The Holy Bullet (13 page)

“You still remember me,” the other replied.

“Oh, Marius.”

The two men of the Church embraced, gathering together all the years of separation in that gesture.

“How many years has it been?” Don Clemente finally asked, astonished to see his friend and countryman again.

“Many,” Marius Ferris answered. “It doesn’t matter. How are you?”

“As you see,” the other replied. “In the Grace of the Lord. I wasn’t expecting to see you again. How are you? What have you been doing?”

“I’ve returned,” Marius Ferris informed him, adding no more than he had to. Enough was enough.

“I heard you were in New York.”

“Yes, it’s true,” he answered evasively.

“And now, have you returned for good?”

“Almost,” Marius Ferris said. “I still have one last journey. But I wanted to begin here first.”

“Of course, of course,” Don Clemente added. “First those closest to us.”

“Naturally. I’ve spent many years away from my homeland.” These last words were pronounced with a certain melancholy and an empty stare. Time passes through its orbit, without mercy, what goes, goes, is ended, is past, and will not return to the present, ever, for all that he mourned. It was a sorrow that overcame him when he recalled the time that he had lost. But a life dedicated to the ideals of the Church was not to be regretted, much less by a person in Marius Ferris’s position. He could feel pain for a life far from home, for the heart that remained behind when he went away twenty years ago, but not for the deeds and essentials, for the propagation of God’s Word and for his word, he being the Shepherd of Shepherds, His Holiness the pope, the many whom he had served all this time. “I will also go to Fátima, Lourdes, and visit the Holy See. Only then will I come back for good,” he concluded.

“A truly personal pilgrimage,” said Don Clemente, admiring him.

“I’ve needed this for a long time.”

“I believe it. I believe it,” the priest said. “I’ll be waiting here for you when you return. You always know where you can find me.”

He laid a hand on Marius Ferris’s shoulder in a gesture of affection and then continued walking to the sacristy.

“Actually,” Marius Ferris began, interrupting Don Clemente’s steps, “I’ve come here for another reason, as well.” His expression was serious.

“Oh, really?” He waited for his friend Marius to explain, but he said nothing further, only continued to look serious. “All right. What is it?”

“I want to make a confession.”

The oppressive tension Marius had created was cut off by Don Clemente’s strident laugh.

“Is that all?” Don Clemente asked, while wiping his tears on the sleeve of his cassock. “For a moment I thought you were going to ask me for money.”

It was Marius Ferris’s turn to smile.

“No, I only want confession.”

“Very well.”

Silence extended through the whole, practically empty, cathedral. Only one person strolled through the Pórtico de la Gloria, absorbed in the magnificence of the place. Marius continued looking at his friend.

“Now?” Don Clemente asked. He hadn’t realized the request was for immediate action.

“Yes,” the other confirmed.

Don Clemente consulted his watch. He frowned and looked at the great door of the cathedral.

“Wait for me here. I’ll be right back,” he decided.

And with these words he turned his back and walked off. Marius Ferris sat down in one of the pews looking at the altar.

Normally, a priest never makes confession in a confessional. It is said and known that one of the privileges of his office, if one wants to consider it such, is never to have to enter the claustrophobic cubicle to bare the soul, murmuring through the screen to the priest on the other side. When a priest confesses to another, he does it face-to-face, eye-to-eye, unburdening himself of past sins, purifying his spirit, in whatever way possible. The disadvantage, if there is one, is that, contrary to common belief, a colleague in office can’t tell another his most profound secrets. It’s not that there’s an exception for priests; confession functions the same way—closed, inviolable, not transmissible. Every word spoken can never be told to a third person. The problem is that the sinner is a priest, as is the confessor, and for one to have to guard the secrets of another son of the Holy Roman Catholic Church, depending on the secret and the sin, might give one man an advantage over the other. Everything depends on the other’s character. For this reason, when a priest confesses, he has to be very careful.

Don Clemente returned a little later dressed for the occasion with his clerical collar under the shirt signifying his calling. He sat in the pew and waited for Marius Ferris to approach.

“Tell me, Marius,” he asked. “Purify your soul.”

