The HolyPhone Confessional Crisis

by Charles Brett

  “Thank you for the offer.” Inma paused to think. “No. I think I will rent a car here in Tel Aviv. It will give me some flexibility, possibly even to visit some of the Holy Places in Jerusalem and Bethlehem on the way back. I have never seen them. I hope you will not be offended.”

  The wine appeared. They paused to try it.

  “Not at all,” continued Michele, more than a little disappointed that he would not be able to dilute Miriam’s physical presence. On the other hand it would allow him to talk to Miriam privately on the drive north before they all met up.

  “Might I ask what happened to Mariano? I never did receive a full explanation about his death. The two times I met him he seemed so full of life and energy and devoted to Opus Dei.”

  “No one really knows. I was working for him within Opus, as you know. He introduced me to what and why he had been setting up with you. It was almost as if he had some premonition of an early death. One evening we had formal dinner to attend. The next day at breakfast he did not appear. The post-mortem said heart failure but I am not sure how much investigation was performed. In Spain we like to bury our dead within forty-eight hours and, as there were no overtly suspicious circumstances and he died within an Opus facility, I think there was no real incentive to dig deeper. The following day we cremated him. I guess that is why I am here.”

  “I am sorry. I liked him. He was also, like I have found with yourself, efficient to deal with. If I may say so, that is not a trait I find common with many of my Spanish clerical colleagues, or with those working in the Spanish financial sector.”

  “I hope I’m right if I say any credit due is to Opus. The way Opus works is to value professionalism and care. I’ve sometimes wondered how much of my own business success is due to any innate abilities of my own and how much to the refining of these under discreet Opus direction. Mariano was my mentor, in business and Opus. I miss him.”

  “To be candid I don’t know much about Opus Dei. Where I was born, near Chicago, Opus Dei was kind of a dirty word — they were the smart and wealthy hidden away in their special schools. In the working-class environment in which I grew up, the traditional church was the centre of our lives. Opus Dei was a world away.”

  “So, if I may ask, how did you become a priest?”

  “That is more curious. As a teenager I was a mix of the typical angst of that age but also I had a sense of calling. After finishing high school I was invited to work at a church summer camp run by good friends of my parents who were Jesuits. There a Father Patrick took me under his wing and encouraged me in my calling. I went on to a Catholic university but also attended a sort of out-of-college-hours seminary. I majored in Theology and minored in Finance. Many thought it an odd combination.”

  “What happened? It sounds as if you were well on the way to ordination.”

  “Yes, I was. But, I am somewhat ashamed to say now, a girl came in the way. Almost overnight I had to choose between priesthood and parenthood. It was made clear to me that the latter was the ‘right course’. I agreed and thought I was then on a new path, to that parenthood. Then she had a spontaneous abortion after only fourteen weeks of pregnancy, before we could even be married.”

  “Oh. How did that affect you? What happened?”

  “That turned everything around. First, I had had my parents insisting I do the ‘right thing’. Then, having faced up to and accepted that I was not going to be ordained, I suddenly found myself completely free.

  “My fiancée, with no baby imminent, told me that we were a mistake. She was probably right. Six months later I graduated and found a job on Wall Street.”

  He paused. Remembering still gave him pain — good Catholic guilt, he supposed. Michele wondered why he was telling someone of the opposite sex, almost a co-conspirator whom he had never met before, some of his most inner experiences.

  “I guess that Wall Street was my own revenge on myself and on the obligations imposed by my parents and our parish priest. For a time I forgot all about faith and any calling. This lasted for a decade or more, until Lehman Brothers evaporated. Along with many others I was out of work, with no money — all my savings having gone down the proverbial tube because they were invested in Lehman, AIG, and other failures. I had been living beyond my means. I did not even have a home I could afford.”

  He recalled the pain of that period. He thought about his sense of hypocrisy when he had re-approached the church.

