The Fifth Gospel

  He nods. His lashes are dewed with tears, but his eyes are drying. This is what he wants to hear.

  I place my hands on his sides. His ribs are thinner than my fingers. “When she meets you, she’s going to feel something amazing. There’s no love in the world like a mamma’s love for her little boy.”

  The verdict of our whole religion. Between mother and child is the purest love in creation.

  And yet I don’t want to ply him with false hope. Neither of us knows Mona’s motives. I don’t even know my own. We’ve created a delicate life here, and the upheaval she could create is total. Right now, our energy needs to be focused on Simon. But I can’t deny Peter this moment. He’s waited so long.

  “Can she come over?” he says, reaching for the phone. “Please? ”

  This last word is so bottomless that it guts me.

  “We can call her,” I say. “Okay?”

  His finger is on the button. He itches to press it.

  “Wait,” I say. “Have you thought what you would say to her?”

  Without even hesitating, he nods.

  My heart cracks. I never guessed he had a script for this conversation.

  “All right, then,” I say. “Go ahead.”

  But to my surprise, he hands the phone back. “Can we do it together?”

  So with my finger over his, we press Dial.

  I whisper, “Ready?”

  He can’t answer. He’s fixated on the ring tone.

  Mona answers almost immediately. It’s as if we’ve called on the emergency frequency reserved for superheroes. Peter is entranced.

  “Alex?” she says.

  My son’s blue eyes are as wide as the sky. I put the handset on speakerphone. Now I’m just a witness.

  “Hello?” she says.

  Peter is startled. He doesn’t recognize her voice. Somewhere deep inside him, he’s discovering the cement is still wet.

  His lips form a smile. In a small voice he says, “Mamma?”

  I wish I could see her face.

  A sound comes out of the speaker. Peter stares in alarm. He doesn’t recognize the sound of his mother crying.

  “Peter,” she says.

  He looks at me again. Not for reassurance this time, but for material. I realize there was never any script for this conversation.

  “Peter,” Mona says, “I’m so happy you called me.”

  She’s searching for words, too. In this most fundamental act of my daily life, speaking to our child, she is inexperienced.

  “I—did you—what did you do today? Did you have fun with Babbo?”

  Her voice is slow and full of sunny overabundance, as if she’s talking to a child half his age. But Peter’s already recovered. Without answering her question, he locks in his agenda: “Can you come over to our house?”

  We’re both caught by surprise. Mona says, “Well. I don’t know if—”

  “You can come right now. We’re having cereal for dinner.”

  She responds with a pop of laughter that takes Peter aback. He didn’t know his mother contained such noises.

  “Peter,” she says, still laughing, “sweetheart, we would need to talk to your father about that.”

  O naïve woman. Like a fish in his net.

  Peter shoves the phone across the table. “Okay,” he says. “My father’s right here.”

  * * *

  SHE ARRIVES TWENTY MINUTES later. I could’ve stopped her. But I’ve never seen Peter so lost in joy. I’d sooner have blown out candles in a church.

  He rushes to answer the door, and it’s like watching a train careen into a dark tunnel. God bless him, he doesn’t even hesitate.

  Mona is dressed in an outfit I’ve never seen before. No conservative summer sweater tonight, but an indigo sundress with bare shoulders. She is beautiful. And yet as she lowers herself to her knees, offering an embrace she isn’t sure Peter will accept, the smile is plastered on her face. Sensing her terror, he is suddenly full of ambivalence, too, and lurches forward weirdly to take the hug. Neither says a word.

  I’m relieved. Peter’s too young to understand regret, but my body vibrates with the awareness that we’re now playing with those dark materials.

  Mona reaches into a plastic bag on the floor by her feet and says, “I brought dinner.”

  Tupperware. Her answer to our pathetic dinner of cereal.

  “A gift,” she clarifies, “from Nonna.”

  Peter’s maternal grandmother. I recoil.

