Acts of Faith (36 page)

George, who had already seated himself, surprised Tim by his seemingly genuine cordiality. “Hey, listen, Hogan. I know it’s open to everybody—but would it make you nervous if I showed up at your Defense? I mean, over the years I’ve needled you a lot. I was just wondering if my presence would put you off.”

“No, that’s okay,” Tim answered. “Nothing could make me more nervous than I already am.”

“Thanks. I look forward to not understanding a word.”

Moved by this gesture of thoughtfulness, Tim immediately reciprocated. “George, there’s going to be a little party afterward …”

“Santiori?” George smiled, his eyes widening eagerly.

“Yes.”

“Thanks. I was hoping you’d ask.”

Though its outcome was not in doubt, there was nonetheless an air of suspense at Tim’s thesis Defense. The
Aula Magna
was packed with students, faculty, and—at least somewhere in the crowd—the Princess of the Black Nobility with her entourage.

Tim had arrived fifteen minutes before the start of the ordeal, only to find Father Ascarelli already present. “My hearing’s so antiquated I must always sit in the front row,” the old Jesuit declared, then leaned forward to give his protégé some whispered advice—and a secret weapon.

“Remember. Despite the learning of those who will ask the questions—and also be prepared for the idiotic ones. Just say
‘non pertinet’
and move along. No one knows this topic better than you, since it is freshest in your mind. Dean Fortunato will of course pose a query, but it will be more like an oration to show how clever he
is. Merely flatter him by agreeing wholeheartedly and proceed.”

“Thank you, Father,” Tim said with a wan smile.

“Now, take this,” the old man urged, pressing something into his hand. It was in fact a Hershey bar.

“One of my former students sends me boxes from America,” Ascarelli explained. “They’re perfect for stimulating the mind.”

Tim could not help laughing with joy at this eccentric gesture and willingly devoured the fuel as Ascarelli watched with satisfaction.

“One final word,” Ascarelli called out affectionately as Tim was moving away. “These will be your last two hours as a student.
Enjoy
them.”

In a way, it was like the final of a tennis match. Timothy skillfully volleyed back dozens of differing questions: powerful serves, carefully placed lobs, and some—as the old man had predicted—completely out of bounds. There was even the cheering, although it was, of course, silent, except for the occasional murmur of appreciation from an elderly Jesuit in the first row:
“Bene … optime.”

When it was over, Tim’s relief was tinged with a touch of sadness. Ascarelli was right. This had been his final moment to shine as a student.

The huge Palazzo Santiori sat in elegance atop the Via San Teodoro. Every one of its high-ceilinged rooms was graced by magnificent works of art, some dating back to the early Renaissance, when the artists had worked under the direct patronage of the family.

“This is unbelievable,” said Tim, standing in awe before a depiction of the Annunciation by Raphael. He had steeled himself to meet modern power brokers, but was unprepared to confront Old Masters as well.

“The Santiori have always had an eye for talent.” The princess was a short, buxom woman with gray hair, and eyes that outsparkled her many gems. “This version is earlier than the one in the Vatican. But really, when it
comes to Raphael, there is no such thing as second best don’t you agree?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Tim answered quickly, wondering how it must feel to live in a house that held so many priceless treasures.

“Come, Father—may I call you Timoteo?—let me introduce you to some fascinating people. Drop over some other day and spend all the time you want looking at paintings.”

Tim followed the principessa up the wide, sweeping marble steps. Her high heels clicked in near synchrony with the rapid beating of his heart.

After another flight of stairs, they came out onto a roof garden, lit by torches placed at intervals along the iron railing. The terrace commanded a breathtaking view of the Eternal City. From this vantage point one could see the entire Roman Forum illuminated by spotlights. Tim’s eyes remained fixed on the noble remnants of Empire, partially because he did not feel worthy enough to face the living grandeur that was milling on the terrace.

The sound of a familiar voice brought his attention back to the present.

