Standing on the steps of the parish church, fingering a rosary, he gazed across the empty piazza in the direction of his favorite trattoria--and looked at his watch. It was 1:39 in the afternoon. And he was starving.
Technically, the church was to remain open from eight until two, and then again from five until eight. That's what the plaque on the door said, and Father Azetti had to admit that the plaque had a certain authority. It had been in place for nearly a hundred years. Still . . .
The trattoria was in the Via della Felice--a grandiose name for what amounted to a medieval alley, a cobbled lane that twisted away from the central square to dead-end at the stone wall that defined the town's outer limits.
One of Italy's most remote and beautiful hill towns, Montecastello di Peglia rested on a dome of rock, a thousand feet above the Umbrian plain. Its crown and glory was the Piazza di San Fortunato, where a small fountain bubbled in the cool shadow of the village's only church. Quiet and pine-scented, the little square was a favorite place for lovers and art students, who came to its ramparts for a panoramic view of the countryside. High above the quilted landscape, they gazed out at Italy's "green heart," and swooned to see the sunflower fields, trembling in the heat.
But not now, not at the moment. At the moment they were eating.
And Father Azetti was not. A soft breeze turned the corner and took him prisoner with the smell of baking bread. Grilled meat, and lemon. Hot olive oil.
His stomach growled, but he had to ignore it. Montecastello was, above all else, a village. There was no real hotel, only a small pensione run by a pair of expatriate Brits. Having lived in the town for less than a decade, Father Azetti was an outsider, and would remain so into the next millennium. As such, he was suspect, and, being suspect, he was under constant surveillance, watched by the town's ever vigilant older residents, who pined for his predecessor. (Or, as they called him, "the good priest." Azetti? "The new priest.") If, during the hours of confession, Father Azetti should close the church a minute too soon, someone would certainly take notice and Montecastello would be scandalized.
With a sigh, the priest turned from the piazza and slipped back into the gloom of the church. Built in an age when glass had been a treasure, the building was condemned from conception to perpetual twilight. Apart from the dim glow of electrified candelabra, and a bank of guttering candles in the nave, the structure's only illumination came from a line of narrow windows, high on the west wall. Though few and small, the windows sometimes had a dramatic effect when, as now, they shaped the afternoon sun into shafts of light that tunneled down to the floor. Passing the mahogany tableaux that marked the stations of the cross, Father Azetti saw with a smile that the confessional waited for him in one of these pools of natural brilliance. Stepping into the light, he relished the effect, even as it blinded him. Hesitating, he imagined the scene as others might see it, and then, embarrassed by his narcissism, stepped into the confessional and pulled the curtain shut. Seating himself in the darkness, he began to wait.
The confessional was a wooden booth, a very old one, partitioned down the middle to separate the priest and the confessor. In the center of the wall between them was a screened grille that could be opened or closed by a sliding panel on the priest's side. Below the grille was a wooden shelf that ran the length of the partition. Father Azetti was in the habit of resting his fingertips on this narrow ledge as he inclined his head to hear the whispered confessions. It was clearly a habit that he shared with many priests before him: the little shelf was worn into faint scallops by centuries of pious hands fingering the wood.
Father Azetti sighed, raised the back of his hand to his eyes and squinted at the luminous dial on his wrist. It was 1:51.
On those days when he had not missed breakfast, the priest enjoyed the hours that he spent in the confessional. Like a musician playing Bach, he listened to himself, and heard his predecessors in every changing chord. The antique booth was resonant with old heartbreaks, whispered secrets, and absolution. Its walls had listened to a million sins--or perhaps, as Father Azetti thought, to a dozen sins, committed a million times.
The priest's musing was interrupted by a familiar noise from the other side of the partition--the sound of a curtain pushed aside, followed by the grunt of an old man sinking to his knees. Father Azetti composed himself and opened the grille with a brush of his hand.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned . . ."
