The Holy Bullet

 

 

 

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Copyright © 2007 by Luis Miguel Rocha

Originally published in Portuguese by Paralelo 40, 2007
Translation © 2009 by Robin McAllister
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distrib
uted in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not partici
pate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s
rights. Purchase only authorized editions. Published simultaneously in Canada

 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

 

Rocha, Luís Miguel, 1976 -
[Bala santa. English]
The holy bullet / Luis Miguel Rocha ; translation by Robin McAllister.
p. cm.
Originally published as: Bala santa. Madrid : Suma de Letras, 2008.

eISBN : 978-1-101-13891-5

1. John Paul II, Pope, 1920-2005—Assassination attempts—
Fiction. I. McAllister, Robin. II. Title.
PQ9318.O34B
869.3’5—dc22

 

 

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO
IOANNES PAULUS PP. II
KAROLJÓ ZEFWOJTYLA
May 18, 1920-April 2, 2005

To all men of faith.

—JC, February 26, 2007

 

 

No bullet can kill unless it is His will.

—SISTER LÚCIA,
letter to Karol Wojtyla
, April 1981

 

 

Hitler couldn’t have been as bad as they say. He couldn’t have killed six million. It couldn’t have been more than four.

—SAN JOSÉ MARÍA ESCRIVÁ DE BALAGUER,
letter to the members of Opus Dei

I am writing a book in which I will tell the whole truth. Until now I’ve told fifty different stories, all of which are false.

—
MEHMET ALI AGĞCA,
the Turk who shot Pope John Paul II,
Anno Domini MMVII

 

E
verything has a beginning.

The start, the departure point, the zero, Sunday, the starting gun, the sprouting seed pushing through the earth for light, the splash into water, the earliest heartbeat, the first word, the first stone of a village, villa, city, wall, house, palace, church, building. Of this building in an unnamed city. A luxury restaurant occupies the ground floor and basement, as indicated by the menu displayed at the side of the door. Its status is not openly announced to the world at large, but suggested by the tinted-glass doors, always closed, and by the haughtiness of the doorman, impeccably dressed in a burgundy uniform. The absence of prices on the menu and the many phrases in French are also a sign of its exclusiveness, even if the city is located on French soil, which is neither confirmed nor denied. What is certain is that this restaurant does not need to advertise any of its services, which, in itself, presupposes an exclusive clientele.

Any diner who wishes to enjoy the favors of this establishment must first seek approval; without such authorization he will never pass through the tinted-glass doors. Usually this can be obtained through the recommendation of a frequent client, a member of sorts, who has influence with management, or by a formal request that involves a long process of investigation into the private life of the applicant. A large bank account is useful, but not enough, since some pretentious newly rich are frequently rejected, although many members of old families are turned down also. Such rejection, and bear in mind the word “rejection” is never used, is communicated by a letter in a white envelope with no return address. Once this decision is made, it can never be revoked. In the case of acceptance there will be a long list of rules. There is, for example, a provision in the statutes for the expulsion of a member in the case of serious offenses, even if such expulsion has never happened.

Acceptance happens differently: a telephone call at home inviting him to dinner. Upon arrival, the uniformed doorman compliments him and opens the tinted-glass doors. Inside, he is treated with a deference that is never excessive. Another employee relieves him of his coat. Immediately he is led to a table that, from that day on, will be his alone, no matter the hour or day of the week. He can bring any guests he desires, as long as he informs the manager of their names five days in advance. The morality of the guests is not important. This is the privilege of the selected clients, who can share whatever with whomever they desire—favors, business negotiations, intrigues, blackmail, purchases, the destiny of others, their own—without anyone pointing a recriminating finger, accompanied by food for the refined palate, breast of chicken stuffed with pâté of bacon and mushroom sauce, wine, and brandy. No financial transactions take place here, except those discussed at the table, which are many. Members pay a monthly fee by bank transfer of 12,000 euros that covers the privileges of having the kitchen available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Thus this restaurant functions in every city of major political and economic influence in the world, as it does in this unnamed city.

Today, at noon, the restaurant is half empty. The clients of the empty tables are occupied with their personal or professional lives. The table that matters to us is the thirteenth; the two men seated there aren’t superstitious. In their opinion the table is as acceptable as any other. What matters is the here and now. Everything else is useless, unproved theory. Above all, these men adapt to time and circumstances. Each case is unique. In a world driven by money, this philosophy has advantages, and the two of them know how to make use of it.

Reasons of security and privacy prevent mentioning the name of the city with this restaurant, its table thirteen, and two men, seated face-to-face. The one with his back to the dining room is the member; he could be the father or even grandfather of the man sitting in front of him. No family ties connect them, except Adam and Eve, who unite us all. They aren’t even friends. The younger is an aide to the older, if not a servant, a term no longer used these days. Let’s not call what he’s receiving “orders,” but instructions or suggestions. They’re dressed conservatively like any executive or businessman seated at the other tables. They’re eating delicious halibut with spinach, mascarpone, and slices of Parma ham, an exception to the rule that one eats little and poorly in exclusive restaurants. They’re drinking a Pinot Noir, Kaimira, 1998, chosen by the member without consulting his guest. They’re courteous, since they aren’t given to excess or speculation. The word “exception” is not part of their vocabulary. Everything is what it is, here and now, always.