Three Marys

by Glenn Cooper

  Cal didn’t speak a word of Filipino. He stopped a couple of arm’s lengths from the shouting man and delivered as benign a smile as he could muster under the circumstances. The crowd of urchins behind him filled the lane and pushed forward, jamming him uncomfortably close to the shouter-in-chief. Over one of the man’s powerful shoulders, Cal could see a riot of color on either side of the grate: flowers, candles in painted jars, photos of a girl duct-taped to the wall.

  ‘Does anyone here speak English?’ Cal said. He raised his voice to repeat the question then added: ‘I’m here to see Father Santos. Is he here?’

  One of the gatekeepers answered in English. ‘No reporters allowed! Leave our Little Virgin alone. Get the hell out of here!’

  ‘I’m not a—’

  The crowd behind him surged forward, pushing him into the chest of the snarling, shouting brute.

  The man pushed back with his battering-ram hands but there was nowhere for Cal to go.

  The English-speaking guy had a tire iron in his fist. He pressed forward to the front of the line and raised the weapon high over his head.

  Cal bellowed, ‘Father Santos? I need your help! It’s Cal Donovan. From the Vatican.’

  Three days earlier

  From the first day of his pontificate, Pope Celestine IV had lived and worked in one of the most modest of Vatican dwellings. When he announced that he would forego the traditional papal apartments in the Apostolic Palace overlooking St Peter’s Square for two rooms in the Sanctae Marthae guesthouse, the wags assumed it was going to be a short-lived publicity stunt. It wasn’t. The rotund and personable pontiff happily lived in a sparsely furnished bedroom, worked in an adjoining office, ate in the communal cafeteria where he chatted with Vatican staff and visiting bishops, and prayed and said Mass in the small guesthouse chapel. His secretary of state, Cardinal Da Silva, one of Celestine’s closest allies and confidants, opted for solidarity: after his recent appointment to the post, he too eschewed the lavish apartment provided to cardinal secretaries, opting instead for a guesthouse room close to the pope’s.

  Cal arrived at the Vatican after walking all the way from his hotel near the Pantheon. It was a warm, sunny Roman morning and the city pulsed with commuters going about their business amidst the alternative universe inhabited by tourists. In the lobby, several people recognized him and a few paused to exchange pleasantries. For the past few years he had been a regular visitor here but teaching and other commitments had prevented him from coming these past six months. The two men – the pope and the professor – had become more than acquaintances.

  A pair of cardinals immersed in conversation passed. Cal knew the men, a Nigerian and a Spaniard. Both were members of the C8. They gave Cal knowing smiles and Vargas, the Archbishop of Toledo, paused to whisper to Cal that he was happy to see him.

  ‘How is the Holy Father?’ Cal asked.

  ‘He finds himself challenged once again. It is not an easy job, Professor, but you know this.’

  It was Sister Elisabetta who came to greet Cal, apologizing for the wait. Elisabetta Celestino – the young archaeologist who became a nun; the nun who’d been instrumental in defusing the crisis surrounding the pope’s electoral conclave and in whose honor Cardinal Aspromonte had chosen the papal name Celestine; the woman whom the pontiff had elevated from her position at the Pontifical Commission for Sacred Archaeology to become his principal private secretary.

  ‘I was early,’ Cal said in reply.

  Her flawless face was framed by the veil of her order, the Augustinian Sisters Servants of Jesus and Mary, a teaching congregation. He was always taken aback by a beauty so staggering that it was hard to reconcile it with the life she had chosen. But he always behaved impeccably around her, stamping out his natural urges to flirt.

  ‘Ah, but we are running late. I do try to keep the trains running on time,’ she said with a small smile. ‘No easy task with the Holy Father.’

  ‘He does like to talk,’ Cal said.

  Walking side by side down the corridor to Celestine’s office, she told him that she understood he had changed his travel plans to attend the meeting.

  ‘Ever been to Iceland?’ he asked.

  ‘I have not.’

  ‘Neither have I.’

  The pope was waiting with Da Silva and when he entered the small office space, the cardinal secretary stepped aside to permit Cal to bestow the pontiff with his full attention.

