“I suppose it’s possible,” I said. “Stranger things have been true.”
“Then we agree!”
“But Ugo, it’s not strong enough to make a convincing case unless we find corroborating evidence in the Diatessaron.”
He opened his research diary to a page where his pen lay tucked like a bookmark. “Which brings me to our plan of attack. There are three passages in John that mention Thomas: 11:16, 14:5, and the Doubting Thomas story at 20:24. I’ve told the conservators to restore those verses next before they do anything else.”
I took the pen from him and uncapped it. “There’s a fourth reference in the other gospels. Thomas appears in their lists of the twelve disciples.”
“Where?”
“Mark 3:14. Which Matthew copies at 10:2 and Luke copies at 6:13. All three versions mention Thomas, so the Diatessaron should have Thomas, too. If we find anything more than his name there—an adjective, another nickname, anything at all—it could be the corroboration you want.”
“Excellent.” Ugo clapped his hands together. “Now, one more thing. While we wait for the restorers, what’s the best book on Doubting Thomas?”
I wrote a title in his diary. Symbolism in John’s Passion Narrative.
“Do you own a copy yourself ?” he asked sheepishly. “I’d rather not look in the library.”
“Why not?”
“They’ve put those new scanners in the ordinary stacks. They can probably track what we take off the shelves.”
“My library is at your disposal,” I said. “I’ll bring the book over tomorrow.”
He smiled. “Father Alex, we’re getting close. Very close. I hope you can feel it, too.”
I went home that afternoon feeling as giddy as Ugo must’ve been. In my prayers that night I asked God for wisdom, for insight. The next morning I pulled out Symbolism in John, slipped a note inside for Ugo, and left it in his office mailbox before I went off to teach. That day I dreamed of Thomas. Of the Twin. Never did I suspect that Ugo and I had spoken to each other for the last time as friends.
* * *
OVERNIGHT, HE CHANGED. ONE morning he was invited to an important meeting—he never said with whom—and after that meeting, he was never the same.
In retrospect, I know what happened. Two weeks earlier, Simon had surfaced in Rome for the last time that summer. He stayed just one night. In the afternoon, he went into the city for a haircut and shave. Before bed, he rolled the lint off his best cassock. Next morning he vanished before dawn and reappeared a few hours later with a white rosary of plastic pearls for Peter. Those rosaries are given as gifts by offices throughout the Holy See. Not just by the Holy Father. But no Vatican office hands out invitations to seven thirty AM meetings—and no Secretariat man would fly across a continent to accept one. Simon had Mass with the pope. He never bragged about it, never even mentioned it. But there was no other explanation. And if John Paul reached out to Simon, then he must’ve done the same for Ugo.
The day after Ugo’s meeting, he suspended work at the conservation lab until further notice. He put a lock on the door, as if he suddenly knew that he could get away with it. That he was supported from on high. Then he called me.
“Father, we need to talk. Face-to-face. Meet me for breakfast at Bar Jona.”
Bar Jona. The nickname of the café Lucio had just opened on the rooftop of Saint Peter’s. A public place. Looking back, it had all the trappings of a breakup.
When I arrived, Ugo was waiting with a cup in one hand and a briefcase in the other. A good way to prevent any handshakes or friendly embraces.