Sign of the Cross Page 3

  He slipped it into a sports coat pocket with a sly smile. ‘Thought you didn’t drink.’

  ‘Cary warned me that if I started seeing you, I’d probably start.’

  Divinity Hall was the oldest Harvard building outside the cloistered Harvard Yard. Built in 1826, its plain, redbrick façade was a testament to Protestant understatement. In his history of the Divinity School, George Huntston Williams had written that theological students needed to be housed apart from the undergraduates in case they drink up ‘more of the spirit of the University than of the spirit of their profession.’ As for Cal, it was ideally placed. He had only to skip down its granite steps and cross Divinity Avenue to enter his second home, the Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology.

  His office was exceedingly tidy. Books that couldn’t be accommodated on shelves were stacked vertically in precise piles on his desk and side tables. A laptop computer on his desk was open to the chapter in progress of his new book on St Thomas Aquinas, the cursor blinking at the word, God. Boxes of file cards with his research notes were arranged on the floor. Cal was meticulous in his record keeping. His note-taking techniques were a throwback to the pre-computer age of fountain pen jottings on 3×5 cards. When it was time to write a book, cards were shuffled and arranged and a chapter emerged. It was the way he’d watched his father do research and to this day he still used his father’s old Montblanc pens.

  Father Murphy sat across from Cal for his weekly thesis review, a good-natured grilling intended to keep the young priest on track to finish his PhD dissertation the following year. His topic was an examination of the scholarship of Pope Gregory I, one of the earliest chroniclers of St Benedict. Poring over a printout of Murphy’s latest section, Cal was taking him to task on a Latin translation of one of Gregory’s surviving papal letters.

  ‘I think you’re shading the meaning of this to suit your thesis,’ he scolded.

  ‘I don’t think I am, actually,’ Murphy said, defensively, before admitting that perhaps he was doing exactly that.

  One of the department secretaries knocked on Cal’s door.

  ‘I’m in a meeting,’ Cal said.

  The woman seemed flustered. ‘I’m sorry, professor, but it’s the cardinal.’

  ‘Which one? There are two hundred and nineteen of them.’

  ‘Cardinal Da Silva.’

  The cardinal of Boston was an old friend of Cal’s and Murphy gathered his papers in awareness that he was about to be bumped. Cal looked at his desk phone. None of the lines were blinking.

  ‘Well, we can’t keep him waiting,’ Cal said. ‘Put his call through.’

  ‘He’s not on the phone,’ she said, ‘he’s here. He said he’s sorry to barge in but it’s urgent.’

  Murphy said, ‘I was just leaving.’

  ‘Don’t you want to meet him?’ Cal asked.

  ‘I’ll just do a quick bow on my way out. That will suffice.’

  ‘You’ll never make bishop with that attitude.’

  ‘Not on my bucket list.’

  The cardinal flew in and warmly greeted Cal with a bracing shoulder clasp. He was short and rotund. His flowing black simar and scarlet sash, formed the perfect garment to cloak his love of eating. He was crowned by a scarlet zucchetto, molded perfectly to the dome of his large bald head.

  ‘Good of you to see me on zero notice,’ he said, taking the chair, its cushion still warm from Murphy.

  ‘Minha casa é sua casa,’ Cal said. His Portuguese accent was poor but the cardinal appreciated the effort.

  ‘Is there anything you don’t know?’ the cardinal cried.

  ‘I am ignorant about more things than I care to admit,’ Cal said. ‘How can I help you today?’

  ‘Well, I don’t make a habit of arriving in people’s offices uninvited, especially someone as busy as yourself. But I happened to be in Cambridge today and I also happened to have an urgent piece of business to discuss with you.’

  Cal had first met Da Silva years earlier, when he was the bishop of the heavily Portuguese city of Fall River. They appeared on a panel debating the church’s position on women and the liturgy, amiably clashed on stage and had become fast friends from that point on. Cal was at his side when he was elevated to archbishop of the Boston archdiocese and accompanied him to Rome when Da Silva received his red hat from the pope.

