Budapest was stirring.
The sun’s disc was sleepily climbing over the housetops, birds perched stiffly on branches. Tram wheels wailed on the rails, rebelling against their restraints as they crawled towards the inner city. It was six in the morning and a Monday. Figures trudging the streets vanished into the morning twilight, some were dragging suitcases, some carrying light rucksacks. The daily drudgery was commencing. The disillusionment, hope, sorrow and merriment of serious and troubled lives were carved into tired faces.
On the second floor of an Art Nouveau building that rose above a tram stop, was a light that had been on since the small hours. On the windowsill, doves were cooing, perhaps demanding their breakfast. Behind his messily laden desk, a stout man was sitting, his head on his hand like a statue of a melancholy Buddha. Dozens of photos were strewn in front of him. He was circling something on one of the photos now. He must have been doing this for quite a while as lots of circles already adorned various parts of the photos spread across the desk. Right now, however, he seemed to have stopped his painstaking work. Was he perhaps compelled to stand up by a disturbing thought? Or by the scuttling of the doves?
He rose wearily and walked to the window. He stretched his limbs, opened the poison-ivy-green casement wide and enjoyed the cold air biting his face. He waited a little, closed the window and made a cup of coffee. This had been his daily routine for decades. With a careless movement, he turned on the radio just as the morning news was being read. He listened to the monotonous torrent of words from the loudspeaker in a bored manner but then, at one point, he turned up the volume.
… The eight young people questioned about the accident by the swimming pool on Saturday evening continue to adhere to their story. According to sources, the teenagers had gathered in a holiday home by the Danube to celebrate the birthday of a friend but their fun almost turned into tragedy. By his own admission, one of them drank too much and fell into the swimming pool in the garden. His high blood alcohol content was corroborated by examination afterwards. Unfortunately, nobody noticed that he had fallen in the water because the lights by the pool had been turned off. He was unable to call for help because he knocked his head and lost consciousness. Investigators at the scene of the accident stated that the boy must have been under water for about ten minutes.
This supposition is based on the testimony of one of the eyewitnesses who said he had glanced at his telephone when the accident was discovered, while the watch of the boy involved in the accident had broken and stopped as a result of the fall, thereby signalling the exact time of the accident. The tragedy was not discovered in time because several young people had previously jumped into the unlit pool to play. The boy involved approached the pool in a state of intoxication and must have slipped on the wet stone floor. Dr Francis Soós, executive medical director at the Péterfy Sándor Utcai Kórház Hospital, said that the young man could not possibly have spent such a long time under water because they had not found any lasting damage to the brain. Witnesses continue to adhere to their claim that the boy’s life was saved by a girl. According to their statements, the young hero creatively saved the life of her fellow student by warming up the boy’s chilled body, though the exact circumstances of the revival still remain a mystery. Since the events, the curate of the Roman Catholic parish in Ajka has also met with the girl to gather personal information with the intention of elucidating whether this was a miracle or just good luck. According to the priest, it is not impossible that …
Before the presenter had got to the end of this sensational piece of news, the man silenced the set, glanced at his watch, took out his mobile phone and held down the button labelled one. The sapphire signet ring that adorned his ring finger flashed in the dim light as he drummed on the desk. His telephone dialled automatically.
‘Hello, Giovanni, is that you?’ he asked in an uncertain voice, but in Hungarian, just to make sure the butler would not ask too many questions.
At the other end of the line, an ebullient voice answered the call.
‘Adriano Esposito? You how be? Want tell something important me? Talk no problem.’
‘Listen, Giovanni, if his Excellency is already up, tell him I’d need to talk to him urgently. Tell him to call me right away.’
‘Nessun problema, Adriano, my master going call you.’
‘Good, Giovanni. Don’t forget about it, and thank you.’
‘I thank you you call. Ciao!’
After only a few minutes the phone rang.
‘Buongiorno, Brother Ennio,’ he said decisively into the receiver. ‘Excuse me for calling you at such an early hour but it’s about a girl. You should see her. As far as I know, she’s raised someone from the dead. If she’s one of them, she could be of the utmost help to us.’
