The Fifth Gospel(163)

            “Good evening, Father,” I say in Italian to assuage his concern. Or maybe, in some dark way, to assuage mine. Then I continue on toward room 328.

            At the door, I calm myself by repeating the Jesus Prayer.

            Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, the sinner.

            Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, the sinner.

            Nothing can happen to me here. This hall, this building, is full of men who would come running at the first shout for help. Whoever’s inside, I’ll invite him out to talk. Out; not back into his room.

            I knock.

            No answer.

            I stare at the peephole, wondering if I’m being watched. Stepping forward, I knock again.

            Still no answer.

            I pull out my phone and call the front desk. “Sister, could you connect me to three twenty-eight?”

            I hear the phone ring on the other side of the door. Standing in front of the peephole, I hold my phone in the air and point to it. We can talk this way, too. It makes no difference to me.

            But no one responds.

            Outside, through the large window at the end of the hall, the sun is setting. Something occurs to me. I glance down.

            There’s no light beneath the door. That’s why the shutters are closed. Nobody’s home.

            I call the lobby again and say, “Sister, I’m coming down to meet a visitor in the dining hall. Could someone tidy my room while I’m gone? It’s three twenty-eight.”

            “Father, I believe your visitor just rang up. I’ll send the housekeeper right away. I’d say the tidying is a bit overdue.”

            I thank her, then wait near the elevator until the nun with the cleaning cart arrives. When she unlocks the room, I follow her inside.

            “What in heavens?” says the nun in alarm.

            For an instant, it’s dark. From the outer courtyard comes a pale miasma of electric light, glowing through the shutter slats. Then the nun turns on the lights.

            No one else is here.

            “Sister,” I murmur absently, surveying the room, “don’t mind me. I left something behind.”

            It’s almost identical to the room Peter and I shared. A narrow bed with a simple camelback headboard. A nightstand. A crucifix.

            I sit at the desk and pretend to make notations, waiting for her to leave. She closes the closet and gathers up a pair of sheets lying on the ground beside the bed. The priest in this room might be a floor-sleeper like Simon. But the bed looks slept-in, too.

            There must be two of them staying here. And there must be a reason the room is overdue for cleaning.

            As the housekeeper makes the bed and empties the trash cans, I scan the floor. By the lamp is an old piece of luggage with no name tag visible. On the nightstand are a bag of toiletries, a camera, a softcover book. The nun stares at a pile of papers under the toiletry bag, then glances back at the closet.

            “Father,” she says, “who’s staying in this room with you?”

            “Just a colleague,” I improvise.

            Something catches my attention. The softcover book on the nightstand. It’s about the Shroud.

            I feel a nervous pinch in my chest. I’ve read that book. I own that same edition. It was stolen from my apartment during the break-in.

            My eyes shift across the room anxiously. There’s a glass bottle in the wastebasket the nun is emptying. Grappa Julia. Ugo’s favorite drink. But there are no glass tumblers in sight, no sign that this was drunk here. Bottles like this were piled in the trash can at Ugo’s apartment. The apartment someone had broken into. I wonder what else in this room was stolen from his home or mine.