  “With too little to do each day I started to go to Mass again to pass the hours. By coincidence I ran into that same Father Patrick who again took me under his wing and tried showing me that this was an indicator of God’s way forward.”

  He sighed.

  “You know the oddest part. Because I had majored in Theology and had been through pretty much all of the standard training to be a priest in that part-time Seminary they put me on a fast path to ordination. Within twelve months I was Father Michele and starting work in a rural parish in Illinois. Three months into my parish work, just as I was beginning to find my feet and enjoy being a priest in a community, I was summoned to my Bishop’s office. There he told me I had been chosen to go to Rome, to assist a new initiative in the Vatican, one that had the potential for being very important for our church.

  “Sometimes I wonder if Our Father planned all this. Other times I think it may all be coincidences. What I do know is that I still think I am unworthy. As you can probably tell, I still have an element of confusion about it all, despite the re-emergence of my faith.”

  She looked at him. Michele was clearly on edge. Inma was too. She was unused to such confidences. Her own faith seemed to be of a different form, though with curious coincidences of experience. She too had been to a Catholic summer camp in the USA, an Opus Dei one. She had been exported by parents who wanted her to speak English naturally and, even more important, to be out of their way one summer. She had been convinced of her own beliefs during that summer camp.

  Michele wondered if he had said too much. Her long face did not convey much expression but he sensed a distinct element of discomfort. He should stop before making a fool of himself. Here he was, a mid-west child of poor hard-working Italian immigrant parents talking to a high-born Spanish countess. Perhaps a countess was not as elevated as a cardinal, but his long-dead parents would, he was sure, have been impressed.

  “I am talking out of place. I apologise. Perhaps we should head for bed, for I suspect tomorrow will be long.”

  He signed in the air to attract his bill. This time they noticed, but probably only because the restaurant staff was waiting to leave.

  “Don’t worry. I am just not accustomed to such immediate openness. I am going to try walking to Jaffa for the seven o’clock Mass at St Peter’s. Will you join me? I think that I will need to leave about six thirty.”

  “Thank you. I will.”

  Michele paid his bill. They walked out together, up past the beachwear shop.

  “Did you see what they charge here?” he asked, making conversation. “Over $250 to go for a swim in a Brazilian-designed swimsuit. Amazing! Even in New York only a few are that crazy.”

  Two lifts were available. As if struck by the need for the maximum overt propriety, each took a separate one to their different floors.

  Thursday, Rome

  José Antonio entered the parish office. He was alone. Father Giorgio had left for a local old people’s home to provide the weekly service of thanksgiving and to hear any confessions. This was one time when the Santofonino really did not work. Though it was possible to take a Santofonino into any location, after all it was just a modern mobile phone, da Ferraz’s team had decided that there was a spiritual as well as a practical value in only placing Santofonini inside confessional booths within churches. Their argument was that the concept would be easier to introduce by keeping as much familiar as possible, including the physical setting and the confidentiality of the confessional booth.

  There was also an unsung part of their agenda, namely tha
t if it worked the Santofonino might encourage people to return to entering churches whenever they wanted, not whenever the clergy wished. The phrase “God has gone to lunch (or dinner)” to describe churches that seemed always locked still stung, mostly because it was an all too accurate summary of their inaccessibility.

  Opening his email as Father Giorgio had taught him to do he was surprised to see a new message. It was rare for him to send any emails and rarer to receive them. Father Giorgio was assiduous in ensuring that what he called ‘spam’ did not bother José Antonio.

  Looking closer he saw it was from Davide. He had not really expected a reply.

  He opened the email: “Good afternoon, José Antonio. It is good to hear from you, if a surprise. How did you find me? Through the blog, I suspect, if you remember that. Anyhow, I had not realised that those ideas might have been put into action. That is another surprise, as is the invitation to come and see it working. I cannot resist.