‘Buongiorno, Brother Adriano. I’m glad you’re so enthusiastic so quickly, but I’d advise you to check on the matter and find out more precise information.’
‘Yes, of course, Ennio, but I’ve checked up on it already. I’ve acquired photos from her childhood as well. She looks very much like the girl we’ve been searching for. She behaved exactly as expected. She lay on top of a dead boy and resurrected him. It’s already been reported in the news.’
A sigh was heard from the other end of the phone.
‘All the same, do be prudent, Adriano. You remember, we came a cropper the last time we found a miracle worker like this. We could barely remove the stains he left. Anyway, send me a photo of her by e-mail.’
‘Yes, Brother, but I don’t think I’m wrong this time. The priest at Ajka has already talked to her, and it was he who managed to grab hold of her childhood photos. I’ve copied them, I’m looking at them right now. Food for thought. My instincts as well as facts suggest this girl could be useful to us. After telling Giovanni you should call me back, I’ve looked at the latest photos of the story. I’ve seen the clothes of the boy she’s saved. Completely burnt. There must have been a huge transfer of energy.’
‘Oh, all right, then it’s fine. We’ll have to talk about it personally tomorrow. Besides, get the priest in Ajka off the case lest he gets himself burnt. Will you fly to me in Rome? Bring along the photos too, and all other material you’ve been able to collect about her. Which reminds me, why did you chase the childhood photos?’
‘There’s a fireball above her head in almost all of them. No one saw anything when they took the photos, it only showed up when the films were developed.’
‘That’s odd. All right, then, I’ll be waiting for you in the Vatican at the usual place.’
‘Right, Ennio. I’ll call you tomorrow. Ciao!’
‘Ciao Adriano!’
The man talking on the other end of the line did not like chatting very much. His closest colleagues in Rome considered Ennio Marino a reserved but puzzling man. He leaned back now in his armchair and was absorbed in his thoughts. He loathed one thing, and that was when someone made a mistake. He opened the mail on his computer with curiosity, magnified the coloured childhood photo and something shot him in the stomach: he recognized the little lost girl in Saint Peter’s Square.
‘Good God!’
He magnified the photo as much as he could. The fireball hovering phantom-like above the little head truly fascinated him. He touched the screen with his finger. He was captivated by the innocent childish face, conjuring up memories of Jiang Li in his mind. He began to feel sorry for the stewardess. How pretty she was and how happy she looked, just like this little lass. Jiang Li, Jiang Li, I wonder whether your bones have crumbled over the last ten years. Or has anyone fished you out? Taking a large swig of his lemon tea, he spat the seed that had stuck between his teeth into his palm.
He hollered to his general factotum. ‘Giovanni! Don’t prepare dinner for tonight, I’ve got to go to the chancery this afternoon.’
There was no answer. The old servant was a little slower than necessary, but he also had a simple nature and was extremely patient. Above his blubbery hamster cheeks, his button-like eyes were made even smaller by his glasses.
‘Giovanni!’
‘I hear you, sir, I hear you. I was just having the duster among my teeth,’ he apologized – and knocked a book off the shelf.
Ennio guffawed uproariously.
‘Oh, my dear old fool. Try not to eat the duster for breakfast, there are too many feathers in it.’
‘My good sir is really humorous, but I’ve already breakfasted.’
‘Well, all right, all right,’ the archbishop soothed him. ‘My grey suit?’
‘It hangs second in the built-in wardrobe,’ Giovanni answered, his cumulus-like countenance appearing in the doorway.
‘Excellent, Giovanni. And what hangs first?’
‘Your cassock, of course.’
‘I should have known,’ the archbishop murmured and stepped to the wardrobe.
