The Devil Will Come

THIRTY-FOUR

TWO WEEKS PASSED and the rhythms of the Vatican began to return to a semblance of normality – with the jarring exception of the cranes, construction vehicles and workmen attending to the orderly demolition and cleanup of the smoldering remains of the Sistine Chapel.

Few artistic treasures were salvageable but a small army of art-restoration experts from the major Italian museums were fussing over the blast damage to the Sala Regia and planning a restorative campaign.

Pope Celestine VI seized on the symbolic importance of rebuilding the Sistine Chapel. He established a special Pontifical Commission to supervise the project and conduct an international contest to select an artist to paint a fresh ceiling fresco that would capture, in a new way, Michelangelo’s grandeur and would endure for centuries to come.

And on a sunny Saturday afternoon a small ceremony was taking place in the auditorium of the Scuola Teresa Spinelli on the Piazza Mastai.

In the audience were nuns, teachers, students and parents.

On the stage, Sister Marilena and Sister Elisabetta sat beside Evan Harris and Stephanie Meyer and the Mother General of the Augustinian Sisters, Servants of Jesus and Mary, who had flown in from Malta.

Sister Marilena took the podium and announced, ‘Today is a happy one for our dear school and our dear order. Nothing is more important to us than our mission of educating our children for good, productive and faithful lives. Our chronic lack of funds has forced us to make difficult choices in the past but thanks to Sister Elisabetta and our new friends here with us today we see bright days ahead. Please, let us welcome Professor Evan Harris and Miss Stephanie Meyer.’

Both of them rose and stood at the podium. Harris took the microphone. ‘I apologize for my lack of Italian but, since this is such an excellent school, I have been assured that English will work just fine. Nothing is more satisfying than a win-win situation. Cambridge University has educated many prominent men and women in its long and storied history but perhaps none more illustrious than the playwright Christopher Marlowe.’

Elisabetta winced at the name.

‘Marlowe’s most famous play,’ he continued, ‘was Dr Faustus and, as a Marlowe scholar, it has always pained me that Cambridge did not own an original early text of the play. That is now rectified.’ He raised the book for all to see. ‘This magnificent volume will take pride of place in our university library and will be an inspiration for generations of scholars and students to come. And now may I present Stephanie Meyer, a distinguished member of the University Regent House and the generous donor who has made this purchase possible.’

Meyer smiled and spoke into the microphone in her plummy accent. ‘It is with great satisfaction and great pleasure that I present this check for one million euros to the Augustinian Sisters, Servants of Jesus and Mary.’

Elisabetta awoke the next morning feeling light-hearted and contented, her happy Sunday routine rekindled. Zazo was out of hospital and had been informed that he’d been reinstated in the Gendarmerie and could resume his duties when his condition allowed. The entire family would take Mass together and have lunch at her father’s.

She showered, put on a robe fresh from a dry-cleaning bag and walked to the Basilica of Santa Maria in Trastevere in sparkling sunshine.

Elisabetta felt reborn.

The detour that her life had taken, this sorry interlude, had sparked a re-examination that felt, in a way, like the one she’d undertaken a dozen years earlier while she convalesced. Back then she had resolved to leave her old life behind and become a person of all-sustaining faith. Now she had decided to re-commit herself to this path.

Her father, for one, had lobbied insistently for a different decision. Seize the moment, he’d argued. You’re still young and vital. You can still be a wife and a mother. Go to church all you want, pray till you’re blue in the face, but please leave the clergy and rejoin the secular world.

‘Will you give up Goldbach?’ Elisabetta asked.

‘No, of course not,’ Carlo replied. ‘It’s my passion. It’s what makes me tick.’ And then he wagged his finger at her. ‘It’s not the same thing,’ he said.

‘Isn’t it?’ she said. ‘I don’t think it’s so different.’

Zazo was taking small, gingerly steps but his color was good. Outside the church Elisabetta kissed him and told him that he’d lost weight, but not to worry, she’d fix that with her meal. Lorenzo was with him, in uniform. She could tell that he wanted to spend the afternoon with the family but he was obliged to report for duty after Mass. Micaela was with Arturo. Her father was the last to arrive. He smelled of pipe tobacco and Elisabetta could see a fresh ink stain on his fingers. He’d been working on Goldbach, for sure.

