by Ray Flynn
“Sì. Excuse me?”
“Speak English?” Ryan asked.
“Sì. Speaka,” the cab driver replied.
“What kind of Christmas spirit you got here? No Christmas carols in the street. No Christmas lights.”
That was the final test of the driver’s English. “Yeah, buon Natale. Merry Christmas.”
A few minutes later the cab drove up to a gate. A number of stores faced the entrance gate, which was attended by two colorfully costumed Swiss guards. Looming behind the gate was the Vatican in all its glory. Ryan judged that this was as far as the cab could go. He stepped out of the cab, carrying his suitcase, and pulled out the stack of lire. He read the number on the taximeter and began counting out the bills. He added 15 percent and found that he was almost out of lire. Somehow the cab driver had managed to take him in, but, then, it was Christmas and Ryan would soon be with his father and siblings.
“Yeaha, Christmasa!” he chuckled and approached the guards, who came to attention. Ryan hoped the guards spoke English as he introduced himself. Dubiously they stared at him. Ryan was wearing his one good dark suit, a conservative tie knotted into the collar of his white starched shirt. He was a bit disheveled, he realized, and maybe they could smell the beer on his breath from the flight.
“I’m Ryan Kelly, the son of Pope Peter II,” he introduced himself. “Merry Christmas, guys!”
The guards glanced at each other in surprise. The young man was indeed tall like the American pope. But it wasn’t their prerogative to let him pass without some proof. Ryan recognized their quandary and showed his passport.
“What’s your sister’s name?” a guard asked with a grin.
“My big sister is Colleen, and the younger one is Meghan.”
“It is strange they did not tell us you were coming.”
“This is the Vatican and no Christmas decorations? No lights, no trees, no ringing bells?” He looked about in surprise. “A supermarket and post office at the Vatican?”
“Stand by,” the guard ordered mirthlessly. “I’ll call the captain.”
“I am not expected. This is a surprise visit.”
“We do not like surprise,” the guard muttered. He unhooked the cell phone from his belt and in an urgent tone of voice spoke into it in a foreign language. After considerable palaver, with the guard examining Ryan’s proffered passport, there was a wait while presumably the captain checked out the information he had received.
Stores across the street from the St. Anne’s Gate were beginning to bustle with business as Ryan waited patiently for some sign of recognition. Suddenly an official-looking young man in a civilian suit appeared, a broad smile on his face. He held out his hand.
“Ryan, Lieutenant Jan Christensen. You surely have taken your family by surprise. Colleen will meet us at the papal apartments.”
Ryan took the outstretched hand gratefully in his and gripped it warmly. “Lead on, Jan. I don’t know what was the matter with me, trying to surprise the family here in this place.”
“Our job is to prevent surprises, Ryan. Are you ready?”
The gate guards came to attention, halberds held out. “Thanks. See you around, guys.” Ryan returned the salute as Jan hefted his suitcase.
Ryan craned his neck, trying to see in all directions while Jan gave him running commentary on what they were looking at. Passing the Sistine Chapel, the library, and the garden walls, they entered a large building in which the papal apartments were located. They strode past another set of brightly garbed guards to an elevator.
Colleen was waiting at the entrance. “Ryan, how wonderful to see you! What a shock!” she greeted and hugged her brother. “Why didn’t you let us know?”
“Didn’t know myself until yesterday. Then I jumped on a plane and here I am. How is everybody? Where’s Dad? How’s he doing? I missed you, Col.”
“Dad’s preparing for Christmas Eve, the midnight Mass tomorrow,” Colleen replied. “I’ll show you to your room in the apartment.”
After Colleen had given her brother a tour of their spacious quarters, already refurbished for family living, and assigned him a guest room, she took him on a tour of the Vatican with Jan Christensen as an escort. In the meantime she had telephoned her friend Maureen Kirby to tell her about her brother’s arrival.
Since it was the night before Christmas Eve, Pope Peter II was working with a brace of cardinals on his Christmas Eve Mass and the sermon he would deliver.