Marius Ferris came closer to his friend and looked at him for several moments, eyes moist with emotion. What he wanted to come out would be the total truth, without evasion, today, right now. Marius Ferris was going to open his heart without weighing his words. There would be nothing held back, no secrets.

“You’ve known me for many years, Clemente,” Marius Ferris began. “You know I was always devoted to the Lord, always followed His teachings, in His infinite wisdom, without any doubting.”

Don Clemente nodded in confirmation.

“I have done all I ought to have done, according to what was demanded of me, within my capabilities and values, sometimes with much sweat and sacrifice. Not everyone understands the paths of God as you and I do, you know that well.”

The confessor listened with his eyes fixed on the speaker, showing no judgment about what he was hearing.

“I can’t complain about anything. Leaving Compostela twenty years ago was probably my greatest test. Galicia robs the soul, holds on to us with claws and teeth and doesn’t let us forget her. There were many nights when I cried over being away from her and not seeing the cathedral or eating
navajas
at Don Gaiferos. I wept, yes, but in the room of my luxurious apartment on Seventh Avenue a few blocks from Central Park. I celebrated Mass in the comfort of my home in a room set up for that service for only a few well-to-do friends who had that privilege. I amassed a lot of money for God’s work.” He spoke in a restrained tone, appropriate for the atmosphere of the cathedral; for all that, there was a noticeable harshness in his voice. “Last year some things started happening that made me anxious.”

“What were these things?” Don Clemente asked, caught up in the story.

“I received some documents from a Portuguese Monsignor Firenzi. Have you heard of him?”

“I recognize the name,” Don Clemente answered, settling himself on the pew, “but I don’t think I know him personally.”

“You may have heard about him when they published the notification of his death,” Marius Ferris explained.

“Perhaps,” the other acknowledged with that thoughtful air of someone searching his memory for a name or event. “Of course,” he remembered now. “They found him in the Tiber last year.”

“Correct,” Marius Ferris agreed. “Valdemar Firenzi was murdered because of those documents. He was the one who sent them to me to hide in a secure place.”

“And what documents are those?” Don Clemente’s avid curiosity was well known.

Marius Ferris was silent for a minute, which further encouraged Don Clemente’s gossipy tendencies. The former was organizing his ideas, but not weighing his words. Everything had to be said.

“Documents written in the hand of Pope John Paul the First, which disappeared the night of his death,” he concluded.

Don Clemente stared openmouthed, but soon recovered his senses.

“But . . . but . . . what documents are those? Where are they? Isn’t that a myth?”

“No, I’ve seen them. I’ve had them in my hands and read them. Apparently Valdemar found them by chance in the Secret Archives of the Vatican, where they had been for twenty years. Apparently it was the murderer himself who put them there.”

“But how? Is he one of us? How is it that you have access to all that information? Is it reliable?” The torrent of urgent questions that burst from Don Clemente didn’t appear to bother his colleague or friend or whatever they were after twenty years of not seeing each other.

“I had the misfortune of finding out about it last year.”

“Who? The murderer of Pope Luciani?”

Marius Ferris made an affirmative gesture.

“Marius . . .” Don Clemente stared at him in astonishment. “Do you realize what you’re saying?”

“It’s the truth, Clemente. Completely true. He found out that I was guarding the papers and found me. I barely escaped.”

This confession began to become more of a conversation, a revelation, than an actual explication of worldly sins committed by the faithful Marius Ferris, follower of Christ.

“Go on,” Don Clemente told him. “If I keep interrupting you, you’ll never finish.”

“I was captured and held with a group of people who in one way or another also knew about the papers written by the pope. There were four of us. The only ones left. The others had already been murdered. The worst was awaiting us. But thanks to an emissary from the Vatican and a Portuguese journalist who forced an agreement, we all managed to escape, some more wounded than others. Thanks to the Good Lord, I got out unharmed. The papers I am telling you about are valuable only for historical reasons. They contain no information capable of shaking the foundations of our beloved Church. They are the thoughts of a liberal man already dead now. Nothing more. We are all free to think.”