  Peter looks at the Tupperware and says, as if there’s still time to change his order, “My favorite pizza is margherita.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mona says, crestfallen. “All I brought is some cacio e pepe.”

  Tonnarelli with cheese sauce. The devil inside me smiles. Her mother’s version of the dish will be too peppery for Peter. A fitting introduction to the mother-in-law I always found to be an acquired taste.

  “We already had cereal,” Peter explains. But he takes her by the hand and leads her inside. “How long can you stay? Can you spend the night?”

  Mona glances at me for help.

  “Peter,” I say, stroking his hair, “not tonight.”

  He frowns. If this is a preview of the new chain of command, he doesn’t like it.

  “Why?” he says.

  Surprisingly, this is the moment when Mona chooses to assert herself.

  “Peter, we aren’t ready for that yet. You have to be patient with us.”

  The anger that blooms on his face is beautifully pure. What hypocrites we are. Grant us love, but not yet.

  “I brought something for you, though,” she says, reaching into the bag.

  Peter waits expectantly, only to receive a picture in a frame. It shows the two of us watching soccer on TV. I’m holding his arms in the air to celebrate a goal. I have to guard myself against the emotion that comes with realizing she’s kept this picture for years. But Peter pulls the frame out of her palm and says, “Okay, thanks,” and plunks it on the nearest table.

  I offer my wife a hand. “Let me put the pasta in the fridge.”

  And for the first time, as we make the exchange, our fingers touch.

  * * *

  THE HOUR WE SPEND together is bruising, in part because it’s so obvious how wonderful Peter finds it. Mona is awkward with him, but for Peter there’s no transition at all, no slow warm-up to the presence of an unfamiliar adult. He takes her to his bedroom and sits down on the floor, offering her the spot beside him. He tells belabored stories about other boys she doesn’t know, whose escapades she can’t possibly understand, especially in his stream-of-consciousness Italian. “Tino, downstairs? It was Thursday, but not this Thursday? He told Giada that his allowance, if she would show her underpants to him, he would give her all of it. And she said no, but he tried anyway, and she broke his fingers.” All the while he’s playing with toy cars or showing her the new soccer cleats Simon scrimped to buy him. A lifetime of catching up might just be possible before sunset.

  The fury of his mind is painful to watch. It reveals a kind of double existence, as if he hasn’t just been living his life but curating it, preparing the museum of himself for his mother’s return. Even sadder is his insistence on giving the whole tour tonight, as if he’s not convinced he’ll have another chance. Simon disappeared on him two nights ago. The possibility of loss is fresh. When this performance is over, I wonder how he’ll sleep tonight. How he’ll be able to think of anything except whether there will be a next time.

  But for now, he’s effusive. Determined to empty himself to the last drop. Keeping up with him exhausts Mona, who tries to follow everything he says until, deep into the visit, she finally capitulates and just enjoys this time for what it is.

  At last, when Peter finishes his second discourse on tadpoles, I’m forced to say, “Peter, it’s going
to be bedtime soon.”

  I hadn’t intended for us to stay here tonight. But we have a new lock on the door and the vigilance of neighbors who love us. Most of all, we have a chance to replace bad memories with good.

  “No,” Peter cries.

  Mona intervenes. “Could I read him a story?”

  He launches himself into bed with expectation. This is the room where he hid with Sister Helena in fear while a stranger tore through our home, yet he seems oblivious to anything but his mother.

  “Pajamas?” I suggest. “And brushing our teeth?”

  Peter drags Mona to the bathroom, where an old hairbrush and two stray toothpaste caps lie on the countertop. There are no cups, because we rinse our mouths from the sink. Our toothbrushes are at Lucio’s, so Peter intrepidly rinses off an old one from a drawer. This evidence of our manly state inspires a wry smile from Mona.

  “Needs a certain touch,” she says.

  An hour with our son has loosened her up.

  “Toothpaste,” Peter says in the voice of a surgeon asking for a scalpel.

