The HolyPhone Confessional Crisis

by Charles Brett

“That said, and as others have agreed, he is a potential weak point. He’s currently off looking into one possible connection, to do with an Eastern European mafia if I understood his hints correctly. I’m expecting him back sometime this coming week. Father Federico, have you received anything from him indicating when we might see him?”

  “No, Your Eminence. But that is not unusual. After all, he has been gone only two or three days. But, if you will excuse me Your Eminence, I hope you will not object if I add that I find him somehow slippery. This is not a good description but it’s as near as I can think of. He’s undoubtedly good at what he does but is there something more that we are not seeing? I have this uneasy feeling when talking with him.”

  “What that suggests to me,” interposed Davide, “is that you have one person in a key design and delivery position. In turn that suggests we are going to have to consider carefully what he has ‘touched’ and whether there is any scope for mischief.” Davide paused. “This could be more complicated than I initially thought. Best I talk with Conor and see what he thinks.”

  “Fine. I hear what you are both saying. I am not comfortable but understand your reasoning. It is true that Monsignor Severino is right at the centre of what we have put in place financially. This was deliberate, partly because he knows what he is doing, but also, I am afraid to admit, because we all wanted to place the responsibility as far from ourselves as possible. Too many people, and some of them decent ones who should not have been blamed but were in the wrong place at the wrong time, have been tainted by what has happened in the Holy See’s recent financial past. We desperately need the success we have been enjoying to continue. Could we have been insufficiently careful? I’ll have to wait to see. Maybe he’ll return with a proof to keep us all happy. I would like that. But as before, it feels too good to be true.

  “Now I suggest we end this meeting. José Antonio, you are the link to Father Federico and he to me. I will let you start.”

  Nelson stood, made the sign of the cross and uttered a short blessing on all. He then left the conference room with Father Federico in tow.

  “Would you like to go and look out over a Confessional Call Centre?”

  Davide agreed. They left the conference room. José Antonio led the way to another door that opened onto a balcony fronted by glass. Below, Davide saw a large, modern room enclosed by ancient pillars. The modernity came from what he guessed must be 300 or more, small open-plan working desk-areas equipped with a screen and keyboard. The room was about half full. Whether it was noisy he could not tell, because of the glass wall. But he could see that nearly all the confessors at desks were busy. Only one or two looked like they were taking a brief pause. Apart from the medieval or possibly Roman pillars around the sides and the large cross on one wall it might have been any other call centre he had visited.

  “It is impressive. It goes much further than what I imagined. You and Nelson have moved beyond my imagination, in the sense that while I did originally conceive a large room of priests busy hearing confession, I never expected to see it for real myself.”

  José Antonio was pleased. He had not really expected much of a reaction.

  “We will come back tomorrow with Mr Laoghaire when we can have our people describe how the payments systems work.”

  Sunday, Tel Aviv

  Miriam did not know what to do with herself. She had her flight after eleven that night. She had arranged for a car to pick her up as soon as Yom Kippur finished and drive her out to Ben Gurion. She was puzzled that this could be arranged by telephone when everything else mechanical seemed to be prohibited from use. Even the lifts seemed to behave strangely, stopping at every floor, both when going up and when coming down.

  Miriam reported this to reception as a fault, only to be looked at as if she was a fool. Icily, the female receptionist explained that this was so any respectful Jew would not have to work the lift by pressing buttons. Just walking in and waiting for it to go up or down was not a sin it appeared, whereas pressing a button was. While hardly an elegant solution she could now understand why it took so long to reach her room after dinner last night; a dinner that need careful retrospection as did the car journey down from Nahalal with Michele.

  She did not know what to feel about the latter. During the ride Michele had behaved perfectly, as a gentleman and a priest. But that did not stop her thinking about him in other circumstances. She wondered if it had been the same for him, the two of them so close in a moving metal box, yet so far from each other. Nothing was said about what they had shared in the past. Indeed, little was said about the sessions with Noach.