  ‘It’s wonderful to see you again, Holy Father.’

  Celestine did what he always did when he saw Cal after the passage of time: he reached up to clasp his shoulders and held the clench, all the while beaming and tilting his head up so he could look him straight in the eye.

  ‘And you too, Professor. Such a pleasure to see you although I am plagued by guilt. Rodrigo has told me that I have interrupted your holiday plans. I cannot be any more sorry about this.’

  Da Silva chimed in, ‘How did your lady friend take the news?’

  ‘About as well as I expected.’

  ‘Then this is good news, no?’ the pope asked, freeing Cal from his grasp.

  ‘Actually, I was expecting it to go poorly,’ Cal said, punctuating the sentence with a bit of a laugh. He caught Sister Elisabetta quenching a smile.

  Celestine grimaced and let the subject die a quiet death. Elisabetta produced her notebook from somewhere in her habit and sat in the corner – her way of seeing to it that the meeting started promptly.

  ‘So, Professor,’ the pope began, ‘we seem to have a problem with our dear friend, George Pole.’

  Pole, as Cal knew full well, was no friend of this papacy but the way Celestine put it – without a trace of sarcasm – he might as well have been speaking of a true compatriot.

  ‘Surely Pole can’t be expecting the declaration of a miracle or even a miracles investigation,’ Cal said. ‘These occur during the process of beatification and canonization and that only occurs after a person’s death. These girls are very much alive unless I’m ill-informed.’

  ‘No, the three girls are certainly alive,’ the pope said. ‘Rodrigo asked George directly what he wanted. Tell the professor what he said.’

  ‘He told me the Vatican must do something extraordinary in this case, even if it is without precedent. He said, “For Heaven’s sake, Rodrigo, three virgins named Mary are pregnant and the Church is silent? I demand that this pope makes a spiritual declaration.” So, I asked George what kind of declaration he had in mind.’

  ‘What did he say?’ Cal asked.

  ‘He said that he wanted the beatification process to begin now. He didn’t care that they were living. He said that if ever there was a case for the declaration of living saints, this was it. At the end, he’s leaving it to the Vatican to decide on the form of this spiritual declaration but I got the firm impression that he wants us to formally open a Cause for Beatification and Canonization.’

  Cal asked, ‘And if you don’t? What’s his move?’

  ‘He didn’t go there,’ Da Silva said. ‘But knowing George it will be something loud.’

  Celestine chuckled. ‘What is it in English? George is media savvy.’

  ‘But what does he expect to gain from this?’ Cal asked.

  Da Silva looked to the pope to answer but when Celestine remained tight-lipped, the cardinal responded. ‘Above all, George is interested in making trouble for this pontificate. If we do something extraordinary he’ll say he was the one who pushed us into action. If we do nothing or something less than he wants, he’ll try to pillory us.’

  ‘What can I do to help?’ Cal asked. ‘More specifically, what can I do in two weeks?’

  Celestine stretched his arms over his prodigious belly and clasped his hands together. ‘Professor, you are fair-minded, analytical, cognizant of the historical perspectives on matters of miracles and sainthood, and above all, someone we trust. It also helps that you are not part of the Vatican machinery. If I were to choose some bishop or monsignor for the task, his approach mi
ght be to seek the answer he thinks would please me. You will seek only the truth.’

  ‘What is it you want to know?’ Cal asked.

  Celestine looked to the ceiling for inspiration. ‘We have three Catholic girls named Mary between the ages of fifteen and seventeen spread across the globe, all allegedly virgins, and all becoming pregnant at roughly the same time. In each case we have obtained some basic information from the local parishes but the priests who are closest to these girls are not equipped to make any kind of reliable inquiry. We need you to visit these girls and their families and make your own assessment.’

  ‘I’m not a doctor,’ Cal said.

  ‘We understand that the local priests have obtained some medical documentation,’ Da Silva said. ‘Collect these records, if you can, and we will have them analyzed in Rome.’

