An unwelcome shadow clouded Leah's thoughts. "What now?" She addressed the query to whichever of them might have some sensible answer. When Jay didn't respond, she continued. "We always come full circle to the one question that really matters."
He rolled his head away, as if to escape the encroaching realities that always presented themselves when he returned from his explorations into this fantasy land.
As much as Leah dreaded breaking the spell, she had to know, once and for all. "Would you ever leave the priesthood?"
Although his eyes remained closed, Leah knew he was formulating a response. "Ever?" he said at last.
"Don't play word games with me! Are you prepared to give up the priesthood--now--so we can at least see what life might be like for us as a normal man and woman?"
Jay opened his eyes, revealing the pain of his confusion. "I want to, Leah. Believe me, I do." The mischievous youth, out on a lark with his girlfriend, had abandoned him. In his place was the adult with a lifelong commitment to keep, responsibilities to carry out, and no way to integrate an afternoon of inexpressible delight and forbidden love. He looked and sounded miserable and ashamed. "There's so much to consider."
Leah felt him slipping farther away with every syllable. "Now, ask me if I'm willing to stay here with you, lurking in the shadows of your life, stealing fleeting moments at night behind a building or under a waterfall, terrified someone will see us and recognize you as their beloved parish priest. Ask me if I'd be jealous of all the people who would have easier access to you than I would." The questions remained unasked. "So there." No condemnation, only despairing acceptance of the terrible truth sounded in her constricted voice.
"I understand the position this puts you in." Jay was now the perpetrator, caught in the most despicable lie any man ever told a woman.
"Don't beat yourself up. I was in on it too, you know," she said to relieve him of at least her share of the responsibility.
Jay pulled a clump of grass from the ground and sighed. "I think I'm going to regret my choice some day. In fact, I already do."
"You should regret it," Leah said with finality. She wondered what held him to his priestly commitment. She hoped it was something as noble as love of God, but she wasn't sure. Was it fear of eternal damnation? A promise made to his departed hero-father? Perhaps unwillingness to hurt and alienate his devout mother? "So our original solution turns out to be our best. All we've succeeded in doing today, Jay my love, is make our lives more complicated and our inevitable parting that much more difficult."
The sound of a truck rounding a curve on the road sent Jay scrambling for his clothes and a place to hide, out of the clearing. When Leah reached his side, his dark features were pale. She easily read his fears. Would the passersby see the Jeep? Would they recognize it and deduce the identity of its occupants? Jay's concern was for himself and his reputation. The idyllic moment they had shared, the gift of herself, had passed into memory. In the face of his priestly bonds and his status in the community, he had discarded any new possibilities he might have glimpsed for himself as a man.
Leah glared at him defiantly as the truck slowed but did not stop.
When the motor faded into silence, Jay breathed a fervent, "Gracias a Dios."
By that time, Leah had already dressed and returned to the driver's seat in the Jeep. When Jay climbed in beside her, she turned the key in the ignition. Without looking at him, she muttered, "I can't live like this! Maybe you can, but I can't."
* * *
Leah spent her remaining weeks in Santa Teresita, keeping herself as busy as possible. She did her best to emotionally disengage from the villagers, whom she loved, and from her P/SHARE coworkers, with whom she had shared so many happy moments and who had taught her so much. Most of all--and hardest--she kept her distance from Jay.
On December thirty-first, four months to the day after leaving Santo Sangre, Leah walked down the aisle of Berkeley Presbyterian Church as the bride of a proud and beaming Walter Barton. She made, as everyone knew she would, a bride for the ages, radiant, deeply contented, totally in love with her man.
Things had happened quickly between her and Walter, after her return from Santo Sangre. Walt was the same considerate, solid-rock-of-a-man she had left behind over a year before. Best of all, her absence had only increased the fervor of his love. Without any real assurances from Leah, he had kept his heart from attaching to any of the smart and willing women he had dated. It was as if he knew their destinies were linked.
On that wet, Northern California winter day, a summer sun shone within Leah. She was sure that Walter Barton would do everything possible to make her happy. She vowed to do the same for him.