They entered the church as a group and occupied a central pew in the nave.

As parishioners filed in Micaela leaned over and whispered in Elisabetta’s ear, ‘Doesn’t Lorenzo look splendid?’

‘Why are you asking me that?’ Elisabetta whispered back.

‘He admitted to Zazo that he fancies you. I think he’s embarrassed about it because you’re a nun.’

‘He should be embarrassed,’ Elisabetta whispered back with a laugh.

‘Well?’ Micaela asked wickedly.

‘You and Papa need to leave me alone,’ Elisabetta scolded as Father Santoro appeared and took his place at the altar.

She couldn’t remember ever having enjoyed Mass more, particularly the moment when Father Santoro extended his hands, raised them and intoned the Gloria in his lovely clear voice.

Gloria in excelsis Deo

et in terra pax homínibus bonae voluntatis.

Laudamus te,

benedicimus te,

adoramus te,

glorificamus te,

gratias agimus tibi propter magnam gloriam tuam.

Glory to God in the highest,

and on Earth peace to people of good will.

We praise you,

we bless you,

we adore you,

we glorify you,

we give you thanks for your great glory.

When Father Santoro was done, Elisabetta chimed in with a hearty Amen.

Zazo was moving slowly, refusing to lean on anyone, so their group was among the last to leave the church. From the archway Elisabetta squinted into the high sun.

The piazza and its fountain looked particularly pristine and lovely. There were children playing outside the café and lovers holding hands. Father Santoro approached to give the family his Sunday wishes and he put his hand on Zazo’s shoulder.

Suddenly Elisabetta saw Zazo’s face contort and a single word bellowed from his mouth.

‘Gun!’

She turned to see a man pushing through the crowd of parishioners with a pistol pointed directly at her.

Matthias Hackel had the wooden expression of a man who had simply come to complete some unfinished business.

A shot rang out.

Elisabetta waited to feel the bullet piercing her heart.

She was ready. Far from willing, but ready.

Hackel’s head erupted in a splash of red. He pitched forward, his big body thudding onto the cobblestones.

Micaela dropped instinctively and pulled Elisabetta down to the ground with her.

Lorenzo was standing over Hackel’s body, his gun drawn, ready to fire a second round. It wasn’t needed.

He saw Elisabetta and ran to her.

‘Are you all right?’

She looked up at him. His head blocked the sun but its light spilled around it, creating a very real halo.

She saw his face clearly enough, but she also saw the face of Marco and the face of Jesus Christ.

All of them had saved her.

‘Yes, I’m all right.’

The limo driver pulled into the circular drive of Stephanie Meyer’s secluded Georgian mansion.

Evan Harris was beside her in the back seat.

‘It’s good to be home,’ she said.

‘Indeed.’

‘Won’t you come in for a drink?’ she suggested. ‘I can run you back to your house in a bit.’

Harris agreed.

‘Don’t forget the book,’ Meyer said. Harris’s briefcase was by his feet.

‘No fear of that.’

Inside, they left their bags in the hall and went into her sitting room.

‘It’s a terrible blow that it’s come to nothing,’ Meyer sighed.

‘Don’t you know Pope Celestine VI’s full name?’ Harris suddenly asked.

‘I believe it’s Giorgio Aspromonte,’ Meyer said.

‘Giorgio Pietro Aspromonte,’ Harris added quickly.

‘Petrus Romanus!’ Meyer hissed.

‘See?’ Harris said. ‘Don’t be so gloomy. Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?’

She poured them both large gins.

‘Why not get the book?’ she asked.

He removed it from its bubble wrap and put in on her mantel, opened to the frontispiece. Old Faustus seemed to be looking down at them from his place within the magic circle.

‘Tomorrow we’ll start making calls,’ Harris said. ‘K is gone. But there are others.’

‘Why not you?’

‘Indeed. Why not me?’

They clinked glasses.

‘This is what we do,’ Harris said.

‘And this is who we are,’ Meyer replied.