The Fifth Gospel (31 page)

My brother's hands shot up instinctively, to protect his head. But he forced them down. And now a smile broke over the Russian's face when he brought the left hook to finish. Because if this kid was going to take a beating—if he was going to dangle his head there like a bobber—then this would be no left hook to the body.

No fighter I ever saw, before or after, wound up for a punch like that. The Russian dropped his right hand to the bottom of the ocean, not even bothering to keep up his guard, and threw a left hook that crushed Simon's cheek as if he'd been hit by a bolt from a cattle gun. My brother's head almost jumped off his neck, but instead his body popped up in the air. Then he lay there, dead in the dirt.

I jumped over the pit wall, wailing, screaming, not knowing what I did; but there were hands on me, grabbing my shoulders and pulling me back. I threw punches, but Simon was already moving on the ground, pulling himself up. He turned in my direction and stared. Fat parachutes of blood fell from his mouth, but he locked me in, like there was no one in this seminary but us brothers, trying to get our thick heads around this lesson.

And the Russian just waited there, holding his punches, because he knew what was coming.

Above us, in the high seats, the kids were coming unglued.
Stop!
they were shouting. And
No!
And
Why won't he fight?
I shook my head at Simon, the spit hanging from my mouth, and I screamed,
Don't do this. Please.

But he wiped an arm across his bleeding mouth, tapped the sides of his head, and stepped back into that fight.

The Russian sent an uppercut through his chin that would've split a tree in half. It shattered what was left of Simon's jaw, and when his head snapped back, everything was done. Before he ever hit the ground, my brother was gone.

And then.

My God. Those kids, how they loved him. They burst from on high like water from a broken dam. An army couldn't have stopped them. While I sat there, hogtied in the first row, wave after wave of them came into the pit, surrounding Simon's body, not letting the Russian take another step. What the men in that pit would've done with my brother—left him out on the street, carted him to the next rione to keep police off the scent—I never knew, because those kids swarmed Simon like the whole future of their race depended on it. They carried him on their knobby backs through the crowd and out the door. I watched them take a collection right there, hands in pockets, to find cab fare to the hospital. Half of them looking like they hadn't eaten in a week, pulling lint off their last coins.

When I finally caught up to them, Gianni was explaining who we were, how we would take Simon home, where we had doctors. And they stared at us like we had come down in a chariot of fire. Because they had heard that one word, that one magical word, that parted seas and brought dead men back to life.

Vatican.

“Save him,” one said to me. “Don't let him die.”

Another said: “Take him to Il Papa.”

Il Papa: John Paul.

The last thing I ever saw of that place, before the taxi pulled away into the night, was those kids huddled together, watching Simon leave. Watching my brother vanish from their streets. And praying while they watched.

IT'S A GOOD CHRISTIAN
thing my brother does now, I think to myself, as I sit alone at the table where he refused to mount a defense. He believes in his heart that he does this for the good of someone else. I don't know who. I don't know why.

But I know I have to stop him.

C
HAPTER
16

I
CHECK ON PETER
before I leave. He was watching cartoons, but the TV is now off. The open toiletry bag on the dresser, speckled with water drops, tells me he brushed his teeth. He has even plugged in the nightlight. I kiss his forehead and move his sleeping body away from the edge of the bed, wondering if he will grow up to be as inhumanly self-reliant as his uncle. Wondering if he will someday break my heart, too.

On a sheet of Lucio's stationery by the main telephone, I write:

Diego—

Running an errand for Mignatto. Be back in an hour or two. Please call my mobile if Peter wakes up.

—Alex

Then I call Leo and ask him to join me on a walk to Sister Helena's.

THE CONVENT IS UP
the flanks of Vatican Hill, a dead zone at night. Below us, in Rome, the world is powdered with electric light, but here in the gardens the darkness is so thick it seems liquid. Leo and I navigate by memory.

He doesn't ask why we're here. He doesn't say a thing. When the silence begins to feel heavy, I decide to tell him.

“They're charging Simon with the murder. They think he killed Ugo Nogara.”

Leo stops. I can't see his expression in the dark.

“What?” he says. “What the hell did Simon do?”

“I don't even know. He's refusing to defend himself.”

“What do you mean,
refusing
?”

There is no possible answer. “It's just . . . Simon.”

“He'll spend the rest of his life in a cell at Rebibbia.”

“No. You've got to keep this secret, but they're trying him in a Church court.”

He is a long time chewing on it. “Why would they do that?”

“I don't know.”

“He won't talk to you?”

“He's under house arrest.”

More silence.

“If you can figure out where they took him,” I say, “that would give me someplace to start.”

The Guard has sentries all over the papal palace.

“Of course,” he says. “I'll find him.” But his voice drifts in uncertainty. Quietly he adds, “Simon didn't do it, though. Right?”

My brother at his strangest, at his most inscrutable. Even to a friend, Simon seems capable of anything. God knows what a panel of three judges will think.