  What conversation there had been was mostly about Judith who was, from her previous morning’s conversation, increasingly uncomfortable being with Noach. It was not that he was mean or treated her badly. It was more the indifference coupled with the continued hostility of Golda, the proverbial-micro-managing mother-in-law, plus the increasing influence Noach’s Settler friends had on him. If she understood Judith correctly it was the Settlers who were unhinging the unofficial compact that Noach and Judith made after she threatened to keep the children in the States. She had had the feeling that Judith was gathering herself to think about a visit to their father with the boys, perhaps not to return to Israel when it was time to fly back. That would be a huge step and probably irrevocable.

  Miriam had not known how to react, so kept quiet, which was all Judith seemed to want. Probably they should have talked for longer but there was only one other opportunity, when Noach had taken Michele off to see Dayan’s grave. Then she and Judith had time to talk, except the boys wanted to be with their aunt. That gave the sisters no space to share anything more.

  It turned out that Michele, on the drive to Tel Aviv, had thought pretty much as she did; that Judith wanted out of Israel. He made no judgements, only providing his observations, which pretty much coincided with her own thoughts.

  They reached Tel Aviv sooner than expected. He had been able to park underneath his hotel. He mentioned that he would use the car to go to the airport early on Monday morning because it would be easier to return the car to the place where he had originally hired it. He offered to drive her out to Ben Gurion that evening. Miriam thought it best not to accept, unless she was unable to order a taxi.

  They went upstairs to the hotel lobby from where she would head across the road to register at the hotel that Inma should arrive at later. Michele had gone straight to his room. This left her time to look around. She saw a swimsuit shop, but could not enter. It had closed for Yom Kippur and would not open until Monday, according to a notice in badly-written English taped to the door.

  Now she was sitting comfortably on the beach, listening to her iPad, watching the world go by. It was interesting how prim some were and how noisy others were. A figure crossed in front of her, modestly covered up in what looked like an expensive pareo. The lady walked on before sitting down on the beach nearer to the sea than Miriam. She removed the pareo and lay down to sunbathe.

  For a moment Miriam suspected this was someone she knew, but it could not be, as she knew nobody other than Judith and Noach in Israel, and they were in Nahalal. No matter. She returned her attention to her music.

  Reflecting on Noach, she thought that from the evidence of those on the beach, Israeli men were too short and hirsute for her taste. There were some with good physiques, with powerful muscular bodies, though these seemed to be the ones who were also bald or with shaven heads. Inevitably these were the ones who were excessively hairy on the arms or chest or back. They did not attract her. She fell asleep in the sun.

  Sunday, Rome

  José Antonio and Davide exited the Confessional Call Centre and headed back to Santa Maria. On the way Davide called Conor, suggesting he and Caterina join them at the small trattoria that José Antonio had taken him to long before, having established with José Antonio that it was still in business and that it would be open on a Sunday. As time was short before they were due to meet they decided to w
ave down a passing taxi whose driver decided to take the scenic route along the Passeggiata di Gianicolo. José Antonio remarked that this was an area where Father Giorgio liked to come on his inline skates, partly for the peace, partly for the views. These were spectacular, even from a fast-moving car, looking out over the Tiber and the centre of Rome. In the midst of this, unfortunately, one could not avoid seeing the grotesque white wedding cake that was the monument to Vittorio Emanuele II.

  They drew up outside the trattoria to find that Conor and Caterina were already there. No table was available for at least twenty minutes but one should be ready about then, Caterina had grunted. It was clear it was Caterina who had had asked and also clear that she and Conor were being treated as foreigners, for there were at two or three tables unoccupied.

  The proprietor came forward, on seeing José Antonio.

  “Father, it is always a pleasure to see you. A table for one. Subito. Subito. I shall not keep you waiting.”

  “Wait a moment, Tono. These,” he gestured to include Davide as well as Conor and Caterina, “are my guests. Will you be able to fit us all in?”

  “Immediately.” He looked accusingly at Caterina and Conor. “Why didn’t you say you were with the good Father?”