In the years that followed, Leah never once regretted her decision to leave Santa Teresita or to marry Walt, who cherished her and freely gave his abundant love. In their years of shared contentment, the only secret she kept from her husband was that of the waterfall and of the distant, tabooed love her heart remembered . . . and sometimes ached for.
14
A biting wind swirled around the twin fountains in the center of St. Peter's Square, blowing a fine spray toward the massive Bernini columns that enclosed the piazza. Only yesterday, a pleasant sun had warmed the Eternal City, testimony to the fickleness of Roman Novembers. Javier had taken full advantage of the "three Romes": ancient Rome, that of the founders and later the emperors; the Rome of Christianity; and Rome, the present-day playground of Europe's rich and famous.
It was in the second of these that Javier felt most comfortable. He was grateful to the president for insisting that he combine business with a much-needed vacation. The teapot world of Santa Teresita had closed in on him. Fortunately, the archbishop concurred with the president, even promising to travel one Sunday to offer Mass at Santa Teresita and spend the day with the special envoy's parishioners.
The first two days in Rome, Javier wallowed in guilt for having the luxury of an expenses-paid trip to Europe, something his island-bound parishioners would never experience. On the third day, he unwound his inner coils, and each day thereafter he felt more rested and relaxed. Setting out on foot each morning, he criss-crossed the capital, spending extended portions of time in and around the major basilicas of Saint Mary Major, Saint John Lateran, and his personal favorite, Saint Paul's Outside the Walls.
The hours flew by, as Jay looked at, touched, and inhaled the Holy City, opening all his senses to the history and culture that underlay so much of his religious beliefs.
He climbed Rome's seven hills, sat beside fountains that were outdoor art galleries in themselves, and explored the Villa Borghese. By the end of his stay, Javier had visited so many churches, with their real or dubious relics, that they all blended into one indistinguishable collage in his memory.
Javier's exploration of Rome so enthralled him that he resented interrupting his sightseeing to devote time to the main reason he was in Italy at all, his mission on behalf of his country. He met twice with Carlo Pontieri, director of POCI/ITALY. Both sessions disappointed him, at least from a diplomatic point of view. Pontieri received him politely but coolly. The director seemed predisposed to disbelieve.
The director of POCI/Italy brushed off assertions that alleged human rights violations in Santo Sangre were largely without foundation and that Montenegro intended to announce elections and follow through with wide-ranging reforms.
Is it my ineptitude as a communicator? Javier wondered, or, can he tell that I prefer tourism over diplomacy? Whatever the reason, Italy's leading human rights advocate showed no interest in buying what Montenegro's emissary was selling.
"Since you admit that you did not personally inspect the prisons or interview the persons in question, Father," Pontieri said, "it comes down to our evidence against Montenegro's word."
"True, Signor Pontieri." The Italian had exposed the gaping hole in Javier's credibility. "I must add, however, that President Montenegro is eager to satisfy POCI's doubts." He was str
etching his authority. At no time had the president offered more than to entertain a POCI delegation to Santo Sangre. He had given no specifics about access to prisoners. Javier had difficulty interpreting Pontieri's facial expression, but clearly the human rights community held Montenegro's assurances in low esteem. Perhaps Willie Vander Hoorst, the International Executive Director, would receive him with a more open mind.
It was a disturbed and pensive Father de Córdova who left Carlo Pontieri's unassuming, rather dingy office near the Roman Forum. Javier preferred having things out in the open for full examination. He liked being in control and making his own decisions. He found the ways of international diplomacy--or whatever one called the fiasco he currently engaged in--too indirect, too obtuse. Despite his sharing the wise, courageous genes of Ernesto de Córdova, Javier had involved himself in something beyond his training and experience.
An aimless stroll took him along the Via dei Fori Imperiali, where he paused to peer into the silent ruins. Maybe I can persuade Montenegro to give POCI full access, Javier thought. What's to gain from deception? If Javier needed diplomatic skills, he had come to the right place. Looking down into the ancient Forum, he invited the ghosts of togaed senators to inhabit him. Was it too much to hope that they might once again practice their persuasive arts through a country-bumpkin priest?
