“No. Thank you,” the southerners said.
Loyally, I said: “Sure. Whatever you’re having.”
Enrico asked for wine, and I got up to find a bottle of Italian red.
When we were settled again, Eldon Pye resumed his place in the pulpit. “Brennan. That’s an Irish name, isn’t it?”
Brennan didn’t answer. He took a long swallow of whiskey, sighed with contentment, and said: “Cards?”
They shook their heads. Poker was not on the agenda.
Pye tried again: “Brennan, I think you’ll find, even in the short time we have today, that Earl and I can help you with your problems.”
“I haven’t any problems.”
“Now, Brennan, we all have problems. God made this world a vale of tears and it’s up to us, with the help of Jesus, to assist each other as
best we can. If you take the time to make yourself familiar with the word of God —”
“I’m a doctor of theology,” he replied. The Americans goggled at him.
“Brennan studied with me in Rome, Eldon,” Enrico explained. “In fact, he was at the top of his class and could have secured a position very high up in the Holy See, but he has chosen the life of a humble parish priest, like me. He is, of course, the head of our schola cantorum, and he —”
“Did I hear you right, Father Hank? This man is one of your
priests
?”
Burke let loose with a string of Italian then, and whatever he said made Sferrazza-Melchiorre choke on his wine. He apologized for his inability to translate; suddenly, his English was not up to the task.
“I have to get back to work,” Burke announced. He got up, left the room, returned with his travel bag, headed upstairs. We soon heard the shower running.
“Well!” Pye exclaimed, but didn’t follow up. We made small talk about the Americans’ travel plans for a few minutes, then Pye said: “Uh, Hank, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Did you ever get to the bottom of that note?”
Enrico made a dismissive gesture with his hands. “All settled. Not a problem.”
“You know, there was a report later about who delivered it.”
“Non importa.”
“Yeah,” Slocum said, “somebody seen a big old Chrysler with Florida plates pullin’ up to the church. The guy that stuck the note on your church —”
“A man just trying to express himself about one of the priests of the church. There is nothing wrong with that. So, would you like to see more of the city? Brennan is returning to work, and I am sure Monty has things to do.”
“What’s this about a note?” I asked.
Enrico started to answer but Slocum leaned forward and told the story. “Somebody nailed a nasty letter to the door of Father Hank’s church in Mule Run. We know now it was delivered by two large dark-haired adult males. One male exited the vehicle carrying the
envelope, a hammer, and a nail. He walked up to the church, crossed himself the way they do, then nailed the note in place and went back to the car. Then they skedaddled outta there.” Slocum sat back and nodded.
“What did the note say?”
“It was something written in Eyetalian,” Slocum said, “so nobody could read it except Hank. But I heard there were dollar signs in the message. Somebody bad-mouthin’ Hank and lookin’ for money at the same time. But Hank hightailed it over there, tore off the note, and wouldn’t let anybody help hunt down the perps that did it.”
“Crazy threats, Monty, against the church. It is known we are not popular there.”
“Not popular with the locals, maybe, but surely that doesn’t extend all the way to Catholics — Italian Catholics? — in Florida.”
“Never mind. It was personal.” It was said with an air of finality. He was not going to tell me. But I wondered whether the extortion that had been commenced in Italy had been extended to North America. This would suggest there were more hands in Enrico’s pocket than those of a single Albanian prostitute. If so, the message was clear: they could reach him anywhere.
Would Reinhold Schellenberg, whom Enrico had been counting on to advance his career, have been aware of the trouble Enrico was in? Did Enrico feel that Schellenberg had to be silenced before the scandal became more widely known in Vatican circles?
The true picture existed somewhere, but all I could see was fleeting shadows on the wall of a cave.
Brennan reappeared among us, showered, shaved, and immaculate in his clerical suit and Roman collar.
“I apologize for cutting this short, Enrico, but I feel called to carry out the work of God.”