The man's face was in shadows, but the voice was familiar. It belonged to Montecastello's most distinguished resident--Dr. Ignazio Baresi. In some ways, Dr. Baresi was like himself--a worldly outsider transplanted to the stifling beauty of the provinces. Inevitably, each man was whispered over, and just as inevitably, they'd become friends. Or, if not friends, then allies, which was as much as the differences in their ages and interests would allow. The truth was, they had little in common beyond too much education. The doctor was a septuagenarian whose walls were crowded with diplomas and certificates, attesting to his achievements in scienceand medicine. The priest was somewhat less distinguished--a middle-age activist on the back burner of Vatican politics.
And so, they came together over a chessboard on Friday evenings, sitting in the piazza outside the Caff Centrale, sipping Vin Santo. Their conversations were spare, and absent any intimacies. A remark about the weather, a toast to one another's health, and then: pawn to king's bishop four. Even so, after more than a year of idle remarks and occasional reminiscences, they knew one or two things about each other. It seemed enough.
Lately, however, the doctor's comings and goings had been less regular. The priest knew that the old man had been ill, but now, listening to him, he realized that Baresi had taken a turn for the worse. His voice was so weak that Father Azetti had to press his temple to the grille so he could hear.
Not that the priest was particularly curious. As with most of those who made their way to his confessional, Azetti barely needed to listen. After ten years he knew their weaknesses. At seventy-four, the doctor would have taken the Lord's name in vain, he would have been uncharitable. Before he'd taken ill, he might have lusted after a woman, might even have committed adultery--but all that was over for the poor man, who now seemed weaker by the day.
And, in fact, there was an unsavory air of anticipation in the village about the doctor's coming end, an avid expectation from which even Father Azetti was not entirely free. After all, il dottore was a wealthy, pious, and unmarried man. He'd been generous to the town, and to the church, before. Indeed, Father Azetti thought, the doctor--
What?
The priest focused his attention on the doctor's faltering voice. He'd been rambling in the self-justifying way that confessors often did, avoiding the sin while emphasizing his intentions (which were, as always, good). He'd said something about pride, about being blinded by pride--and then, there was his illness, of course, and the realization of his own mortality. He'd seen the error of his ways. There was nothing remarkable in that, Azetti thought: the prospect of death had a way of focusing one's sensibilities, and in particular, one's moral sensibilities. Father Azetti had been thinking about this when the doctor finally got to the point and began to describe the sin itself: what he'd actually done.
The priest listened, and the word burst from him in a gasp: "What!?"
Dr. Baresi repeated what he'd said, speaking in a hushed and urgent voice. And then he began to elaborate, so that there could be no mistake about what was being said. Listening to the terrible and persuasive details,
Father Azetti felt his heart lurch in his chest. What the man had done--what he'd committed--was the most spectacular sin imaginable, a sin so deep and terminal that heaven itself might never recover from it. Was it even possible?
The doctor was silent now, breathing hoarsely as he waited in the dark for absolution from his friend, his ally.
But Father Azetti was speechless. He couldn't say a word. He couldn't even think, or breathe. It was as if he'd been plunged, chest-deep, into a mountain stream. It was all he could do to gasp, and even then his mouth was like wood, and dry.
The doctor, too, was suddenly tongue-tied. He tried to speak, and then broke off in a ragged gasp. He cleared his throat with a strangled sound that was, at first, embedded deep within his chest--and then erupted with such ferocity that the booth trembled. The priest feared the man would die on the spot. Instead he heard the door crash open, and instantly the doctor was gone.
Father Azetti remained where he was, rooted to the spot like a witness to a fatal accident. Almost of its own accord, his right hand made the sign of the cross. A second later he was on his feet. Tearing the curtain aside, he stepped from the darkness of the booth into a shaft of sunlight.
