*
Rome
THE NEXT MORNING Enzo booked into the studios of TV Roma in the commercial center of Rome, using his regular visitor's pass issued some time ago and renewed without question every year.
"Hot day today, Signor Bastiani." The security guard nodded his usual lethargic greeting.
Herr Bastiani would have been better, or Herr anything as long as it sounded German. What a fool never to have changed his name!
"Message for you from the Current Affairs team, signore. The producer would like to see you before you hide yourself away in the dark with your editor friend."
He felt himself blushing. Was nothing kept confidential any longer? "Thanks. Fourth floor, I think?"
"Straight up in the elevator, Signor Bastiani."
The elevators were spacious and the corridors wide in this palace of the small screen. He found the Current Affairs office where the producer began waving a letter at him.
"Ciao, Enzo. Bad news, I'm afraid." The man sounded almost cheerful. "I have to admit I thought you'd put us on the scent of something special. I've applied a lot of pressure on Cardinal Amendola over the past few weeks to admit the Vatican has the relic, but he can't help us. I'm sure he would -- if anyone there had it. This reply has just arrived from the man you thought was holding the relic. Canon Levi in Archives."
He took the letter. The contents were stunning. Angelo Levi. This must be the Jew who had been given the relic in Saint Peter's in the war. The reply told him everything he needed to know. The man was lying through his teeth: he had the bronze head all right!
Three times he read the reply, signed by the Canon. The words brought out the hairs on the back of his neck.
Although such a statue of Christ is known to have existed in Caesarea Philippi, and to be contemporary with our Blessed Lord and Savior, your suggestion that a painted bronze head answering this description was recently in the possession of the Vatican authorities is outrageous. It is my personal opinion that you have been the victim of a hoax.
The producer sighed with an exaggerated weariness. "Sorry, Enzo, it would have made good viewing. Looks like we'll have to put pressure on the Pope to get the Turin Shroud carbon dated. There's talk of him doing something within the next few years. That's what the viewer wants nowadays. This is the early nineteen eighties, for God's sake. Cut away the secrecy, I say. Put these things out for full examination. If they're not genuine, then we need to know. Why deceive people if things aren't all they're claimed to be? What's happened to the Veronica? Do you follow what I mean, Enzo? What's the real date of the picture they call the Acheropita? That's the sort of thing we should be investigating. Yes, shame about old Eusebius and the statue of Christ he saw."
He paid no attention. Canon Levi had the head, in spite of the denials. He and Rüdi Bretz must go to Saint Peter's Basilica and pay the man of God a visit. He requested a photocopy of the letter, grabbed his briefcase and hurried to an outside phone. The videos could stay unedited.
"Rüdi! Rüdi! Painted head, the canon says! I'm the only one who's seen the wartime photograph, and no one told the Vatican about the paint.... Speak up, Rüdi, there's a lot of traffic in the background. I couldn't phone from the studio,... Yes, of course Canon Levi's got it. You'll see, we'll have the Shrine.... Come down to Rome straight away. I'll get through to him on the phone. We need the money we've been banking for the ADR.... Yes, bring it in cash. We can't bribe the man with a check. Everyone co-operates when there's cash on offer."
Twenty minutes later he was walking back to his favorite hotel near the Via Nazionale, oblivious to the tourists and the traffic.
The only son of Sturmbannführer Kessel.
He would see an attorney in Germany and take his father's name. Manfred Kessel. It sounded good when he said it aloud.
Finding the right phone number in the Vatican seemed to be difficult. He studied the photocopy of Canon Levi's letter to TV Roma. At least he knew where to start. Passed from one internal exchange to another, it was on the fourth transfer that he was given a private number.
A man's voice informed him rather brusquely that the Canon had gone out to attend to his duties, but he would be available on yet another phone number after seven. Enzo thanked the secretary, writing the number in the notebook he kept with his wallet.
At seven-thirty that evening he tried again. To his amazement the Canon answered. "Canon Levi? My name is Enzo Bastiani. You don't know me, not yet, but I'm interested in some research being done by TV Roma on Christian relics.... That's right, for the television program." Sound friendly to begin with. He knew what to do. "I think we should meet .... I'm sure I understand your position. Your reply to TV Roma.... Yes, about the painted head,... I think you know what I mean. A bronze head covered in a thick paint, possibly white? The point is, no one told you it was painted."
He broke off to let the Canon absorb the implications.
"My father gave it to the Vatican during the war for safekeeping. He was a Sturmbannführer in the German army stationed here in Rome. He wanted all Christian relics to be in the safe custody of the Church -- for the duration of the war. That's the sort of good-natured man he was. But he expected his own property to be returned afterwards. Unfortunately the Communists killed him in nineteen forty-four. I'm willing to pay good money to get my father's property back, even though it does still legally belong to my family."
The man began responding favorably, almost enthusiastically. This was easier than he'd expected.
"Thank you, Canon, I definitely think we should meet.... Money? Yes, I'm sure you've been hoping to make money from it.... Charity? You can give it all away if you want to, there'll be plenty.... Ah, we're in business now are we?... You would? All right, we could discuss that when we have our little get-together."
A group of noisy Italian youths appeared suddenly, chanting and clapping down the Via Borghese. Enzo hung up quickly, withdrawing to the safety of a souvenir shop festooned with gaudy shirts. This was one occasion when he was reluctant to show off his Aryan looks. Being tall, blond and isolated right now was not an ideal mixture. When he returned to the phone, and tried ringing the private number he'd been using only five minutes before, no one answered.
The next morning, Saturday, he managed to make contact with the Canon's secretary. The man informed him icily that Canon Levi had gone to Paris on personal business.
Three days later, after much persistence, he learned that the Canon had returned and would be willing to speak. He waited patiently to be put through on the private extension.
The Present