  ‘What was it that brought you to our fair city?’ Cal said.

  ‘A sad occasion. A dear parishioner is in the hospital on death’s door. He’s from my own village in the Azores. It gave the family comfort to have me personally deliver last rights.’

  ‘That was good of you.’

  ‘As I was preparing to leave my office, the Holy Father telephoned. He rarely rings me directly so I knew it must be something important. It concerned you.’

  Cal blinked in shock. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, he specifically requested your help in a delicate matter.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware he knew of me. We’ve never met.’

  ‘He’s quite well read, you know. An intellectually curious man.’ The cardinal pushed himself from the chair and placed his index finger on a spine in the bookcase. ‘This is the reason he wants you.’

  The book was one of Cal’s, Holy Wounds, A History of Stigmata from the Middle Ages to the Present.

  ‘He’s read it?’ Cal asked incredulously.

  ‘Apparently so. He sang its praises. Says he found it quite balanced and sensitive. He asked me for help contacting you and was delighted to hear that I not only knew you but that we were friends.’

  ‘I’m flattered and I’m listening.’

  ‘Have you heard the story of the young Italian priest who claims to have stigmata on his wrists?’

  ‘Giovanni Berardino. Of course.’

  Da Silva clapped his pudgy hands. ‘See, you do know everything.’

  ‘His case is in my wheelhouse. I’ve got a folder somewhere of Italian newspaper stories. If I ever update the stigmata book I’ll need to do some work on him. Why is this a papal issue?’

  ‘In the few months since his stigmata became public knowledge, pilgrims and tourists have flocked to this priest’s small town. Apparently the situation has rapidly gotten completely out of hand. Ordinary parishioners can’t get a seat at Mass. The local police and town officials are overwhelmed by the crowds, particularly on Sundays, and the Vatican is being bombarded by journalists who want to know the position of the Church on the matter.’

  ‘I would have thought the Church would do what it always does in these situations – convene a Miracle Commission and punt on a comment.’

  ‘The Holy Father feels a need for an intermediate step in such a high-profile case. A Miracles Commission might take months or years to conclude its business. He believes you have the credibility and proper historical and theological perspective to perform a rapid and discrete investigation to exclude the most obvious finding.’

  ‘That the priest is a charlatan.’

  The cardinal nodded. ‘If the young man is inducing his stigmata then he will be quietly removed from his position and given help.’

  ‘These kinds of investigations require a medical examination. I’m not a doctor.’

  ‘A competent physician from the Consulta Medica will be provided. Are you aware of this group?’

  ‘Sure. A group of Catholic physicians who review the medical evidence for miraculous cures, for sainthood investigations.’

  ‘Correct. The Consulta Medica usually works in concert with the Congregation for the Causes of Saints: the office that oversees sainthood applications. For this matter, the Holy Father does not wish to use the CCS as we are not investigating a potential saint.’ He interrupted himself with a laugh. ‘At least not yet. Instead we will use the body that investigated Padre Pio, the Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith, headed by Cardinal Gallegos. You would be a consultant to the CDF.’

  Cal sighed. ‘When does the pope want this done?’

  ‘Your schedule permitting, as soo
n as possible.’

  That prompted a frown. ‘I’ll need to ask Thomas Aquinas for permission.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Cal turned his laptop toward his guest. ‘My unfinished book on Aquinas.’

  ‘I see. Well, I’m sure Saint Thomas would be most anxious for you to serve the Holy Father. As for me, one of the saint’s sayings comes to mind: “There is nothing on this earth more to be prized than true friendship.” You are a true friend, Cal.’

  ‘There’s only one thing I’d like for my troubles.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘I’d like to meet the pope.’

  ‘That won’t be a problem. He expects you to deliver your report in person.’

  FIVE

  Abruzzo, Italy

  Cal had been advised to arrive early to secure a seat. But when he and his traveling companion approached the church from the side street where they had parked, he realized it hadn’t been early enough. The piazza was jammed with people, it was so packed that those who surrounded the central fountain were in danger of being pushed into knee-deep water. There was a police presence but most of the officers sat inside air-conditioned cars, comfortably paying scant attention to crowd control.