  “Because we did not know Father José Antonio was joining us and you did not give us time for introductions,” snapped Caterina.

  Tono stepped back, surprised. It was not often he was attacked on his own territory, and by a foreigner speaking decent Italian even if it sounded like his second cousin whenever he came back from Melbourne.

  “Prego, prego. Please come this way.”

  He led them into main part of the room, pushed two tables together and invited them to make themselves comfortable. Seemingly out of nowhere he produced menus and enquired about water and, perhaps, a litre of the house white.

  Conor and Davide nodded.

  “Okay, let me make the introductions that Caterina has noted have been missing. José Antonio, this is Conor Laoghaire – don’t ask him to spell it for you, as it is not how it sounds – and Caterina Certaldo of Interpol. I have known Conor for longer than either of us will admit and Caterina is on secondment from Australia, as you may remember from what Cardinal da Ferraz said. Caterina and Conor, José Antonio and I met by accident when I was looking at his church some years back. We had a delightful and simple lunch here which is why I suggested this place.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Father,” was Conor’s response, deferential as only those trained by Jesuits can manage.

  “Piacere, Padre José Antonio,” said Caterina.

  “I am delighted in meeting both of you” replied José Antonio. “I am afraid my English is not as good as Davide’s Spanish. What language should we use? Caterina clearly speaks good Italian. What about you, Conor? Oh, and please drop the ‘Father’. Davide is not comfortable with it — yes, I remember Davide — and you really do not need to add more syllables to my name for it is already long enough.”

  “I would prefer Spanish,” responded Conor, “or French if we are not going to use English. Kate would probably prefer Italian because she is an Aussie and they can barely speak proper English.”

  “Mr. Laoghaire, I have asked you before and will ask you one last time. Please do not call me Kate. If you persist I will insist on Mr Laoghaire under all circumstances unless ‘you silly old git’ will embarrass you more.”

  The tone of her voice was colder than a Greenland glacier, with a harsh Australian bite that Davide had not heard the evening before. He had not been sure if he liked her then; now he liked her less. He wondered if she was going to be a liability.

  José Antonio looked at her and then Conor. This tough young lady was very pretty, with almost white-blonde hair and black eyes, proving a fearsome and rather extraordinary combination. She had a set to her chin that clearly did not tolerate what she disliked. He was glad that he was now of an age where he could be with ladies and admire from afar yet feel no remnants of embarrassment or desire.

  “Children, children …”

  He stopped as three pairs of eyes simultaneously whipped round to focus on him, much like three tank turrets in synchrony swivelling to target a common enemy.

  “No, no, no; let me rephrase myself. My friends, we must not start off in the wrong way. I was not beginning to preach, though if it sounded so, I apologise.”

  Their eyes relented. Well, two pairs of eyes did. The third turned back to Conor. José Antonio relaxed; he was no longer the target. Caterina waited for Conor. Davide also held fire to see what would happen next.

  Reluctantly Conor gave way, saying, “Providing you call me Conor I will call you Caterina. Shake on it?”

  “Okay, Conor. But please do not think of going back on your word, given, I remind you, in front a man of God.”

  She smiled and it was as though a cold sun had broken unexpectedly through dense black clouds.

  “Okay, Caterina; if you insist.”

  José Antonio tried a distraction: “Why were you called Caterina? Was it after either of the Saints?”

  “There are two?”

  “Probably more than two. Of the two best known one was St Catherine of Alexander. She was an early Christian martyr who gave her name to the Catherine Wheel when it burst into flames before she could be killed on it for refusing to marry an Emperor. The second was St Catherine of Siena, a fourteenth-century mystic who had visions, probably because she starved herself and became incoherent.”

  “I had no idea. I am not sure if I asked my parents, which is a touch difficult as they are now dead, if they knew there were two saints of the same name. The truth is that they were not that educated. They were poor immigrants to Australia from Southern Italy, what they always referred to as the Mezzogiorno, though they also claimed to have some sort of a link with Tuscany.”

