The Dead Saint (13 page)

Schönbrunn Palace glowed in the sun. The magnificent 1400-room structure evoked simultaneous comments about its size from Galen and Booker and its beauty from Lynn and Sylvia. As Lynn expected and dreaded, security agents stood in place. All comers guilty until proven innocent. It seemed a pointless inconvenience to Lynn—the good folk were harmless and the bad ones stayed a step ahead of detection systems. She approached nervously, President Benedict's letter to Manetti screaming its presence.

Unexpectedly, an agent escorted them past the metal detectors and bag-search tables, sparing them the demeaning process of being wanded like criminals. The agents dealt with people instead of possessions. They efficiently matched the name on invitation, passport, and security pass while glancing up pleasantly to check the likeness of photo to face. The agent whom Lynn drew had no problem identifying her with her horrible passport picture. Disappointing.

An official introduced himself as Franz Schober and led the twelve selected representatives and spouses into the Great Gallery, a stunning room. He lined them up alphabetically by continent and asked them to take that formation to greet the President. Lynn and Galen were placed between Europe and South America, just ahead of the Phillipses. For Lynn, protocol fell into the air with a Shakespearean ring of much ado about nothing, but as a guest in another country, she always honored the rules.

A string quartet played Mozart in the background as bishops and spouses arrived from the buses and began filling the room. Gold-trimmed white walls and sconces had heard centuries of secrets and kept them all. White floor-length cloths covered round tables with large colorful bouquets in the center. Plates of cut fruit and crystal glasses of sparkling white grape juice surrounded the flowers. Paper napkins monogrammed in gold were swirled in small clusters around the edge of the tables. An attendant stood at each one, dressed in the traditional black and white of waiters. Lynn admired the beautiful Gregorio Guglielmi frescoes painted on the ceiling in homage to Maria Theresa. She pointed them out to Galen as they waited for President Nausner's arrival.

Franz Schober returned to the Great Gallery through the door the President would enter. He gained control of the room in easy fashion. With courteous authority, he cleared the designated place near the door for the continental representatives and efficiently managed to get all the others to form a large circle along the walls. No small feat, as getting a group of bishops and spouses obediently organized was, in the accurate words of the cliché, like herding cats. Lynn glanced fondly around the room. Bishops in their purple shirts. Spouses standing beside them. She cared deeply for most of them. Disliked only one—JeffJames, who had, typically, jockeyed his way to be first in line after the continental representatives.

The President of Austria would be entering at any minute. The absence of Suits with earphones struck Lynn. The bishops were a safe group. But what if someone came pretending to be a bishop? All of us know some of the bishops, she thought, but no one knows all of them. She scanned the room again and leaned toward Galen. "Where is security?" she whispered.

"You can't 'bish' the Austrian Secret Service, Lynn." He grinned and winked.

The mime appeared on her mental screen, out of place in this elegant room.

The door opened, and President Nausner entered the Great Gallery. Voices hushed and eyes turned. He wore a smile and a tailored charcoal suit with a burgundy tie. Mrs. Nausner followed him. Elegant in a lavender tea dress of silk, she reminded Lynn of a beautiful iris in bloom. Lynn noticed that the attendant at the nearest table came subtly to attention, poised for action. She looked at him,
really
seeing him. He filled out the common uniform of black and white with an uncommon physique, more like a weight-lifter than a waiter. She guessed his neck at size seventeen. Watchful eyes belied his passive face. She glanced at the table attendants around the room—not all Size-Seventeens but all watchful. That answered her question about security. Several unnotable table attendants instead of a few notable Suits. Perhaps this was another difference between an old civilization and an adolescent one.

Unlike the typical reception line in which all the people moved toward the immobile person of prominence, the President moved toward the immobile people. Much more efficient, thought Lynn. Rather than be stuck with someone who wouldn't move on, or resort to a pull-the-person-forward-handshake some clergy practiced on Sunday mornings, he could graciously control how long he talked with each person. The two couples from Africa were first. He shook their hands and called them by name without glancing at their tags. He said something personal to each one and moved on to Asia, Austria, Europe. It impressed Lynn that he'd taken the time to be blue-booked on the twelve representatives and spouses and had bothered to digest the information, a gracious gesture of hospitality.

Or pragmatic public relations, Lynn.

Give him a break, Ivy!

"Bishop Peterson," said the President, shaking her hand. "You have been in Austria before. It is good to have you back."

"Your beautiful country and this city are special to us," she replied sincerely.

He smiled. "Then you have good taste in both culture and geography." He turned to Galen. "Dr. Peterson, I hope that if you ever write about Austria your words will be favorable."

"How could they be otherwise, President Nausner? You moved past Karl Lueger long ago."

"Thank you both for your warm hospitality to all of us," said Lynn.

"It is a pleasure. Religious leaders have influence that can be helpful . . ." He paused.

"Or destructive," Lynn finished with a smile.

"Your own influence, Bishop Peterson, falls into the former category. I appreciate your international work for peace and the poor." President and Mrs. Nausner moved on to Booker and Sylvia. When they finished greeting the continental representatives, they continued on around the room, welcoming every person in the Great Gallery.

