Sign of the Cross Read online

  ‘For accuracy, may I record this conversation?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Cal opened a recording app on his phone. ‘May I ask you when you first noticed the wounds on your wrists?’ Cal asked.

  ‘It was four months ago in early February.’

  ‘Do you remember the exact date?’

  ‘The sixth of February.’

  ‘You’re sure of that.’

  ‘Completely. One doesn’t forget such things.’

  ‘You hadn’t been ordained as a priest then, am I correct?’

  ‘I received my holy orders at the end of February.’

  ‘From the Archbishop of L’Aquila.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Where were you on February sixth?’

  ‘Dubrovnik.’

  ‘And what were you doing there?’

  ‘My studies at the seminary were complete and just before ordination I took a holiday with a fellow seminarian. We found we could go to Croatia cheaply.’

  ‘Could you tell me the circumstances of the first occurrence of these wounds?’

  ‘Circumstances?’

  ‘Specifically, where were you when you noticed them? Who were you with? What events preceded their appearance? Those types of things.’

  ‘I was in my hotel room a good distance from the city center. We stayed at this particular hotel since it was very inexpensive and we each had our own rooms. I awoke in the morning and noticed my wrists were tender. When I examined them I saw raw, red marks.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Do? I did nothing.’

  ‘You didn’t show your companion?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or seek out a doctor?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I thought the problem would go away on its own.’

  ‘Why did you think that?’

  ‘I don’t know, I just did.’

  ‘So you weren’t concerned.’

  ‘Not terribly.’

  ‘Did you pray?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Cal watched the young man’s demeanor change. He looked like he wished he hadn’t given that answer. The doctor must have noticed too since he leaned forward intently.

  ‘If you weren’t concerned, why pray?’ Cal asked.

  ‘I had just awoken. It’s a natural time to pray.’ He didn’t sound convincing.

  ‘I see. Where were you the previous evening?’ Cal asked.

  ‘At a restaurant in the city center.’

  ‘Did anything out of the ordinary happen that evening?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘And earlier that day, where were you?’

  There was a small but noticeable hesitation. ‘We hired a car and decided to visit an old monastery in the mountains to the north of Dubrovnik. St Athanasius. Do you know it?’

  ‘I do, though I’ve never been. It’s seventh century, isn’t it?’

  The priest looked impressed.

  ‘Tell me about that visit.’

  ‘The monastery occupies a pretty spot on the top of a hill. The chapel is the oldest part. My friend and I spent part of an afternoon there.’

  ‘Specifically, what did you do and see?’

  ‘Touristic things, although given our education, we were quite well informed about the context of the monastery in Church history.’

  ‘Was there a formal tour? Were many people there?’

  ‘Very few visitors. Maybe a handful, I don’t recall exactly. There was no tour. Before we saw the chapel, we wandered the grounds. There were only two monks left. The rest have died out and they haven’t had novices in many years. We met the monks in the chapel where they were praying. One of the monks offered to show us the crypt.’

  ‘I see. Both of you went?’

  ‘Yes, myself and the monk.’

  ‘I meant your friend.’

  ‘He was a bit claustrophobic, so he didn’t want to go down the small stairs.’

  ‘Did you see anything interesting down there?’

  ‘Yes, some graves of bishops from the Middle Ages.’

  ‘Just that?’

  Another hesitation. Cal filed it away as a poker player might do with an opponent’s tell.

  ‘Nothing more.’

  ‘Nothing that you might consider spiritual in nature?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was that the extent of your tour?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘And then you left?’

  ‘We drove back to our hotel.’

  ‘And the next morning was the first time you saw the wounds?’

  ‘Yes, as I said.’

  ‘What did you do for the rest of that day?’

  ‘We took the ferry to Italy.’

  ‘At any time during your visit to the monastery, or any time during your trip to Croatia, did you have any, what one might call, mystical experiences?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Cal found the reply puzzling. ‘You don’t think so.’

  ‘Yes. I mean no.’

  ‘Do you know what a mystical experience is?’

  The priest seemed offended. ‘I may be young and I may be a young priest, but I surely do know the meaning.’

  Cal apologized. ‘I was simply surprised you weren’t more definitive. Most people who claim to have mystical experiences find them life-altering.’

  ‘I have not made any such claim.’

  ‘True. You haven’t.’

  ‘In the days that followed, tell me what happened to your wounds.’

  ‘They persisted and became progressively deeper, more liable to bleed. Also the pain became worse.’

  ‘And what did you do about it?’

  ‘Do? I bandaged my wrists and I prayed.’

  ‘What did you pray for?’

  The priest seemed perturbed by the question, as if prayer were a wholly personal matter. ‘I prayed for many things. I wanted the pain to go away. I was scared I would lose the use of my hands.’

  ‘Did you see a doctor?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? If you were scared about the loss of function, why didn’t you anxiously seek medical advice? I would have beaten my doctor’s door down.’

  ‘I was about to receive holy orders. I was worried the bishop would delay my ordination.’

  ‘So you kept it to yourself and you were ordained.’

  He nodded.

  ‘But you couldn’t keep it a secret forever, could you?’

