The HolyPhone Confessional Crisis

by Charles Brett

  Before realising it they were curving round the promenade at the bottom of the hill up to St Peter’s in Jaffa. Luckily, Michele had brought his map and saw a road rising behind a mosque that he said would lead up to St Peter’s. They walked up and arrived in time to find pews near the back of a congregation that seemed full of all the nationalities of the world.

  After a short Mass, but one that inspired, perhaps because of its setting in the Holy Land rather than because of the architecture of the church (indifferent to her eye) or the presentation, Inma felt good. Mass usually had that effect on her. It reminded her of why she had made her commitments to Opus Dei and to Christ.

  On leaving they passed a line, queuing up to confess. It was good-natured with little jostling and much laughter. As one penitent came out of the confessional they could see inside a HolyPhone. In fact this was a tablet rather than a phone. Inma had heard of these but not seen one. Apparently they suited multi-national congregations where increased language choices were more readily available. Also, the elderly preferred them because of the greater size and easier legibility.

  “Whoever had the original idea for the HolyPhone must have been inspired,” Inma remarked to Michele. “It certainly has brought more people back into our Spanish churches and for longer.”

  “And given us rich revenue streams,” he replied, perhaps a little too quickly, more like a banker than a priest.

  Until this point she had felt good in his company. He had a gentle charm and willingness to listen that she suspected must have worked well for him, particularly with women, whether as a priest or before being ordained.

  Inma wondered about his period before celibacy. Celibacy was pretty much all she had ever known. What she had not told Michele was that part of her enthusiasm for Opus Dei came after the unromantic fumblings of a well-connected South American boy who believed that all girls at a summer camp in the US must be available for the boys’ pleasure. She had spent almost three weeks waiting in terror for her period. In that time it was the Opus Dei camp leaders who had supported her even though Inma could not bring herself to explain why she was so upset. Naturally her saying nothing had meant the coarse South American had gotten off without punishment, probably to force his unsought attentions on others. That was the one part she still felt guilty about; not reporting him, thus sparing other girls his unwanted favours.

  On exiting St Peter’s into the small piazza, with strange metallic-looking figures of what seemed to be Napoleonic seamen, they agreed to separate. Michele was going direct to the airport in a taxi to pick up Miriam. As he mentioned the name Inma sensed something that was beyond uncomfortable, like a ghost walking on a grave. It was as if there was more to know.

  She was, however, feeling in good humour. Mass in the Holy Land gave her a spiritual lift. She had been happy to take a second taxi back to the hotel, to have breakfast, read emails, rent her car and check-out before heading to Belvoir.

  Friday, Ben Gurion Airport

  The taxi from Jaffa was a nightmare. First the driver had not switched on the meter. At Ben Gurion he demanded 200 shekels, which was 50 shekels more than it had cost to go the longer distance the day before from Ben Gurion to the airport. Michele was offended. He hated being ripped off especially by some miserable taxista who had at first refused to speak any English but when it came to money decided he could speak it all too well.

  He had refused to pay and looked for a policeman or someone official. Seeing this, the taxista revised his price to 180 shekels. When Michele had produced the receipt from the previous day for 150 shekels, including tip, he whiningly accepted the 150. Even that to Michele felt like being shaken down by a South Chicago hood.

  He escaped into the terminal and thought to arrange his car hire. Before doing so he glanced at the arrivals board. Miriam’s flight was due around 0900 and it was now 0830. He stepped back in shock. Not only had the plane landed but it had done so almost an hour early. He realised he must find out if Miriam had already come through. On first inspection she had not been standing by either of the two exits from the customs area but he had also passed by the café beside the right hand one. It was as well. Even after a near ten-hour flight, and despite her back being turned to him, he recognised her elegance, dressed in slender grey jeans and an improbably uncreased white shirt.

  As he had debated how best to approach she turned and saw him. A big smile, whether of relief or of pleasure was unclear, lit up her face.

