by Ian Caldwell
We take a roundabout way back to Lucio’s palace, stopping by the pre-seminary to let Peter play with the boys stranded there during the dead week between summer and fall terms. While they start a game of pickup soccer in the dirt outside their dorm, I leave a note for Father Vitari, the pre-seminary rector, explaining that a family situation may affect my availability. I have a good rapport with the boys, so the administrators will indulge me.
Just as I return, one of the boys steps forward. It looks like he’s been waiting for me.
“Father,” he says, “we have a question to ask you.”
The teachers call him Giorgio the Vain. His curly black hair droops around his ears like bunches of wet grapes. He’s related to a Vatican bishop, so he puts himself above the rest of his classmates.
“Yes?” I say.
The other boys have tensed up. Some are looking at their shoes. One of them elbows Giorgio, but he ignores it.
“Is it true, Father Andreou?” Giorgio asks. “About your brother?”
I clench my teeth. My skin suddenly tingles. “Where did you hear about that?”
Giorgio makes pistols out of his hands and waves them, gesturing at the whole group of students. “Everyone’s heard. We want to know if it’s true.”
Peter glances around, wondering what the silence means. I have to contain this before it spreads. With a look, I beg them not to say more. Peter’s heart is in their hands.
The biggest boy, a gentle brute named Scipio, leans forward and casts a shadow over Giorgio. The other boys glance at each other and seem to consent to keep quiet. But their eyes are eager. Giorgio wasn’t lying. They want to know.
I have a covenant with my pupils. I teach hard truths about sacred texts, and I don’t sugarcoat or water down. Honesty is our currency here.
But they are children. I can’t talk to them about Simon.
“I’m sorry. This isn’t something we can discuss.”
Yet they wait. I’m the priest they talk to about video games and girlfriends. About the older sister who almost died in a car accident this spring and the little cousin who has been dying of birth defects. If they’re allowed to ask if Jesus really walked on water, if the pope is really infallible, then surely they can ask this.
“It’s very personal,” I say. “Not appropriate.”
Giorgio snorts, “So then it must be true.”
I realize the crossroads we’ve come to. These boys come from all over Italy to live inside the Vatican walls, to serve Mass in the pope’s basilica. But what I say right now, in the dirt beside this dormitory, may be what they remember best.
“Sit down,” I say to Giorgio.
Giorgio hesitates.
“Please,” I say.
He lowers himself to the ground.
“All of you,” I say. “Sit.”
My thoughts race forward, raising a frame in my mind. The shape of what I will say. I know the message. I ache to say it. The question is how.
“A man is on trial,” I start. “He’s accused of something terrible. There are witnesses who say he did it, but the man won’t say a word. Won’t lift a finger to defend himself. So his closest friends lose faith. They abandon him.”
I let the words settle.
“You all know that story,” I say. “It’s the story of Jesus’ trial.”
A few nod.
“The man in that trial,” I say. “Was he innocent?”
“Yes,” the boys all respond.
“And no matter what anyone tells me about that man, I know the truth. I know how I feel about him. And nothing can ever change that, no matter what kind of evidence people say they have.”
This is my most naked answer. I will believe in Simon always. To the end, against all proofs and verdicts.
But I have an obligation to these boys. Telling them what I believe isn’t enough.
“Is that why your parents sent you to this pre-seminary, though?” I say. “To find out what I think? Or was it to learn how to think for yourselves?”
Deep feelings push up from the bottom of my throat.
“If you’re going to believe what other people tell you,” I say, “then don’t become priests. Nobody needs priests like that. You have to be the judge. People lie. People disagree. People make mistakes. To find out the truth, you have to know how to search for it.”
My shaky delivery, my barely disguised emotion, has captivated them. They’re really listening now. I know what direction I need to take. It’s been hovering in my thoughts for days. But not until this moment has it seemed so clear.
“A long time ago,” I say, “our Church used to have a fifth gospel. The Diatessaron. Its title is Greek for ‘made of four,’ because that’s how it was written. The author wove together the four gospels into one story. And because of that, the Diatessaron has one great weakness. Do you know what it is?”
I can feel Ugo beside me now. We are staring at the pages of the ancient manuscript.
“Its weakness,” I say, “is that the four gospels don’t always agree. Matthew tells us that Jesus did ten mighty deeds. Ten miracles in a row. But Mark says Jesus didn’t do those ten things in a row; Jesus did them at different times, in different places. So which gospel do we believe?”
No boy dares raise his hand.
“I want you to stop and think for yourself,” I say. “I want you to answer this. But I’ll help you get there. Name one other famous Jewish leader who did ten miracles in a row.”
A boy in front—Bruno, who will make a great priest someday—murmurs, “Moses did the ten plagues.”
“Correct. Now, what does Moses have to do with Jesus? Why would the gospel of Matthew change the order of the facts so that Jesus reminds us of Moses?”
There are no takers. They can’t feel it yet, but the momentum is building.
