The Fifth Gospel (60 page)

I didn't mean to sow those weeds. Not in Ugo's life, not in John Paul's. But in the silence that surrounds the Shroud now, I hear the master telling his servants to wait. Not to reap yet. And I wait for the day of harvest.

MONA SURPRISES ME BY
asking to join Peter and me again at a Greek liturgy. Then, two days later, she suggests we go back for another. The third time, she finds a way to ask when I last confessed. She thinks it will do me good.

My wife doesn't understand: I've tried. Yet never in my life have I felt more immune to the power of forgiveness. A nurse always believes in a cure, but unlike Mona's patients at the hospital, I have brought this on myself, and there is no medicine.

Slowly, though, I find that the woman coming to my aid is no longer the woman I married. Rather, she is the wife and mother who left behind husband and son, who lived for years in tortured solitude, and who stands before me now as a virtuoso of the self-recrimination I'm only beginning to learn. She is helping me because she loves me, because she knows this darkness and has its map. There is indeed no medicine. But there is a journey I no longer have to make alone.

In mid-November, the sampietrini begin raising scaffolding in the middle of Saint Peter's Square. Each year they build a nativity scene bigger than the last, veiled with fifteen-foot curtains until a revealing on Christmas Eve. Peter walks the perimeter like a detective, inspecting debris, eavesdropping on workmen, searching for holes in the tarp he can peek through. When the Greek forty-day fast before Christmas begins, Roman Catholics have already filled the markets with holiday sweets, cheeses, and cured meats, none of which an Eastern Catholic can eat. This year it comes as a relief to me. While Mona and Peter go shopping in Piazza Navona, I continue on alone to visit Simon.

He is staying in a small church just outside Rome. The pastor has taken him in like a stray cat. The Secretariat has placed Simon on temporary leave, and guilt has driven him out of the Vatican walls, so
he serves food at a community kitchen in the evenings and helps at a Catholic shelter most nights. I assist him sometimes, and in the small hours that follow, when the bars have closed and Rome almost sleeps, we return to his little church and sit side by side on a pew.

At first we keep ourselves to the familiar topics. But one night at a time, the tap opens wider. He seems to be undergoing a second priestly formation here, stripping off the coats of Secretariat varnish and sanding down the grain of our father's old ambitions to see what remains. I listen, mainly. I sense he's bracing me to hear some conclusion he's come to about his life. On this spot, long ago, Saint Peter was fleeing the persecution of Emperor Nero when he had a vision of Jesus. “Domine,” Peter asked, “quo vadis?”
Lord,
where are you going?
And the vision replied, “Romam vado iterum crucifigi.”
I go to Rome, to be crucified again.
At that moment, Peter understood God's plan for him. He accepted martyrdom, letting Emperor Nero crucify him on Vatican Hill. There is a church in Rome for every station of a man's life, and this one is the church of turning points. Some night soon, I keep telling myself, I will share news of my own with my brother.

It's four miles from Simon's church back to the Vatican gates. Four miles is a long way to walk, but a pilgrimage should not be driven. The walk home takes me by the Pantheon, the Trevi Fountain, the Spanish Steps, all in the dead hours of dark. There are still a few tourists and young couples in the piazzas, but they're as invisible to me as the pigeons and night traffic. What I see is the Academy where Simon once studied, the square where Mona and I met on our first date, the hospital in the distance where Peter was born. At each milepost, I make a small prayer. In each neighborhood along the way, my eyes linger over the clotheslines strung over the narrow streets, the soccer balls left on doorsteps, the holiday lights in the shape of La Befana or Babbo Natale and his reindeer.

Four miles on a December night cuts like a river between penance and prayer, and when I reach home, my own feelings of foreboding are more muted. I check the answering machine in case there is word of a verdict. But the verdict is always the same: Peter is asleep and barely moves when I kiss him on the forehead, and when I crawl into bed, Mona whispers,
You're freezing, don't touch me with those feet.
She smiles and slides over, nestling against my chest, and fits herself
into the emptiness that only she can fill. For a second, on those nights, I am tense with amazement all over again. I reach out to hold her.
Is he doing better?
she murmurs. Because she has found a new place in her heart for the brother-in-law who used to fill her with misgivings. Then I kiss the back of her neck and I lie to her. I say that Simon seems better every time I visit him.
He needs to know he's forgiven
, she says. And she's right. But to make him believe those words takes a higher power than mine.