“
Nunc est bibendum
, ‘now is the time to quaff,’ as the poet says,” he heard Father Ascarelli declare. “Horace was a truly Roman poet, was he not?”

Tim glanced at his mentor and was moved to quiet laughter. “You’re certainly making good use of the occasion, Father,” he remarked, looking at the flutes of champagne the scribe held in either hand.

“Well,” Ascarelli joined the laughter at his own expense, “at my age I must make every effort to exploit the moment. I’ve already drunk your health, and will again. I’m grateful that you had the principessa put me on her list. Now I can die with an impeccable social pedigree.”

“Carpe noctem,”
Tim said warmly.

“Et tu, fili,”
Ascarelli responded and vanished in a sea of eminences.

At that very moment, Tim vowed to drink only mineral
water so he would remember every face, sound, and syllable of this occasion … in his honor.

Nonetheless, he woke next morning with a headache. Not from anything he had drunk or eaten, but rather, he concluded, from yesterday’s vast intellectual efforts—an afternoon of shining and a night of being shined upon.

He had returned to the college just in time for morning Mass, then climbed exhaustedly into bed, and slept through breakfast.

That evening, George sat down beside him in the refectory. “You almost could have been elected last night, Hogan.”

“What?”

“By my count, there were sixteen Princes of the Church—and not all Italian either. When the Cardinal Archbishop of Paris comes to raise a glass to you, I’d say that you’d get all the French votes without much problem.”

“Was he really there?” asked Tim ingenuously. For by now, he had learned to ignore his rival’s caustic references to his ascent upon the ecclesiastic ladder.

“You mean you didn’t see him? You probably were too busy staring at La Loren.”

“What?”

“Come on, you’d have to be blind not to notice glorious Sophia and her attentive consort Carlo. We’re allowed to look, you know. Who
did
you talk to, anyway?”

Tim spread one hand across his throbbing temples and said, “George, I’m trying to remember everyone I met, but it’s impossible. And I’m not kidding. You can some up to my room and see the list I’ve written down—”

“Now that’s an invitation I won’t pass up,” George reacted eagerly.

Later, as they leaned over Tim’s wooden desk comparing scraps of paper, George remarked with undisguised awe, “This is a real honor roll. Are you still determined to go back to Brooklyn and hear adolescents and old ladies saying their confessions?”

“I’m going to St. Gregory’s,” Timothy answered firmly. “That’s where I come from.”

“Okay.” George shrugged. “But for someone with your gifts I wouldn’t think that was the best way to serve the Church.”

“Well, what are your own plans?” Tim inquired.

“No doubt an unwise career move,” George explained, “but I’ve requested a special assignment with the Jesuits in Argentina. I figure I’ll probably have a better chance of getting to Heaven if I do good for others and not just well for myself.”

“That’s very commendable,” Tim commented sincerely. “To be honest, I never thought of you as—”

“Altruistic?” George was not offended. “I know. I’m sometimes surprised myself by the growing strength of my Christian feelings.”

The invitation came in the same near-parchment envelope with the Santiori seal.

It was signed simply
Cristina.

This time there were only four of them, seated at great distances from one another at the long white-linened table in the sumptuous Santiori dining room. The princess Timothy on her right, her sister Giulietta on her left—and,
at the end, a handsome, gray-haired cleric in his midfifties.

He was introduced as the principessa’s younger brother, Gianni, but Tim knew precisely how he was listed in the Pontifical
Annuario
: Monsignor Giovanni Orsino, Assistant Secretary of State for Latin America.

The brother was no less courtly and charming than the sister.

“If you do not mind,” he said, with a puckish apology to Timothy, “I would appreciate if we could converse in English. That is to say, if you could speak English, and I would try to make myself understood on something better than the primitive level that I now possess.”

“Of course,” Timothy replied, politely adding, “But your English is very good.”

“Please,
senza complimenti.
I would be more happy for you to correct me. I will take no offensive whatsoever.”

