The Fifth Gospel(230)

            I think of Ugo, alone, arriving at Castel Gandolfo with his notes and his manuscript, prepared for the bravest act of his life. To disown the Shroud he had considered as precious as a child. To sacrifice it in the name of truth. My brave friend. Fearless to the end. Even in that awful, terrifying final act.

            John Paul murmurs to Simon, “Why would you not tell me this?”

            My brother struggles to compose himself. Finally he says, “Because if you knew, then you would never have offered the Shroud to the Orthodox. And if we had nothing to offer them, then we had no hope of a reunion  . Ugo was willing to die for this secret. His choice was my choice, too.”

            I have seen thousands of pictures of John Paul. He is one of the most photographed men in history. But never have I seen him like this. The lines of his face converge in pain. His eyes squeeze shut. His head lolls back, tensing the muscles in his great thick neck. Archbishop Nowak lowers himself and whispers concerned words in Polish.

            There are trails of reflected light down Simon’s cheeks. Not a hair of him moves.

            Quickly Nowak announces, “We will recess until the Holy Father wishes to reconvene.” Then he wheels John Paul into the adjoining study and closes the door.

            A moment later, a different door opens. Monsignor Mietek, the second secretary, abruptly enters. Looking pale, he says, “I will see you all down on the service elevator now.”

            We’re led away in a herd. As we wait in the hallway, Mietek keeps a finger on the elevator call button. When the car comes, he shepherds us inside and touches the button. Only at the last instant does he place a hand on Simon’s forearm and say, “Not you, Excellency. You are to remain.”

            It happens so quickly that I barely see Simon as the doors close between us. He’s staring back at me. Not at anyone or anything else. But behind him, in the distance, a door has opened. Archbishop Nowak stands in it, looking at my brother, who sees nothing but me.





CHAPTER 44





I WAIT FOR HIM the rest of the morning. Then into the afternoon. I watch from my apartment windows as the treetops begin to sway. As litter in the cobblestone fairways begins to shift and scatter in the rising wind. Rain is close at hand. Just past five, there’s a rapid knock at the door. I rush to answer it.

            Brother Samuel. His face is pinched. His voice is agitated when he says, “Quick, Father Alex. You have to go downstairs.”

            I race down. But what I find, instead of Simon, is a small procession. Leaving the door of Health Services are two deacons carrying candles, led by a cross-bearer. Then comes a priest chanting quietly, followed by Ugo’s coffin.

            In the lot outside, no hearse is waiting. Instead, the procession walks down the village streets, into the spitting rain, and turns left just before the border gate, entering the Vatican parish church.

            A metal bier is waiting in the empty nave. The coffin is lifted onto it, Ugo’s feet facing the altar. Every motion is gentle and thoughtful and silent. I feel short of breath. I step outside and phone Simon again. Still no answer.

            Just inside the door, the priest places a funeral notice on a board. CALLED TO ETERNAL LIFE. UGOLINO LUCA NOGARA. The vigil will be tonight. Mass in the morning. Graveside ceremony to follow.

            As I watch him spell the words, I feel the rain at my back, splashing off the steps, spattering my cassock. When he’s gone, I lift the board and place it outside, in the open air, where passersby will see it. But there’s no one on the streets. Thunder rolls in the distance.

            From the door of the church I look across the road at the papal palace, waiting for Simon to appear in the archway. This brief vigil will be the only time for eulogies. Once the funeral Mass starts, none will be allowed. But there’s not a living thing in sight.

            Finally I go to the coffin and pray. The closed casket feels like an accusation. Surely the morticians could’ve covered up Ugo’s wounds, but there’s a message here, in the hasty way Ugo was brought to this church, in the way his announcement was buried on this overlooked board, in the way no villager is coming down after seeing a coffin travel through these streets. They will say it was raining. They will say they didn’t know Ugo. They will say anything except that it was a suicide.