After the reception, they were escorted to a stateroom for President Nausner's address. Lynn scanned the spacious room. Emerald green drapes trimmed the tall windows. The sun shone through them, partnering with the two-tiered chandeliers to light the cobalt blue walls. Austria's coat of arms hung on the wall above the dais. The eagle, retained as the country's symbol for more than a thousand years, brought her comfort. Galen pulled out his BlackBerry to take notes.

The President spoke pridefully of the Stephensturm, as Galen had predicted. He shifted to the neighboring Balkans and with a sense of urgency reminded the group of that area's impact on world history: Igniting World War I when a Serb assassinated Archduke Franz Ferdinand in 1914. Sending a spark flying toward World War II when Croatian Ustashe agents murdered King Alexander. Producing the first terrorists of the twentieth century by getting men from the Skopje, Belgrade, and Sofia slums to swear allegiance to IMRO—taking their oath over an Orthodox Bible and a gun.

Lynn looked at Galen, who was loving every historical word.

The President spoke eloquently of world peace, then concluded his address with two related points. First, citing yesterday's bus bombing as an example, he made a compelling statement against political and religious leaders who foment conflict and violence under the guise of religion—a contradiction of faith, he insisted, in all religions. Second, he built a persuasive argument that bishops must take responsibility for calling religious extremists to accountability. "If
you
don't," he asked, "
who
will?"

The entire global body rose for a standing ovation just as Franz Schober joined the President at the podium, whispered briefly, and took his arm to lead him
off
the platform. President Nausner offered a gracious bow of his head to the audience and smiled warmly. Immediately he turned to leave, flanked by two Size-Seventeens, no longer dressed as waiters.

Something had caused the abrupt departure. But apparently nothing that mattered. What does matter, thought Lynn, is what is happening at St. Mark's. She reached for Galen's hand and tapped her dual-time watch—ten in the morning in New Orleans. While the bishops and spouses were ushered toward the doorway in an orderly fashion, she and Galen remained in their seats and prayed for Elie's friends gathered at his jazz funeral in the Quarter.

An overflow crowd of people stands under a cloudless blue canopy outside St. Mark's Church in the French Quarter in New Orleans. They wait with hushed respect for the service to end and the procession to begin. The doors click open, and sunlight glints on the casket carried by Bubba Broussard and five other Saints. The bells of St. Francis Cathedral peal in honor of Elias Darwish.

Bubba clutches the cold metal handles, his heart hurting as they carry Elie's body up Rampart Street to the hearse. The mucky smell of the river mingles with the sweet scent of flowers in the wreath on the casket. A tugboat horn wails its sadness, for the earth is a lesser place. A light breeze cools Bubba's face and his eyes blur as he helps place his friend in the hearse. But he is not alone. For this is a jazz funeral.

The grand marshals and the Olympia Brass Band lead the people up Rampart. Bubba and all the Saints parade somberly behind the band. Cy Bill is on Ebony, both decked out in black, the silver trim polished. Chief Armstrong in full dress solemnly joins the procession. Along with Francine Babineaux from the crime lab and Fay Foster from the bishop's office. Yoo-Sei from Café du Monde and Rosa DuBois from Mt. Zion Church. And Bubba knows Bishop Lynn and Galen are present in spirit. Pete Fountain, the Neville Brothers, members of the Marsalis family, and other New Orleans musicians join the first line in tribute to Elie. The people walk along to the soulful lament of the slow, mournful hymns that haunt the procession up Rampart and past Louis Armstrong Park toward the cemetery. As they turn on Basin Street, Fats Domino waves from a chair, too ill to join the line, but his voice can be heard as "A Closer Walk with Thee" is played in a woeful dirge. Hundreds of feet march in the street, the first line, mourning the death of Elias Darwish.

The hearse moves on to the cemetery, and Elie is laid to rest.

Their goodbyes said, the mood begins to change. The moment comes. The moment of long tradition. The moment when they cut the body loose and the music shifts in tone and beat. From death to resurrection. The people whose white handkerchiefs dried their eyes in the church now wave them as they dance in joy. Clarinets and saxes, trumpets and trombones, tubas and drums play a rollicking rendition of "When the Saints Go Marching In." It reverberates through the Quarter. Fans join in and well-wishers and onlookers, stepping high like the Saints and twirling fringed umbrellas. Thousands of feet dance in the street, the second line, celebrating the life of Elias Darwish.

Bubba has tears in his eyes but a smile on his face. He can almost feel Elie dancing, too, on his nimble feet. The sniper shot him, but he won't have the last word. Bubba sees a vision as clear and true as jazz itself, a vision of Elie living on from generation to generation through the stories that fans tell their children:

As we get ready to watch this game, kids, I want to tell you a story. There was once a Saints kicker named Elias Darwish—
a great kicker.
He had a magic foot, and
I
saw him play.

As we get ready to watch this game, kids, I want to tell you a story. There was once a Saints kicker named Elias Darwish
the greatest kicker in the country.
He had a magic foot, and
my daddy
saw him play.

As we get ready to watch this game, kids, I want to tell you a story. There was once a Saints kicker named Elias Darwish—
the greatest kicker of all time.
He had a magic foot, and
my granddaddy
saw him play.

Yes, the sniper shot Elie. But the people won't ever let him die. Bubba is sure of that.