  “As it happens, I am at San Francisco Airport about to board the Thursday afternoon flight back to London, where I should be Friday morning. As you suggest, I will call you on your mobile. Arranging to visit should not be difficult as I have a meeting in Milan next week. Perhaps, if it suits you, I could come this weekend and then go on to the Milan meeting next week. A weekend in Rome is always a pleasure. In haste (they are boarding my flight now). Davide.”

  José Antonio sat bemused. This notion of travelling halfway round the world overnight was completely alien to him. The furthest he had travelled was, he thought, from Valencia to Rome and once to the Holy Land.

  He replied to the email: “If you can come this weekend that should work very well. Call me when you can. Your friend in Christ. José Antonio.”

  He hit the send key and then reminded himself that the pious phrases that were second nature to him were not those of Davide. What would Davide make of meeting a cardinal? Nelson was pretty approachable for a prince, but he was still of the church and liked most of the trappings of and respect due to his high office. Well, only time would tell what would happen.

  “Father Federico. Might I speak with Nelson?”

  Normally he asked for His Eminence but, after the conversation the previous evening, he and Nelson had agreed that his asking for Nelson by Christian name would be an indicator for Nelson. He was put through.

  “Nelson, I have a response and Davide may be able to be in Rome this weekend. Shall I encourage him to come? Yes. Okay. Dinner for the two of us and yourself at Giovanna’s on Saturday. I will let you know if he will be here.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Friday, Monteverde

  It was a grey Friday. As José Antonio put down his telefonino after speaking with Signora Grattinelli it rang again immediately. An unknown number, but that was not unusual.

  “Pronto.”

  “Is that José Antonio?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “Don’t you remember my Spanish accent? It is Davide, just off the flight from San Francisco. I need to be quick. There is a flight to Rome leaving Heathrow in a couple of hours with spare seats. Shall I take that? It would land at Fiumicino early afternoon.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “To see you and my HolyPhone or your Santofonino, of course. May I ask a favour? Do you know a place called the Residence Monteverde on Via Vicenzo Monti? It is more like a guest house but I have stayed there before and liked it. Can you see if they have a room for three nights?”

  “Residence Monteverde? Yes, I think know the owner. It is on the edge of our parish, down near Trastevere Train Station. Let me call. Shall I send an SMS to this number? And call me when you arrive at Fiumicino, yes? Also, keep dinner free tomorrow, as my guest this time.”

  “Right. I must go and change my Milan ticket.”

  Friday, Tel Aviv

  As Inma drove north out of Tel Aviv she found herself fighting but in a way she had not expected. The traffic was bad, but no worse than any Friday afternoon when crossing Madrid to go to her finca. Something was different here. She could not put her finger on what it was but definitely it was strange. Those around her did not seem to drive in a way she thought ‘normal’ people would. Earlier, ahead at some traffic lights, to her amazement, she saw a lady on a bicycle with a small child in front of her, another larger one behind and neither wore protective clothing or helmets as they headed in the wrong direction down a one-way street. At home anybody doing this would be warned and probably fined for endangering her children. Inma had also nearly hit the scooter that had cut centimetres in front of her as if her car had not existed, as if the rider owned the world. Israeli driving possessed no logic that she could decipher.

  Hiring a car had been easy. The hotel had taken care of that. Obtaining a GPS was a simple extra. What Inma had not bargained for was the difficulty in setting the GPS, or that its maps did not include the West Bank. She had been lectured severely that neither she nor the car were insured to go into West Bank areas. In passing they told her that the local GPS in the car did not ‘see’ the West Bank. It seemed very Israeli. But it also explained why she had not been able to buy a GPS map for her tablet or smartphone before leaving Spain.

  Luckily, after taking possession of the rental car Inma had, before driving off, paused to enter her destination, Belvoir Castle. Then she had realised her first mistake. The GPS was in Hebrew. Returning to the rental car people, they went through the Hebrew menus, finally changing the settings to English (no Spanish was available, but at least the GPS now showed places in Roman script). A second attempt to enter Belvoir Castle also failed. “Unknown” came back the maddening machine. She really did not want to go back into the rental office again to look like the expected female idiot.