The morning, then the afternoon flew by on their falcon wings and Ennio was almost dizzy with hunger. There was no sign of Adriano and he could not reach him by phone either. Wanting to avoid the inquisitive questions of his colleagues, he had no wish to have dinner in the Vatican. The rather exclusive little restaurant in the Holy City that he sometimes used, the Ristorante dei Musei Vaticani, would also be full of acquaintances. For a change, he instructed Giovanni to reserve a table for him in the Pergola, the most elegant restaurant in Rome. He wanted to relax after the day’s strenuous proceedings and long discussions. He was zigzagging in his Mercedes through the streets of a well-to-do neighbourhood, a pair of cat’s eyes occasionally flashing in his headlights. I hope Giovanni didn’t forget to reserve a table, he brooded restlessly, but all his anxiety evaporated when the waiter helping his coat off showed him to a table overlooking the Basilica. There was pale green antique pottery, probably Chinese, ranged along the windowsills, and tulips bloomed in vases the shape of golden coins on cream-coloured tablecloths. Ennio loved this place because here he could pretend to belong to the world of men of fortune instead of that of the average man for a short while. He ordered an orange juice and opened the menu. He noticed from the corner of his eye that the neighbouring table was also occupied. He was a bit annoyed that he had to share the magnificent view of the Basilica with others: he would have rather have emptied the whole restaurant. But when he glanced up, his heart suddenly sank into his stomach. From the neighbouring table, Francesca, lounging there with a woman friend, threw him a smile. Intoxicated, Ennio waved to Francesca and her companion and felt that there was no stupider smile in the whole world than the one on his face right then. He had not seen Francesca for years, in fact since she had closed down her patisserie on Corso Vittorio Emanuel. She had disappeared, but here she was now, appearing when he had given her up.
‘Don’t tell me you were following me, Ennio?’
‘Why are you not addressing me as Monsignore?’ he shot back with a smile.
The woman was surprised yet, somehow, pleased by the teasing remark.
‘I think we know each other better than that. Although I’d have thought this restaurant was rather too elegant for a churchman like you, Monsignore.’
Ennio’s lower lip twitched from the pain caused by Francesca’s stab but he replied with dignity nevertheless.
‘It’s true.’ He acknowledged the remark, forcing a smile to his face. ‘But a little bit of glitter occasionally brings great delight. Do you still live in Rome?’
‘Of course I do. I manage my husband’s …’ at this word, her voice became uncertain, ‘ … my husband’s textile shop.’
As she had expected, Ennio jumped on the new information with a wry grin.
‘So you’ve given in? Well, to be honest, I didn’t think you would ever be conquered. Congratulations.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied, so awestruck that her friend beside her began to be worried.
‘And tell me, Francesca, is marriage a good thing?’
It was at this point when the waiter in a shirt as white as the driven snow stepped between them and served the orange juice. He might have broken the archbishop’s magic spell as Francesca answered, ‘Why don’t you give it a try yourself? Oh yes, of course, it’s forbidden!’
‘Is the gentleman truly an archbishop?’ her friend asked Francesca.
‘Unfortunately he is,’ the woman answered loud enough for Ennio to hear it clearly.
‘Why unfortunately?’ Ennio enquired. He found it impossible to hide his outrage any longer. Francesca gave him the coup de grâce.
‘I said “unfortunately” because if it weren’t so, I might just be your wife.’
Ennio felt like dashing out of the restaurant roaring. He always suspected that, although she refused him, Francesca was drawn to him. She knew precisely what was going on in the archbishop’s soul but intentionally dipped him into the flames of hell. Her female mind was begotten by the devil.
‘In that case, I wish you a pleasant conversation and dinner,’ Ennio said. Sipping his orange juice was not enough to damp the fire raised in his soul.
‘You’ve insulted him, Francesca,’ her friend whispered.
‘I haven’t, I’ve only aroused him,’ she whispered in her ear.
They sat in silence. Like an automaton, Ennio ate his roast lamb and washed it down with half a glass of red wine, paid and, saying goodbye to the ladies properly, went to leave, but Francesca called after him.
‘Ennio!’
‘Yes?’
‘Why don’t you drop by the shop sometime. It’s on the Via delle Botteghe Oscure. I haven’t seen you there yet.’
‘A rather enticing offer. I may think about it, although it must be a place too elegant for a church person like me,’ he replied, and made for the exit.
He sat in his car crestfallen but secretly feeling glad he’d been able to come up with a retort. I’d just like to know why the hell she wants to see me again now she’s married. He stepped on the accelerator, the engine roared and the tyres screeched. Back home, he put his jacket in Giovanni’s hand without a greeting and locked himself up in his room. He went to bed morosely.