“Then remember,” I say, “that one of Jesus’ ten miracles was to calm a storm at sea. And that his disciples asked, ‘What sort of man is this, who even the winds and sea obey?’ Remind you of anything Moses did?”
“Parting the Red Sea,” says Giorgio, not to be outdone by Bruno.
“Now we’re getting somewhere. Now we’re getting past what Matthew says and asking ourselves why Matthew says it. I’ll give you another clue. Matthew also says that when Jesus was a baby, a king named Herod tried to kill him by slaughtering all the infants in Bethlehem. Now, where have we heard a story like that before? A king murdering all the Jewish babies?”
The connection is starting to form in their minds. As it dawns on them, they find the courage to make eye contact with me.
“Pharaoh did that,” says a new boy, “in the Moses story.”
I nod. “So once again, we have Matthew making Jesus’ life sound like Moses’ life. Does any other gospel agree with Matthew about these things? No. But Matthew wants to teach us something. Think of who Moses was: a special Jewish leader who saw God face-to-face on Mount Sinai and came back down with the Ten Commandments. The man who gave us the tablets of the law.”
With that, the dam breaks. At the same time, two or three boys make the leap. “Moses brought the old law,” one says. “Jesus brought the new law.”
“This is one of the most important things Matthew teaches us about Jesus: that Jesus is the new Moses, the even-greater-than-Moses. When Jesus delivers the new law, where does it happen? Where does Jesus say, ‘Blessed are the meek,’ ‘Blessed are the merciful,’ ‘Blessed are the peacemakers’? Where does he say, ‘Turn the other cheek,’ and ‘Love your enemies,’ and ‘I have come not to abolish the law but to fulfill it’? It all happens in one sermon, which we know as the Sermon on the Mount because Matthew tells us Jesus gave it on a mountain. The same place God gave the tablets of the old law to Moses. No other gospel agrees with Matthew. Luke says Jesus gave that same sermon in a plain. But Matthew had his reasons. Every single on
e of the gospels has its reasons.
“Which brings us back to the problem we started with. What would you do if you were writing the Diatessaron? If you had to combine all four gospels into one narrative, which gospel version of the story would you choose? Would you say Jesus really performed those ten miracles in a row? Or at different times, in different places? Would you say he delivered his sermon on a mountain or in a plain?”
Their eyes seem to shimmer with the newness of these ideas. I am, for this brief moment, a magician. But we will put that to the test.
“That’s why,” I continue, “the Diatessaron failed: because when we weave the four gospels together, we create something different. We lose the truth that exists separately in each gospel’s account. In other words, witnesses have their own ideas. Their own motives. And not everything you hear or read is really fact. The Church has something to say about this, too. Under Church law, can you guess what a judge is supposed to do when the witnesses disagree? Do you think he’s supposed to mix their testimony together?”
The boys, swept up in the logic, all shake their heads without thinking.
“Of course not,” I say. “That would obviously be a mistake. So what does canon law tell the judge to do? Take each piece of information on its own merits and use good judgment to figure out where the truth is. You mustn’t take everything you hear at face value.” I do my best not to glare at Giorgio. “And you must never believe rumors that assume the worst about a good person. Because as the gospels teach us, we might condemn an innocent man.”
I punctuate this sentence with a meaningful look. There may be some younger boys who don’t understand what I’m talking about, but the older boys know. Some look chastened. Others nod as if they accept the point. Then, suddenly, Peter begins to cry.
Giorgio is sitting beside him, and my first instinct is that Giorgio has said something upsetting.
As Peter rushes toward me, bawling, I pick him up and say, “What did he tell you? What’s wrong?”
But just as I prepare to turn on Giorgio, I see something in the distance. Far off, down the path, is a lone figure. Motionless, almost hidden behind a statue in the garden. She’s watching us.
I freeze. As I hold Peter in my arms, I watch her cover her mouth with her hands.
She followed us here. She couldn’t help herself. Finally being so close, she needed a glimpse of her son.
In a thin voice I say, “That’s enough, boys. Please, go back to your rooms right now.”
Some of them turn to look, wondering what’s caught my attention. But Bruno marshals them away. One by one they retreat back to the dorm.
I’m trying to understand what Mona has done. How she made Peter cry. I’m stunned that she broke the agreement we made.
Peter’s eyes are wide and glassy. He whispers something in my ear. At first I can’t make sense of it.
“What’s wrong?” I say. “What happened?”
He’s breathing hard. The words are ragged.
“Giorgio said Simon is in jail.”
I look up. Giorgio is already gone.
“That’s not true,” I say to Peter. I squeeze him, as if I can force the poison out. “Giorgio doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
But Peter cries into my ear, “Giorgio says Simon is a killer.”
“He’s lying, Peter,” I say. “You know that isn’t true.”
Mona drifts closer to us as the boys disappear. Her face is anguished. She can see that Peter’s crying.
I wave her away, but she’s already stopped. She knows.