  “Toothpaste,” Mona replies, presenting the tube.

  My eyes linger on Simon’s knickknacks, scattered on the countertop from the night Ugo died, when he took a hasty shower here. He is the ghost of this visit. The shadow of our family’s happiness. Seeing my son smile, I remember that my brother is alone tonight.

  Mona and Peter read a few chapters of Pinocchio. Then I announce it’s time for prayers. He lowers himself to the edge of the bed, clasping his hands, while Mona glances at me, wondering. Asking.

  “Sure,” I say quietly. “Together.”

  The world hushes. The night leans in. For where two or three are gathered in my name, there I am, among them.

  “Almighty and merciful God,” I say, “we thank You for bringing us together in this home tonight. With this blessing You remind us that all things are possible in You. Though we cannot know our future, or change our past, we humbly ask You to guide us toward Your will, and to watch over our beloved Simon. Amen.”

  To which I silently add:

  Lord, remember my brother who is alone tonight. He doesn’t need Your mercy. Only Your justice. Please, Lord, give him justice.

  At the door, before Mona leaves, she says to me, “Thank you.”

  I nod. “It meant the world to him.”

  I can’t let myself say more.

  Mona has fewer inhibitions. “I’d love to come back and see you both again. Do you want me to bring over some dinner tomorrow?”

  Tomorrow. So soon. I have to be at the courtroom in the morning. I have to be prepared for whatever Mignatto might ask of me at any hour of the day.

  I begin to answer, but she sees my expression and waves me off. “It doesn’t have to be tomorrow. You call me when you’re ready. I want to help, Alex, not get in the way.” She hesitates. “I could even stay with him if you’re going to—”

  “Tomorrow’s fine,” I say. “Let’s do dinner tomorrow.”

  She smiles. “Call me if you feel the same way in the morning.”

  I wait. If she kisses me, I’ll know we came too far, too fast. I’ll have to second-guess what happened tonight.

  But she places her hand on my arm and gives it a squeeze. That’s all. Her fingers slip away, touching mine as they drop. She lifts them in the air, saying good night.

  Tomorrow, I think.

  So soon.

  CHAPTER 28

  AT SEVEN THIRTY in the morning, I arrive outside the tribunal palace. Brother Samuel and the other pharmacists are watching Peter because Mignatto summoned me for an early meeting. He’s already here, waiting on a bench in the courtyard as I arrive, holding a paper that turns out to be a list of today’s deponents. Wordlessly he shows it to me. First will be Guido Canali, then two men I don’t recognize. The last name on the list is Simon’s.

  “Is he really coming?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. But this may be the tribunal’s last chance.” Mignatto turns to me, as if this is the reason for the meeting. “Father, it’s possible the trial will end today.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When Archbishop Nowak disallowed testimony about the exhibit, it became impossible for the judges to establish motive. And without the security-camera footage, it may be impossible for them to establish opportunity.”

  “You’re saying Simon could go free?”

  “The judges are giving the promoter of justice latitude to propose new witnesses, but if nothing changes, the tribunal could find insufficient grounds to continue. The charge would be dropped.”

  “That’s fantastic.”

  He places a hand on my arm. “The reason I’m telling you this is that I decided to submit Nogara’s phone into evidence. The tribunal needed a voice sample for forensic comparison with the message left on your brother’s answering machine at the embassy, and the voice mail greeting on Nogara’s phone gave me a window to introduce it. My hope is that the judges decided to listen to the messages your brother left Nogara at Castel Gandolfo. Still, I have to condemn in the strongest terms your development of evidence this way. We’re fortunate the law forbids procurators to testify, or else you’d have to answer very difficult questions. I don’t know who gave the phone to you, but I need to emphasize again that, for your brother’s sake, you must not let this be repeated if the trial continues beyond today.”

  “Yes, Monsignor.”