  The white-haired man accompanying Cal was not dressed for the stifling June sun that was baking the arid hilltop. Nevertheless, he looked cool and composed in a tailored black suit and dark blue tie. Faced with the prospect of being shut out of attendance at Mass, Cal politely tried to wriggle his way through the mass of people but his companion got fed up and declared, ‘This is how Romans do it.’

  Umberto Tellini used his outstretched hands like the prow of an icebreaker to forge ahead, shouting that he was a doctor and needed to get through. Cal tucked in and rode Tellini’s wake until they made it to the church stairs. There, progress came to a halt as the crowd became funneled by the church doors.

  Tellini spotted a vexed, sweating man in a rumpled suit standing near the doors surveying the crowd. He shouted at him, ‘Are you an official?’

  The man gave a shrug as if to say: I am but what do you expect me to do?

  ‘What’s your position here?’ Tellini yelled.

  It was probably the elegant and commanding appearance of Tellini that prompted the man to give him the time of day.

  ‘I’m the sacristan.’

  ‘Good. I am Dr Tellini. We’re here from the Vatican. We have an appointment with the priest.’

  ‘But he’s about to celebrate Mass.’

  Tellini shouted back, as if stating the obvious, ‘After the Mass. We require seats. We will not stand.’

  ‘I don’t mind standing,’ Cal told Tellini.

  ‘You may. I will not.’

  ‘The Vatican, you say?’ the sacristan shouted.

  Tellini nodded vigorously.

  The sacristan reluctantly sprung to action, stopping people from entering the church and demanding that enough space be created up the stairs for the VIPs to squeeze through.

  Inside, Tellini, true to his word, made a beeline to an empty middle seat in a rear pew, while Cal staked out a place to stand on the side of the nave near the north transept. From that vantage point he drank in the cool and dark interior. It was a welcome respite from the squinting glare of the piazza. The Baroque church had been built in the sixteenth century and its claim to fame – before all this business with the new priest – was a series of canvases adorning the sanctuary. There were New Testament scenes and an Old Testament-themed fresco on the transept ceiling attributed to the workshop of Giovanni Lanfranco. Ancient, solid pews – polished by the rumps of centuries of parishioners – sat on a smooth floor of marble squares. By way of homework, Cal had read that the pipe organ was dilapidated but with donations pouring in, repairs had been commissioned.

  The church became stuffed beyond its seating and standing-room capacity and Cal wondered if the fire brigade would arrive to sort out the crush. They did not. He studied the crowd and tried to draw some conclusions about its demographics. It was overwhelmingly Italian, though he picked up some English, Dutch, German and Spanish bantered about.

  Near the appointed hour, the sacristan appeared at the altar with a microphone in his hand.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, out of respect for the parishioners of the church, who have not been able to obtain seats for today’s Mass, I ask any day-travelers with seats: please relinquish them to the local people. Please.’

  Necks craned and about a dozen people, mostly foreign tourists by the look of them, stood and sheepishly moved to the packed aisles, while the sacristan pointed at parishioners standing at the rear to try to come forward. When the exercise was done he made a second announcement.

  ‘Following the Mass, I must inform you that Padre Berardino will be unable to perform any special blessings due to an important obligation. I’m sorry but there can be no exceptions.’

  He left the stage amidst loud grumblings but the congregation fell silent when the priest appeared at the rear of the processional, which was slowly making its way to the sanctuary. Cal had seen plenty of photos, but in person he was struck how boyish he was. His cheeks were full and his complexion was pink and blotchy, more like a teenager’s than a grown man. His chasuble was tented by his thick middle, but the overall impression he gave was that baby fat more than adult overindulgence was responsible for his heft. But it was his hands that really struck Cal. He kept them clasped together and fixed to his chest as if they were attached to his garment. Staring straight ahead, with an immobile expression, he avoided the intense gazes of every person in the church. And ringing clear over the deeper voices of his acolytes, his almost adolescent voice soared.