The following morning he hurried to his office to meet his guest. At around ten o’clock, the Vatican silence was broken by the noise of brisk steps on the polished marble floor. Adriano Esposito was hurrying to see him: he did not like to keep the archbishop waiting. Ennio was standing at the window of a room with a high ceiling, staring into the distance. He was perhaps viewing the arched dome of St. Peter’s, or the sky, which looked ominously grey now.
‘Adriano?’
‘Yes, it’s me. The plane only landed an hour ago, sorry for being late.’
‘You promised to come yesterday.’
‘True,’ Adriano swallowed regretfully, ‘I should’ve sent word. A funeral intervened. My apologies.’
The archbishop hit the windowpane rhythmically. As he turned around, light from the bulbs bounced back from the golden rim of his spectacles and struck Adriano in the eyes.
‘Why didn’t you excuse yourself from the funeral?’
‘It was my father’s funeral.’
‘Oh, I see. Then you are welcome, Brother. My condolences. Still you should’ve let me know… Come now, we must go to a safer place. We can’t talk here, anyone could disturb us,’ he remarked shortly, a time bomb ticking in his voice. Adriano was conscious of this too so he did not waste time by explaining any further.
‘Of course, Ennio, nothing can leak out. Unity and fraternity!’
‘Unity and fraternity,’ Ennio muttered.
The outlines of a narrow door could be seen in the wall on the far side of the room. Ennio beckoned Adriano, who was still ashamed of himself for his lateness, to it. They entered a room off the main one. It was a library with shelves up to the ceiling, crammed full of books on religion and history. Leather-bound codices jostled with portfolios of centuries-old manuscripts collected by industrious, though feeble, hands over the centuries. It resembled the secret Vatican library, but there Ennio felt like a lord, while here he was an omnipotent monarch.
A single hexagonal desk stood despondently in the tiny room, four pale chestnut-coloured chairs were set on the wall-to-wall carpet. One flickering lamp was the only lighting. Ennio drew the soft-padded door shut and turned the key. They sat in semidarkness.
‘Adriano,’ the archbishop began, ‘tell me everything about this girl. Last night I had a vision that quite worries me. I’d like to hear your opinion. In my dream I was here in this library with piles of books towering above me scarily, when a fair-haired girl appeared. She looked like an angel come down on earth. She shook her head and transformed into a torch as she walked up to me, stark naked. She burnt all my books, the entire room, and scorched me. I shouted at her, asking why she was doing this but she only answered, “Could anyone carry fire in his soul without burning his clothes?” By the end of the dream, everything I had had been burnt up and I woke up soaking in ice-cold sweat.’
‘An interesting dream,’ Adriano said. ‘I hope it doesn’t mean what we both think it does.’
Leaning on the corner of the old-fashioned desk, he went on, ‘We have to be careful with fire: it can not only provide light and warmth but also burn our secrets. I’m afraid too, Ennio.’
‘I’m not afraid. Not afraid! I can achieve all I want.’
The archbishop rose to his feet, with his terrible expression glimmering in the wan light. The decades had scored deep furrows in the physiognomy of the old killer. Adriano had suspected from the beginning that he worked for the devil himself.
‘You already know yourself,’ the archbishop went on in a calmer voice, ‘that it was only recently that that Tibetan boy almost brought the police upon us. He carried out an appalling massacre. Adriano, mutual confidence and discretion are very important pillars of the Alliance of Peoples. Without these principles, we’d collapse. If anybody becomes unreliable … Well, you know.’
This gave Adriano the shivers. He adjusted his shock of curly hair, then calmed the hurried breathing of his stocky body, but was still panting.
‘So, are you willing to talk about the girl?’
‘Yes. The girl’s experiences started in her childhood. The other world talked to her and even actively intervened in her life.’
‘Have you talked to her in person?’
‘Not yet. I’d like to ask for your permission.’
‘Quite right, I’m glad you’re seeking it, brother.’
Adriano took a black folder from his briefcase; the stack of pictures almost tumbled out of it.
