Papal decree

6

‘Two books published?’ Francesco asked her, rolled up in the sheets of the bed in a suite on the eighth floor of the Grand Hotel Palatino in Rome.

‘Sure. They let anyone publish a book these days,’ she joked, downplaying the importance of the question.

‘How did you get such important information about the Vatican?’ Francesco asked, looking at the white ceiling. ‘You must know someone inside with excellent contacts.’

Sarah thought about the last two years. They had been too intense. She’d discovered things she would never have imagined about subjects that, until now, hadn’t interested her in the least. She could consider herself an expert on Vatican affairs, well versed in John Paul I and II, without ever having lifted a finger to make it all happen. Life could reveal itself in strange ways, certainly. She was at the top of the list of competitive television commentators and print journalists when the subject was the Holy See. Her opinion was so respected that some even nicknamed her the pope’s lover behind her back, since much of what she knew could come only from him. It was ironic that the opinion of a woman, highly suspect within the sacred walls, was most respected outside them.

She thought about Rafael, his strength, his sense of duty, his beauty, and what they had gone through together.

It was six months since they had talked. Actually, that wasn’t entirely true. She had done all the talking, and Rafael didn’t say a word.

They were in London, where Sarah lived. They met in Walker’s Wine and Ale Bar. He arrived first and ordered a Bud. Later, when she got there, she ordered an Evian over the noise of the popular bar, but didn’t wait for it to be served. She started suddenly on the subject that had brought her to this meeting.

‘What do we have between us, you and I?’

Rafael looked at her as if he hadn’t understood.

‘What do we have together, you and I?’ Sarah repeated. ‘I know you’re a priest… that you have a relationship with…’ She felt confused. God, Christ, the church? All at the same time? ‘Huh… but I also know I’m not indifferent to you.’ Here Sarah looked at him to get some reaction. Rafael remained impassive, listening to her. He could be a bastard when he wanted. Sarah felt increasingly nervous. ‘I know we got to know each other under unfortunate circumstances.’ She plowed on, or so she thought, ‘I know that we went through a lot, our lives in danger, and that probably that gave me the opportunity to know you better than anyone. That made me fall in love with you.’ When she realized what she’d said, the words had already left her mouth. She thought he would have something to say, but she didn’t hear anything from him. Should she have declared, clearly and out loud, what she felt? She stared at him even more intently to find some reaction. What she saw was the same Rafael as always: calculating, unemotional… impervious.

At a certain point a roar of delirious, shouting voices was heard from inside the bar. The ‘blues’ team had just scored a goal at Stamford Bridge and some of those present had been swept away by the images repeated on the television screens throughout the bar.

At that instant the waitress brought the water, after a long wait. Or at least to Sarah it seemed so, an eternity, hours. Really only a few minutes had passed, but when you’ve stuck your hand in the fire, a brief time seems much longer.

‘It’s not an ordinary situation, I know. Nothing is with us,’ Sarah went on after wetting her lips. ‘I’m not asking you to divorce God. I’d never do that, but I had to tell you. I know you’re perceptive enough to have already noticed.’ She looked at him again. ‘Anyway, let’s return to my first question. What is it that you and I have for each other? You’re not indifferent to me, are you?’ It hadn’t occurred to her until that moment that she could be hasty. Rafael might simply not feel anything for her. Seeing him take another sip of beer without offering a word made her feel even smaller, like a girl who confesses her love and gets her first rejection. Not verbally in this case, which made it harder. Had Sarah misunderstood everything? Had she deliberately exaggerated the signs? No way. She was intelligent, successful, the editor of international politics at the Times, author of two highly regarded books. Had she been deceived by her feelings? Now it was too late. She couldn’t do anything. She’d revealed herself. She had to stay firm until the end.

‘Aren’t you going to say anything, Rafael?’

Only another sip of beer.

‘You let me do all the talking and say nothing? Aren’t you going to stop me? Put me in my place?’

Rafael wanted to talk badly, and he spoke, but Sarah didn’t hear him now. She was leaving after throwing down a ten-pound note to pay for the Evian she’d hardly drunk.

‘It’s good we had this conversation,’ Sarah declared. ‘Now I can go on with my life and put this behind me.’ She left as fast as possible, infuriated. It was her right to feel exasperated.

If she’d stayed a few moments longer, not gone to the door so quickly, so far from the bar, so far from Rafael, if, if, if… probably she would have heard him. A timid, faint ‘I can’t.’

The editor of international politics of the Times, more sought after than she would have liked, soon found reasons to forget Father Rafael, who returned to Rome. And if, at rare times, she remembered the conversation that had occurred in that bar in Whitehall, while Chelsea was playing some team, it didn’t matter to her. The same God Rafael believed in created an opportunity in the form of an Italian Adonis. Apparently she was attracted to Italians. He was a London correspondent for Corriere della Sera, made regular appearances on RAI, was thirty-two years old like Sarah, and had a body that would make Eros green with envy. He only had eyes for her from the first second he saw her at a lunch for journalists at the Italian embassy.

It should be said that Sarah avoided this Adonis from the south of Europe at first. But soon the Italian showed a genuine interest and agreeable conversation far beyond his playboy appearance. A native of Ascoli, his name was Francesco. To tell the truth, his sculpted beauty was the reason Sarah agreed to a date. An opportunity for Francesco to show what he was worth and if he was worth it. After this first date came a second. On the third their commitment was sealed with a passionate kiss on the steps of her house in Kensington, and others followed with greater intensity in her bedroom.

In the days that followed, things progressed naturally. More dates, more conversations, more kisses, and more. Francesco seemed captivated by Sarah’s directness. There was no role-playing or cover-ups. She was always herself, Sarah, authentic, on the telephone in the office, ordering something in a restaurant, kissing in her room. There was no one but her in his eyes, and he adored this.

‘Listen, those books are not bad. I see why you’re a celebrity.’

‘You read them?’ Sarah asked with feigned shock. ‘Who gave you permission?’

‘I needed to know if I was going to introduce an anti-Catholic to my mother,’ Francesco replied, then, seriously, ‘They put me at ease.’

‘They’re books about men, not about religion,’ Sarah explained.

‘Yes, in fact I think my mom would agree with you on some points. We could drop by Ascoli on your book tour. What do you think?’

‘Don’t you think that’s a little premature?’ Sarah argued.

‘Not for me. Take the time you need to promote your book. Don’t rush. When you’re free we can detour to the northeast.’

‘It’s only a conference on La Feltrinelli of the Largo di Torre Argentina,’ Sarah said as she considered the invitation.

Francesco leaned over her. ‘You’re a very appealing heretic.’

‘Do you want to carry me to bed, my bad boy?’ Sarah smiled with desire.

‘Would you let me?’ Francesco chose to sound like an innocent boy.

‘I would. I do…’ Sarah said. ‘I don’t know if your mother would let you.’ She threw herself against him.

‘Oh, do you want war?’

A little struggle began with pillows and deep kisses. ‘You’re going to pay for this,’ Francesco teased.

‘Will it be very expensive?’ Sarah provoked him.

When the hostilities were over and they lay in bed, out of breath, on their backs, sweating, they smiled.

‘I love you,’ Francesco said.

His words were like a bullet, wiping her smile away. She had no reply. At least not at the moment. Francesco was not just a pretty face, it seemed. He looked at her for a while and changed the subject, paying no attention to the uncomfortable silence.

‘You still haven’t told me who the bishop or cardinal is who’s bringing you these stories,’ he said, half joking and half seriously.

‘A woman never tells.’ She regarded him pensively. She thought about Rafael again.