For a moment it was as if the world had disappeared. There was nothing but dust, rising to heaven in a column of buttery light. Slowly, his eyes began to adjust. They fumbled in the dazzle until, squinting, he saw the doctor's frail shape, hobbling up the aisle. The ghostly orb of his white-haired head bobbed in the gloom as he poled his way to the door with his cane, pounding the tiled floor. The priest took a step toward him, and another.
"Dottore! Please!" Father Azetti's voice boomed in the church, and hearing it, the old man hesitated. Slowly, he turned to the priest, and the priest saw that the look on his face had nothing to do with contrition. The doctor was on a bullet train to hell, and fear radiated from him like a halo around the moon.
And then he was gone.
The doctor's voice was like a klaxon in his head, now quiet, now louder, now dopplering off into silence. It was as if a state of emergency had been declared in his soul, and the declaration came at him over and over again, from every direction. The hushed and desperate monotone of Baresi's voice was like a low-grade infection that wouldn't go away. The words nagged at him, and all he could summon in his own heart were the empty words: do something. Something! And so he was. He was going to Rome. In Rome they would know what to do.
He begged a ride from the husband of the woman who cleaned his rooms, asking for a lift to the nearby (and larger) town of Todi. Once in the car, he felt better, the pressure eased by the salve of action: he had embarked, he was on the way.
The driver was a large and boisterous man given--as Father Azetti was in a position to know--to excessive card-playing and a fondness for grappa. He had not worked for years, and perhaps concerned for his wife's income, was excessively solicitous, constantly apologizing for the car's poor suspension, the heat, the state of the roads, and the insane behavior of other drivers. Whenever the car lurched to a stop, he thrust out a protective forearm, as if the priest were a small child who did not know enough of the fundamental laws of physics to brace himself when the brakes were applied.
Finally they arrived at the railroad station and the man jumped from his seat and dashed around to the passenger side. The door of the old Fiat, which had been battered in some ancient collision, opened with a complaining screech. The air outside the car was scarcely cooler than inside, and a thin ribbon of sweat wandered down the priest's back. There was a parting barrage of questions from the driver as he escorted Azetti to the ticket window: Did the father want him to purchase the ticket? Should he wait at the station until the train arrived? Was the father sure that he did not want a ride to the main station in Perugia? The priest refused everything, No-no-no-no-no-no--grazie, grazie! Eventually, the man moved off with a courtly bow and an unmistakable expression of relief.
Father Azetti had nearly an hour to wait before the train to Perugia arrived. In Perugia he would take the shuttle to the other station, and wait another hour for the train to Rome. Meanwhile, he sat on a small bench outside the train station in Todi, baking in the heat. The air was heavywith dust and ozone, and the black robes of his order pulled the sunlight toward him.
He was a Jesuit, a member of the Society of Jesus. Despite the heat, he did not relax his shoulders or let his head droop. He sat erect. His posture was perfect.
Had he been an ordinary parish priest in a small town in the Umbrian countryside, the entire matter of Dr. Baresi's confession would probably have gone no further. Indeed, if he'd been a simpler priest, it was unlikely that he'd have comprehended the doctor's confession, let alone its implications. And if he had understood, he wouldn't have had the faintest idea what to do with the information or where to go with it.
But Giulio Azetti was no ordinary priest.
There was a term, popular these days in the secular world, for odd twists of fate: synchronicity. But for a religious person, synchronicity was an alien, even a demonic, concept. Father Azetti had to look at the chain of incidents as if they were hinged together by an unseen Hand, a matter of volition and not of chance. Looked at in this way, his presence in that particular confessional, listening to that specific confession, was a matter of ingenious design. He thought of the folk expression for this: God moves in mysterious ways.
Seated on the platform, Father Azetti meditated upon the dimensions of the sin confessed to him. Simply stated, it was an abomination--a crime not only against the Church, but against the cosmos. It offended the natural order, and contained within itself the end of the Church. And not only the Church.
Prayer was a shield, and he tried to pray, to use it as a screen, as white noise--but it was no use. Dr. Baresi's voice seeped through, and not even the sign of the cross would wave it away.