  Inspiration came after returning to the hotel. She took out her tablet, which could receive Wi-Fi. Connecting in the lobby was free. Googling Belvoir Castle she discovered that it was really called Belvoir Fortress and was known by Israelis as Kohav HaYarden. Inma returned to the car and tried entering this, to obtain the same “Unknown” message. Now she really had needed to return to the rental people. They treated her as a dumb woman — more or less as expected. Apparently the GPS might need Kochav Hayarden. Once entered, this was accepted, and finally she could set off, albeit rather later than anticipated.

  The GPS estimated two hours to cover the 140 kilometres to reach Belvoir. That had seemed a long time for a distance of about 100 kilometres less than from Madrid to her finca in the Gredos, which routinely took her only about half an hour longer. She had soon discovered why. Leaving Tel Aviv alone had taken more than thirty minutes, covering a distance of perhaps ten or fifteen kilometres.

  Now at least she was on the open road on something called Route 2. Inma passed somewhere called Hertzliya Pituach, which a dim memory told her was the smart seaside resort where well-heeled Israelis lived. This was also known, in a poor play on words, as the diplomatic ghetto, due to so many ambassadors having their formal residences there. She wondered if there was a reinsurance business opportunity there, but discarded the notion as almost certainly being too complex to develop.

  With traffic having become ‘normal’ she settled to what seemed a comfortable 100 kilometres an hour speed (one that she would be ashamed to be seen doing on an Autovia in Spain where 140 kilometres an hour was the norm) and reflected on the previous evening and earlier this morning …

  Inma had been woken by the sun pouring into her room not long after 5 a.m. When going to bed it had been pitch dark with only the street lights below her balcony. She had not bothered drawing the curtains. Squinting in the bright morning light she saw several fluffy clouds on the horizon but otherwise clear light-blue sky and dark, almost murky, blue sea. Inma relaxed, enjoying some minutes of appreciation, before going to the bathroom to prepare for Mass. When dressing she replaced the plastic travelling cilice with her normal metal one. Wincing almost with pleasure, she fitted the spiked chain around her right thigh. Now, fully dressed (spiritually and physically
), she headed to the hotel lobby where Michele was waiting.

  They greeted each other rather formally. He was not dressed as a priest, in simple slacks, shirt, and a smart jacket (looking rather handsome), while she was in her customary ill-fitting ‘work dress’. This had still left open the delicate social question of how they should behave, kissing each other cheek to cheek Spanish style or shaking hands or … Instead they solved this dilemma with a formal nod, asking how the other had slept. They had then walked out of the hotel, across the main road and onto the promenade, before turning south towards Jaffa. It was a glorious morning and not too hot at six thirty.

  At first they walked in silence. Then Michele, rather diffidently Inma thought, asked how she became involved in Opus Dei. She responded by explaining about the summer camp in Pennsylvania when she was a teenager, how it was almost an annual recruiting ground for Spanish children of good parents wanting their children to speak English even if they themselves could not. She talked about the unexpected deaths of her brothers and the subsequent decline of her parents occurring at the same time as her increasing commitment to Opus Dei as a force for good in a Spain that was changing almost too rapidly for itself after the death of Franco. She touched briefly on her twenties, when she was trying to balance being the older sister and substitute parent to two normal teenagers looking for the good life alternative that freedom offered from El Caudillo’s repressive attitudes imposed on Spain for over forty years, and described trying to save the family fortunes and establish a career for herself in a business world that was still heavily macho.

  Michele responded with intelligent and understanding questions. Where he had not understood was the Spanish dimension — like Franco and repression or the then common Spanish attitude of male disdain for women. Being American, Inma realised he could not comprehend. These were not familiar subjects. The contrast with her Spain and his mid-west were probably unbridgeable in these respects. Nevertheless, this excepted, there was an agreeable humanity about Michele. Indeed, walking beside him without having to look at him, almost made talking easier.