  “Michele. Thank goodness. I’ve been having a coffee here, wondering what to do. My sister isn’t here. Noach isn’t here and I was not sure if you would be. At least you are now. I called Judith and she knew nothing about me coming and seemed almost angry that I was. All she did was remind me that I should call her Tamar. I said I would hire a car and hopefully see her later. I could hear Noach in the background. Anyhow, how are you? You’re not dressed as I expected, but you look good for someone living on a priestly salary. Do you even receive salaries?”

  This was Miriam at her best; full of enthusiasm and energy, even after a long flight. He warmed upon seeing her.

  “Thank you. Yes, the money is modest, but there are compensations, including a decent apartment in a good area of Rome. No, not in the Vatican itself. I’m sorry. I thought I’d be early and pick up the rental car and we could head north. Shall we do it now? Though I could murder a coffee. All I had for breakfast is Mass.”

  He smiled wryly, but felt relieved that they both openly recognised that he was now a celibate member of the Catholic Church. That said, she really did look good. If anything she looked better than before. Not so much thinner but fitting her own skin better. He remembered all too well that skin, especially that flat runner’s stomach.

  “Help yourself. Here are some shekels. You’ll have to go and get it. I shan’t mind because I’ve only just bought mine. I can tell you the small croissants are delicious, if evil in the calories that must be in them. After a United Airlines breakfast, they seem like manna from heaven. Whoops! I probably should not say that to you, especially here.”

  He smiled at this. Miriam again at her infectious best.

  “I’ll do as you say. Hang on.”

  He walked over to the coffee bar where there was a momentary gap. In less than a couple of minutes he was back with a latte and croissants. He sat down and they both enjoyed their breakfast.

  Once the croissants were consumed – the three small ones were worth about a bite each – Michele was about to suggest they go and hire a car and that doing it together would have the benefit that both could drive it. Before he could speak she suggested the same. Miraculously she also suggested driving north as soon as they had the car. Thank goodness Miriam did not want to go to the hotel. Somehow, somewhere, she must have found a way to clean up for she did look fresh and good. He knew he could not look the same after such a long flight, though she mentioned over the coffee that she had slept for about eight hours. Lucky her.

  They walked companionably together towards the car rental agency offices. All seemed good and relaxed to Michele, though there was the meeting at Belvoir to come.

  Friday, Monteverde

  Davide arrived at Fiumicino to face the same chaos that Michele had left earlier the previous day. He wondered about obtaining some form of data plan for his mobile phone, which he often used as a router, so that his laptop and tablet as well as phone could connect to the Internet. One aspect of travel he had come to hate was how telephone companies gouged you for connections and calls you made outside the home country of each SIM.

  On his way to baggage claim he saw a TIM shop, without queues of people. He went in and in his Spanish-accented Italian tried to find out what a SIM card would cost with data. A new one could join the five or so others that he kept in a special box in his hand luggage. His Italian was not good enough but the man selling to him tried English, which was fine as he spoke it well. Within minutes Davide possessed a monthly subscription, cancellable online any time after the first mon
th and renewable any time within twelve months of cancelling, giving him free calls up to an ungenerous number of minutes (not that he expected to use these), and up to 2GB of data in a month, which he did expect to use. Although the Residence Monteverde had had Wi-Fi last time, you could never be sure, and he hated being cut off from electronic communication.

  He decided to change his SIM card there and then. Having done this he proceeded to pick up his luggage and went through the Blue Channel and out to the station at Fiumicino. As he boarded the train to Trastevere he realised he had not checked for an SMS from José Antonio about a room being available. That was rather dumb, given that it would go to his UK SIM and that phone now had the Italian SIM inserted. After reinserting his original SIM he was relieved to see confirmation that he had the reservation through until Monday if needed. Also, he would have a 10 per cent discount because the parish was making the booking.

  After more hoop-la with changing the SIMs back, not made easier by the lurching of the train, this reminded him again why it would be better to have a dual-SIM smartphone once they became available. He called José Antonio.

