, Flic’s attitude would remain sincere, but her clothing and outward appearance was not her own. It was dictated by Anna and her stylist advisors.

  Flic would appear in public wearing expensive trousers, chinos, jeans, shirts, tops, and jackets. Anna had designed a smart, feminine look within the guidelines Flic had specified—no dresses, no skirts, and no heels unless they were small and worn with her black suit.

  Her transportation was in smart black SUVs, nothing too flashy, certainly not a limousine, but not a beat-up old taxi either.

  With the windows tinted, Flic touched up her modest makeup, applied faint colored lip gloss, and jiggled her leg nervously as Anna ran through the evening one last time while the vehicle negotiated peak hour traffic. They were on schedule for the six o’clock start, but Flic could only concentrate on suppressing the urge to pee.

  “Do you need more color on your cheeks?”

  Flic applied additional bronzer without question.

  “And you’re comfortable in your outfit?”

  Flic nodded. She wore designer label jeans, brown boat shoes, a tweed jacket, and a low-cut white top. She felt stylish and professional even if she looked a little pretentious.

  “And your glasses are in your jacket breast pocket, okay?”

  Flic nodded again, patting the pocket.

  Anna cleared her throat. “If they’re brave enough, they’ll probably ask you about your sexuality. You have to be ready for that question, and try not to look shocked when they ask.”

  There was so much to remember. Panic began to cause Flic’s heart to beat faster.

  “Be there in five,” the driver said.

  Flic took a double intake of breath.

  The Dublin Book Emporium was at the St. Stephen’s Green end of Grafton Street, and the black SUV slowly made its way down a cobbled side street as close as it could be without encroaching on designated pedestrian zones. The owner, Mark Duggan, was there to greet them.

  “Miss Bastone, Miss Lawrence, lovely to meet you.”

  They all shook hands.

  “Is everything ready, Mr. Duggan?” Flic knew Anna would delay the appearance for five or ten minutes if it meant having everything run smoothly and according to plan.

  “Yes, yes.” The slightly chubby Mr. Duggan, probably in his late forties, beamed a smile. “Probably a few more here than I expected, to be honest, but we’ll shut the doors if we reach capacity.”

  Anna seemed relieved and she saw Flic eyeing her. “A few more is a whole lot better than a few less,” she explained.

  “So, it’s show time, I guess?” Flic stood clenching and flexing her hands.

  Anna pulled her aside, and again the touch of her hand caused a chemical reaction. “You’re prepared. We’ve been through this and you know exactly what to do. You have your cue cards in case you lose your train of thought?” Flic nodded, pushing them securely into her back pocket. “And your book will be on the rostrum with the correct page marked.” Flic inhaled deeply; just the thought of her work in hardcover print made her dizzy. “Just be yourself. You’ll be fine.” Anna awkwardly shifted weight as if she wanted to hug Flic, but instead uneasily touched her elbow.

  Mr. Duggan held out his arms in an ushering gesture and led them along the side street toward the front of the shop.

  There was no turning back now. Somehow, Flic managed to turn her nerves into excited adrenaline. She reminded herself of her journey from Rome many months ago to a European book tour and an international best seller. She turned to see where Anna was.

  “I’m right behind you. You’ll be fine.”

  The words were the antidote for any residual nerves, but they inexplicably stung. They carried such warmth. Flic wished anyone other than Anna Lawrence had said them. She wanted to be able to feel something mutual with the person who melted her heart that way.

  Grafton Street was bustling with workers dashing for transport on their way home, but the entire front of the bookshop was no less than twenty people deep. Flic was anxious; by the time they let that lot in, it would be well past six o’clock, and she really wanted to be through this first appearance sooner rather than later. The crowds were contained behind a barrier, and when Mr. Duggan led her to the front of the queue, she realized many were being denied entry.

  She turned to Anna. “What’s going on?”

  Anna pointed to the inside of the shop. There were peopl
e everywhere, and by the look of things, an extra sound system was being erected for patrons to hear her speak from downstairs. The mezzanine looked full to capacity.

  Upon recognizing Flic, some of the crowd became vocal. “Leave the pope alone,” yelled one.

  “Fuck off back to ye girlfriend,” yelled another.

