“I understand,” my brother says.
“I must also warn you that a guilty verdict in this canonical trial would result, to a moral certainty, in your being handed over to the civil authorities for a state homicide trial.”
No change registers in Simon’s face. Here are the reserves of strength our parents could never fathom. He is even more placid than Lucio. And yet his peace seems anchored in sadness. I want to comfort him. But if I reach out, I know my hand will shake.
Mignatto slides the libellus toward him. When Simon picks it up, though, he only taps the pages on the table to level them, then returns them.
“Please,” Mignatto clarifies. “You can examine it now.”
But when he offers the document again, Simon says, with a serene look on his face, “Monsignor, I appreciate your help. But I don’t need to see the libellus.”
There’s a short silence before he speaks again. And in that pause, a pang of fear sinks through me like a depth charge. I feel an old, familiar undertow. I pray that I’m wrong, that my brother is no longer the man he once was. And yet I have a clear premonition of what he’s about to say.
Simon stands. “I’ve decided that I won’t defend myself against the murder charge.”
“Simon!” I cry.
An awful expression crawls across Mignatto’s face. A strange, disbelieving smile. My heart feels cavernous, echoing with a pain I prayed I would never feel again.
“What are you saying?” the monsignor asks. “You confess to the murder of Ugolino Nogara?”
Simon answers emphatically: “No.”
“Then explain yourself, please.”
“I won’t mount a defense.”
“Simon,” I urge him, “please don’t do this.”
“Under canon law,” Mignatto says gravely, “you’re required to mount a defense.”
The words of a reasonable man. An ordinary, reasonable man. Who doesn’t understand my brother at all. I grab Simon’s arm and try to make him meet my eyes.
Lucio hisses, “Simon, what is this nonsense?”
But my brother ignores him and turns to me. His stare is almost vacant. He has prepared himself for this moment. I know, already, that nothing I say will be able to reach him.
“I shouldn’t have involved you in this, Alex,” he says. “I’m sorry. From this point forward, please stay out of it.”
“Simon, you can’t do th—”
“Don’t be a fool!” Lucio barks. “You’ll lose everything!”
But before he can say more, Diego appears in the doorway. In a tense voice he says, “Eminence, there’s a visitor waiting outside.”
Simon glances at his watch. He steps away from the table, in the direction of the door Diego has opened, and trades a look with the stranger in the entryway.
“What are you doing?” I say.
“Sit down!” Lucio barks. Hysteria circles in his voice.
But Simon tucks in his chair and bows slightly.
My body is numb with grief. With mourning. Here he is again, returned from the dead. The Simon no one has ever been able to change, who can still shed the world in a heartbeat.
“Uncle,” he says, “I’ve been asked to accept house arrest. And I’ve agreed.”