Father Azetti shook his head ever so slightly and let his eyes rest on the dusty weeds that grew in the cracks of concrete near the train bed. Just as the seeds that had fallen in those cracks contained within themselves the promise of this destructive vegetation, so, too, the sin confessed by the doctor, if unaddressed, contained . . . what?
The end of the world?
So intense was the July heat that the very scene in front of him--the railroad tracks, the buildings beyond--seemed to shimmer and melt in the air. Underneath his robes he was coated in a film of sweat.
He wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve and began to rehearse what he would say when he got to Rome--assuming that Cardinal Orsini would receive him.
It's a matter of great importance, your grace . . .
I have learned something that menaces the faith in a profound way . . .
He'd find the words. The harder part would be to penetrate the Church's bureaucracy. He tried to imagine the circumstances under which the cardinal--a Dominican--would agree to see him. Surely Orsini would recognize his name, would remember him, would know that his request for an audience was not frivolous. Or perhaps familiarity would work against him; perhaps the cardinal would think he'd come to plead his own case, seeking a return to Rome after his long exile in Umbria.
He pressed his eyes shut. He would find a way. He would have to find a way.
And then the ground beneath his feet began to tremble, and a tense hum rose through the soles of his shiny black shoes. Nearby, a little girl in pink plastic sandals began to jump up and down. Father Azetti stood up. The train was coming.
Father Azetti looked for a telephone, and after some difficulty, reached Monsignor Cardone in Todi. He apologized. He was in Rome on a matter of great urgency.
"Roma!?"
He hoped to return in a day or two, but it might take longer--in which case someone else would have to carry out his duties in Montecastello.The monsignor was so shocked, he could manage no more than another outraged squawk ("Che?!") before Azetti apologized yet again and hung up.
Because he had no money for hotels, the priest spent the night slumped on a bench in the train station. In the morning he washed up in the men's lavatory and went looking for a cheap cafe. Finding one just outside the terminal, he sipped a double espresso and wolfed down a sugary roll that resembled but was not a croissant. His hunger blunted, he plunged back into the terminal and went in search of the big red M that indicated the subway. Azetti's destination was a city-state nestled in the heart of Rome: the Vatican.
This isn't going to be easy, he thought, not easy at all.
Like any independent state, the Vatican's affairs are managed by a bureaucracy--in this case, the Curia, whose mission is to guide the immense entity that is still known as the Holy Roman Empire. Besides the Secretariat of State, which handles the Church's diplomatic affairs, the Curia is composed of nine sacred "congregations." Each is comparable to a federal department or ministry--responsible for one or another aspect of the Church's affairs.
The most powerful of these departments is the Sacred Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, which until 1965 was known as the Congregation for the Holy Inquisition of Heretical Error. More than 450 years old, "the Inquisition" remains a vital part of the Church's everyday affairs--not that anyone calls it that, not anymore.
In addition to overseeing the curricula of Catholic schools throughout the world, "the CDF"--as it is popularly known--continues to investigate heresy, judge threats to the faith, discipline priests, and excommunicate sinners. In extraordinary cases a part of the congregation may be appointed to perform exorcisms, grapple with Satan, or take action in the case of attacks upon the faith.
It was in connection with these last responsibilities that Father Azetti had traveled to Rome.
The head of the CDF was Stefano Orsini, Cardinal Orsini, who thirty-five years earlier had been a student with Azetti at the Vatican's Gregorian University. Orsini was now a prince of the faith, the head of a Vatican inner sanctum that included nine lesser cardinals, twelve bishops, and thirty-five priests--each of whom was an academic of the first order.
The cardinal's offices were in the shadow of St. Peter's Cathedral in the Palace of the Holy Office--a building Azetti knew well. He'd spent his first years as a priest working in a small, brightly lighted room on the second floor, surrounded by books and manuscripts. A great many days had come and gone since then, and as he mounted the stairs to the third floor, he felt his heart begin to pound.
