The Fifth Gospel(237)

            I step forward.

            “Fathers Andreou?” says the man at the door.

            A layman in a black suit. I recognize him. John Paul’s private messenger. The cursore.

            He holds out two envelopes. One is engraved with my name. The other with Simon’s.

            I hand Simon’s to him, and he closes his eyes. Mona stands and walks over to us.

            I have dreamt of this, and lived in dread of it, but at this moment my fears are silent. I am filled with an unfamiliar stillness.

            Trust in the Lord with all your heart. In all your ways submit to Him. He will make your paths straight.

            My brother, though, has never looked so frightened. Mona reaches out an arm and says, “Simon . . .”

            Peter stares at the messenger. Then he rises, walks toward Simon, and places his head on his uncle’s hip, wrapping his arms around his uncle’s waist. With the might of Samson, he squeezes.

            I open my envelope first. The words inside are not what I imagined. I turn back to the cursore.

            He waits.

            “Simon,” Mona whispers, “open it.”

            My brother’s hand is unsteady as he unseals the envelope. I watch him scan the lines. Looking up at the cursore he says, in a thin voice, “Right now?”

            The cursore nods. “Yes, Fathers. Follow me. The car is waiting.”

            Simon shakes his head. He backs away.

            Mona glances over Simon’s shoulder at the paper in his hand. Something flickers in her eyes. She says, “Simon, go.”

            I stare at her.

            “Trust me,” she whispers. Her expression is electric. “Go.”



* * *



            IT IS THE SAME black sedan as before. Signor Gugel opens the rear door with the same impersonal expression. The cursore sits in the front passenger seat. I can hear Simon breathing beside me.

            Gugel and the messenger don’t speak. High above us, in the windows of the top floor of the Belvedere Palace, Peter is staring down. I watch him until the window disappears from sight.

            The streets are empty. The offices dark. Earlier tonight, when Mona and Peter and I walked home from ice-skating, huge flocks of starlings threw themselves across the sky like a net being cast over Rome. Cast, and drawn back, and cast again. But now there are only the stars. Simon’s fingers touch his throat, plucking at the band of his Roman collar.

            The car reaches the palace entrance. Then continues past it.

            “Where are we going?” Simon says.

            Silently we sweep across the road that cuts behind the basilica. The Palace of the Tribunal comes into view. It, too, disappears into the dark.

            The courtyard of wet cobblestones looks like black glass, like the Tiber on a choppy night. Simon is leaning forward, placing his hands on the front seats. My phone buzzes. A text from Mona.

            Are you at SP?

            I type: Almost. Why?

            The car slows. Gugel cuts the engine and steps out, opening an umbrella. “Fathers,” the cursore says, “follow me.”

            To the south is the gate separating us from Saint Peter’s Square. Out in the rain are the hundreds of faithful who would stand here on Christmas Eve even if the sky were falling, the world ending.

            The cursore leads us through the side entrance. In the sacristy, a few old priests are vesting frantically. My own pre-seminary boys are here, dressed in red cassocks and white surplices, helping the old-timers into their robes. Two of them come rushing toward us, pushing a clothes rack on wheels. “For you,” one of them says to Simon.