“Ignore Giorgio,” I whisper to Peter. “He was just trying to upset you.”
“I want to see Simon.”
I nuzzle him with my forehead. “We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Do you remember what he said before he left? What you promised him?”
Peter nods, but he’s miserable.
Even as I hold him, I imagine my altar boys back in their dorm, spreading the news. I wonder how many people in this country have heard.
Mona is a hundred feet off, still watching. I should be angry with her. She shouldn’t be here; we made that decision together. But I understand the compulsion that brought her here. For a moment we stare at each other over Peter’s shoulder. She hovers on the hilltop like a vision. But then she raises a hand in the air, telling me that she’s leaving.
I prop Peter up and offer to take him for an Orange Fanta. It’s safer to go somewhere outside the walls than to risk staying here. Anyone we run into might know about Simon.
But Peter says, “Prozio has Orange Fanta. I want to go back to the palace.”
Lucio’s apartments. At his age, the place I dreaded most.
“You’re sure? You don’t want to go somewhere else?”
He shakes his head. “I want to play cards with Diego.”
He wraps his arms around my hips and squeezes.
“All right. Then that’s where we’ll go.”
He collects his soccer ball from under a bush to bring it home. Like all his toys, he has written his name all over it, for fear of losing it. He has no idea the confusion I feel. The inversion of everything I’ve known for so long. Mona so close by, and Simon so far.
“Let’s go,” I say, pointing to Lucio’s palace on the hill. “I’ll race you there.”
CHAPTER 21
THE WONDERS OF a child’s mind. Once Peter is engrossed in a game of scopa with Diego, Giorgio becomes a distant memory.
“Where is Simon really, Babbo?” he asks, just once, never moving his eyes from his cards.
“Talking to some people about Mister Nogara’s exhibit,” I say.
Peter nods as if this sounds important. “Diego,” he says, “can you deal again?”
While they play, I call Leo to see if he’s heard anything about Simon. There’s something in his voice when he answers, “Give me an hour. I think we’re onto something.” While I wait, an idea comes to me. I decide to slip inside Simon’s bedroom and see what he left behind.
The room is almost bare. The dresser and desktop are empty. His wallet and mobile phone were probably on him when he was taken away. Father’s old garment bag hangs alone in the closet. A note pinned to it in Diego’s hand tells Simon that he left it in the car-service sedan that drove him from the airport. My brother doesn’t seem to have touched it, but in one of the small outer pockets of the bag, I find a little brown booklet with a golden emblem of the papal tiara and keys. Below are the words PASSEPORT DIPLOMATIQUE. I open the cover.
On the right-hand page is a passport photo of Simon in his cassock. Stamped in red are the words SEGRETERIA DI STATO—RAPPORTI CON GLI STATI. Secretariat of State—Relations with States. My eyes skip to the handwritten calligraphy in Latin.
The Reverend Simon Andreou, Secretary Second Class, Secretariat of State. This passport is valid for five years until the day June 1, 2005.
The bottom is signed by the Secretary of State: D. Card. Boia.
I fan the pages forward to the visa section, the entry and exit stamps. No surprises here. Bulgaria, Turkey, and Italy. Nowhere else. Even the dates match up to visits I recall.
I keep fishing. Zipped into one of the inner plastic pockets of the garment bag is Simon’s day planner. Tucked inside it is an envelope addressed to Simon in familiar handwriting. The postmark is three weeks ago. Ugo mailed this to Simon at the nunciature just a few days before he wrote his final e-mail to me.
The letter is written on a sheet of homily paper—stationery with an empty column on the left side, where a priest can record the gospel passages he’s preaching on. I gave Ugo a sheaf of this paper as a tool for comparing verses, and this particular sheet appears to have been used for that purpose, leaving the impression that Ugo was writing in a rush and grabbed the first thing at hand. I wonder why.
3 August 2004
Dear Simon,
Mark 14:44–46
You’ve been telling me for several weeks now that
John 18:4–6
this meeting wouldn’t be postponed—not even if
Matthew 27:32
you were away on business. Now I realize you were
John 19:17
serious. I could tell you I’m ready for it, but I’d be
Luke 19:35
lying. For more than a month you’ve been stealing
John 12:14–15
away on these trips—which I know has been hard on you—but you need to understand that I’ve had burdens too. I’ve been scrambling around to mount
Matthew 26:17
my exhibit. Changing everything so that you can
John 19:14
now pull off this meeting at the Casina will be difficult for me. Yes, I still want to give the keynote. But I also feel that doing it compels me to
Mark 15:40–41
make some grand personal gesture toward the Orthodox. For the past two years I’ve given my life to this exhibit. Now you’ve taken my
John 19:25–27
work and given it a much larger audience—which is wonderful, of course—and yet it gives this keynote a heavy significance. This will be the moment when I officially hand my baby over. The moment when, with a great flourish, I sign my
Matthew 27:48
life away.
