The Sixth Station(66)

“Not exactly ‘Silent Night,’ was it?

“The priest came to my bedside and tried to take my hand, which I yanked away as hard as I was capable of doing. I stiffened when he tried to touch my shoulder.

“‘Get away! Get away from me!’

“He grabbed my hand and said in barely accented, upper-crust American accent, ‘Please, Blessed One. You are doing God’s work.’

“‘No! I’m not going to do it. I want my mom. I want to go home! Please, when can I go home?’

“At that, my future husband looked up.

“‘What is she on about?’ he asked. ‘You better give her the damned drugs before she brings the world to the door with all that whining.’

“Yes, this was the blessed event that had been in the making for almost two thousand years!

“The priest, almost always in command, was becoming somewhat alarmed himself. He’d exorcised demons, he’d presided at miracles, yes, but he’d never been charged with anything remotely like this. But then again, no one ever had.

“The priest stood up from my bedside, exhausted, somewhat beaten down and a bit resigned and removed a pill from his vestment pocket and handed it to me.

“I struggled to get out of bed, knocking the pill to the floor, and managed to roll away from the spot where I’d been lying, which was now sticky with blood from the strain.

“The priest motioned to the nun, who, though chastised, rushed into the other tiny room where the chapel was located. She was back in seconds with a hypodermic needle, and the priest held me down while the nun shoved the needle into my arm. It was methadone, which they swore was safe for nursing mothers.

“I became so drowsy I couldn’t fight it any longer. I didn’t even want to, actually. The nun wheeled the IV over and inserted the needle into a vein, looking terribly worried.

“She quickly removed the blood-covered white linen sheet with the skill and speed of a battlefield nurse and replaced it with a clean and starched one.

“I was just a child myself—kidnapped from New York City; a thirteen-year-old whom they’d said had been bred one day to bear the Second Coming.”

The priest put down the book and then put his head down upon the table and wept, great heaving sobs that held a lifetime’s worth of—I didn’t know what—guilt, sorrow, loss?

When he composed himself—Cesur had brought him pristine white linen handkerchiefs with which to soak up his tears—he said, “Forgive me. I have not been permitted to read this before today.”

“The author?”

“Why, the Blessed Mother herself! The Mother of Demiel ben Yusef,” he said, wiping his eyes. “Not a story, but a report. Miss Russo, what we have been privy to is nothing short of the new gospel.”

“Yes, I assumed it was the girl who gave birth, but who is she?” I thought I knew, but I wanted it confirmed.

It was another question that hung in the air unanswered.

“Let me ask you something else then. Where is the girl and this soldier now?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“Perhaps they’ve gone back to where he lived as a young boy. In Carcassonne, France. But I doubt it. He was no good.”

Then he waved me away. “I am very, very tired and need to pray on all of this.

“Mr. Cesur will see you to your hotel.” Father Paulo stood up creakily, dismissing me with, “Until tomorrow, or should I say later today, then?”

I was thinking about the horror of their crimes: kidnapping a child and, worse, somehow impregnating her.

But I was too tired to concentrate, although I was glad I hadn’t gone on the offensive. That’s the last thing an interviewer should ever do, even though sometimes, like with a pedophile judge that I once interviewed and now this monster priest, you feel like there is only one side.

Cesur drew back the drapes that had surrounded us all night, opened the metal gates, and unlocked the door.

“There is a place you must see later,” the priest said, getting up wearily and rubbing his bloodshot eyes. He again began to genuflect before me. This time I was definitely too tired to do the Elizabeth and Essex thing, and so I just said, “Okay, then. Sleep tight. Domani.”

He handed me the diary, albeit reluctantly. “This now belongs to you.”

I took it, and stumbled out of the shop. Cesur took me out to an exit in the labyrinth of alleys that make up the massive Grand Bazaar. The market had not yet come back to life. Dawn was breaking over the city, and from the four corners of Istanbul I could hear the muezzins calling the faithful to prayer. The sound was so beautiful, it was hard to believe that anything that sounded so glorious could have triggered so much violence from all sides over so many years.