The HolyPhone Confessional Crisis

by Charles Brett

  She took out her iPad Mini. She had loaded it with movies and a couple of books from Amazon, plus she had her music. She had even bought some romantic porn, if that was not a contradiction — Fifty Shades of Grey. Whether she would enjoy what everybody else had been discussing for months was uncertain. But it might give her a warm feeling if she could not sleep.

  Thinking about her sister, she wondered if she should have called ahead. No. She had decided that Noach would tell her if it was appropriate. If he did not inform her there would be a good reason. She had not been to Israel for a long time, not since the youngest nephews had been born and that was almost six years ago. She guessed much would have changed, for the better, she hoped.

  Had she brought the right clothes? That was another issue, and one where talking to her sister would have produced some practical advice. From memory, Israelis were agreeably relaxed about what they wore, meaning badly dressed and scruffy. Her problem, she suspected, would be looking too smart in a place where elegance stood out like a sore thumb or an Arab. She had tried to dress down but even in good grey jeans and a simple white blouse she still turned heads. There was even that guy walking down the air bridge trying to strike up a conversation. She thought she saw him stopping at a business class seat, so she was unlikely to be hassled.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we have closed the last door. Please take your seats so we can inform the captain that the cabin is ready for departure. In a few moments we will be taking you through the safety procedures, which you can see on the TV screens in front of you.”

  It was just after 4 p.m. East Coast time. That meant eleven o’clock in the evening in Israel. Even though they had not taken off, Miriam decided to move her watch, iPhone and iPad clocks forward. Once done, and in flight mode for the two Apple devices, she thought through that it was now long after her normal dinnertime. Another dilemma: should she wait for the usually disgusting airline dinner to arrive or just try going to sleep? She looked at her iPad, selected an old movie she had seen many times before — the remake of The Thomas Crowne Affair. She could watch it repeatedly, finding Rene Russo very sexy. This time, however, she was asleep before the 777 had taken off — and long before Pierce Brosnan had entered the Metropolitan Museum, never mind stolen his painting.

  Thursday, Tel Aviv

  Michele’s flight from Rome was two hours late leaving Fiumicino. Once at the eastern edge of the Mediterranean it had flown over the beaches of Tel Aviv, and then made its way inland, descending and turning over the west-facing slopes of the Judean Hills before landing to the west. It had taxied into Ben Gurion’s Terminal 3. As soon as the door was open the usual exit scrimmage assembled as passengers almost fought to leave the plane. Disembarkation with Israelis and Italians involved was rarely a pretty process.

  Finally out of the plane Michele had walked around the upper level of the terminal’s rotunda where down below those waiting to leave were doing their duty free shopping. Down the long incline towards passport control he chose to walk rather than take the escalators, which were jammed with people standing still, rather than moving. Into the Immigration Hall he was pleasantly surprised to find many booths with immigration officers and few passengers. He had thought he had seen at least a couple of other aircraft ahead of his flight but it seemed he had the advantage.

  A quick stop before the Immigration Agent and he was processed through, given a small piece of paper with his details printed on it. This was scanned before he was allowed entry into the Luggage Pickup Hall but, as he had chosen to bring only hand luggage, he was able to march through the Customs area and out into the Arrivals Hall.

  This was a heaving mass. Half of Israel seemed to be waiting to greet the other half. Indeed, just as he was trying to fight his way through one morass of people, an enormous cheer went up as a group came through behind him. He pushed and shoved, trained by years in Rome and in New York’s Subway. It was not as he had been brought up in Chicago, where personal space was respected. It was the reverse: nobody made way for anybody else.

  Out through the doors he had turned left to head for the taxis. He had considered renting a car immediately but in the end decided a taxi was easier than trying to park in Tel Aviv’s centre. Whilst heading back to Ben Gurion the next morning to pick up Miriam he would rent the car then before driving north, which would be an additional justification to Miriam why they could not return to the hotel. Once in the taxi, and instructions given, he had sat back, hoping he was not about to have a premature meeting with St. Peter. He had forgotten what driving was like in Israel, especially near Tel Aviv. Better just to close one’s eyes and pray to survive.