The last thing Mona always says, before falling asleep, is,
Did you tell Simon the news?
I touch her bare back. The soft unguarded slope of her shoulder. For years I have lived with one foot in yesterday. Now I can barely sleep for thought of tomorrow. Did I tell him the news? No, I did not. Because I believe I will have more time.

Not yet
, I tell her.
But soon.

ON THE TWENTIETH OF
December, just before dawn, I get a text on my phone. Leo.

Baby boy born at 4:17 AM. Healthy, 7
pounds 3 ounces. Alessandro Matteo Keller. With thankful hearts we praise God
.

I stare at the screen in the dark. Alessandro. They've named him after me.

A second message appears.

We want you to be godfather. Come visit. We're downstairs.

Downstairs. Sofia delivered at Health Services. They have a Vatican baby.

When Peter and Mona and I arrive, Simon is already there. He is holding the newborn, enveloping it in his immense hands the same way he used to do with Peter. In his eyes is the fragile vigilance I remember so well, the protectiveness snowed over with awe. He looks like the big brother who once raised me, the boy disguised in a man's body. When Mona comes up to run a tender finger across the blue cap on the little child's head, I am suddenly choked by the sight of them both. I watch as Simon gently lowers Alessandro to let her hold him. But first she reaches out her hand and puts her palm on Simon's chest, in the space over his heart where a bishop's pectoral cross should be. He stares down at it, and his eyes are big and searching. I hear her whisper,
Whatever you did, Ugo forgives you.

The words crush him. As soon as she takes the baby from him, Simon murmurs his congratulations to Leo and Sofia, then finds his way to the door.

I find him upstairs, in the hallway outside our apartment, sitting numbly among the packing boxes. I should have told him. I should have, but I knew he wasn't ready.

Simon stands. He says,
They can't do this to you
.
He says,
They can't make you move out.

I explain. No one is making us. We want to be a family again. There are just too many ghosts in this place.

He stares at the door to the apartment, the door to which his key no longer works, and he listens as I describe the new place we've found. On the way back from visiting him at Domine Quo Vadis, I tell him, I fell in love with one of the neighborhoods. Two of Peter's school friends live in the same building. It's Church-owned, which means rent control. And with two incomes now, Mona and I can afford it.

Simon blinks. He says something convoluted about a savings account he opened for Peter. It's not much, he says, but Mona and I are welcome to use it for our deposit.

I have to turn away. He looks harrowed. I begin to say I'm sorry, I meant to tell him, but he interrupts and tells me: “Alex, I asked for a new posting.”

Our eyes search each other. We seem so far away.

A new posting: back into Secretariat service.
Domine, quo vadis?
To Rome, to be crucified again.

When I ask him where he requested to be sent, he tells me it's nowhere specific. Anywhere far from the Orthodox world. With sudden passion he says there are Christians being killed in the Middle East, Catholics being persecuted in China. There is always a cause, and the cause is still all. I look at the open box beside him, on which Peter has tried to write the word
kitchen
. Our own little china, swaddled in butcher paper. I offer him a hand up. I ask him to join us for Christmas dinner.

THE CURTAIN FALLS ON
Christmas Eve. The nativity scene in Saint Peter's Square is grander than ever, a stable as big as an inn. Peter is delighted by the life-size ox and sheep that surround the manger. Mona
and I take him ice-skating at Castel Sant'Angelo. We return only for Holy Supper.