  “Catholic homos.”

  “Free the Church.”

  “Burn in hell.”

  Soon, all the words became a chorus of insults until Anna’s firm hand in the small of Flic’s back ushered her into the shop.

  “Nothing we hadn’t expected.” Anna eyed Flic.

  Flic held it together. How could she convince these people that a gay pope was not the tragedy they perceived and that writing about it was neither blasphemous nor a denigration of their faith? But then, her own colleague, the one guiding her through the insults, thought little more of her than the protestors. She wasn’t sure who was on her side anymore.

  Burdened by nervous anticipation and wishing Laura were with her, Flic enacted her positive self-talk regime. It began with the phrase: what would Ellen do? Flic felt better. Knowing that Ellen would bluff her way through this ordeal and have the audience in stitches, gave her strength.

  Mr. Duggan’s introduction was brief. Flic made her way to the rostrum imagining every member of the audience was dressed like a leprechaun. It didn’t help.

  After the modest applause died down, she took a deep breath and began. “Does anyone know how many popes have been before our current pope, Pope Valentine II?” It was her opening line, and although her voice wavered in the beginning, she gained clarity toward the end of the question. Members of the audience yelled various numbers until she heard “two hundred and sixty-six.”

  The Internet was handy for those wishing to look like a smart arse.

  “That’s correct, two hundred and sixty-six. Conservative estimates now suggest that around two to six percent of the population is gay and probably always has been.” She paused for effect and to allow the mathematicians in the room time to calculate the statistic she was about to reveal. “Taking that into consideration, at least five, and up to sixteen, popes in history have been homosexual.” Again, she paused, allowing the information to be absorbed.

  “Why then, is the world shocked to think that our current pope might be gay? He is, after all, a man like the rest of men, born from a mother like other mothers, and I honestly can’t see why he requires no more or less love than the rest of us. Affection, companionship, passion, lust, friendship, desire, and ultimately love are what makes the world go round, surely?”

  The audience mumbled, clearly not convinced.

  Flic continued, undeterred. “If those things weren’t so important, why would one in ten people in the United States have used a dating website? Why do we spend so much time searching for ‘the one’? Think back to your teenage years. Think back to your early twenties. Think about your life now, the important people in it, perhaps the person you’re here with tonight. Is that important person not your significant other?” Flic took a breath, shocked by how passionate her delivery was. “We live to be loved. I simply can’t fathom why the pope, ultimately just a man, can’t love and be loved, too, and why”—she raised her voice over the groans of disagreement—“can’t that person be a gay man?”

  Half the audience applauded; the other half shook their heads in dismay.

  Flic stole a glance toward Anna who was standing directly to her left. She wasn’t smiling; in fact, she sported a face any poker champion would be proud of, but she nodded her encouragement and Flic proceeded to read an excerpt from her book. She had deliberately chosen an innocuously lighthearted passage, and she even managed a few laughs.

  At the end, questions came thick and fast.

  “What you’ve written seems to be coming true. You’re an investigative journalist. Have you disguised a journalistic piece as a novel?”

  And there it was, straight up. The question everyone wanted to know. Flic had an answer prepared. “It’s true, I am a journalist. When I conceived the idea for this book, I was in Rome on holiday. I have not investigated the pope or the Vatican.” It was the truth. She attempted a joke. “Even I’m not brave enough for that.” It scored a giggle, even with the skeptics.

  “But, Felicity”—she turned her gaze to a middle-aged woman toward the rear of the mezzanine floor—“surely you agree that the similarities are startling?”

  Dee had warned her that readers would walk a fine line between discussing her book and discussing current events. Her answer came quickly and naturally. “Of course, without question, but I read Angels and Demons, like most other people, and I watch the conclave when a new pope is elected. My book is a novel, and the people in it are characters. I had to choose one of them to have a relationship with the pope. Naturally, I chose the Camerlengo.” She smiled, maintaining a casual air. “Plus, from an author’s perspective, it’s a fabulous word. It sparks a pang of recognition in readers, and it gives the impression you actually know what you’re talking about.” That earned her a laugh. “It’s purely coincidence. The Camerlengo was chosen in my book for his great title and his standing in the church.” Flic twitched at her first lie.

