The Fifth Gospel(134)
“All I know,” Bachmeier says, “is that the day after Ugolino was killed, Father Andreou came into the museum and made a change to the exhibit. He removed a photographic enlargement showing a page from the Diatessaron, and when I asked him about it, he offered no explanation.”
I hastily scribble a note to Mignatto.
He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. There are still Diatessaron photos on the walls.
Mignatto mouths, You’re sure?
When I nod, he rises and says to the judges, “Permission to approach?”
They wave him forward. A hushed parley follows. Then Mignatto returns to our table, looking stiff.
The young judge says, “Doctor Bachmeier, did Father Andreou remove all the photographic enlargements?”
“After I questioned him about the first one, he didn’t touch the others.”
Mignatto frowns. This isn’t the impression he wanted to leave the judges with. But it’s a dead end. I’m more concerned about the Diatessaron. I wonder what the stains on Ugo’s hands mean. Whether it’s possible he brought the manuscript to Castel Gandolfo, and now it has vanished.
“Doctor Bachmeier,” the lead judge says, “can you think of a reason why—”
But the question is interrupted by the opening of the door at the rear of the courtroom. Its sound perforates the quiet hum of the proceedings. I turn.
A tall, doughy-faced man enters. He has downcast eyes and wears a plain black cassock. Soundlessly he sits on the last bench in the courtroom, trying not to attract attention. No gendarme stops him. And almost immediately his presence makes a stir. Even the judges are staring.
“Please,” the soft-faced man says in Polish-inflected Italian. “Continue.”
He has lived inside these walls for twenty-six years but has never shed his accent.
“Your Grace,” the presiding bishop says, “may we help you?”
“No, no,” says Archbishop Nowak, sounding contrite about the commotion. “I am here only to observe.”
The judges are unsettled. It’s one thing to be observed. It’s another thing to be observed by the eyes and ears of the pope.
“Doctor Bachmeier,” the presiding judge repeats, “can you think of any reason why the accused would want to steal the manuscript?”
I find these questions absurd. There’s no evidence to suggest Simon ever laid a finger on the book.
“Pardon,” comes a voice from behind us. Nowak again. “What is this question?”
The judge explains what Bachmeier has revealed about the theft of the Diatessaron.
“My apologies,” Nowak says. “You may ask another question, please.”
The judge tries to parse what the archbishop means. Looking uncertain, he decides to repeat his question to Bachmeier.
But Nowak interrupts, “My apologies. No more about this, please. The topic is now outside the dubium.”
Two of the judges glance at each other. I whisper to Mignatto, “What’s the dubium?”
Mignatto doesn’t answer. He stares at Archbishop Nowak in what seems to be shock.
The presiding judge riffles through the papers before him, then holds one in the air to read from it. “Your Grace,” he says, “I have the joinder in front of me, and it says the dubium is whether Father—”