Taking time out for dinner, the family ate together and Ryan gave his father a report on the business at home but quickly observed his father’s disinterest in the affairs he had cared for so diligently. His only questions concerned the welfare of old hands who had worked for him for so long. Although the pope talked little at dinner about the secular matters concerning him these days, Ryan could see that there was much else on his father’s mind, none of it connected with the fishing business. Probably like Peter I; fishing was the last thing on the first pope’s mind after he became the Rock on which Christ’s Church was founded.
It was after ten o’clock that night when Colleen and a tireless Ryan met Jan for a tour of Rome’s vivid nightlife. “We’ll start at Michelante’s. You’ll love it, Ryan,” Colleen enthused. “It’s the hangout for young students, Americans and Italians mostly, but others from all over Europe. Maureen Kirby will meet us. You’ll like Maureen. She is really like one of us even though her father was mayor of Chicago for years and very important politically. She speaks perfect Italian.”
“How are you doing in the language?” Ryan asked.
“In less than two weeks I can get along. Maureen told me just to get out with people and they’ll help me with my Italian. ‘Mingle and speak,’ she said. That’s what I’m doing.”
Mickey’s, as the Roman students called Michelante’s, was a revelation to Ryan. It was a real American bar, with college signs hung on the walls. Just then the affable Maureen joined them. A big sign reading ST. JOHN’S UNIVERSITY with hundreds of student autographs on it hung over the booth in which Maureen, Colleen, Jan, and Ryan were sitting, surveying the noisy scene around them.
Ryan watched as young men simply walked over to where two or three girls were sitting and started talking to them. Sometimes a girl nodded and walked out to dance with a young lothario; other times they smiled and shook their heads.
“You just see a girl you like and walk over and start chatting with her?” Ryan asked.
“Everybody is very friendly, especially Italian boys,” Maureen replied. “Sometimes too friendly,” she mused.
As if to emphasize her observation, a very pretty and full-figured girl with neatly trimmed blond hair who was standing near their table turned suddenly from a swarthy, dark-haired young man who was talking urgently to her. With a look of appeal on her face, she walked up to their table. Ryan smiled at her as she breathlessly asked, “Could I join your table?”
Seeing the hot-eyed young swain behind her, Maureen motioned toward the table. “Of course, come sit down.” She turned to Jan. “Could you find a chair for her?” The young guard officer immediately stood up and offered his own seat to the girl, which she gratefully accepted as Jan went to find another chair.
Sitting between Maureen and Ryan, the young woman introduced herself as Paula Novak, a student in Rome from Milwaukee. “I haven’t been here too long. I’m studying at Loyola and living in the college hostel, and I’m learning about customs and picking up the language. I read about this place, Mickey’s, and it is fun and you get to meet people like you. But just now I felt”—she shrugged—“like I was alone and defenseless. You know, when that guy asked me to go out of here with him.”
When Jan Christensen returned with another chair, the young women had already become acquainted. Ryan also found the girl interesting. “I’m not even in Rome for a day and a beautiful girl comes into my life,” he chuckled. Then, noticing the Italian youth still eyeing her, he moved his seat possessively closer to hers. She started to tell him
about her first months in Rome studying Renaissance art and Colleen joined in.
“Of course there is so much in the Vatican libraries and archives that is not available to the public,” Paula remarked. “But just being here in Rome gives you the kind of atmosphere that makes you learn and understand.” She laughed deprecatingly. “I’m from a Polish family and my father never heard of Renaissance art until Pope John Paul II became the first Polish pope in history. Suddenly my dad let me come over to pick up a little Polish pride, he said. And then, just after I arrived, the pope passed on before I could arrange to be part of a public audience.”
“Do you speak any Polish?” Ryan asked.
“No. But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t proud of our Polish pope.”
Just then several young men stood up from tables and said good night to their friends. One of them walked by the table and winked at Jan, saying foreign words. Jan answered and laughed back at them.
“They are part of the Swiss guard. We have to be back in our quarters at midnight.” He grinned broadly at Colleen. “But I have a special pass for tonight.”
“You mean you guys have to be like Cinderella? Home by midnight?” Ryan asked.
