Papal decree

12

The press conference in the La Feltrinelli bookstore was much calmer than Sarah had imagined. Francesco contributed by asking questions from time to time that called for a light response, without the institutional weight attached to most subjects linked with the Holy See. Even if his questions seemed planted, he did break the ice. Sarah felt grateful, since they had not planned it in advance. She didn’t even know Francesco would attend the conference, pen and notebook in hand, leaning up against a wall with a calm, serene expression, attracting the attention of the female contingent and of a few men as well. The Vatican contingent had not shown up, and this, too, helped lighten the atmosphere. The book she was promoting attacked certain people associated with John Paul II and suggested their responsibility for the attempt on the Holy Father’s life on May 13, 1981. The most prestigious journalists from La Repubblica, Corriere, and Il Messaggero were there. They sent professionals who for decades had studied and investigated that case, as well as others tied to the Vatican, and asked pertinent, intelligent questions, which Sarah answered confidently.

In the room of the Grand Hotel Palatino Sarah was sick. Nausea rose up in her throat, dry heaves. She tried to vomit, sitting on the floor of the bathroom with her head on the edge of the toilet. Nothing. Francesco didn’t know what to do.

‘Do you want me to call a doctor?’ he asked worriedly.

‘No, it’s going away,’ she answered, starting to gag again. She didn’t want to tell him that this was not something that had just started now. She’d felt symptoms since London.

‘I’m going to order some hot tea. It’ll do you good,’ he said, picking up the phone in the bathroom.

‘Yeah, do that. Thanks,’ as she dry-heaved once again. Empty. Upset. ‘Oh, damn,’ she complained.

Francesco placed the order and hung up the phone. Then he cradled Sarah in his arms.

‘Do you want to go to bed?’ he asked lovingly.

‘Let’s see if this goes away.’ Sarah knew it always calmed down. It lasted a few minutes and afterward it was as if nothing had ever happened.

Francesco gazed at his lover, who was leaning over the toilet bowl like someone who had been drunk all night. He couldn’t help feeling tender toward her, a need to make her feel better. He looked at her seriously.

‘Sarah,’ he said hesitantly, ‘I know it’s not the most propitious time, but maybe it would be better to go to a pharmacy.’ He waited for her reaction.

‘Why?’ The sickness was going away.

‘You know very well why, my dear,’ he smiled. ‘We haven’t taken proper precautions the last few times.’

Sarah didn’t want even to consider this. Pregnancy wasn’t in her plans. Not that she had anything against Francesco, far from it, he’d be an excellent father, but…

‘I’ll go to the doctor when we get back,’ she proposed.

‘Are you sure?’ Francesco looked at her with concern.

‘Yes. After tomorrow we’ll resolve it. Help me get up, please.’

Francesco pulled her up against himself and embraced her tightly.

‘I’ll be with you come what may. I’m not going to leave you to go buy cigars,’ he said with a smile.

Sarah snuggled against his chest and closed her eyes. A tear spilled onto Francesco’s shirt. She felt lost, and, despite the Italian who swore his love, she felt lonely, with no one to help her… Except Francesco, the Italian Adonis from Ascoli who offered his heart to her.

They heard a light knock on the door.

‘It must be room service,’ Francesco said. ‘Are you okay, honey?’ He looked at her face and wiped the tears from her eyes. He kissed her on the forehead.

Sarah looked at herself in the mirror, freed herself from Francesco’s embrace, and put her hands on the washbasin, noticing her imperfections, red eyes, livid face.

‘I’m all right, Francesco. Would you get the door, please? I’m going to wash my face,’ she asked, continuing to examine herself in the mirror.

‘Of course,’ Francesco agreed and went to open the door, where someone was knocking again, a little louder.

‘I’m coming,’ he called out in Italian before leaving the bathroom.

Sarah rubbed her eyes with the hope that when she opened them she’d see another woman in front of her. Another color. A new disposition. The will to go forward. That iron will that accompanied her when she left Rafael in the bar six months before, full of anger that softened quickly. He let her pursue her own path in life. He hadn’t called her or looked for her since. The protection Rafael provided her dissolved. She missed him and even his prolonged silences. Sarah missed the times when she looked out the window and didn’t see him, but she knew he was watching out for her like a guardian angel. All this ended six months before, after that one conversation in Walker’s Wine and Ale Bar. Was he in Rome or on a dangerous mission someplace else? She wanted to call him. Find out how he was. If everything was all right in his parish, how his classes at the university were going. Then she’d come back to reality… and the ridiculous situation. Hi, Rafael. I wanted to know if you’re okay. And the children in your parish, your students. Oh, and I still love you.

All this mental diarrhea stopped when she heard Francesco’s voice from the other room.

‘Oh! I think you better come here, Sarah.’

Sarah wiped her face with water and dried it on a towel. She came out and saw Francesco at the door.

‘What is it?’

She approached the door and saw a young prelate in a black cassock. He had dark skin with a circumspect expression.

‘It’s for you,’ Francesco explained.

‘Good evening,’ Sarah greeted him.

‘Good evening, Miss Sarah. I was asked to pick you up.’

‘You were asked? By whom?’ It was very strange.

‘I am not authorized to say. I’m sorry,’ the young priest apologized.

Her journalistic curiosity overcame her fear. She put on her shoes and grabbed her coat.

‘I’m coming.’

‘Do you want me to go with you?’ Francesco volunteered.

Sarah looked closely at the young cleric and thought about it for a few moments. ‘No. This is fine.’

They took the elevator down to the reception area. It was already night. She looked around and didn’t see anyone. Even at the reception desk, where there was almost always someone behind the counter ready to attend to the most demanding guest. The hotel seemed empty. As if the world had stopped for a few moments and been depleted of people.

Sarah and the cleric didn’t exchange a word. She preferred it that way, and it was a blessing to have an escort who also liked silence. Clearly he followed orders scrupulously and didn’t want to be questioned about things he shouldn’t or couldn’t mention. They went outside. It was cold, but not disagreeable. She could tolerate it. She thought about Rafael. Was he the one calling for her? It couldn’t be anyone else. This was why she felt so carefree. A car was in front of the hotel at the bottom of the steps. A Mercedes with tinted windows.

The young cleric opened the door of the vehicle, and Sarah looked inside. Her jaw dropped. Inside, comfortably seated and smoking a cigar, was a man in scarlet vestments, a gold cross hanging on his chest, his cardinal’s cap on his lap.

‘Good evening, Sarah Monteiro,’ he greeted her. ‘Let’s take a ride, shall we?’