‘There are some photos here that even the mother and the girl haven’t seen. Daddy tactfully hid them.’
‘That’s interesting. Why would he have done that?’
‘I don’t know. By the way, she’s called Angela.’
‘I know.’
‘How come? Have you checked up on her?’
‘No, but my superior mentioned her way before you drew my attention to her. He told me, “Adriano will call you about this matter.”’
‘Unbelievable! Your boss knows about everything. A seer, really. You could tell me who the hell he is,’ Adriano enquired boldly.
Ennio guffawed.
‘Is he perhaps something like a CIA boss?’
The archbishop only shook his head.
‘If the CIA knew what he knows, lots of criminals would be amazed.’
‘Must be a real big gun.’ Adriano went on digging. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he were very old.’
‘Old enough, don’t you worry. But I’m more interested to know why Angela’s father hid some of the photos.’
Adriano’s fleshy fingers delved into the folder and took out a pile of photos.
‘He had hidden them in a shoebox but, as good luck would have it, they’ve just been found.’
‘Remarkable, but there’s no such thing as luck, you know that too,’ Ennio muttered, fingering the photos.
‘He apologized, saying he’d hidden them because they’re not much good. But people usually throw bad photos away, they don’t hide them.’
Ennio’s fingers excitedly carried on with their search.
‘“Not much good”, hmm, really? Would they really be that bad?’
‘Not highly likely. They’ve all got the same problem too. But it’d be preposterous to consider all these spheres of light to be the consequence of faulty film, since they appear in different places on each of the photos but always only above the girl’s head. I’ve had the father checked out and some very interesting facts about his past emerged.’
‘Well, well, well. But let’s talk about Angela first.’ He waved his hand.
‘Yes, sir. May I light up?’
‘Well, if you want to turn the room into a gas chamber, you may. Besides, we’re in a library.’
‘Oh yes, you’re right. Sorry. Well, the girl, yes. Her supernatural experiences began with a childhood dream, where, as far as she remembers, God talked to her openly, describing her mission and certain dark powers that infected the whole world.’
Adriano paused for effect, then went on a bit more softly, ‘God mentioned that most churches and public institutions spread the spirituality of the dark force as he called it. She recalled how she and her mother had escaped an apparently deadly car accident and told me about a revived dog too. I asked about this in detail.’
‘A revived dog?’ asked Ennio in amazement, his eyes piercing in the half-light.
‘Yes, it was run over by a truck. I’ve also brought you the full set of photos taken on the spot after the resuscitation of the drowned boy. I got them from our policeman friend,’ he murmured. ‘The colonel, you know.’
‘Naturally. You’ve done well. That’s what connections are for.’
Adriano was glad to be praised at last and leaned back in his chair.
‘I have no doubt,’ he went on more energetically, ‘that this girl can establish connections with the other world. However, the father could be dangerous, as he once had contact with the rebels fighting against the establishment of the great perfect world order. Against us, that is.’
‘And who are still fighting in vain to this very day,’ Ennio said, angrily.
Adriano kept pouring his words out excitedly.
‘We exterminated those pertinacious people back then, but their ideas had already infected many others. Do you remember the hippies, Ennio?’
‘Don’t remind me of them. The infection has spread. We’ll have to be cautious with the father.’
‘Don’t worry, Ennio. Should he prove to be a spy, we’ve already got well-established methods of dealing with them.’
‘We’ll have to send word to the black monks, Adriano. If necessary, they’ll dispatch him without hassle.’
As the door shut behind Adriano after
another three hours of discussion, the archbishop took out Angela’s childhood
photos again. Chosen. Could she be the
chosen one?
He sat back in his chair and impatiently drummed
on the armrest with his fingers. It’ll
happen the way I want it to! It doesn’t matter who you are, Angela, in the end,
you’ll die anyway. You can’t defeat me. Contra vim mortis, non est medicamen in
bortis!* At that moment, a bible that
had been sticking out from a high shelf fell, landing on the desk right in
front of the archbishop. Well, well!
Someone’s angry he thought, and shut the open book.
* No herb grows in the gardens against the power of death (Latin proverb)
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