  He relaxes. “I’ve filed a petition to have Father Simon placed in your uncle’s custody. I don’t know whether they’ll honor it. In any case, I don’t see how his testimony can do the prosecution much good, since he refuses to speak.”

  Mignatto takes back the list and fidgets with the locks on his briefcase before slipping the paper inside.

  I put an arm around him and say, “Monsignor, thank you.”

  He gives me a careful pat on the back. “Don’t thank me. Thank him.”

  In the distance, approaching the Palace of the Tribunal, is Archbishop Nowak. We watch in silence as the gendarmes admit him, then close the doors again.

  * * *

  JUST BEFORE EIGHT, THE courtroom opens again to admit the rest of us. On the hour, the judges enter together from the side door of their chambers. Without ado, one says, “Officer, please call the first witness.”

  Guido is admitted into the aula. He arrives in a black suit with a gray shirt and silver necktie, a bulging gold watch on his wrist. Only his leathery skin reveals him as a farmhand. The notary rises so that Guido can take both oaths before identifying himself as Guido Francesco Andreo Donato Canali, the only man in Rome with more names than the pope.

  “You were present at Castel Gandolfo,” the presiding judge asks, “on the night Ugolino Nogara was killed?”

  “Correct.”

  “Please tell us what you saw.”

  “While I was on my shift, I got a phone call from Father Alex Andreou, brother of the accused. He asked me to open the gates for him.”

  The old judge leans forward. Guido’s delivery has none of the usual roughness or swagger. He doesn’t even point a finger when he mentions my name.

  “I drove him down in my truck,” Guido continues. “We got almost to—”

  The judge thumps his hand on the bench. “Stop! You’re saying you opened the gates because a friend asked you to?”

  Guido shrinks. “Monsignor, it was the wrong thing to do. I know that now. I apologize.”

  The presiding judge growls, “And where exactly did you chauffeur your friend, the accused’s brother?”

  “There’s only one main road down from the gates. We headed that way. Then Father Alex got out when he saw his brother.”

  Mignatto lifts a hand.

  The younger judge anticipates the objection. “Signor Canali, did you see the accused? Do you know that his brother saw him?”


  Guido sips some water. He jiggles his wrist to shift the weight of his watch. “I know where Nogara’s body was found. It’s right near where Father Alex got off my truck. So.”

  The presiding judge lifts his hands in the air. “About the chronology: the defendant’s brother contacted you at what time?”

  “About fifteen minutes before he showed up at the gate. I checked my phone. Six forty-two.”

  “And where was he calling from?”

  “A parking lot at the bottom of the cliff, he said.”

  The judge writes something down. “How long is the drive from here to Castel Gandolfo?”

  “Seventeen miles. Three-quarters of an hour.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I drive it every Sunday to visit my mother.”

  The judge writes another note. “But it rained on the night Doctor Nogara was killed?”

  “As if sent by God.”

  “So the drive would’ve taken longer?”

  Guido shrugs. “A little weather gets people off the roads. Less traffic. It depends.”

  I begin to see where the judge is going. He realizes Guido saw nothing at Castel Gandolfo, but he’s calculating when Simon called me. Re-creating the timeline of Ugo’s death. I notice that Mignatto looks concerned.

  The presiding judge nods. “Thank you, signore.”

  He seems poised to release Guido, but Mignatto makes a signal to him, and the judge motions him forward. Everyone in the courtroom watches as Mignatto slips a sheet of paper to the presiding judge, who reads it silently and then nods.

  “One last thing,” he says.

  For the first time, Guido glances at me. His eyes are full of hatred. I realize he’s terrified. He just wants to go home.

  “Sure,” he says.

  “Why did you open the gates for the accused’s brother?”

  I sense what Mignatto’s doing, and for a second I pity Guido. The point has already been made. But if this is what it takes to free Simon, then so be it.

  Guido brightens. He misunderstands. “I did it because Father Alex and I grew up together. We’re old friends.”