  “I believe you’re a lesbian, Miss Bastone. Is this book an attempt to have the church return the tired equal rights argument to its agenda?”

  Flic ignored the answer that sprang to mind. Her media coach had said an emotional response was ill-advised on occasions like this. Instead, she counted to three, nodded as if contemplating such an outstanding question, and then looked the audience member in the eye as she answered. “In my opinion, sir, the equal rights debate, regardless of the forum in which it’s conducted, will never be tired. But no, that’s not what my novel attempts to do. My novel attempts to entertain, provide alternative perspectives, and hopefully encourage people to think and discuss, in any forum, the contents of the book. I imagine that is what most authors would like their work to achieve.”

  “Are you Catholic, Felicity?” The question came from a young girl Flic estimated to be in her twenties.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Do you believe in God?”

  Lie number two coming up. “No, not in any God you will find revered in institutionalized religion. I believe there’s something”—she used rabbit ears to make her point—“but not a single God as such.” In truth, she believed in nothing at all.

  A man bouncing a baby on his lap asked, “What difference does it make to you personally then, if the pope is gay or not?”

  Flic considered responding with the scripted answer, but chose a different tack instead. She refused to make eye contact with Anna, fearing her reaction at this diversion. “Is there anyone here, besides me of course, willing to disclose that they’re gay or lesbian?” To her surprise, at least a dozen people raised their hands, some tentatively, others boldly.

  She turned her attention to a young man wearing a suit, probably having just come from work. “Perhaps I can turn the tables and ask you a few questions?”

  He nodded, and she was both amazed and relieved to see she held everyone’s undivided attention.

  “Do you have a job, sir?” Flic was briefly distracted by a movement in the corner of her vision and chanced a fleeting glance toward Anna. She was frowning with her arms folded across her chest.

  He nodded. “Yes, I’m a schoolteacher. I teach geography.”

  Flic was so relieved by his occupation she could have kissed him. If he’d have said porn star, she was stuffed.

  “Does your sexuality in any way impede your ability to teach geography and deliver what your employer expects of you?”

  He shook his head. “I’m head of my year, so not at all.”

  “Are your students aware of your sexuality?”

  He thought for a moment. “Yes, the majority of them know, but it only occurs to them to mention it when they’re on detention.”

  The audience laughed.

  Fl
ic turned to the man who asked the question. “I’m not trying to make you look silly, sir, but I do want to make the point to everyone here in context when I answer your question. You essentially asked if the pope’s sexuality makes any difference to me or not, and the answer is no. Not because I simply don’t care, but because last month, when no one knew anything about his alleged relationship with the Camerlengo, everyone thought he was a good pope. I believe he’s the same man, gay or not, and equally capable of performing the duties he more than adequately performed before the speculation on his sexuality became leading news.”

  The man acknowledged with a tilt of his head that she’d made a fair point.

  Others disagreed and the audience grew louder in discussion.

  Flic interrupted them. “Just like sexuality has no bearing on my work or the work of that gentleman”—she gestured to the teacher—“I firmly believe the pope’s sexuality has no bearing on his ability to be pope.”

  Just as comments flew at her, thick and fast, Mr. Duggan stepped toward the podium and Anna gently drew Flic back.

  “Well done.” Anna smiled. “You had me a bit worried there.”

  “But it was okay, right?”

  “Yes, you pulled it off this time.”

  Flic detected a “but” although she didn’t push the issue.

  Mr. Duggan was making a thank you speech in the background when Flic glanced at her watch, adrenaline tearing through her. “I think we could have squeezed in a few more questions.” The audience was engaged and some remained unconvinced. She thought leaving so soon was a mistake.

  Mr. Duggan turned to them and Anna nudged Flic who instinctively smiled and waved to the audience in thanks.

  Anna explained. “These people aren’t here to change their opinion based on what you say.” Flic was confused. “They’re either here because they’re genuinely interested or they might simply want to listen, but the rest, the vocal crowd, they’re here to voice their opinion, not be convinced by yours.”

  Flic nodded. Realistically, she could debate the pros and cons with certain members of the audience all night trying to convince them, but she didn’t want that. She knew she had to accept that she could no more convince them as they could her.