  The pope nodded and said, ‘It is even more important for me to get your impression of the circumstances of these pregnancies and what you think about the credibility of the girls and their families. I simply cannot properly react to this incredible situation without more information. Are we dealing with an improbable hoax with or without some nefarious purpose, or a grand constellation of miracles? This is the fundamental question.’

  ‘Of course it’s a hoax,’ Da Silva said. ‘Someone is behind this, if you ask me.’

  The pope’s mouth crinkled into a grin. ‘Rodrigo, it is a good thing you were not in Bethlehem two millennia ago, in charge of the stables. You might have evicted the Blessed Mary.’

  Da Silva was unmoved. ‘Virgin birth happened but once in history. The Bible tells us of the second coming of Christ, not the second coming of virgin births. From what you’ve read of the two girls who’ve been reported on, what do you think, Cal?’

  ‘I have no idea, which is probably a pretty good starting position for this kind of assignment. By the way, does George Pole know about the third girl in Peru?’ Cal asked.

  ‘He does,’ Da Silva said, ‘even though there’s been no publicity about her. When I asked how he knew he told me it came to him from a South American prelate whom he wouldn’t name.’

  ‘Just so I’m clear,’ Cal said, ‘you’re asking me to interview and research girls in the Philippines, Ireland, and Peru within two weeks?’

  The pope looked apologetic. ‘I know that this will be somewhat difficult, but Sister Elisabetta will get the travel office to make all the arrangements to make your journey as efficient and comfortable as possible.’

  ‘Could I make a suggestion – well, a request?’ Cal asked. ‘Could I enlist the help of a trusted colleague? I have a former graduate student at the Divinity School, an Irish priest named Joseph Murphy who is now on the faculty at Harvard. Joe is a wonderful fellow, an excellent scholar, totally reliable. I bring him up because I know he’s been closely following the news on the Irish Mary. She’s from Gort, near his old parish. He’s told me he knows the local priests. If he’s available he’d be perfect. It would give me more time with the other two girls.’

  ‘Very well, call your priest,’ the pope said.

  Elisabetta put her pen down. ‘Where would you like to go first, Professor?’ she asked. ‘Lima or Manila?’

  Cal shrugged. ‘I’m in your hands.’

  ‘I’ll try to get you on a flight to the Philippines tomorrow,’ she said, ‘and I’ll contact the girl’s priest, Father Santos, to let him know.’

  ‘Business class,’ Da Silva told her.

  ‘First class,’ the pope said. ‘It is a very long flight and I want my friend to be well rested for whatever he might encounter.’

  Cal was so pinned down by the crush of bodies from the front and the rear that he couldn’t even raise his arms to deflect the blow that was about to come down on him from the tire iron. All he could do was move his head to try to make the blow glancing. He forced himself to keep his eyes fixed on the weapon, black against the bright sky.

  ‘Itigil! Itigil! Sa pangalan ng Diyos, itigil!’

  Only later would Cal learn what Father Santos was shouting: ‘In the name of God, stop!’

  A large man might not have been able to work himself through the crowd but Santos was small enough to wedge himself through slight gaps and make his way to the man with the tire iron. The priest said something to him and the iron bar slowly lowered.

  ‘Professor Donovan,’ the priest said, reaching for his hand. ‘I am so very sorry. You weren’t injured, were you?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks, but this got ugly fast.’

  ‘They are very protective of our Maria. But please, please, come inside with me.’

  The phalanx of men parted obediently and Cal followed Santos inside the house. The room they entered was small, the kitchen and main living space, a threadbare rug thrown over the concrete floor, a few sticks of shabby furniture, an old propane cooker, and a sink with exposed and makeshift plumbing. Outdoors was populated by men; inside the guardians were women.

  ‘Let me introduce you to the mother,’ Santos said.

  Maria’s youthful mother was as brown as a hazelnut. Her sun-baked skin seemed as tough as nut shells. She looked askance at the tall American whose head came perilously close to the ceiling, but gave a toothy smile when the priest explained that this was the man they had been expecting from the Vatican.

  ‘The Holy Father sends his blessings,’ Cal said, and that was true. After Santos translated and the woman had crossed herself, Cal added, ‘May I ask Mrs Aquino and her daughter some questions now?’