It wasn't exertion, it was the steps --the way in which the marble dipped and thinned in the middle of the stairwell, worn down by centuries of feet. Seeing the depressions in the stone, and knowing that he'd last climbed these stairs nearly twenty years before, he realized that his life was wearing away, and that it had been doing so for many years. Like the steps, he, too, was beginning to disappear.
The idea stopped him in his tracks. For a moment he hesitated on the landing, gripping the handrail until his knuckles glowed. A feeling like nostalgia moved through him, but it wasn't nostalgia, it was something . . . heavier, a sense of loss that brought an ache to the back of his throat. Slowly, he resumed his climb, and as he did, he moved deeper and deeper into his own homesickness.
He was an outsider now, a visitor in his Father's mansion, and his intimacy with the building's details--the texture of the paint, the silky brass of the banister, the way the light fell in slanted rectangles on the marble floor--was enough to break his heart.
He had always thought that he would spend the bulk of his life inside the walls of the Vatican. In the library. Teaching in one of the Church's universities. In this very building. He had been ambitious enough to think that one day he might even wear the red hat of a cardinal.
Instead he'd spent the past decade ministering to the faithful in Montecastello, where his "flock" consisted of shopkeepers, field hands, and small businessmen. It was uncharitable, but he couldn't resist the thought: What was a man like himself doing in a place like that?
He held a doctorate in canon law and knew the ways of the Vatican inside out. He'd worked for years in the Sacred Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, and later in the Secretariat of State. He'd
performed his duties admirably, compassionately, intelligently, efficiently--and so had come to be seen as something of a rising star. Sent abroad for the usual "seasoning," he'd received an appointment, first as subsecretary to the Apostolic Nuncio in Mexico, then in Argentina. It was obvious to everyone that someday he, too, would be a nuncio--an ambassador of the Pope's.
But that wasn't to be. He ran afoul of the Curia by leading demonstrations against the brutal military regime in Buenos Aires. He'd pushed the government and police for news of citizens who'd disappeared, and given interviews to the foreign press, interviews so incendiary that diplomatic notes had been exchanged--not once, but twice.
With the election of Pope John Paul II, it was suddenly obvious that the Vatican would no longer tolerate the political activism of priests like Azetti. The new pope was a Dominican, a cold war Polish conservative who saw "social justice" as a secular pursuit and not, properly, a religious one.
At most times in history, the Dominicans and the Jesuits pursued quite different agendas. And so it was not surprising that the whole of the Society of Jesus came under criticism. The entire order was admonished for what the new Pope called a "lack of balance," for paying more attention to politics than to serving their Church.
Father Azetti chafed at the admonition. Although the fourth vow of the Jesuits is obedience to the Pope, he chafed at that, too. How could he be a priest and not stand up for the poor? In an off-the-record conversation with an American reporter in Buenos Aires, Azetti made the point that it wasn't political activism that John Paul II opposed--it was activism of a particular kind. He might have left the remark at that, and gotten away with making his point, but he'd elaborated. So that there could be no doubt about what he meant, he went on to say: specifically, anticommunist activities are encouraged--but speaking out against fascists is not to be tolerated, never mind that thousands are being tortured and killed.
Two days later the remarks were published, more or less verbatim, by the Christian Science Monitor, which accompanied the article with a photo of Azetti at the head of a march in the Plaza de Mayo. Beneath the picture was his name and a one-word caption: Schism?
Under the circumstances, Azetti was lucky not to be excommunicated. Instead he was recalled to the Vatican and, in effect, stripped of rank. As an exercise in "humility," he was dispatched to a parish so small and remote that no one could tell him exactly where it was. Someone thought that it was near Orvieto. Or maybe Gubbio. Umbria, in any case, but where? Eventually, with the help of an ordnance map, he located the place: a pinprick to the north of Todi. He'd been there ever since, his career withering to the dimensions of a parish priest.
That was then.