  Thursday, Tel Aviv

  About an hour earlier Inma had also landed and gone through the same procedures as Michele, with the one exception that she did have luggage to collect. She should not have needed to do this but Iberia at the gate in Madrid had been as usually unpleasant as seemed to be the Iberia norm. An officious boarding gate agent had insisted that her carry-on bag was ‘the wrong size’ and needed to go in the hold (in spite of her having used the same carry-on bag for countless other Iberia flights). If that was not annoying enough she had watched two ladies enter the cabin after her, each with two bags bigger than her own. Her sense of justice had almost been restored when there was not enough room to stow them and all four bags had been taken to the luggage hold, despite much noisy protestation.

  Finally reunited with her bag she had headed for the taxis and her hotel.

  Inma arrived half an hour later amazed that she was still alive. The first part of the journey had been at what seemed like crazy speeds, although the speedometer showed only about 100 kmph— not fast for the A5 in Spain when heading to her beloved Gredos mountains home. Then there had been a mad competitive dash through the ugly concrete outskirts of Tel Aviv, which seemed ready to fall apart, all with curious round cylinders on top. She had never been to the Holy Land before. From her first glimpses of Tel Aviv she did not think it a handsome city and she saw no signs of holiness.

  Eventually, after much horn-tooting by her taxi-driver accompanied by what sounded like endless cursing in Hebrew or maybe Arabic, they had drawn up outside a hotel. It seemed to be the right one.

  Inma paid her driver, entered the hotel, and went to Reception. She checked-in and was told she had a room overlooking the sea. She asked about a place to eat and the location of a Catholic Church. The nearest church appeared to be St Peters in Jaffa, about 3 or 4 kilometres away, but easily walkable along the Tel Aviv seafront. As for a restaurant, the receptionist recommended the hotel’s one. That was hardly surprising or original, though he claimed it was well known.

  Inma took the lift up the seven floors to her room. It did indeed look out over the Mediterranean and the sun was beginning to set. On the coffee table she found a map of Tel Aviv on one side and of Israel on the other. There was also a small balcony. Opening the map she went outside to find she was overlooking a long beach stretching in north and south directions. To the south were some minarets and what appeared to be a church on a small hill above what looked like the entrance to a port. According to the map this must be Jaffa. It was reasonably close. She decided to walk there tomorrow morning for an early Mass, if she could find details of times on the Internet. She would then rent a car to drive to the meeting that Google Maps indicated was just over two hours away. She hoped the rental car had a GPS option.

  As for the beach, that did look inviting. Inma glanced at the sun, thinking she might have a couple of hours of indulgence, which was a rarity these days.

  She made a decision. She had not brought anything for the beach but had, however, seen a hotel shop selling beachwear. No doubt it would charge an arm and a leg for anything but it might be worth indulging herself, especially if later on she had the chance to enjoy both the Sea of Galilee and the Dead Sea. She headed down to the hotel lobby.

  Thursday, Tel Aviv

  Michele walked down to the Raphael. While doing so he had thought
back to his afternoon. He had a decent enough room, though wished it could have been higher up to reduce the road noise from below. Nevertheless, it overlooked the sea, though to him the sea was something blue, dull, and essentially uninteresting with little appeal for swimming or anything else. Beaches everywhere were much the same. On the other hand, a room on the opposite side of the hotel would have looked over inland Tel Aviv, which was hardly noted like Paris or Rome for its beauty.

  Sitting on the balcony Michele relaxed, permitting himself the luxury of forgetting to say his Holy Offices. It was one of the advantages of his financial role within the church. As long as he was discreet and did not advertise that he was a priest he could enjoy most things in life as if he was not one. It was also the unexpected bonus to his post-Lehman career, though not one he was able to talk about.