“I’ll give you a lift, Brennan,” I said. “Enrico, why don’t you make yourselves at home here till I get back. Find something to snack on, take a walk along the shore.” I looked out the window. “Build a snowman.”
The Italian looked uncertainly at his companions. Pye and Slocum opened their mouths to speak but were overridden by a higher authority.
“Bow your heads, gentlemen, and I shall give you God’s blessing,”
Father Burke announced. The evangelicals gave each other a wary look. Then, perhaps not wanting to take this moment to quibble about God’s blessings and who could or could not bestow them, they bowed their heads. But kept their eyes on Burke. Who knew what kind of foreign spell he might cast upon them?
He made the sign of the cross over them and said:
“Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus.”
May Almighty God bless you, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
Only Enrico and I responded: “Amen.”
The Schola Cantorum Sancta Bernadetta started up again the next day, which was Tuesday, January 7. My week at the office was hellish, with a backlog of work, emergency court appearances, and panicky clients. The most pressing matter was a murder appeal on the docket for the following week. I had a quick visit from Burke, who told me that all our suspects were back. And why not? All but one of them were innocent. There were only two people who did not return; I had never heard of either of them. One more thing: could I sing with the choir at a wedding Friday night? Yes, I could.
“Who’s getting married?”
“Dave Forbes. Have you met him?”
The name was familiar. Was he one of the people roped into the Logan sales party? Yes, I remembered having a quick conversation with him when he came to the door. “The guy from Baltimore,” I replied. “Old friend of yours, he told me.”
“That’s right. I’ve known him for thirty years. We were in the sem together.”
“So he said. I assumed he was still a priest; he didn’t say otherwise.”“
“He didn’t?”
“No. He talked about knowing you in the seminary, meeting up with you again in Rome at the Gregorian University. Made some little joke about being your ‘minder.’”
“He used to settle me down, tried to make sure I didn’t get led astray.”
“Is that right? So, when did he quit the priesthood?”
“Recently. He’s the last fellow I’d have expected to leave. Completely dedicated, I thought. He was about to be made a bishop, according to what I heard.”
“Why is he here? Is he still involved in the church, in music?”
“Oh yes. He’s the organist and composer at the cathedral in Baltimore. The man is a walking encyclopaedia of sacred music, right back to the Hebrew psalms. In fact, I’ve sounded him out about my Mass. I can’t understand why I’m stuck on the ‘Agnus Dei.’ It’s just not good enough, the way it is. If that’s all I can give back, maybe I should cancel the premiere. It’s scheduled for a month from today, February 7, so be prepared for some intense rehearsal the week before. Unless I pull the plug on it.”
“You’re not going to pull the plug! From what I’ve heard, your music is wonderful. What do you mean, ‘if that’s all I can give back’?”
He looked at me as if I’d just got off the slow bus. “If that’s all I can give back to God in return for the gift He’s given me — the gift of music — I’m not worthy of wasting His time.”
“God exists outside of time. A thousand ages in His sight are like an evening gone. You should know that, Father.”
“True. So He deserves something timeless. Which my ‘Agnus Dei’ is not. I felt I was getting there just before we went to Rome.”
“It’s a wonder you have anything left in you at all, after Rome!”
It was just a throwaway remark, but he looked as if I had struck him in the face all over again.
“Brennan, I was joking.”
He didn’t reply. His thoughts were far away.
I brought him back to our conversation. “So. Dave Forbes. Why would he leave the priesthood at this point in his life?”
“
Cherchez la femme
. Did I not just say he’s getting married?”
“You did. Shotgun wedding?”
“Wouldn’t that be a sight now! The bride’s old man marching a fifty-year-old former priest to the altar at gunpoint.”