FINALLY, FLOATING OVERHEAD, WE
see lights burning on the hilltop. We've reached the old medieval tower that has a new Vatican Radio antenna rising from its roof. Connected to it by a wall covered with satellite dishes is another of John Paul's construction projects: a convent for our tiny community of Benedictine nuns.

“I'll stay back,” Leo says.

He doesn't ask what we're doing. He knows Helena lives here.

I ring the convent bell. No one answers. A light is on in one of the windows, but there are no sounds inside. Still, I wait. Every Benedictine house in the world, for the past sixteen hundred years, has obeyed a rule that guests must be greeted as if they're Christ.

At last the door opens. Before me is a round-faced woman with plain
eyeglasses in a white wimple. Everything else—black veil, black tunic, black cincture, black scapular—blends into the darkness.

“Sister, I'm Father Alex Andreou,” I say. “My son is the boy Sister Helena watches. Would it be possible for me to speak to her?”

She studies me in silence. Only seven nuns live in this priory—it isn't even large enough to qualify as an abbey—so the women all know each other's business. I wonder how much they know about me.

“Would you wait in the chapel, Father,” she says, “while I fetch her?”

But in the chapel the other sisters might overhear us. “If it's the same to you,” I tell her, “I'll wait in the garden.”

She unlocks the gate and acts as if I have every right to be here, even though the sisters do the sowing and harvesting, and the pope gets the produce. There are no Benedictines in my church—Greeks have an older tradition of monasticism—but I admire these women and their unselfishness.

While I wait, I pace the garden rows. Every Vatican boy steals fruit from these trees, and every pope turns a blind eye. Finally a sound comes from the gate: the faintest swish of a habit. When I turn, Prioress Maria Teresa hovers before me.

“Father,” she says with a small gesture of deference. “Welcome. May I help you?”

She has a gentle face, younger than its age, darkened only by the pockets of loose skin beneath her eyes. But her expression is solemn. I've come during the Great Silence, the hours after compline prayers when Benedictines don't speak. Only the rule of hospitality trumps the Silence.

“Actually, I'd hoped to speak to Sister Helena,” I say.

“Yes. And she'll speak to you, briefly, in a moment.”

I assume the prioress has come down as a courtesy, since Uncle Lucio is the cardinal-protector of her branch of Benedictines, the man who represents their collective interest at the Vatican. And yet there's no deference in her voice when she continues, “This will be the only time I allow Sister Helena to involve herself, or our community, in this matter. I hope you understand.”

She must know about Simon.

“Whatever you've heard,” I tell her, “it's not true.”

Her hands are hidden behind her scapular, making even her body
language impossible to discern. “Father,” she says, “those are my wishes. Please finish your affairs with Sister Helena as briefly as possible. Good night.”

She bows slightly, then drifts back to the door. A familiar silhouette waits there, lowering her head as the prioress passes. Then she comes gliding toward me in the dark.

The wrinkles of Helena's face are a web of sadness. She doesn't even make eye contact. “Father Alex,” she whispers, “I'm so sorry.”

“You heard about Simon?”

She looks up. “What about him?”

I'm relieved. News of Ugo's death and the break-in may have gotten out, but not news of the charges against Simon.

“I need to ask you about what happened at the apartment,” I say.

She nods, unsurprised.

“Before it happened,” I continue, “did Simon say anything to you?”

The lids of her eyes pinch closed. “
Before
it happened? My memory must be playing tricks.” She sighs in frustration. “I spoke to Father Simon before it happened?”

But her memory doesn't play tricks.

“Did you?” I ask.

Now when she looks at me, the sadness is gone, swept away by a sharp inquisitiveness. “Father, what's happening? What are they saying? A policeman came to the convent a few hours ago, but he was sent away before he could ask any questions.”

“Please. Did you talk to Simon beforehand?”

“No.”

“Not in any way?”

“Father Alexander,” she says, “I haven't traded words with your brother since I cooked him dinner at your apartment the
last
time.”

“Months ago.”

“At Christmas.”

Behind her, at the convent door, the prioress calls out, “Sister Helena, please finish your visit.”

Quickly Helena says, “Tell me the truth. Is someone in trouble?”

“The gendarmes think there was no break-in.”

She growls. “And I suppose the furniture just threw itself on the floor?”

I steer clear of what the gendarmes think. “They didn't find any signs of forced entry.”

She winces as if stung. “That is true. There was shouting and banging, then the door just seemed to open.”

“But I locked it when I left.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“And you didn't take Peter anywhere? Not to Brother Samuel's apartment for dessert?”

“No.”

“There's no other way the door could've been unlocked?”

“None.” She seems flustered. The memory is returning. “I grabbed Peter as quickly as I could, but the man was already inside by the time Peter and I locked ourselves in the bedroom.”

The prioress calls, “
Sister Helena
 . . .”