Now, Father Azetti entered the spare antechamber that he remembered so well. It was a simple room, with two wooden benches, an antique desk, and a single crucifix on the wall. A ceiling fan turned slowly, stirring the heat.
The receptionist was gone, the desk empty, but not still. A swarm of winged toasters flapped silently across the screen of a portable computer. Azetti looked for a bell to ring, but finding none, resorted to a tentative cough. That done, he muttered "Hello?" Finally, he took a seat on one of the benches. Then he picked up his rosary and began to pray.
He was on the twelfth bead when a priest in white robes emerged from the cardinal's office and, seeing him, paused with a look of surprise. "May I help you, Father?"
"Grazie," Azetti said, jumping to his feet.
The priest extended his hand with the words, "Donato Maggio."
"Azetti! Giulio Azetti--from Montecastello."
Father Maggio wrinkled his brow.
"It's in Umbria," Azetti added.
"Oh," Maggio said, "of course." The two men stood for a moment, smiling awkwardly at one another. Finally, Maggio sat down at his desk. "How can I help you?"
Azetti cleared his throat. "You're the cardinal's secretary?" he asked.
Maggio shook his head and smiled. "No, I'm just sitting in for a couple of weeks. It's busy here, you know. Lots of changes. Actually, I'm an assistant archivist."
Azetti nodded, twisting his hat in his hands. He might have guessed at Maggio's true position. Twenty years and the phrase jumped instantly into his head: an archival mouse. That was the term they'd used for those toiling deep in the archives, dragging out parchments and old illuminated texts for the cardinals, the bishops, the professors at the Vatican universities. Maggio had the red drippy nose and the myopic eyes of the species. After a while--the poor lighting, the centuries of book mold, the close work--they all shared these characteristics.
"So . . ." Maggio said with a frown. "What can I do for you, Father?" He was a little disappointed that the priest had not asked why it was "busy" or the nature of the "changes" he'd mentioned. Then Maggio might have hinted at the Pope's condition, and watched the man's eyes widen at the news. This priest seemed lost in his own head and Maggio had to repeat himself. "Once again--how can I be of assistance?"
"I'm here to see the cardinal."
Maggio shook his head. "I'm sorry."
"It's urgent!" Azetti said.
Maggio looked doubtful.
"A threat to the faith," Azetti explained.
The archival mouse smiled thinly. "He's very busy, Father. You must know that."
"I do! It's just--"
"Anyone can tell you: appointments have to be arranged well in advance." The man droned on, detailing the proper approach. Azetti should have consulted the monsignor of his diocese. But since he hadn't . . . and since he was already in Rome--an appointment still be made with one of the more senior staff, to whom Azetti could outline the matter. And if it was then deemed appropriate, a conversation with the cardinal might be possible--though this would certainly take weeks. Perhaps longer. Perhaps . . . a letter?
Father Azetti drummed his fingertips on the brim of his hat. He had been accused of arrogance before, of thinking his concerns paramount when the Church had other priorities. But in this case? No. An intermediary would not do, and neither would a letter. His business was with the cardinal. This cardinal.
"I'll wait," he said, returning to the bench and sitting down.
"I am afraid you don't understand," Maggio said through an anemic smile. "The cardinal is unable to see everyone who'd like to meet with him. It's simply not possible."
"I understand," Father Azetti said. The secretary made a small, helpless gesture. "But I will wait."
And so he did.
Each morning, Azetti arrived at St. Peter's Cathedral at seven a.m. He said his prayers and sat on a bench near the famous statue of
St. Peter, watching the devoted approach and wait to kiss the bronze foot of the great apostle. Centuries of kisses had obliterated the separation of the toes; the entire front of the foot was worn smooth. Even the sole of the sandal had melted into the bronze flesh of the foot.