“Except in certain rare circumstances.” Jan grinned and patted Colleen’s hand.
They talked at length and sipped on homemade wine, while the boys drank draft beer. Nothing really gets going in Rome until after midnight. Jan told them of the Swiss guard.
“Men from the best Swiss families consider it an honor to be appointed to serve in the Vatican Guard. The prestige lasts a lifetime. We gladly put up with the regulations for a year or two. Our commander is usually from the nobility and a married man with his own Vatican apartment.”
“I remember when that terrible business happened,” Maureen said. “My father knew Commander Estermann.”
A grimace crossed Jan’s face. “In the four-hundred-year history of the Guard nothing so bad, so shocking, ever happened.”
“I must have been out fishing,” Ryan said. “What was it?”
When Jan did not answer, Maureen replied to Ryan’s question. “Back in 1998 a disgruntled guardsman murdered the commander and his wife in their apartment and then killed himself.”
Ryan nodded but did not pursue the question since it was so obviously painful to Jan. They were all silent a few moments, and then four young men, crew-cut Americans, obviously, came into the bar and looked around.
“Those are some of the marines from the American embassy to Italy in Rome,” Maureen laughed. “They’re good boys, well behaved.”
Curious, Paula turned to Ryan. “What brings you to Rome? Are you studying someplace?”
Ryan laughed. “No. I’m a fisherman from Cape Cod in New England. I’m just visiting for the holidays, and this is my sister.”
“Are you studying here, Colleen?” Paula asked.
“I’m thinking of enrolling in Marymount, where Maureen goes.”
“That really costs money,” Paula remarked. “I was lucky my dad sprang for my college and hostel fees.”
One of the marines, neatly dressed in sharply pressed slacks and a long-sleeved, tieless shirt, came over to where Maureen was sitting. “Are you going over to the disco tonight?”
“Probably. I’m showing some friends what Rome has to offer at night.”
“Well, save me a spin. See you later.”
Ryan leaned toward his sister. “Looks like the crowd here is thinning out a bit. Maybe now is the time to hit one of those discos you were telling me about.”
“Ryan, you’ve been up for Lord knows how long. Aren’t you tired?”
Ryan smiled at Paula. “You don’t come to Rome to be tired.” Then to Maureen he said, “What’s that place you were telling me about earlier?”
“There’s Radio Londra—in English it means Radio London—and there’s also Acav. They are both funky, lively, and fun clubs.”
“Paula, will you come with us? Wow! New Bedford, even Boston, has nothing like this.” He touched her arm lightly. “We’ll drive you home afterwards.”
“I’d love that, Ryan.” She laughed. “To think I came all the way to Rome to meet an American boy!”
Just as they were standing up to leave, an Italian youth came up to Maureen and kissed her on both cheeks. She was obviously delighted to see him as they exchanged rapid and enthusiastic Italian. Briefly she introduced him as Luigi, a friend from Marymount School. Together they walked the short distance to Radio Londra, where the techno music could be heard loud and thumping half a block away. Luigi led the way in and captured a table for them. As they sat down, Luigi’s friend Marco sidled up to them, and they crowded him into the table also. Ryan was amazed to hear his sister, who had been in Rome only a few weeks, talking animatedly in Italian to Marco. As Jan watched protectively, the two Italians led Colleen and Maureen onto the floor, where they danced to the blaring house music.
Ryan and Paula followed onto the floor and danced in somewhat less athletic steps, although they enjoyed being together as much as, perhaps more than, the wildly gyrating couples.
The evening spun on, and then Maureen and Luigi left for another disco. At Jan’s insistence Colleen and Ryan agreed it was time to take Paula back to her hostel and go home themselves.
Jan was driving a small black Vatican sedan. Ryan and Paula, sitting in the back, made a date for some sight-seeing the next day, Christmas Eve. Impulsively Ryan invited her to go to midnight Mass at St. Peter’s Basilica with him.
“I hear it is always crowed,” Paula replied, “but I’d love to spend Christmas Eve with you.”
“I have some connections that I think can get us tickets. In any case we’ll share our time together.”