  The woman nodded but insisted that Cal accept some orange soda which he did with thanks. As he drank the sickly sweet beverage he couldn’t help thinking that it would have gone down better with a shot of vodka. Returning the empty glass, he noticed a bulging burlap sack beside the beat-up sofa.

  ‘Mail,’ the priest said, ‘from all over the world.’ A heavy woman sat beside it snoring. ‘That lady there, she’s in charge of opening the letters and taking out the money. I’ve no idea how much so far but it’s surely a fortune to this family.’

  Maria was in a rear bedroom no larger than a closet, cross-legged on a mattress laid out on the concrete floor, a coloring book and a large box of fresh crayons on her lap. She looked up briefly, cow eyes through glasses, checking him out, then lost interest and picked out a new shade of green. Cal knew she was seven months pregnant but it was hard to tell. Her pretty, lacy top (a mailed gift from someone addressed only to Holy Maria, Manila, Philippines) was billowy and concealing. He also knew she was sixteen, but if he’d had to guess, he would have said this tiny girl was thirteen, maybe fourteen.

  Cal got down on his haunches, smiled and said, ‘Hello, Maria, my name is Cal. Can I see what you’re drawing?’

  The priest translated and the girl tilted the book toward him. It was an Old Testament scene – Jonah inside the whale.

  ‘Jonah looks pretty cozy in there,’ Cal said. ‘Do you know what happened to him?’

  The girl shook her head.

  ‘He prayed to God and God made the whale spit him out.’

  That made the girl giggle.

  Maria’s mother sat down beside her and Cal opened a recording app on his phone. Santos also decided to squat so that all four of them were at the same level.

  ‘Ask if it’s OK for me to make a recording. Tell them the pope would like to hear her voice.’

  Mrs Aquino readily agreed and told her daughter that she must answer the questions truthfully because the Holy Father would know if she was lying. She reached for the girl’s neck and pulled a small wooden crucifix hanging on a leather necklace from under her blouse so that it was visible to her inquisitors. Maria’s brothers and sisters, all younger, shuffled in, one after another from their collective bedroom, obeying their mother’s finger to her lips.

  Cal cleared his throat and began with perhaps the hardest question while the girl was at her freshest.

  ‘Maria, do you know how babies are made?’

  She looked at her mother before replying, ‘Yes.’


  ‘How?’

  ‘The boy plants his seed in the girl.’

  ‘And do you know how the boy does that?’

  There was another look toward her mother who nodded her permission to answer.

  Maria stalled by taking the time to carefully choose her next crayon. She tested it out and said, ‘He puts his penis here.’ She gestured toward her privates.

  ‘Did a boy do this to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Mrs Aquino stepped in. ‘Did no one tell the Holy Father she’s a virgin? They saw this at the clinic and at the hospital. Maria is a good girl.’

  Before Cal could tell her that these were routine questions, the girl volunteered an answer: she was sure.

  ‘All right, Maria, I believe you. I’d like you to think back to about seven months ago. Did anything unusual happen to you? Something that sticks in your mind?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like anything that wasn’t ordinary. Anything that you can remember. Just say whatever pops into your mind. There’s no such thing as a silly answer.’

  The girl closed her eyes and rolled her head around a bit theatrically until her mother told her to cut it out and answer the man.

  She suddenly opened her eyes and said, ‘There was a bright light. I remember that. Is that unusual?’

  Cal had just stood to relieve a leg cramp but he settled back down to a squat to stay at eye level.

  ‘That’s for you to say, Maria. Do you think the light was unusual?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Tell me more about the light. What were you doing when you saw it?’

  ‘I was walking.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Here in Paradise Village.’

  ‘Where in the village? At your house?’

  ‘No, close to Lulu’s house.’

  ‘Where is that?’

  The girl pointed in a general direction. Santos queried Maria’s mother then told Cal that it was at the opposite side of the slum, maybe a fifteen-minute walk.

  ‘Were you with your friend, Lulu, when you saw the light?’ Cal asked.

  ‘I was alone.’