  “Pronto,” he heard when someone answered.

  “José Antonio?”

  “Si.”

  “It’s Davide. I’m on the train to the Stazione di Trastevere. Thank you for booking the Residence Monteverde. I should be there within an hour. Would you mind if I slept for a while? After the flights from San Francisco and then London I am exhausted.”

  “No problem. But can you make dinner tonight rather than tomorrow? Excellent. I could come and meet you or we could meet at the ristorante at eight. It is up the hill, just past my church if you remember where that is — about five to seven minutes’ walk for you. What would be best for you?”

  “If it’s so close to you and if I have to go past Santa Maria then it makes no sense to drag you to my hotel. I’ll see you there at 7.30 p.m., though you might want to call me around 6.30 p.m. on this number to check I am awake.”

  “Ah, you have an Italian number now. That’s why I did not recognise it. Good. I’ll do as you suggest. See you –”

  “Wait, wait! Can you tell me the name and address of the ristorante? That could be useful, no?”

  José Antonio blushed.

  “Of course! It is the Ristorante Giovanna. Go up the Via Guido Cavalcanti and turn right when you reach Via Gabriele Rossetti. It’s about 30-40 metres along on the opposite side. If I’m not there, tell Signora Giovanna that you are my guest.”

  “I’m looking forward to seeing you and hearing what you’ve been doing with my HolyPhone.”

  Friday, Monteverde

  José Antonio put down his phone after calling Nelson to confirm that evening. He had booked with Giovanna, for three — warning her that one of whom would again be Nelson.

  He wondered at how the outside world moved so fast while he moved so slowly in Monteverde. It was a secular miracle.

  This evening was going to be interesting, though not in any way that he could predict. Anyhow, he had better prepare for his session with Maria and Simone who were coming to visit in twenty minutes to discuss their impending marriage service.

  Friday, Nahalah

  Noach had an extraordinarily unhappy wife. Tamar was throwing every verbal form of abuse at him that he could imagine, just because he had not told her that Miriam was coming to Israel. That early morning call from Ben Gurion had put him on the spot.

  “Why hadn’t you told me? What were you thinking of, you miserable, mean, gutless bastard of a husband!”

  It was Friday. Shabbat would be starting at sundown and she did not have the food or drink for the special family dinner that was an absolute necessity if Miriam was to be here. What, Tamar kept asking him, could she do at such short notice?

  He had to face a dilemma. If only Miriam hadn’t called. If only he’d gone to pick her up at Ben Gurion. If only … The difficulty now was how to tell Tamar that Miriam might not actually be coming back to Nahalal at all, which might see his less public parts being removed violently. Secretly he was sure that Tamar was capable of this if pushed to an extreme. It almost happened once before when she had threatened to stay in the States with the children.

  Or there was the other option, of inviting all the Belvoir attendees to Shabbat dinner. That meant, besides Miriam, an extra two people to feed. Worse still, both were overt Christians. Better, they were religious, and so might respect the religious rights of others. Hmmm, that sounded, even to him, mildly implausible but one could hope. Even worse, with Tamar and his mother seeing them together, questions must be asked about what they all were doing meeting in Israel.

  He decided the second was probably the easier option. Not the best one, which would be for Tamar to shut the hell up and leave him to keep her fat and comfortable. There was no chance of that …

  “Miriam is not alone. Do you think we can invite her companions?”

  Tamar was initially stunned into silence.

  “I have to invent a special Shabbat dinner at no notice for three extra people? Are you crazy?”

  “No, but it would be the simplest solution. Otherwise Miriam might feel obliged to go back to Tel Aviv with them rather than visit us. Remember Miriam is not Jewish; she can drive on Shabbat.”

  “And what about tomorrow, you pig-ignorant infidel? Where will they stay? Have you forgotten it is Yom Kippur from tomorrow evening? Oh, what have you done?”