  ‘Sadly, no.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I wanted to be a simple priest tending to the spiritual needs of a community. I never wanted this kind of craziness.’

  ‘How did your secret get out?’

  ‘After I became a priest the wounds became quite bad.’

  ‘Can you pinpoint the date that there was a marked worsening?’

  ‘In fact I can. It was the day of ordination.’

  Cal found this interesting and decided to drill down. ‘Before or after the ceremony?’

  ‘During.’

  ‘During?’

  ‘I was lying prostrate before the altar, with my brother seminarians, when the pain became quite unbearable. I felt the dampness of blood seeping through my bandages. When the ceremony was complete I excused myself and went to the lavatory. I had stuffed clean bandages in my pocket just in case and I was able to re-bandage my wrists.’

  ‘And no one noticed?’

  ‘One of my brothers saw some blood on my palms and expressed concern but I told him it was a minor thing. No one else saw.’

  ‘You haven’t said how your wounds became public knowledge.’

  ‘I was assigned to take the place of a retiring priest here in Monte Sulla. I wanted to stay in Abruzzo to be close to my family so I was overjoyed. I was here for only a few weeks when the bleeding became even worse. I began to be quite weak and suffered dizzy spells. Unfortunately, I fainted during Mass one day and was taken to the hospita
l. I was examined and, well, the rest you know. Someone at the hospital had a big mouth and soon, everyone knew.’

  Tellini spoke up. ‘Your doctor, I’d like permission to talk to him and review your charts.’

  ‘Yes, no problem,’ the priest said wearily.

  ‘Were you told you had anemia?’ Tellini asked.

  ‘Yes. They gave me a transfusion and I felt stronger.’

  ‘Have you had further transfusions?’ the doctor asked.

  ‘Several.’

  Tellini had another question. ‘Were you given a diagnosis?’

  ‘They said they found no disease in my body.’

  Cal politely asked if he could finish his line of questioning and Tellini grudgingly relinquished the floor.

  ‘I know you said you didn’t have any mystical experiences in Croatia. Since then, have you had any types of visions, heard voices or had dreams that seemed unusually real?’

  He answered with a headshake.

  ‘Do you know what bilocation is?’

  ‘I don’t know the term.’

  ‘It’s where a person appears in two places at the same time. To your knowledge have you ever experienced or has anyone reported episodes of bilocation?’

  ‘No! I don’t know why you would even ask me this question.’

  ‘It was one of the miracles attributed to Padre Pio.’

  The priest became visibly upset. ‘Padre Pio, Padre Pio, Padre Pio. I’ve had it up to here with these comparisons to him! The people have even taken to calling me Padre Gio. Can you imagine?’

  ‘You can hardly blame people for drawing the analogy.’

  Cal had written extensively about the case of Padre Pio in his book. The priest, born Francesco Forgione in 1887 in the southern Italian town of Pietrelcina, began exhibiting the five wounds of Christ shortly after he was ordained a priest. These corresponded to the crucifixion puncture-wounds of palms, feet and side. Pio also was said to have developed spiritual visions, psychic abilities and episodes of bilocation were claimed throughout his life. When word of his stigmata spread, his Capuchin Friary in the mountainous San Giovanni Rotondo became besieged with the devoted, anxious for his blessings. The Holy See was initially highly skeptical, suspecting some form of chicanery and self-promotion, and in 1921 Pope Pius XI banned Pio from conducting Mass or administering confessions. But in 1933, the tide of opinion turned and the pope reversed his bans and restored all his priestly authorities. From then, until his death in 1968 at the age of eighty-one, Pio, whose stigmata only healed on his deathbed, was venerated by the faithful who flocked to San Giovanni Rotondo in droves. In 2002 Pope John Paul II bestowed sainthood on the monk. Yet even to the present day, controversies continued to swirl about Pio, with skeptics claiming his stigmata resulted from the self-application of carbolic acid or some other caustic agent.

  The young priest sounded exasperated. ‘Padre Pio was a true holy man, a saint! I am a nonentity, a simple priest who has little interest in fame or notoriety.’

  ‘You’re giving a pretty fair description of how Pio saw himself too,’ Cal said.

  ‘I won’t discuss Padre Pio any further. It makes me uncomfortable.’

  ‘Tell me something,’ Cal asked. ‘What would you like to happen now?’

  ‘I don’t understand your question.’

  ‘If you could choose what path your life would follow, what would that be?’

  Giovanni blinked as he thought. A sign of nerves?

  ‘I would choose for the blood to stop and the wounds to heal. I would choose to be an ordinary priest. I would choose to have you and this doctor disappear.’

  Cal smiled. ‘Thank you, father. I suggest we let Dr Tellini do his examination so we can leave you in peace.’

  Tellini asked the young man to stand beside a reading lamp. He switched it on and adjusted the light to his liking. ‘Could you please roll up your sleeves?’ he asked.

  The bandages were clean and white.

  ‘When did you last change them?’ Tellini asked, producing a pair of latex gloves and a packet of gauze from a trouser pocket.

  ‘After Mass.’

  The doctor asked for permission to unwrap them and he did so with a neat efficiency. Cal stood a few paces away, so as not to be intrusive, but he had to suppress a gasp when the wounds were bared.