The bride’s old man appeared younger than the groom, I saw when the wedding Mass got underway Friday evening. Dave Forbes looked like what he was: a priest out of uniform. Thin, bespectacled, and ascetic-looking, he appeared to be happy but, at the same time, clearly shell-shocked. His bride, Barbara, had luminous dark eyes, freckles across her nose, and tangles of dark auburn hair, which could not be contained in the elaborate combs that were designed to hold it up; she had the voluptuous figure of a woman entering the third trimester of pregnancy. It was rumoured that she was carrying twins. The ceremony was magnificent, with Brennan celebrating the Latin Mass, and several of his fellow priests serving on the altar. I sang with the choir of men and boys in the loft.
After a brief reception in the auditorium of the choir school, the entire party headed to O’Carroll’s Bar on Upper Water Street. There was an Irish band worth hearing, so we didn’t talk. We listened and drank, none more so than the two old seminary companions, Burke and Forbes. Make that three priests or ex-priests with an extraordinary thirst upon them. William Logan planted himself on a bar stool and didn’t leave it. When the band took a break, members of the wedding felt no compunction about borrowing their instruments to serenade the bridal couple. The mood was light, until Brennan went to the microphone and did a show-stopping rendition of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah”:
Now I’ve heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don’t really care for music, do you?
It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you.
She tied you to a kitchen chair,
She broke your throne and she cut your hair,
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
You say I took the name in vain
I don’t even know the name
But if I did, well really, what’s it to you?
There’s a blaze of light in every word
It doesn’t matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah
I did my best, it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel so I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth, I didn’t try to fool you
And even though it all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah.
I stared at him. I knew how profoundly he related to the song. There wasn’t a sound from the wedding party. Until we heard a crash as a bottle of beer hit the floor and shattered; William Logan had knocked over a table as he fled the bar.
Chapter 11
Inquisitors are not bound to give a reason to prelates
concerning things appertaining to their office.
— Directorium Inquisitorum
, Rome, 1584
Burke came to see me at the office the following Monday, just after I returned from court. His face was like a thundercloud.
“As if I didn’t have enough to put up with …” The priest slumped in my client chair with his head in his hands. He rubbed his temples with his fingers.
“What is it?” I prompted.
He looked at his watch. “I have to leave for the airport in five minutes to pick up the last fecking person I want to see here.”
“Who?”
“The Vatican’s man. Rome is sending an ‘observer’ to monitor the situation. This is all I need right now.”
“Well, the police won’t allow this guy to get in their way.”
“He’ll be in
my
way. That’s the point. He won’t be there with a magnifying glass at the crime scene; he’ll be loitering around the schola making a nuisance of himself while I’m trying to do my work.”
“Is this the fellow Kitty Curran was talking about?”
“Yes, yes. Gino Savo.”
“It would be unusual for the undersecretary of the Congregation for whatever —”
“— to turn up in a place like Nova Scotia, I presume.”
“The Clergy.”
“It would be unusual for a high-profile theologian and former Vatican insider to be hacked to death while attending an institution established by, and catering to, members of the clergy.”
“Point taken.”
“And he’s Del Vecchio’s man. The papal nuncio. That’s really why he’s here.”
“What’s he like, from your perspective?”
“High-handed. Imperious.” I smiled, and Burke caught it. “What?”
“Nothing. What time’s he coming in?”
“Just after six o’clock.”
“I’ll go with you. It’s not every day I meet a Vatican enforcer.”
Father Savo was impeccably dressed in a clerical suit, Roman collar, and black cashmere overcoat. A carry-on garment bag was draped over his arm. He was a slight man of medium height, with neatly trimmed black hair that was getting thin and turning grey. A sharp intelligence radiated from dark brown eyes behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. He had the look of a scholar or a bureaucrat. The two priests did not smile as they greeted each other in Italian. I was introduced, and we shook hands.
A female staffer came out of the baggage room, stopped, looked at Savo, and said: “Hey, there! Not taking any chances, eh?”
A look of annoyance crossed his face, and he raised his arm with the bag on it. “Right. Thank you.”
She looked at me and made a little face, as if to say
there’s no pleasing some people
. I gave her a shrug worthy of
Don
Sferrazza-Melchiorre, and she laughed.