  Michele watched the world go by. There were plenty of young people on the beach. From what he had seen, the women were curvy whilst most men were thickset and rather hirsute. What was unusual, especially compared to the Mediterranean coasts of Italy, France and even Spain, was that he saw no women without bikini tops. It was all rather chaste, even if the beachwear was in many cases of the skimpiest form. That was not all. There were some who were the exact opposite — adult women, though not men, who were fully dressed even when entering the water.

  Jews or Muslims? It was too far to see clearly. Michele had heard that Orthodox Jews were very similar in many ways to pious Muslims. Curious, he had wondered if these were Orthodox Jews, for he could not imagine many Muslim Arabs wanting to enter what even Israelis regarded as the flesh pots of Tel Aviv. How did that saying go? “Pray in Jerusalem, work in Haifa and party in Tel Aviv.”

  His attention had been drawn to a pair of women coming out of the water. One was dressed in a close-fitting, full black swimsuit, which managed to be modest yet very revealing, while the other was uncovered in what looked, even at a distance, to be the slimmest of expensively-cut bright green bikinis. Both were roughly the same height, possessing good figures with sallow skins, not that he could see their faces in detail. Both also had long black dripping hair. Sisters? Cousins? Twins? They were too far away to consider going to look — which was just as well. He probably would have made the effort in his New York days. Now, this was impossible.

  A loud noise of metal interacting with metal distracted him. Two cars had collided, mutually swapping some parts, leaving others scattered in the roadway. The damage did not look great but both drivers emerged from their metal cocoons, one a middle-aged man in a polo shirt and shorts, the other a youngish lady in a short dress and possibly the heaviest bottom half Michele had ever seen emerging from such a skimpy dress. Both started to shout, not talk, at each other with various bystanders joining in.

  Meanwhile the road was blocked. Frustrated drivers could not pass, so they added more decibels with their horns. Then, to Michele’s American-born astonishment, the logjam had broken: a 4x4 drove off the road, over the two dedicated bicycle lanes beside the road proper, and onto the footpath, scattering various runners and walkers minding their own business. It had bypassed the two stricken cars and their arguing drivers, gone 50 meters down the footpath, and returned to the road before driving off. Others followed this example. Clearly, he considered, divers in Rome did not have a clue when it came to rearranging traffic laws to suit circumstances. Even the two policemen, hastening to interpose themselves upon the yelling drivers, had taken no notice.

  As matters below calmed down, Michele remembered the ladies from the sea. He thought he saw the one in green walking in the shallows. Of the other in black there had been no sign. He sighed to himself. At least his calling assisted him to resist temptation.

  Michele took a shower, made some devotions, and was now descending for dinner. At Raphael’s he was looking forward to a special meal, especially after reading the local restaurant review provided so conveniently in his room.

  Entering Raphael, he saw it was decorated in a familiar expensive European manner. It was also quite full with views out over the road of the earlier accident, over the beach and out to sea. Not that there was much to see. It was almost dark outside, except for the lighting along the promenade.

  Michele gave his name simply as Severino, which he had used to book. The Maître D’, a tiny girl with improbably-dyed purple hair and an unappealing large nose ring, took him to his table, which was rather closer to the entrance than he preferred. Sitting down to inspect the menu and wine list, he thought he heard accented English asking for a table booked in the name of Inma.

  Michele looked up. With the Maître D’ was a lady of medium height, at least by US standards, dressed as badly as anyone could imagine. Her shapeless dress was of a nondescript brown that reached slightly below her knees. Her shoes were flat and black, which at least matched her hair, which was arranged in a bun. As she walked past to her own table, Michele saw an almost horse-like face beneath thick glasses. She was not alluring, though there was something about her.

  “Inma,” he thought to himself. “Inmaculada Concepción. Could it be? Surely not. Surely no Spanish Condesa could dress as badly as that. On the other hand she was Opus Dei.”