“Of course, Monsignor,” Timothy responded, ignoring the cleric’s immediate malapropism. “But do you get to use much English in the Secretariat?”

“Not in my current situation,” Monsignor Orsino replied. “The documents I deal with daily are of course in Spanish. And real Spanish, as they say, is merely Italian spoken with a lisp. But some day—”

At that moment, from far down the table, his older sister interrupted portentously, “Very soon, Gianni, very soon.”

Orsino seemed to blush and pointing at Cristina said to Timothy, “Well then, as my optimistic sister says, ‘very soon,’ I may receive a new assignation.”

“I believe Monsignor means ‘assignment.’ ” Timothy smiled politely.

The princess assumed the privilege of rank and completed her brother’s thought. “Gianni is a very senior member of the Secretariat, and in eighteen months, when Bonaventura retires, the post of Apostolic Delegate to Washington falls open. And so …” With a delicacy uniquely Italian, the princess gracefully gestured the rest of her sentence, which seemed to indicate that she would
see to it that her brother became Archbishop Bonaventura’s successor. Hence the need to buff his English to a diplomatic shine.

“I wanted very much for you two to meet,” she continued, “especially since all American episcopal appointments are made through Rome. And Rome depends heavily on the advice of its Washington Apostolic Delegate.”

“Cristina,” Tim protested, “I’m just going to be an assistant pastor. I don’t even see myself as a bishop in my dreams.”

“But
I
do,” the principessa insisted.

As he walked slowly away from the Palatine Hill in the glow of the late afternoon sun, Tim thought that the title Princess, when applied to Cristina Santiori, was no empty designation.

Though her crown might not be visible, her power was.

D
uring the second half of Deborah’s studies toward ordination, the focus changed from ancient law to modern life.

The aspiring rabbis were taught psychology—how to respond to the many cries of the heart they would receive from members of their congregations. Marital pressures, divorce, illness, death. The full cycle of grief.

“And here,” Professor Albert Redmont emphasized, “the rabbi differs from the psychotherapist. For most doctors nowadays are too busy to give their patient much more than a pharmacological evasion to be swallowed three times daily. Rabbis have more potent medicine.

“Faith can lift the fallen. Even heal the sick, better than the scientist, whose powers are circumscribed by the frontiers of knowledge—which is where belief in God
begins.
”

The future rabbis worked in hospitals, homes for the aged, and kindergartens. They learned firsthand how to confront an anguish that is even worse than death itself—the dying person’s fears of the unknown.

“Hold my hand and repeat after me, ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. For Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.…’ ”

“Thank you, Rabbi Luria. Thank you for your kindness.”

For Deborah, this human contact only magnified her love for the calling she had chosen.

For the High Holy Days in her senior year, Deborah was posted to a nonexistent congregation in New England.

That is to say, she would be temporary spiritual leader of a group of Jews who came together only on the so-called Days of Awe—the New Year and Yom Kippur—to expiate their sins and reinvigorate their faith.

The congregants in question were scattered throughout an area of some three hundred square miles near the Canadian border in New Hampshire and Vermont. Each year they would gather in the town hall or Unitarian church of a different village, bringing the one Torah Scroll—guarded all year round by an orthopedic surgeon—and absorb enough solidarity from their coreligionists to survive yet another twelve months in a region so remote that they were outnumbered by the black bears.

“Dean Ashkenazy,” Deborah said politely after she had been given her assignment, “I don’t want to seem as if I’m complaining, but most of my classmates have been sent to larger towns, even to colleges.” She pointed to her distant bailiwick on the map. “Why me?”

“The truth?” the dean inquired.

She nodded. “Please.”

“The college jobs are easy. Anyone can speak their language. Besides, if those kids feel strongly enough about a holiday to cut their classes and worship, then you’ve got an eager audience.” He paused thoughtfully. “Deborah, the people you’ll be preaching to are losing touch. They spend the year—especially at Christmas—wondering why they should work so hard at being different. They’re a small group to begin with, but the rate of their attrition is alarming.