2.
“Do I look OK?” Barb asked Stan as they crossed the vast expanse of St. Peter’s Square, making their way past the hordes of tourists and pilgrims from all over the world.
“Well, I prefer you the way you were dressed a couple of hours ago, but yeah, you look great,” Stan replied. And he meant it. Moore did look great in the outfit that had been suggested by the editor of their Italian publisher as appropriate for a papal audience-a grey skirt that fell well below the knees and a white blouse buttoned almost to the top, demure, yet just hinting at the delights that lay below.
“You look pretty good yourself Stan,” she told him. Stan had invested a small portion of his book royalties in a nice Italian suit, as suggested by his former boss, Reginald Jones. Once he had put on the luxurious material, Stan understood why Reggie had favored them-he not only knew that he looked good, he felt good. Heads were turning to watch as the two former detectives approached the VIP entrance to the Vatican.
They showed their passports to the Swiss Guardsmen on duty, who checked their names off a list. The Guard Lieutenant in charge ushered them into a well-appointed anteroom, telling them that Cardinal Petrelli, the Secretary of some long-winded clerical office whose name Stan didn’t quite catch, would be with them shortly. The Lieutenant suggested they have a seat on the comfortable leather sofa that took up one wall of the anteroom and disappeared into the next room, returning with a tray containing two fresh espressos, which Stan and Barb accepted gratefully.
Just as they were finishing their coffees, a large jovial man around Stan’s age, dressed in black clerical garb, entered the room. “I’m Mauricio Petrelli,” he announced in good, but accented English. Stan and Barb stood and shook his hand. Stan didn’t feel any of the bad vibes from Petrelli that he had gotten from Gerhart, which he had many times kicked himself for ignoring once he discovered the priest’s role in the crimes.
“We have a bit of time before we go in to see His Holiness. Would you like a tour?” the Cardinal asked.
“That would be lovely,” Barb said, smiling. Stan nodded. It would have been silly to have come all this way and not see the sights. They followed the cleric as he led them through a series of rooms, explaining the history of the construction of this magnificent edifice and pointing out the many priceless works of art that adorned the walls of each chamber.
After about ten minutes, they passed through a doorway into the most incredible room that Stan had ever seen. “This is the most famous and most beautiful room in the Vatican, the Sistine Chapel, with the ceilings painted of course by Michelangelo at the behest of Pope Julius II in the early 16th century.” Stan gazed awestruck at the magnificent paintings high above him. He couldn’t help gasping at the sheer beauty.
“They are indeed breathtaking, are they not?” Petrelli asked.
“Completely,” Barb replied as Stan nodded agreement. His neck was sore, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the frescoes. The Cardinal was telling them the story, which Stan had of course heard before of how Michelangelo had lain on his back on scaffolding for four years creating this masterpiece.
He led them to the center of the room, pointing out the most famous of the frescoes, The Creation of Adam, in which God reached out his finger to give life to the Adam figure, who looked like the sort of guy one would find in a gay bar in the Village or the nicer parts of Brooklyn.
For that matter, Stan couldn’t help thinking that God, as rendered by the master painter, looked strikingly like his long-departed maternal grandfather, who used to take him to the little shul on the Lower East Side. Of course, that plain building on Delancey Street bore as much resemblance to this magnificent palace as a Big Mac did to filet mignon, but in the end, just like the two beef products, their role in the world was the same.
There was no question that something in the art spoke to Stan, even if he had, much to his grandfather’s disappointment, stopped going to synagogue shortly after his bar mitzvah, distracted by girls and beer and baseball among other things. But, perhaps his career and his need to see evil-doers punished owed something to his grandfather’s influence.
Once they had finished admiring the frescoes, Petrelli led them through a series of passageways to a plain wooden door, on which he knocked. “È Petrelli!” he called out.
“Entrare!” a voice called out, and the Cardinal escorted them into an office that, although spacious and comfortable, was simple by comparison with the splendor of the public rooms of the Papal Palace. Wood floors with a nice Persian carpet-”How’s that for ecumenical relations?” Stan thought-and a large but unostentatious wooden desk, behind which sat the Holy Father himself.
He rose, ushering them to come forward, grasping in turn Barb’s hand and then Stan’s. Stan noticed his eyes lingering somewhat longer on Barb’s lithe body than on his tired worn-out one. “The old goat is checking her out,” he thought. Stan hoped the Pope was suitably impressed.
“Welcome,” the Pontiff said, his accent as much Italian as Spanish, as far as Stan could tell.
Stan thought it might be a friendly gesture to try a few words in the Spanish he had picked up working the streets of the Bronx for so many years. He had run the phrase by his old colleague, Manuel Garcia. “Encantado de conocerte, tu santidad.” “It is a great pleasure to meet you, Your Holiness.”
“Ah, Señor Goldman, habla Español?” the Pope asked, seeming pleasantly surprised, before launching into a story that Stan caught only a bit of, but seemed to involve a rabbi in Buenos Aires with whom the Pope was great friends.
Seeing the somewhat puzzled look on the faces of his visitors, the Pope switched back to English. He looked at Barb, his face the picture of humility and sincerity. “Ms. Moore, I am very glad that you were able to come here to Rome so that I could apologize in person to you for the horrible suffering you endured because of an evil man who wore the robes of our Church. I thank God that this good man”- he smiled at Stan who smiled back-“was able to reach you in time to save your life.”
The Pope continued, “I beg you to accept that the warped dogma expressed by that priest and his collaborator the lawyer in no way reflects the teachings of our Church. Those evil men have profaned the crucifixion of Our Lord, which was a sacrifice made out of love for all mankind, not out of the hatred they preached.”
Barb seemed unsure of how to react, but after a moment’s hesitation, she curtsied and replied, “Your Holiness, I never thought those men were acting in the name of the Church.” Stan nodded to indicate his agreement, though he retained a bit of doubt, as he knew Barb did, since the misogynist statements that Gerhart and Donnelly had quoted had been part of the basis of Church doctrine until fairly recently. Nevertheless, he was willing to believe, or at least hope that based on his record, this Pope honestly did not share those ideas.
After a few more minutes of small talk, Petrelli subtly began moving them towards the door, and after last handshakes, out into the hallway, from which point he escorted them back to the entrance that led to the Square where he bid them adieu.
“So, what did you think?” Barb asked as they strolled back across the Square towards their hotel where they were to meet the editor of the Italian edition of their book, who was taking them to a book signing at Rome’s best-known bookstore, La Feltrinelli.
“For a priest, he seems like an OK guy,” Stan replied. “Certainly has it all over Gerhart. He’s probably never crucified anyone, at least not personally.”
“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” Barb retorted, sticking her tongue out and elbowing Stan in the ribs. “I don’t blame this Pope personally, but the Church as an institution still has a hell of a lot to answer for.”
“Tell me about it,” Stan replied. “The Inquisition, centuries of persecution, Pope Pius and the Nazis- I guess we both have our issues with them.”
By this time they had reached the hotel where the editor, a delightful woman named Luisa Terelli, greeted them. “How did it go with the Pope?” she asked in an accent reflecting her Oxford education.
“I’m still Jewish,” Stan told her. Luisa laughed.
“I guess I’m still a lapsed Lutheran,” Barb added. “And still a feminist.”
“If I can’t cure her of that,” Stan added, “I doubt he could.” Barb glared at him and Stan decided this would be a good time to shut up.
“Perhaps we should go and sell some books,” Luisa suggested.
“That would be a good idea, before I kill this nasty old man,” Barb replied as Luisa led them to her tiny Fiat parked outside and they lurched into the traffic-clogged mess that was, and perhaps had always been, Rome.