The Fifth Gospel(193)

            As I walk home, the Belvedere Courtyard is almost empty. No more work trucks, no more commuter cars. Even the jeeps and engines of the fire department are parked in tight formation to leave more room for tonight’s visitors. It’s coming. Whatever Simon orchestrated for tonight, it’s coming.

            Peter is so happy to see me. He claps with glee, as if he’s waited patiently through this five-act day just to see his favorite actor take the stage. I have more than enough experience in hiding dark feelings from him. I bow as he claps. Brother Samuel looks relieved. Eleven hours with a five-year-old is saintly work for a man his age. He’ll have Peter again in an hour, when I leave for the exhibit, but even a saint deserves a break.

            “He’s been asking all day when you’ll be back,” Samuel whispers. “He says he gets to see his mother now.”

            Samuel smiles. But the smile fades when he sees the expression on my face.

            “Peter,” I say, “please thank Brother Samuel, and let’s go home.”

            Peter pumps his fist in the air. He grins at Samuel, who gives me the most pathetic look, as if to say, You would really deprive him of this?

            Once we’re back inside our apartment, I find myself watching the clock. Without a word, Peter starts tidying his room and putting his toys in piles just so. He lays out his toothbrush and toothpaste. He finds Pinocchio and opens it to the last page Mona read. I have to stop this.

            “Peter,” I say, “come here. I need to tell you something.”

            He hops into the chair, then hops out of it. He collects the phone from its station on the countertop, then places it on the table in front of him. He sits in his chair and waits.

            “We can’t call Mamma tonight,” I say.

            His head stops bobbing.

            “When I promised you we could call her, I’d forgotten I needed to be somewhere important tonight.”

            His eyes grow fat and pearly. Their rims go red. The tears are coming.

            “No!” he says.

            “I’m sorry.”

            “You’re a liar!”

            “I promise, we’ll call her tomorrow—”

            “No, you promised tonight!”

            “Tonight is impossible.”

            He abandons himself to sobs, and now the tears come rushing out.

            It will end, though. As every other tantrum has. Inside that five-year-old body is an older soul, accepting of compromise, unsurprised by disappointment.

            “We’ll find something special for you to do with Brother Samuel instead,” I say. “What do you suggest?”

            He’ll settle for something, I’m sure. Ice cream. A later bedtime. A movie.

            Tonight, though, he refuses them all.

            “I don’t want that! I want Mamma!”

            Maybe I’ve underestimated. Maybe this is not like every other time. I take out my wallet and start to count bills. The next hill over from the Vatican has a park with a video-game arcade, a puppet theater, a carousel. If I don’t do something to stop this crying, I know I’ll say something I regret. Something about what’s really on my mind.

            “You can go to the Gianicolo,” I say. “Play video games. Ride the merry-go-round.”

            To show him how serious I am, I pull out the whole stack of bills, reserving only five euros for myself. When I close the wallet, though, something slips out and flutters to the floor.