According to Eastern tradition, the youngest child keeps lookout for the first star in the sky on Christmas Eve. So Peter keeps watch at his bedroom window while I scatter straw on our table and Mona lays the white tablecloth, symbols of the manger in which the baby Jesus was placed. Simon places a lit candle in the loaf of bread in the center of the table, symbol of Christ, the light of the world. As we sit down to eat, we leave the door cracked and an unoccupied chair at the table, recalling that Jesus' parents were travelers in this season, dependent on the hospitality of others. In past years, this was a melancholy moment, peering across at empty chair and unclosed door. An occasion for brooding on Mona. Tonight, my heart brims. If only Simon could experience the same peace.

Just as we're about to eat, a sound interrupts us. A knock. Followed by a creaking of the door.

I look up. My hand drops its piece of bread. Monsignor Mignatto is standing in the doorway.

I stumble to my feet. “Please,” I say, “come in.”

Mignatto looks nervous. “Buon Natale,” he says. “My apologies for intruding.”

Without seeming to realize it, Simon whispers, “Not this. Not tonight.”

The monsignor's face is lifeless. He glances around the room, seeming to notice the absence of furniture except this table and these chairs. The walls are a quilt of ghostly patterns where picture frames have been removed and packed up.

“This is our last dinner here,” I say under my breath.

“Yes,” he says, “your uncle told me.”

His trepidation is so heavy. I look for some sign of why he's here, but I see no briefcase, no court documents.

Mignatto clears his throat. “The Holy Father's decision will be issued tonight.”

Simon stares at him.

“I've been asked to confirm,” Mignatto says, pressing on, “where the news should be sent.”

“Right here,” I say.

Mignatto adds, “I would like to be present when it comes.”

I start to agree, but he continues, “However, I was instructed other­wise. So whatever the news may be, I hope you'll call me, Father ­Andreou.”

Faintly, my brother says, “Thank you, Monsignor. But there's no need. I know there's no appeal.”

Mignatto's eyes fall. He says, “Even so, I may be able to offer perspective. Or comfort.”

Simon nods, but in a way that says there will be no phone call. We will not see the monsignor again.

For a moment, the silence is perforated only by the muted caroling of our neighbors, by the sound of children shouting excitedly in the stairwell. There is joy tonight, elsewhere.

“Monsignor,” Simon says, “I'm grateful for everything you did for me.”

Mignatto gently bows his head. He steps forward and gives Simon a handshake. He repeats, “Buon Natale. All of you.”

LICK BY LICK, THE
candles on the table hollow themselves out. Mona and I read Peter the gospel stories of Jesus' birth—Luke's story of the manger, Matthew's story of the three wise men—but Simon merely stares. His eyes are empty. The light in them is dying. It is just past eleven when Peter falls asleep. We place him on a sheet on the floor. The bed frames and mattresses are already in the moving truck.

Mona turns on the television for the broadcast from Saint Peter's Square. Midnight Mass used to be our tradition with Simon until having a newborn made it impossible. People are queued in the piazza, thousands of them, black silhouettes dwarfed by the century-old Alpine fir that has been mounted in the square as John Paul's Christmas tree. Mona's fingers slip between mine and squeeze my hand. I kiss her on the forehead. Her eyes never leave the screen; she hangs on every word of the broadcast. But I go to the kitchen and pour drinks. Simon, who has delivered toasts for cardinals and ambassadors, raises his glass but can think of nothing to say. I lower myself beside him.

“Whatever happens,” I say, tapping his glass.

He nods. He smiles.

“We'll get through it,” I say.

He drapes a hand across my shoulders. Out the window, in the dark
ness high over John Paul's palace, there is a star in the east. His stare is locked on it. I close my eyes. Somehow, this is the moment I know. My brother is gone. His body is beside me, but the rest has slipped away. He is here only for our sake, to let us believe we've kept him afloat.

“We love you,” I say.

His eyes seem blank. He says, “Thank you for always making me feel like part of your family.”

When he finishes his drink, he stands to wash out the glass. I think to myself:
e
leven years.
That is how long the priesthood has been his family. Since his first year of seminary. One-third of his life. Which means tonight he may experience what no man ever should: to become an orphan for the second time. He reaches for his pack of cigarettes, but he's interrupted by a knock at the door.

The sound makes Peter wake up.

I look at Simon. The glaze in his stare is gone.