  The circular lesions on each wrist were identical. Both were raw, oozing fresh red blood, and far from superficial. In fact, after Tellini blotted the blood away, bluish, glistening fascia, the deep connective tissue layer, was visible.

  ‘Can I see you wiggle your fingers, please?’ the doctor asked.

  The priest did so to a limited degree, his discomfort apparent.

  ‘Have you had any pus, any sign of infection?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Do you apply any ointments, any antibacterial agents?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you taken antibiotic tablets?’

  Again, the answer was no.

  Tellini pinched his mobile phone from his breast pocket and snapped a series of photos before re-bandaging the wounds.

  ‘Any lesions on your feet or ankles?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘And your flank?’

  ‘No, just the wrists.’

  ‘I must ask you this question directly,’ the doctor said. ‘Are you doing this to yourself?’

  The priest sighed heavily, his chest rising and deflating like a bellows. ‘I am not.’

  ‘Do you have any strong acids or bases in your house? Any caustic agents?’

  ‘I don’t think so but you might ask the sisters.’

  ‘Can I look around the premises?’

  ‘I have no objection.’

  The priest called for Sister Vera who came bounding in from the kitchen. He asked her to let Tellini have free reign to look around the house, including his bedroom and bathroom.

  Alone, Cal and the young man sat in silence for several seconds, until the priest asked, ‘Has this been satisfactory?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘Am I what you expected?’

  ‘I had no preconceptions.’

  His eyes were piercing and Cal noticed for the first time they were an astonishingly deep shade of blue. ‘Are you sure?’

  Cal was disarmed by the question. ‘Actually I was expecting not to like you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I tend not to like fraudsters.’

  ‘But you don’t dislike me?’

  ‘I find you sincere and engaging.’

  ‘Am I not a fraudster then?’

  ‘I have to be honest. I don’t know.’

  ‘I’m not producing the stigmata myself. That’s all I can attest to.’

  ‘I’ll put that in my report.’

  The priest rose to pour some water from a pitcher. He needed two hands to lift the small jug and his strain was evident. He sat down and took a small sip. ‘May I ask you something?’ he asked.

  ‘Anything you like.’

  ‘How old were you when your father died?’

  The question stunned Cal into silence.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the priest said. ‘I didn’t intend to make you uncomfortable.’

  Cal knew what biographical info of his was available online. Obtaining details about his father was doable but it would take some digging. ‘How do you know about my father?’

  ‘I know nothing about him.’

  ‘You didn’t look me up?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve stopped using the internet. I don’t enjoy reading about myself and it’s become difficult for me to use the keyboard and mouse.’

  ‘Then how do you know he died?’

  The priest’s expression turned dreamy. ‘I just knew. I can’t explain it. If you don’t wish to answer my question I understand.’

  Cal was of two minds. He worried he was falling into a trap. The young man certainly would be aware of the Padre Pio’s alleged psychic abilities. Despite his denials, he could h
ave researched Cal’s background. On the other hand he felt strangely compelled to open up to him.

  ‘I was sixteen.’

  ‘A delicate age,’ the priest said. ‘I myself was fourteen when my father died.’

  Cal thought, why is he telling me this? He said, ‘I’m sure it was difficult. I know it was for me.’

  ‘My father died from an intestinal cancer. What claimed your father?’

  Claimed. An interesting choice of words. ‘To this day I don’t know what happened. We always suspected foul play but it was never confirmed.’

  The priest’s eyes were sad. Though he didn’t ask another question, Cal felt he was being egged on to say more.

  ‘He was an archaeologist,’ Cal said. ‘He was on a dig when it happened. They said he fell into a trench and hit his head on a rock. I never believed it. He was sure-footed, like a mountain goat. I remember hiking with him on steep trails. I was an athletic kid but I couldn’t keep up with his scrambling.’

  The priest closed his eyes. A tear formed. ‘I can picture you as a boy striving to compete with him.’

  Compete. Another interesting choice of words. Cal had always strived to compete with his father’s almost mythic persona, especially after his death. He had even requested the same office at the Peabody Museum that his father had occupied. He only taught a single undergraduate archaeology course, Introduction to Biblical Archaeology, but when he received students for office hours at the Peabody, he felt like his father was looking over his shoulder.

  ‘He was larger than life,’ was all Cal said.

  ‘My father too, at least to me,’ the priest said. ‘He was a baker, the best in our city. He was very authoritative but also capable of great kindness. May I ask another question?’

  Cal nodded numbly.

  ‘Are you a Catholic?’

  How had the priest turned the tables on him so effectively? ‘I’m a hybrid. My mother’s Jewish which makes me a Jew as a matter of Jewish law. My father was Catholic. I’ve always self-identified as Catholic. Well, actually more than that. I’ve been baptized and confirmed.’

  ‘What does your mother think about this?’

  The question was too personal but he answered it anyway. ‘She never objected. She’s not a religious person.’

  ‘Do you attend Mass?’

  ‘Only when I happen to be visiting a European church or cathedral. For me it’s more of an academic exercise than a spiritual one.’