Crossing the street, Javier found himself at the entrance to San Pietro in Carcere, the Mamertine Prison formed from a sixth-century B.C. cistern. Christian tradition placed the incarceration of Peter, the leader of the apostles and first bishop of Rome, at this spot.
"St. Peter, prisoner of conscience, pray for me," Javier uttered, as he descended into the lower of the two circular cells. "Did anyone lobby for your release?" No one. At least not the right people, since the Romans crucified the apostle for his beliefs. Will the same thing happen to Arturo Valdez?
For the first time, Javier confronted the possibility he had betrayed his Christian faith by taking up the cause of power, rather than the cause of the powerless. The two-thousand-year history of the Christian church was penned in the blood of courageous men and women, children too. Their beliefs ran contrary to accepted "isms." For that, they suffered imprisonment and death. In the old days, we called them martyrs and canonized them, Javier reflected. How many of today's saints are locked up in prisons?
Santa Catalina's fortress-like Cárcel Central was immense by comparison with this tiny hole in the ground. Prisons are supposed to protect innocent people from dangerous felons. Does ours exist to stifle opposing thought?
Javier had so immersed himself in his ministry among the peasants of the Chuchuán region that he hadn't become as politically aware as he should have. He had accepted Montenegro's rule as a mostly benign dictatorship. No more, no less corrupt than those of Santo Sangre's neighbors. The mountain pastor had submerged the philosophical ideologies and arguments of his seminary days beneath the primitive realities of daily life far from the capital. It's time to start thinking more politically again, if it isn't too late.
When the Mamertine's walls closed in on him, Javier fled the ancient prison and returned to his room at the Caribbean College.
* * *
One bit of business remained for Javier to conduct during his last hours in Rome. His first contact with the mysterious "Angel."
Since there had been no communication with this person, Javier let himself think--and hope--that this part of Montenegro's plan had either broken down or been a bluff. Not once during his stay at the seminary on Via della Umiltá, near the Trevi Fountain, had anyone connected with the president approached him.
He left his residence hall for a fourth and final visit to St. Peter's. From there he'd take a taxi to the Air Terminal at Via Giolitti. An airport bus would then deliver him to Fiumicino and his afternoon KLM flight to Amsterdam Airport. An olive-complected urchin with dark circles for eyes, ran up to him. The boy stuck an envelope in his hand with a quick, "Piacere, Patre," and disappeared into the morning traffic.
Javier opened the note. "Trattoría Castel Sant' Angelo, Via della Conciliazione, 12:30 p.m. Be at the pay phone. It will ring once. Do not answer. In thirty seconds, it will ring again. Pick it up." Javier's shoulders sagged. Montenegro's Angel ploy hadn't been a bluff.
At twelve-twenty-nine, Javier guarded the public telephone in a noisy corridor near the kitchen of the trattoría. Harried waiters and busboys pushed past him, making not-so-subtle comments and gestures, as they went by. Only in a dentist's chair had sixty seconds of his life gone by more slowly.
One ring.
Javier grabbed at the receiver, then froze. Wait for the second call!
Thirty minute-long seconds. He didn't understand the need for all this hocus-pocus. "I'm not made for this stuff!"
Ring!
This time, he reached for the receiver and reluctantly pulled it to his ear. "H- Hello?"
"This is Angel." The gravelly, uncultured, slightly nasal voice made it sound as if the caller had a head cold. The dialect was definitely Santo Sangrían. Without a trace of human warmth or emotion, he continued. "Don't ask questions. Just tell me about your meetings with the person you were commissioned to see. In no case use names." Javier had heard this voice before, but failed to connect it with a face. "What you say is being recorded. The tape will be forwarded for evaluation."
This "Angel" sounded bored with his backstage role. Undoubtedly, he preferred more exciting assignments than babysitting a priest on vacation.