“I’d love that,” she breathed as Jan pulled up in front of the Loyola College hostel and Ryan escorted her to the front door, where they bid one another a chaste good night.
Jan delivered Colleen and Ryan to the apostolic apartment and promised to make himself available next day to take them around town on Christmas Eve.
“That Paula is movie-actress pretty,” Colleen observed.
“And she’s really nice,” Ryan agreed.
“What are you going to do with her tomorrow?”
“I’d like to bring her to the midnight Mass.”
“I’ll ask Maureen if you can bring her to the ambassador’s party at his residence just before the Mass. I know it will be all right. Boy, is that Paula in for a surprise.” Colleen laughed. “She hasn’t a clue who we are.”
Letting themselves in by the main door as two Swiss guardsmen snapped to attention, Colleen and Ryan crept into the papal apartment, hoping that everybody was sound asleep. But Meghan slept fitfully, waiting for their return. Wearing her bathrobe, she met them as they passed quietly through the family room on the way to their bedrooms.
“Gracious, it’s three in the morning,” she exclaimed.
“And the city is still jumping, Meg,” Ryan said merrily. “We sure are a long way from New England.”
“It’s a good thing Dad is exhausted from preparing for Christmas or he would be standing here giving you two you-know-what.”
“Rome is different, Meg.”
“Maybe, but we’re not, not yet.” She tried to frown and burst out laughing. “Dad wanted to send out the guards after you.”
“We were with one all evening, Meg.”
“And a very good officer he is. But young, too. And I think he’s sweet on Colleen.”
“If it weren’t for Jan baby, we’d still be out there celebrating,” Colleen said defensively.
“Well, Dad’s asleep and we won’t disturb him. For two days he’s been working on these Christmas Masses. One of them is for tonight. So I’ll see you at breakfast.”
32
CHRISTMAS EVE MASS
Pope Peter had practiced with his trusted cardinals and Monsignor Cippolini for a week preparing for the Christmas Eve midnight Mass. Cardinal Bellotti, an expert on canon law, had been assi
gned to the team by Secretary of State Robitelli, who was anxious that nothing Bill Kelly did as pope would call into question revered traditions strengthened and made inviolate during the last harrowing days of the previous pope. It was, of course, this adherence to hidebound traditionalism, a mind-set secretly held suspect by the majority of the younger, more liberal-thinking bishops and cardinals, that had led to the logjam of the recent conclave. “God’s joke,” as the unintentional election of Kelly to the papacy was referred to in whispers, was the startling result of this centuries-long crackdown on theological “diversity.”
Pope Peter was happy to learn that several cardinals would be concelebrating Mass with him, hoping the mere image of unity would lessen the tensions between them. At the following Christmas morning Mass he was expected to deliver a meaningful homily that would stay strictly within the bounds of orthodoxy passionately reaffirmed in the final days of the previous pope. He had been given models of sermons from over the years, all centering, of course, on the birth of Christ. He sifted through them and selected certain passages meant to catch attention. By Christmas Eve he felt things ought to proceed without a hitch. In Ryan’s surprise appearance he rejoiced in that extra pleasure bonus for which he found himself profoundly thankful.
Thus on Christmas Eve morning Bill felt deceptively relaxed and confident. He had revised and studied his Christmas morning Mass notes, now in total conformity with Bellotti’s suggestions. The midnight Mass by comparison was hardly a problem. With three cardinals assisting and Bellotti himself delivering the brief homily there was no foreseeable problem—no warning of the challenge he had made up his mind to launch in time against the stifling dogmas Robitelli and Bellotti represented in their persons and ideology. These reforms would have to come a little at a time, certainly. But he would nevertheless encourage change and spur future theologians to take more liberties against present Church doctrine. And he would face the problems confronting Motupu in Africa head on, to help address the devastating toll of human lives from HIV and AIDS all over the continent. It was time to seriously address the health crisis in Africa, perhaps even review the Church’s position on birth control information and education. Pope Peter sighed at the difficult prospects he faced and then again resolved to enjoy Christmas with his family.