  In truth he had forgotten it was Yom Kippur. While he was Jewish by blood, he was not a believer, and probably would never be.

  Yet the Day of Atonement was the one day of the year when he did observe, going both to Synagogue and observing the unwritten if universally observed practice in Israel (it was not yet law, despite the Orthodox pressing for it to be) that no cars be driven between sundown and sundown of the day after. That indeed could be a complication.

  Too bad, he thought to himself. This will have to play itself out in some unknown manner.

  “I guess I’ll have to ask them all for this evening. That way you will be sure to see Miriam. Why not ask my mother to help you?”

  “Me ask your mother to help me? Have you lost your one remaining marble? She treats me like dirt, hates Americans — and remember Miriam is American. Why should she do anything for me? You ask her and see what response you get.”

  She had a point. His mother was not the most generous or considerate of people, except to her grandchildren. On them she doted but only when they behaved as good little Israelis in the making. She could never stop talking about her husband’s death and what he had given to Israel.

  “Okay, I will ask her to help. I must be going for I have to meet Miriam and her colleagues. For some strange reason it has to be at Kokhav Hayarden.”

  In saying this he was being misleading. It was he who had originally suggested it as a place in Israel in case they needed an emergency meeting. The others had suggested Ostia by the beach, San Lorenzo de El Escorial and the Smithsonian — all tourist places where it would be easy to merge into hordes of tourists.

  He went out the front door, finally escaping his wife’s fury and hoping she would calm down. When she wanted to she could cook well and she would be ecstatic to see Miriam. If only she would focus on the good.

  Now for his mother, which left him little happier. He recalled the old Israeli Defence Force joke about the difference between a Jewish Mother and a terrorist: “You can almost always negotiate with a terrorist”. That done he could concentrate on the meeting and what would happen there. He had better hurry. He needed to be at Kokhav Hayarden first to ensure that they had privacy.

  Friday, on the road to Belvoir

  Michele decided he wanted to drive, even though Miriam had been to Israel more often. Out of Ben Gurion they headed west along Route 1 until coming to Route 6. This was new to Miriam. It had either not been there or had not been completed when she last visited. It seemed to be a largely empty four-lane highway that ran from north to south along th
e western edge of the Judean Hills, from the rich agricultural belt south and west of Lake Galilee down to Beersheva, located in the north of the Negev desert.

  They reckoned they would be there by midday as planned. Perhaps it was as well that Miriam’s flight had been early.

  Making small talk, Michele asked how she managed to look so fresh after such a long flight. She described how the flight had not been too full, how she had been in an aisle seat, and when she awoke after eight hours of quite reasonable sleep she discovered nearly everyone dead to the world or bored inactive. By then it was nearly six thirty in the morning, so she had used the opportunity to find the lavatory with the most space, at the back of the plane by the galley. She was almost able to have a flannel bath, as well as change her underclothes and shirt. It took almost twenty minutes but she had felt great afterwards.

  They drove on for another ten or more kilometres. Michele wondered if Miriam had gone to sleep. He would not have blamed her; it was still in the early hours if you were on New York time.

  As they passed a sign post to Qualqilya she surprised him by asking: “Why are we here? I know that Belvoir was one of the emergency meeting places but what is all this about?” She turned in her seat to look at him. “Or do you have an ulterior motive?”

  “The simple answers are that this is all about our project and no I do not have any ulterior motive. As you know, I’m an ordained priest. To put your mind and our past at rest, I’ve been celibate since returning to the church. Satisfied?”

  She nodded. Miriam was unsure if she was pleased or disappointed now that he had been so blunt. He still had the power to attract her and she remembered long days and nights of mutual delight as they explored each other. She blushed to herself. Unprompted Miriam recalled his dislike of pubic hair and his delight when he found that she had visited a hugely expensive depilation clinic close to the bank and frequented by Lehmans’ female staff. The pleasure that had flowed from his tongue … Mentally she slapped herself: this was not a topic for now.