Papal decree

22

Of all the professions exercised on the surface of the globe, none was as peculiar as Ursino’s.

For forty years he had carried out his illustrious office from Monday to Friday, sometimes Saturday, but never on our Lord’s day of rest, since if He rested on the seventh day, who was Ursino to do differently?

He was grateful to Pope Montini, recorded in the rolls of history as Paul VI, for having designated him for such a prestigious and picturesque role.

He had the privilege of working in the apostolic palace on the ground floor in a room called the Relic Room. It contained thousands of bones of accepted saints celebrated by the Holy Mother Church and sent them to new churches built every year throughout the world. These relics, diligently sent in small quantities by Ursino, were what gave sanctity to the new place that without a bone, without the mystery of something used or touched by the saint, would be nothing more than a space without divine aid, a temple in which the name of the Lord could not be invoked, at least not by the Roman Catholic Church, since it would be invoked in vain.

Whenever possible, Ursino took care to send a relic of the saint that the new church celebrated. A piece of Saint Andres’s tibia if the church was dedicated to him, and if one existed in the thousands of drawers that filled the giant cases with such relics. Of course, that most sacred archive contained only one of Saint Andres’s fingers, part of a skull, and pieces of the cross on which he was martyred, all sent to Patras, where he was patron, decades ago.

He was diligent, yes, but the Milanese Ursino had a fault. He wasn’t very sociable, perhaps from spending so much time alone caring for the relics, the requests, and the new sacred bones that arrived less frequently now that there were fewer saints. The protocol had become so difficult that today it was extremely hard to pass from the level of sinner to the society of saints.

Although he would deny it if asked, the requests for relics were fewer now, too. Forty years ago he had more than one request a day: a piece of Saint Jerome’s radial, a splinter from Saint Margaret’s wheel, or Saint Nicolas’s metatarsal — back when he was a saint, not long, since he ceased being one under Paul VI. Now Ursino passed weeks in which all he did was organize the immaculate archive of relics so that he knew exactly where something was stored in the immense cases that guarded such sacred content.

In earlier days the schedule was tight for the amount of work he had. Lots of discipline, rules, and organization were necessary to fulfill all the requests and sanctify thousands of Catholic churches around the world. Now he had the luxury of looking through the shelves and inventing things to occupy his time.

A portrait of Pope Benedict dominated the wall near his dark oak desk. Working in front of the wall, he often looked at it. He was an austere figure, unhappy, without joy, or charisma, but a good man. He had dealt with him a few times over the course of the last twenty years, and knew that the Holy Father was a very educated, intelligent man who wanted only to improve the church.

‘Is it too late for an old grump?’ Ursino heard a friendly voice behind him.

The Milanese didn’t turn around, and continued to sort some of the vertebrae of Saint Ephigenia, a contemporary of Jesus, into some small linen bags.

‘I can ask the same. Has the Austrian iceman come to see me?’

‘I had a meeting that lasted all night, and now I’m going to rest,’ Hans Schmidt explained.

Ursino got up, approached Schmidt, and embraced him. ‘It’s been a long time, old friend.’ He held up a linen bag. ‘I’m waiting for a telephone call.’

‘Late, it seems.’

Ursino pulled out a chair and invited Schmidt to sit. ‘Are you still running around with crazy ideas in your head?’

‘What do you call a crazy idea?’ Schmidt asked.

‘I read your writings. A little avant-garde for me. The idea of the observer over the thinker made me nervous.’

Ursino sat in his chair and sighed.

‘They’re ideas,’ Hans replied without further elaboration.

Ursino sniffed and stuck a finger in his nose to remove what was there. Forgivable manners for someone who worked alone for decades, and surely not a sin in the eyes of our Lord God. ‘The idea that my thoughts were not my own went over my head. I couldn’t understand it.’

Hans smiled. ‘Have you ever done something that was contrary to the will of your inner voice?’

Ursino thought a few moments in doubt and rubbed his chubby belly. ‘Yeah.’

‘Your inner voice is the thinker. That which didn’t hear the voice is the observer, or… you.’

‘Are you telling me I’m two people? One is already too much for me,’ Ursino joked impolitely with a grin.

‘No, Ursino. We’re only the observer,’ Schmidt explained, ‘but we think we’re the thinker, and we’re prisoners of our thoughts when ultimately our thought is simply a reasoning to help us from a practical point of view.’

‘Do you control the thinker?’

‘Totally.’

They didn’t speak for a few moments. Ursino mulled over what his friend had said and bit his nails.

‘Let’s not talk about this anymore or I’ll be invited to keep your society tomorrow morning at the hearing.’ He meant it as a joke, but didn’t manage to smile. When the last word left his mouth, Ursino felt his observation was in bad taste. ‘Are you prepared?’

‘For what?’ Hans asked.

‘For the hearing tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow is only tomorrow. Now I’m simply here with you.’ He looked Ursino in the eye, very attentively, very calmly.

Ursino sniffed again and sighed. ‘On your way, and don’t contaminate me with those ideas.’

‘Nice seeing you,’ Schmidt said, getting up.

The phone rang abruptly at that moment, and Ursino answered it. ‘Hello, Ursino.’

Whatever had been said on the other end of the line transformed Ursino in a way that left him confused and indisposed. When he hung up, he raised his hand to his chest. He felt his heart would burst.

Hans looked apprehensively at him and tried to help. ‘What’s the matter, my friend?’

Ursino felt like fainting. It was difficult to breathe, shivers ran up his spine.

‘What’s the matter, Ursino?’ Schmidt’s voice was more insistent.

‘They know about the bones,’ Ursino stammered.

‘What bones?’

Ursino stopped suddenly, as if he had been miraculously cured. He no longer panted or felt palpitations. He started pacing back and forth, thinking.

‘Call the secretary of state, please,’ the curator of relics asked him.

Schmidt quickly picked up the phone and dialed the extension he knew by heart. Trevor took time answering before he was informed of the urgency to call Tarcisio. The assistant assured them he’d get Tarcisio immediately.

‘They’re waking Tarcisio. Are you going to tell me what happened? Who are they? What bones are you talking about?’

Ursino continued thinking, thinking, thinking, until he paused and looked very seriously at Hans Schmidt. ‘The bones of Christ.’