Chapter 29
Twenty-Nine
Cisco
The piazza is empty at this hour except for a man hosing down the cobblestones near the fountain.
I cross the wide open space and veer right toward the base of the Pincian Hill, climbing the steps to the terrace.
It’s my favorite place in Rome to sit above the city and watch the dawn rise over the rooftops.
With my back to the balustrade, I sip my espresso and watch the golden hues of light spread across each surface until it’s indistinguishable from the shadows.
Any time I doubt God’s existence, or when I feel as if life’s problems are too big to cope with, I find a place like this and just stop. I think of nothing and look at the world.
Often, confessions turn into therapy sessions more than an unloading of sin.
When it gets like that, and I’m on a schedule, I suggest the penitent do something like this—get out into nature and just sit.
Marvel. Appreciate being alive and the mystery of creation.
There’s no greater way of gaining perspective on your problems than seeing how small you are in the grand scheme of existence, and how vast and complicated nature is.
Problems seem smaller, too, or at the very least, it’s easier to see what is worth worrying about and what should be left behind.
The twin churches seem small from up here.
Wind brushes my face and tickles my collarless throat. It feels strange not to wear it.
I close my eyes against the warmth of the new sun, think of Mercy, and smile. This is how she makes me feel when I’m with her.
Last night, she blew my mind in so many ways.
She has this outlook on life that is hard to deny.
There’s no judgment, only acceptance and encouragement to find joy wherever it can be found.
There is a fierce nature, a loyalty like no other, and a capability for love so deep.
When she decides something is worth fighting for, she throws everything she is into the battle.
While I agree with her on most points of her argument last night, I’m not sure I want to give up on my family completely.
I’m at fault for the state we’re in, too. Until Mercy, I just didn’t think there were other options to control the curse besides violence or holy abstinence. I should have investigated its origins long ago, yet I was content to leave it in God’s hands.
No, not content. Complacent. Avoidant. Afraid.
Yes—I was afraid to look at myself too deeply because in my heart of hearts, I never believed I was a problem worth keeping.
With a deep, cathartic exhale, I open my eyes and finish my espresso. It’s cold now, but I swallow it down.
A pigeon lands on the balustrade three feet away and regards me with the indifference of a creature that has never doubted its right to exist. He looks at my coffee. Then at me.
“I don’t think you want this, my friend,” I tell him in Italian, and put the empty cup on the ground. “There is nothing left anyway.”
It warbles at me, and I smile, then take out Bianchi’s phone. It works despite my fears of water damage after the drop into the underground lake.
“Wish me luck,” I say to the pigeon as I dial the only number programmed in. “I am about to tell the Pope I’m in love with a Sinner.”
Bianchi picks up on the second ring.
“Francesco. I was beginning to worry.” His voice is exactly how I remember it, warm and welcoming.
“I can’t continue being a priest.” No preamble for a call like this. “I’ve broken my celibacy promise, and I intend to keep breaking it. I’m in love with Mercy. You should know. Tell the Holy Father.”
Seconds tick by.
“I see,” he eventually says. “And are you well?”
The question catches me. “Yes.”
“Good.” Another short pause. “The Holy Father has been expecting this call. He will want to receive it from you directly.”
Something loosens in my chest. I had expected more resistance. “I am happy to speak with him.”
“Good. I will get back to you with a time. He has the highest respect for you, Francesco. As do I.”
I look out over the piazza. The street cleaner has moved on. I see the osteria in the distance and think I can even see our bedroom window.
“One question,” Bianchi says, and something in his tone shifts to something less warm and more cautious. “If the celibacy were not a condition of your service, would you still resign as the Holy Father’s exorcist?”
I open my mouth. Close it.
So that was to be my job? A direct line to the Pope permanently . . . officially? No Team Saint? No abbey Masses? Or does Bianchi mean that I do both? It doesn’t really matter.
“I don’t know,” I answer. “Much has changed in the past few days.”
“Since I last saw you?”
“Bianchi, did you know that passage you sent us led to undiscovered ruins below ground?”
“Ah, yes.” I hear the smile in his voice. “I was wondering when you’d mention that. What did you think of the frescoes?”
My brows wing up. “So, you know about them?”
“The Church has always known. It is a closely guarded secret for obvious reasons. In fact, I think most have forgotten they exist at all.”
“Mercy believes the pictures show the truth about Saint Peter.”
“Clever woman.”
My eyebrows knit together at the validation of the lie I’ve built my faith on. Bianchi didn’t even hesitate. I don’t know what to do with this, so I agree. “She is.”
There’s no point telling him about Asmodeus, or that I was frozen the entire time I was down there. I trust Mercy’s interpretation wholeheartedly.
“I can see why you are in love with her,” Bianchi remarks. “You deserve happiness.”
A smile tugs at my lips, and I turn my face toward the sun just to feel closer to her.
“Before you speak with the Holy Father, Francesco,” Bianchi continues, “you should go somewhere quiet. Think about my question. Do you still have the book?”
“I do.”
“Have you read it?”
“I . . . have not had the chance.”
“I didn’t think so. Read it, then let the Holy Father know what your answer is. Va’ con Dio.”
He ends the call. I look at the phone for a moment in my hand, then put it away.
The pigeon is still with me, perched and enjoying the sun. But I know he’s keeping an eye on my empty cup.
“Somewhere quiet,” I mutter, casting my gaze across the piazza.
People are waking up, starting their day. A pair of early morning joggers is climbing the stairs.
“This will be loud, no?” I ask the pigeon.
He bobs his head.
“I thought so, too.” I pick up the espresso cup and head down the stairs toward the basilica.
I wanted to visit anyway for my morning prayer. It will be a good, quiet place to reflect and read the book. Then I will find Mercy something to eat and think about what to do with Paolo.
His name splashes a feeling of cold on me, and I repress a shiver. Perhaps I should have asked Bianchi to help undo what Valerio did, but I think it’s too late. Besides, I don’t want to be beholden to the Vatican again. Paolo is my problem to deal with.
I greet the joggers with a courteous nod, and then quicken my steps to the other side of the piazza. Suddenly, I want to get this all done. I long to crawl into bed beside Mercy and count freckles until the cold feeling disappears.
Weekday Mass shouldn’t start for another hour or two. When I open the heavy door and walk inside, I’m pleased to find it relatively empty.
The usual incense and candle wax smells greet me, reminding me of the church back at the abbey. A pang squeezes my chest. What will happen to it if I am not there to run Mass?
The nuns will keep it tidy, but will they use it? How will they have their break from their vow of silence?
Will they ask the local diocese for another priest? Will they be granted one?
Who will guide them back to faith when they learn about the truth of their church?
Who will guide me?