"I suppose you need to play your little games," Javier complained with a nervous laugh that deflected his rapidly rising, self-directed rage.
Angel wasn't amused. "Your report, Father."
Something didn't seem right about all this. But what? Javier blinked away the blackness closing in behind his eyes. He leaned against the cool marble wall of the open phone booth and forced air into his lungs. "I suppose you've got a job to do, just like me." Putting aside his misgivings, he related the essence of his conversations with Carlo Pontieri.
15
As KLM Flight #43 passed the western coast of Italy and banked northward, the knots in Javier's neck and shoulders loosened. The sky was bright and cloudless, and the French island of Corsica came into view on the left. Although his mission to POCI/ITALY had seemed fruitless, he had done his job as effectively as he knew how.
Still, being caught in his negligence with regard to the prison inspection embarrassed him. Recalling Carlo Pontieri's polite, but accusing expression caused a rush of blood to sear his neck and ears. Like most priests, Javier prided himself on being one of the good guys. His encounter with the Italian director left him feeling like part of the problem, less of a man, an unworthy priest.
The days spent wandering through the ancient city had satisfied a growing hunger Javier had felt for cultural stimulation unavailable in the mountainous region of Santo Sangre. His time in Rome had done something more than refresh his diminished energy for work. The Italian capital was a relic case, a sacred graveyard in which every bone had historical significance.
The visit had revived a secret, restless skeleton that refused to remain confined within the mausoleum of his soul. He had labored more than sixteen years in the service of his parishioners. Instead of becoming more firmly rooted in his vocation, the opposite was true. Since last Christmas, in fact, he had fought off an interior unrest. Self-deception kept the truth at bay only a few months into the new year.
Not since Leah Sinclair left Santa Teresita fourteen years ago had the cancer of emptiness awakened from remission and attacked with such virulence. He understood that loneliness was part of the human condition. Something more than that ached inside him. He feared he might never believe in anything again as passionately as he had once believed in his ministry. And, would he ever feel again what once felt for Leah? Or, had he blown his one and only chance for a perfect love.
Javier's assignment for Montenegro had come as a miracle of providential timing. He looked forward to t
elling Leah face to face that she had been right all along. He didn't belong in the priesthood. Away from his daily work for the first time in years, he had the luxury to think through this massive, life-changing decision. Why was it so important to share this pivotal moment with Leah Barton? She was the first to identify my emptiness. Somehow, Leah knew that, at the core of Javier's being, he was incapable of living forever without the love and companionship of a cherished partner. He had lied to her, denying this truth in her presence.
Javier denied it again two years later, when he met Anne Marie Quinn in New Orleans. Anne Marie! God, I haven't thought of her for years. Thousands of feet above the French Riviera, she returned to confirm Leah's judgment.
Sister Anne Marie belonged to the Atonement Sisters of Louisville. They were fellow students during a six-week spiritual and liturgical renewal session, in which Jay had participated at Dominican College of New Orleans. One Santo Sangrían priest attended each summer as part of a clergy "recycling" program.
Anne Marie was one of those bouncy young religious women, glorying in the new freedoms her community struggled with during the Sixties and Seventies. Seemingly overnight, the Atonement Sisters had transitioned from a semi-cloistered existence to a more liberalized life-style. They adopted "secular dress"--mostly thrift store polyester pant suits. The community's emotional response to the changes ranged from traumatic, for most of the older women, to a sense of having been released from prison, for Anne Marie and her peers.
Javier liked the talented, quick-witted nun. Her skin was like cream, except for the few freckles exposure to the sun sketched on her nose. Though she kept her Irish red curls cut sisterly short, they more than hinted at the glory a few months' growth would give them.
Javier and Anne Marie became friends. They sat together at meals in the student union and took evening walks. On Saturday afternoons they searched out off-beat foreign films. He convinced himself it was a healthy, innocent relationship.
At the beginning of the fifth week, Anne Marie's mood changed. Her usual stream of lively banter dried up. Her shoulders sagged when the two of them were together. Summer vanished from her smile.