  “Do you know there is a small town south of Florence called Certaldo? It is a pretty but tiny place whose main claim to fame was that it was where Boccacio was born and took refuge during the Black Death. He wrote the Decameron there. Maybe that is your connection?”

  “Maybe. That’s news to me. Anyhow, do I see our host heading this way? Perhaps we should order.”

  Sunday, Tel Aviv

  After a couple of hours in the sun, something she was used to from lying beside the pool at her finca, Inma decided to cool off and swim. She stood up, putting her towel over the pareo and her bag. Hoping that on Days of Atonement beach thieves disappeared or felt too guilty to steal, she walked into the sea and started to swim. There were not many round her and inside the Tel Aviv concrete block breakwaters the sea was calm and warm. This was a pleasure. She was not a strong swimmer but these conditions were not challenging.

  Inma swam up and down for what she guessed was about a quarter of an hour, having left her watch in her hotel safe. She decided it was time to get out and return for a shower. Then she would really need to start to focus on the previous two days and what this might mean for her as well as for them all. She was convinced that there was no Opus Dei leak or problem from her end but something did smell wrong.

  As she swam for the beach doing a gentle breaststroke Inma saw an Israeli walking towards the sea. She swam a little further before looking up again.

  “Oh no; that may be Miriam. She’s the last person I need seeing me like this.”

  She turned, switching from her breaststroke to a messy front crawl, and headed back out to sea at an angle in the hope of coming ashore further along the beach and then circling back to her belongings without encountering Miriam.

  It was not to be.

  Pausing after two to three minutes of hard swimming, Inma found herself able to stand on the sandy bottom. Looking round to see if she had escaped, it appeared she had, for the only person nearby was a solitary swimmer doing a fast front crawl like Inma wished she could do. She paused to admire the technique. She could never swim like that, not with that combination of efficiency and style.

  As
the swimmer was about to pass, Inma saw that it was Miriam. There was nothing to do except hope Miriam would not see her, being so intent on her progress through the water that she might just swim on towards the opening between the breakwaters. Then Miriam chose exactly the wrong moment, for Inma, to lift her head to breathe and somehow registered that someone was less than a few metres away.

  Miriam started paddling across.

  “Inma? Is that you, Inma? It really is. Have you been in the sea long? I thought I saw someone I knew earlier. Could it have been you?”

  Miriam paused, not wanting to explain why it might not have been Inma. To say that the lady she had seen in front had been far too elegantly dressed to be Inma would be rude. But what could she say to extricate herself? Silence was probably best.

  “I’ve been on the beach reading for a couple of hours and swimming for I don’t know how long. I was thinking of going back to the hotel. Shall I leave you to continue?”

  Inside herself Inma hoped that Miriam’s natural American good manners would win out and they would leave each other alone.

  Again it was not to be.

  “I just entered the water to cool off, not really to exercise. If I want to swim for exercise I prefer a pool, though running is my preference. I did think of running today but I brought no running shoes with me, which was a mistake. No traffic is like perfection for a runner. Anyhow, let me come back with you.”

  Reluctantly Inma agreed. She had no real choice.

  They swam sedately towards the beach before wading out beside each other. Miriam turned to Inma, asking where she had left her things. She gasped.

  “What is it? Is something wrong, Miriam?”

  “You are what is wrong, to put it bluntly.”

  The two women looked at each other.

  What Inma saw was what she associated with Americans: tall, tanned, long-legged, slim if almost muscular and with the flat stomach of someone extremely fit. She was in a bikini with a simplicity that was simply not European. She had no make-up, but that was understandable for the beach. Yet she looked young even though she must be in her late thirties or possibly early forties. This was not the candied freshness of a typical Hollywood starlet but something less overtly alluring, more direct, and more attractive. There was no other way to put it. Inma wondered how Michele could resist Miriam, especially with those pale blue eyes. But Michele did not get to see this, which was probably just as well for all of them. She increasingly thought that losing Michele as a priest with the financial connections would harm their enterprise.