  He tried to hear what the Maître D’ with the improbably-coloured hair was saying. It seemed like Spanish, but he could not be sure.

  Michele wondered what to do. How could he find out? Certainly he did not want to appear foolish or draw attention to himself. But if it was the Condesa it might greatly simplify meeting Miriam. He almost rose to go over, but his dithering tethered him to his chair. He decided to watch, waiting in hope that an opportunity might appear to find out more.

  Michele ordered his dinner and an Israeli red wine. But his mind was no longer on his meal. He had switched mental gears. By the end of dinner he was no further forward, other than to think the food at Raphael to be unremarkable. The look of the restaurant could have been from anywhere in London, Milan, Paris or even Rome. The size of the bill was likely to be in the same league, if his mental addition was correct, but the quality of the food had been uninspiring and without imagination. His mind drifted again.

  Thursday, Tel Aviv

  “Excuse me. May I interrupt?”

  Michele looked up in surprise. In front of him was the long-faced lady. Preoccupied with his own thoughts he had not seen her leave her table. He stood up as fast as was practical with a napkin on his lap.

  “Good evening. How may I help?”

  “I’m looking for a business colleague from Rome whom I’ve never met. I have only seen a photo and even in that he was in a sort of uniform. But I overheard you give your name when you checked-in to the hotel. I asked about you. All the concierge would say was that you are registered as Signor Severino. Might you be Michele Severino?”

  “I am. And may I ask about yourself? Might you be the Condesa de Arenas de Ávila?”

  “Yes. But please, not all that. Just call me Inma. The Condesa part is too formal and my given names are too long-winded for any normal human being, even those of us within the church.

  “Forgive me. How should I call you? Monsignor Severino or …” She let the question dangle.

  “If we were in Rome I would probably agree that Monsignore would be more appropriate. Here, in the land of ultimate informality, please just call me Michele, or anything else that would make you comfortable.

  “And forgive me also. I’m not paying attention. Would you like to sit down? I was just considering whether to order another glass of wine or a digestivo. May I offer you something?”

  “Thank you. What wine were you drinking before?”

  She seated herself opposite him, conscious that this was a highly curious and unusual situation for her. She had sat down with Opus Dei member priests for dinner many times, but never one out of uniform or in a hotel in a foreign country in a restaurant that was clearly regarded as a romantic spot in Israel. Inma wondered what he was feeling. Was Michele as uncertain or as uncomfortable as she? It felt almost as if she
was picking up a man, that way of being forward and introducing herself, which was the last thing she wanted him to think.

  He seemed to take no notice of any discomfort signals Inma felt sure she was broadcasting. Instead he described the Israeli red he had drunk, a Barkan Cabernet Reserve that he had found surprisingly good if a touch sweet.

  “If you are having another glass, I would be happy to join you and try it. At dinner I only drank water, not knowing what to choose. The purple-haired lady didn’t give me the confidence to ask for a recommendation.”

  Michele eventually attracted the attention of his waiter. This was not achieved by any gesture like a raised hand or nod of the head. Instead he had resorted to more or less yelling “Slijá!” The waiter took his order and departed.

  “What does ‘Slijá’ mean? I’ve heard it used but it means nothing to me.”

  “It’s what the Israelis use to attract attention. Politely it’s much like ‘Prego’ in Italian, or ‘Please’ in English. More accurately in my experience here it means ‘Pay attention to me because I am yelling the loudest or the most recently’.”

  They smiled at each other, albeit diffidently. Both were conscious of their Catholicism and its commitments and their situation.

  “How are you planning to go to the meeting tomorrow? I have to pick up our American partner off her flight from Newark. I was going to take a taxi out to hire a car at Ben Gurion and drive north. Would you like to join us?”

  Michele accepted he was altering his plans, if only to protect himself from Miriam.