  Ascending the altar he was handed a censer. Cal was shocked by the agony that flickered across the priest’s face as he swung the chain back and forth, sanctifying the altar with smoky incense. Others saw it too and the pews filled with whispers.

  The Mass progressed routinely. The gospel reading was from Matthew and the priest’s brief homily was about Christian charity. Cal found it rather uninspired but the church hadn’t filled to the bursting point because of Father Berardino’s oratorical skills. Some were there anticipating that the priest’s holiness might flow to them, healing body or soul, giving hope. Others had come simply to tell their friends and family they had seen the bleeding priest up close. Some snuck photos with their phones and those who forgot to turn off the flash got raw stares and wagging fingers from town residents.

  Anticipation grew palpable during the Eucharist. When the distribution of communion began, there was an urgent movement toward the aisles as if the wafers would be rationed. But the priest administered the sacrament to all comers and it became the longest communion Cal had ever seen. Many, returning to the pews, were tearful and the church buzzed with chatter during the ritual. One of the last to receive communion was Dr Tellini, who passed by Cal with a shrug on his way back to his seat as if to say: hey, I’m a Catholic first, examiner second.

  Before the concluding rites were over, Cal and Tellini slipped out to the piazza. During the recessional, some on the aisles reached out to touch the priest’s vestments as he passed. When he exited the church there was a loud cheer from the faithful and curious who had been turned away from the overcrowded Mass. The sacristan was waiting with two police officers to escort the priest the short, clogged distance to his residence, while people called out to him to deliver a blessing.

  When Cal and Tellini rang the bell of the modest house, a young African nun, Sister Vera, cautiously opened the door but warmed to them when they told her they had an appointment.

  ‘The gentlemen from the Vatican,’ she said as excitedly as if the pope himself was at the threshold. ‘Come in, please. Father will be down shortly. May I get you water or perhaps some orange juice?’

  They sat in a sparsely decorated, threadbare parlor that seemed rooted in the 1960s. An old phonograph sat on a small table; the bookcase had ecclesiastical history books, travel volumes
and fifty year-old novels. It did not seem like a young man’s or even a young priest’s residence. When the priest came downstairs, dressed in a fresh, long-sleeved clerical shirt and black trousers he looked tired and pale.

  Cal and the doctor rose and instinctively held out hands but the priest quickly apologized.

  ‘One of the many things that have changed for me is that it is difficult to shake another’s hand. I hope you understand.’ Then he caught himself and started to repeat himself in imperfect English.

  Cal replied in Italian that he spoke the language.

  ‘He more than speaks it,’ Tellini said. ‘He speaks it like a native.’

  The priest gratefully continued in Italian. ‘I understand you are American, from Harvard University.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘And you came all this way to interview me?’

  ‘I was asked and was pleased to come.’

  Tellini scoffed. ‘Asked, he said. The Holy Father himself was the one who asked.’

  ‘The Holy Father,’ the priest said, his voice trailing off. ‘I have been such a bother to so many and now even the pope is inconvenienced by me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it an inconvenience,’ Cal said. ‘Your circumstances of your putative stigmata are of great interest to the Church. I’m sure you can appreciate that.’

  The priest gave him a wry smile. ‘Putative?’

  ‘I’m approaching this assignment with an open mind and without any preconceived opinions,’ Cal said.

  ‘I’m sure that’s a sensible approach,’ the priest said. ‘I’m sorry if I feel like I’m the subject of an inquisition.’

  Tellini countered, ‘But my dear fellow, that’s exactly what this is.’

  Cal wished the good doctor had remained silent during this phase of the interview. While he didn’t want to insult the man, he did want to control the tone. ‘I’m not sure I would characterize our role that way. I believe our remit is simply to establish the facts and tender our professional conclusions.’

  ‘Very well. I will submit to your questions cheerfully,’ the priest said, his hands resting motionless on his lap. Cal found it odd conversing with an Italian who didn’t ‘speak’ with his hands.