“What you’re telling me is dreadful,” Don Clemente added, still astonished. “Nevertheless, I still haven’t heard a single sin in anything you’ve told me.” A smile spread good-naturedly over his features. “Incidents of destiny, yes. Imponderables of life, also, things that escape our control. But not one sin.”

“Now we’re getting there,” Marius Ferris warned him. “Now,” he repeated.

Don Clemente took the opportunity to rearrange his obese body on the pew, while his friend organized his thoughts.

“During this last year, I’ve done a lot of thinking. I’ve analyzed all my years of work and devotion, as well as those of others. I’ve discovered that there are many people taking advantage of the Church for their own gain, Clemente.”

“I know that well, Marius. But what can one do?”

“Many things. One can change everything.” Visibly irritated with his friend’s resigned attitude, Marius Ferris reproved him. “The work of God has to continue.”

“The work of God serves only the interests of a few.”

“How can you dare say such a thing?” The heat of anger spread over his face. “Over the years I have heard slander, but I never expected to hear it from an intelligent person like you.”

“Marius.
You
know what is true. You may be well intentioned, Marius. I don’t have any doubt about that, but you yourself said the same thing a little while ago. You celebrate the Eucharist in the comfort of your apartment for a few privileged people.”

“Don’t you understand, Clemente?” He looked hard at him. “Don’t you understand that the soldiers of Christ have to reach every level of society?” He looked around the majestic nave of the cathedral. “Your purpose is to win the poorest. Mine, the richest.”

“Soldiers? Conquer? This isn’t a war, Marius.” His reserved tone reflected an attempt to calm the troubled waters of the conversation.

“There you’re deceived. This is a war. A strategic war. We have enemies outside and inside the Church. And we have to eliminate them all.”

“Listen to yourself, Marius.” The attempt to calm him had not worked. The dialogue had broken down in this confessional conversation. “War? Eliminate enemies?”

“The experience of the last year has made me realize that there are other groups operating in the inner halls of the Vatican. Our Holy See is scheming with these people. And what do they offer us? Nothing. They are not even believers. They only want the money and power they gain from this collaboration.”

“Very well, Marius. You are here to confess, not to complain. Go on, please.” Don Clemente offered these words coolly.
No one changes anyone
, he thought.
As much as you might think the contrary.

Marius Ferris continued, irritated with not having been understood.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” he said coldly.

“Tell me that sin,” the other said.

“I was an accomplice in the death of a man.”

Silence. Don Clemente gestured for Marius Ferris to go on.

“And what evil did this man do you?”

“He attacked our Holy Mother Church.”

“And in what way did he commit this act so offensive to our Holy Mother Church?”

“He repudiated the teachings of the Lord and sold his soul to the devil.”

Don Clemente moved about impatiently on the pew. He didn’t like what he was hearing, but so many complaints had passed through the confessional already, on such different subjects, in his long years of service that his mind and heart were immune to shock. What perturbed him was that it was a friend, though long separated from daily familiarity by his work, who offered this nonsense.

“And how did he repudiate the teachings of the Lord?”

“He tried to kill a pope. One of ours tried to murder the Supreme Pontiff. Do you believe it?”

“What are you saying?” Don Clemente must not have heard right.

“You heard right. He tried to murder a pope.” He added nothing more, although the confessor continued to stare intently at him.

“Well . . . today you don’t cease to amaze me.” He didn’t know what to say.

“What type of penitence does such an act merit?”

Don Clemente pondered the question for a long time. He would never have imagined seeing Marius Ferris again that day, nor that he’d tell him so many things he would prefer not to know. That Pope Luciani was murdered wasn’t news. And the way the Vatican handled the matter was reprehensible. But that was thirty years ago, and Don Clemente was not the sort of man to question the actions of his superiors. It was also widely known that plans to attack the pope continued to this day. Every pope had been a victim of attempts, even if only in thought, on paper, as a project. In practice few had succumbed or been wounded in one. Nevertheless, out of the last three popes, two suffered attacks, one dying and the other gravely wounded, but this was general knowledge. Which of these was Marius Ferris speaking about?