At eight o'clock Azetti climbed the steps to the third-floor antechamber, where he gave his name to the white-robed Father Maggio. Each day, Maggio nodded coldly and duly wrote Azetti's name, with spiky and hostile precision, in a ledger. The country priest took up his position on the bench--where he remained, uncomfortably, until the end of the day. At five o'clock, when the cardinal's chambers were closed, he retraced his steps down the stairs, walked through the Bernini Colonnade and out the Gate of St. Anna.
While he waited he had plenty of time to reflect on the man he wanted to see. He remembered Orsini from their university days, the man's large and clumsy body so at odds with his sharp, incisive mind. Orsini's brilliance was cold and laserlike, devoid of compassion or even of interest in anyone else's point of view.
His only passion was the Church, and in the pursuit of that passion, he bulldozed all who got in his way. His ascent through the Vatican hierarchy was predictable and swift. No one was surprised by his eventual posting as the head of the CDF. It was a policeman's job, in a way, and Orsini had a policeman's soul. He reminded Father Azetti of the coldhearted policeman in Les Misérables --relentless, unforgiving. Virtue turned to stone.
Of course such men are necessary, even indispensable--and Orsini was the ideal man in whom to confide Dr. Baresi's confession. He would know what to do and he would see that it was done.
Azetti didn't want to think about that--about what might be done, or what might have to be done. And so he often lost himself in prayer.
He spent the evenings at the stazione, where he discovered after the first night that if he left his round-brimmed hat on the bench next to him while he slept, he might wake to find a few thousand lire in its bowl. Though his sleep was fitful, no one bothered him. And in the morning, after he washed up in the men's room, he went to the little cafe, where he spent the alms that he received on coffee, cornettos, and mineral water.
By the fourth day Father Maggio had ceased to be polite. He ignored Father Azetti's buongiornos and acted as if the priest were no longer there. Meanwhile, other intermediaries came and went, asking if they could help. Politely, but firmly, Azetti rejected their offers, saying that he could only discuss the matter with il cardinale.
Occasionally someone would stick his head into the room, hoping to get a look at the very crazy priest, and just as quickly the head would disappear. There were whispers, too, and snatches of conversation in the halls. At first the remarks expressed a certain curiosity. There was an amused edge in the voices of the staff, but gradually the voices hardened into annoyance.
"What does he want?"
"He wants to see the cardinal."
"Impossible."
"Well, of course!"
Clearly, he was becoming not just an irritation but an embarrassment. For one thing--despite his ablutions in the railroad station--he was beginning to stink. The decline in his personal hygiene embarrassed him considerably, because he was by any standard a fastidious man. He endured the decline simply because he had no choice. Despite every effort at cleanliness, grime settled into the cracks and crevices of his skin and embedded itself in his clothing. His hair was filmy with oil, and there was nothing that he could do about it.
His attempts to wash were undertaken at night, when the men's room had an abandoned feel. Even so, it seemed that he was always interrupted. Most seemed to find it entertaining to pause and watch a priest at his public toilette.
Not that it did much good. The sinks were tiny and offered only cold water. The soap was a sort of latherless goo, and worse, there were no towels, just machines that blew hot air. No matter how hard Father Azetti tried, or how acrobatically he positioned himself, there were parts of him that simply could not be blown dry without creating a scene. So the grime clung to him. He understood for the first time what it was like to be homeless.
"Can't we have him removed?" a voice asked. By the sixth day they had begun to discuss him quite freely, as if he were a foreigner or an animal who could not understand them. As if he weren't there at all.
"And how would that look? He's a priest!"
Never once did Azetti waver. All he had to do was recall Baresi's words. He would not, he could not, return to Montecastello the sole repository of the doctor's confession. Rather than that, he would wait forever.
On the seventh day, Monsignor Cardone arrived from Todi and took up the seat beside him.
A wizened, birdlike man, the monsignor said nothing for a full minute. He fixed his bright black eyes on the wall in front of him and held his silence, gazing out from under a thatch of gray eyebrows. Finally, he offered a sharp little smile and placed a hand on Father Azetti's knee. "I was told you were here," he said.
