The Rome Prophecy

23

Father Giordano is covering for a friend and working a double shift.

That said, he’s doing it at a place where priests don’t mind putting in unspecified amounts of unpaid overtime.

St Peter’s.

Or, to give the greatest building of its age its full name, the Basilica Papale di San Pietro Vaticano.

Tom has scurried across the city to be there for Alfie’s final appearance of the day, and already all the effort is worthwhile.

The basilica is breathtaking.

Tom can’t think of any other way to describe it. The beauty of the vast seventeenth-century facade built of pale travertine stone, with its giant Corinthian columns, makes him dizzy.

Then there’s the inside.

The spectacularly arched entrance with its heavenly stained glass just about holds Tom’s eyes before they fix on Michelangelo’s central dome, still the tallest in the world at more than a hundred and thirty-six metres. Then there’s the basilica’s wonderful nave, narthex, portals and bays to feast on, before his favourite visual treat, the main altar, with Bernini’s astonishing bronze baldacchino, a pavilion-like structure that stands almost a hundred feet high and looks even taller.

St Peter’s is visual gluttony. No sense is left unstuffed. No emotion left sober.

Mass is said at altars great and small throughout the cavernous building, so Tom has to search a while before he finds his friend in the relatively modest Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament.

Modest is the wrong word.

The gilded bronze Bernini tabernacle alone is worth more than the entire church that Tom last officiated in.

He kneels with the rest of the congregation and can’t help but feel proud of his tall ginger-haired friend as he works his way gracefully and passionately through the service.

For Tom, the Mass is over all too quickly.

He settles back in a pew and enjoys the peace while he waits for Alfie to change and reappear. Few places in the world have the intense silence of a church, and he still finds it the most effective place to examine his own thoughts.

And right now there are lots of them.

Was it smart to rush into a relationship with Valentina? What does she expect from it?

Where does he hope it will go?

How is it most likely to end?

So many thoughts. All backed up and jostling for attention like closing-time drinkers in a city-centre bar.

Looking back, he can see that they grew close after the death of her cousin Antonio. But maybe there was always a spark between them. Some genetic trigger that attracts people and compels them to be together was pulled.

But he thinks there’s more than that.

More than just the physical.

He admires her strength and ambition, respects her individuality and her determination to make a go of things on her own. He loves her sense of humour and her desire to do good.

Yes, Tom concludes, it was smart to throw himself into a relationship with her. Chances of happiness don’t exactly queue up outside your door and knock noisily for an appointment. Especially if you’re an ex-priest with no job, no home and no savings.

He looks up from the old dark wood of the pews and sees Alfie, his face beaming as brightly as the winter sunshine filtering through Michelangelo’s dome. The service is over.

‘Well, if it isn’t the planet’s most troublesome ex-priest.’ He opens his arms.

Tom embraces him warmly and puts a hand gently to his face. ‘You looked magnificent up there, my friend. I’m so proud of you. How did you end up saying Mass in here?’

Alfie puts an arm around Tom and guides him towards the door. ‘A long story, best told over hot coffee and Italy’s finest pastries.’

‘Sounds heavenly.’

‘Sufficient to say it was God’s will. That and the fact that innumerable first choices went down with a severe dose of the shits after a very poor communal meal.’