Helena places a hand on her cheek in dismay.

“You did everything you could,” I assure her. “Let me take it from here.”

Behind her, Maria Teresa is descending on us. I step away, but Sister Helena grabs my wrist and whispers, “She won't let me watch Peter anymore.”

“Why not?”

“It scandalized her to have a gendarme come here. I'm trying to change her mind, but I'm so sorry, Father.”

Before I can answer, she is backing away. The prioress gives me a heavy look, then guides Sister Helena to the door. Six silhouettes peep down at me from convent windows as I return to Leo on the unlit road.

He veers down the path toward Lucio's palace, asking me with a glance what Helena told me. But I motion him in the other direction.

“Where are we going?” Leo says.

“To my apartment.”

THE WINDOWS OF THE
Belvedere Palace are still shot with light. Televisions flicker. The Argentine woman who married Signor Serra on the second floor is dancing in her kitchen. Before Leo and I reach the door, two teenagers loitering in a corner release from an embrace. I feel a spontaneous burst of happiness to be back here.

Home.

Inside the back door we find one of my neighbors sitting like a porter. “Father!” he cries, leaping to his feet.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

Ambrosio is the all-hours computer repairman for the Holy See Internet Office.

He lowers his voice. “After the gendarmes stopped guarding the building, a few of us began taking turns.”

I give him a grateful clap on the arm. At least
they
believe Sister Helena.

Ambrosio asks if I've heard any more news, but I tell him no and quickly mount the stairs, not wanting to attract more notice. At the top floor, someone has replaced a broken lightbulb on the way to my apartment. More vigilance. When we reach my door, I kneel and inspect it. The strike plate looks untouched. There are no signs of damage to the door frame. I have the key, but I turn to Leo and say, “Know how to pick a lock?”

He smiles. “Better than you.”

We give it a crack, but the mechanism is old and scratchy. The pins don't like to move.

“Embarrassing,” he says. “I used to be good at that.”

I step down the hall to the next apartment, where the brothers of the pharmacy live. This is what I've been afraid of.

“Where are you going?” Leo says.

I pull up the doormat.

“Damn,” he whispers, seeing it.

Since my parents first moved into the Belvedere Palace, this is where we've kept the spare key. Ours beneath the brothers' mat, theirs beneath ours. But not anymore.

I turn and lift my own mat. The brothers' key is still there. I rub my temples.

“How could someone know that?” Leo asks.

“Michael,” I murmur.

“What?”

“Michael Black told them.”

He told them where I live and how to get inside. Father was always forgetting his keys. Michael knew about the spare.

“I thought he was a friend of your family's,” Leo says.

“Someone threatened him.”

Leo sneers. “Coward.”

Hearing a distant sound on the staircase, I drift back to my apartment door and unlock it. Then a thought comes to me. Someone still has our key, which means someone may have been coming and going from this apartment for two days. Or may even be inside.

“Your neighbors have been guarding the building,” Leo reassures me when I tell him as much. “Whoever broke in wouldn't come back.”

“Right.”

Inside, nothing has changed. Leo reaches for the lights, but I nudge his hand away and point to the windows. “In case someone's watching.”

Not liking the sound of that, he says, “Then what's the plan?”

The moon gives the furniture an eerie glow. Without touching anything, I try to visualize what Sister Helena told me about the chronology of that night. She was sitting at the table when she heard a banging at the door. A voice calling for Simon and me. With my eyes I follow the path she took, carrying Peter toward the bedroom. The door opened before she got inside. That distance is less than twenty feet.

A breath slips out of me.

“Leo . . .”

He turns his eyes to the staircase, thinking I must've heard something. He doesn't understand.

“Peter saw him,” I say.

“What?”

“Last night he woke up from a nightmare. He was screaming,
I can see his face, I can see his face
.”

“No. He would've said something, Al.”

“Sister Helena carried him. That's what she told me: she carried him to the bedroom.”

She has always carried him the same way: pressed against her, with his head looking back over her shoulder.

“You really think?” Leo asks.

The telephone begins to ring, but I say, “When the gendarmes were here, he was too upset to talk. I didn't bring it up after that. I didn't want to worry him.”

I won't wake him tonight. But I will have to find pictures for him to look at. Faces he might recognize.

The answering machine plays its message, but there's no voice on the other end. Only a strange sound that resembles a door closing.

“Come on,” I say. “Let's go.”

But suddenly I feel Leo's hand on me. Pushing me back. He's staring at something in the apartment doorway. The hulking silhouette of a man.

“
Who are you?
” Leo demands. “
Identify yourself!
”

I back up.

The shape doesn't make a sound. It only extends an arm.

The lights go on.

An old man shuffles into the room. The pupils of his eyes flex. He has raised an arm in the air to shield himself from the light, or perhaps to stop Leo from attacking. It's Brother Samuel, one of the pharmacists from next door.