"Ah," Father Azetti replied, as if he'd been curious, and as if that curiosity was now satisfied.
"Giulio. What is it? Perhaps I can help."
Azetti shook his head. "Not unless you can intercede with the cardinal. Otherwise . . ." He shrugged.
The monsignor did his best. He charmed. He spoke to Azetti as one sophisticated cleric to another. Surely Azetti knew--better than most--how these things were done. There were channels and protocols--formalities! Surely he knew--better than most--how precious the cardinal's time must be, and how it was the staff's job to protect him from distraction. Come, let's walk together.
No. Grazie. Molto grazie.
Finally, the monsignor attacked. Really, Azetti, you're in dereliction of duty. You've abandoned your church! There's been a christening, a death--a funeral mass! What could possibly be so important? People are talking!
And then he cajoled. If Azetti would confide in him, the monsignor would intercede on his behalf. As it was, the cardinal in all probability did not even know that Azetti was waiting all these long days.
Azetti shook his head. "I can't tell anyone," he said, "except the cardinal."
Eventually the monsignor bounced angrily to his feet. "If you persist in this, Giulio--"
Azetti tried to think of words that might dilute the monsignor's wrath, but before he could say anything, Donato Maggio stuck his head in the room.
"The cardinal will see you now," he told the priest. Orsini had decided that this was, after all, the easiest way of getting rid of him.
Stefano Orsini sat behind an enormous wooden desk, his black robes trimmed in crimson, a red skullcap perched atop his head. He was a large man with a loose-skinned, fleshy face and enormous brown eyes. They were the eyes of a dog, a large dog, but not a friendly one. His features tightened for a moment as the priest's aroma preceded him into the room, and then he looked up. "Giulio," he said. "How very nice to see you. Sit down. I'm told you've been waiting for a long time."
"Your grace." Father Azetti sat on the edge of a leather wing chair and waited for Father Maggio to leave the room. His mind was teeming with the words that he'd rehearsed. And then he saw that, rather than leaving, Maggio took a seat near the door and crossed his legs.
Azetti coughed.
The cardinal prompted him. "So?"
Azetti glanced in the direction of Father Maggio.
The cardinal's eyes shifted from one priest to the other and back again. Finally he shook his head and said, "He's my assistant, Giulio."
Azetti nodded.
"And he stays," the cardinal added.
Azetti nodded again. He could see that the cardinal's patience was wearing thin.
"Is it parole you're after?" the cardinal asked in a disdainful voice. "Tired of the country life?"
Azetti heard Father Maggio snicker behind his back. But he didn't mind. For the first time, he realized that he'd lost something in the countryside--and that was his ambition. But as terrible as that sounded, even to him, he knew in his heart that it wasn't at all like losing a leg. It was more liked being cured of a fever. As his eyes moved around Orsini's office he realized that despite his nostalgia on that first day, nothing could induce him to return to the machinations of a life within the Vatican. In Montecastello he'd found something more precious than ambition.
He'd found his faith.
But this was not something that he could tell Orsini. That was so despite the fact that the cardinal was himself a rarity in the Vatican--he, too, was a true believer, an ardent and steadfast soldier of the cross. Still, Father Azetti knew that Orsini would have no interest in his soul. He was interested in power, and Azetti understood that any profession of faith would not be taken at face value but as a feint or ploy, a political maneuver.
"No," he said, "I'm not here on my own behalf." He looked into Orsini's predatory eyes. "There's something the Church needs to know." He hesitated. "Something that can only be--"
The cardinal held up a hand and offered a cold smile. "Giulio . . . please. Spare me the introductory remarks."
Father Azetti sighed. With a nervous glance at Father Maggio, he plunged ahead, forgetting the speech that he'd rehearsed throughout the week. There was a blank moment when his head swarmed with words, and then:
"I've heard a confession," he stammered. "I've heard a confession that almost stopped my heart."