Father Elijah: An Apocalypse

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am indebted to the Polish Canadian poet Christopher Zakrzewski for his translations of The Crimean Sonnets by Adam Mickiewicz, for permission to quote from them in Father Elijah, and for his editorial assistance. And to several friends who offered wise insights and technical help. Above all, I wish to thank my wife, Sheila, whose editorial sense is unsurpassed, and whose patience as I stare glassy-eyed over many a meal will one day be rewarded.

INTRODUCTION

An apocalypse is a work of literature dealing with the end of human history. For millennia apocalypses of various sorts have arisen throughout the world in the cultural life of many peoples and religions. They are generated by philosophical speculation, by visions of the future, or by inarticulate longings and apprehensions, and not infrequently by the abiding human passion for what J. R. R. Tolkien called sub-creation. These poems, epics, fantasies, myths, and prophetic works bear a common witness to man’s transient state upon the earth. Man is a stranger and sojourner. His existence is inexpressibly beautiful—and dangerous. It is fraught with mysteries that beg to be deciphered. The Greek word apokalypsis means an uncovering, or revealing. Through such revelations man gazes into the panorama of human history in search of the key to his identity, in search of permanence and completion.

Perhaps the worst of the demythologizing so endemic to our times is the message that the stories of the Christian Faith are merely our version of universal myths. It is suggested that many cultures have produced tales about a hero who is killed and then returns to life; many more have imagined a cataclysm that will occur at the end of history. G. K. Chesterton once wrote that the demythologizers’ position really adds up to this: since a truth has impressed itself deeply in the imagination of a vast number of ancient peoples, it simply cannot be true. He pointed out that the demythologizer has failed to examine the most important consideration of all: that people of various times and places may have been informed at an intuitive level of actual events that would one day take place in history; that in their inner longings there was a glimmer of light, a presentiment, a yearning forward through the medium of art toward the fullness of Truth that would one day be made flesh in the Incarnation. Saint John’s Revelation is an apocalypse of a higher order. It is genuine prophecy in the sense that it is not merely a work of foretelling but a communication from the Lord of history Himself. It is an exhortation, an encouragement, a teaching vehicle, and a vision of actual events that will one day occur.

As the drama of our times speeds toward some unknown climax, numerous speculations arise and new attention is given to John’s Apocalypse, stimulating a plethora of interpretation. One school of thought has it that the book refers solely to John’s own time; another asserts that it is exclusively a meditation on the end of things in some indeterminate future; still another believes that the book is a map of the Church’s history, unfolded in seven major epochs. A fourth interpretation, one favored by most of the Church Fathers, holds that it is a theological vision of a vast spiritual landscape, containing descriptions of the situation of the Church in John’s own time, and also the events that are to unfold at the end of time. For John, the end times begin with the Incarnation of Christ into the world, and there remains only a last battle through which the Church must pass.

This, in my view, is the fullest and best interpretation, and it is the one I have followed in Father Elijah. The reader will encounter here an apocalypse in the old literary sense, but one that was written in the light of Christian revelation. It is a speculation, a work of fiction. It does not attempt to predict certain details of the final Apocalypse so much as to ask how human personality would respond under conditions of intolerable tension, in a moral climate that grows steadily chillier, in a spiritual state of constantly shifting horizons. The near future holds for us many possible variations on the apocalyptic theme, some direr than others. I have presented only one scenario. And yet, the central character is plunged into a dilemma that would face him in any apocalypse. He finds himself within the events that are unfolding, and thus he is faced with the problem of perception: how to see the hidden structure of his chaotic times, how to step outside it and to view it objectively while remaining within it as a participant, as an agent for the good.

The reader should be forewarned that this book is a novel of ideas. It does not proceed at the addictive pace of a television microdrama, nor does it offer simplistic resolutions and false piety. It offers the Cross. It bears witness, I hope, to the ultimate victory of light.

1

Carmel

Brother Ass found Father Elijah in the onion garden. The old monk was hoeing, sweating under his straw bonnet, and the young brother felt a moment of pity for him.

Father Prior wants you.

Thank you, Brother.

You’re to go right now, he says. Don’t worry about washing up. Come right away. His words spilled out all ajumble, as they usually did. He was referred to as Brother Ass because of his simplicity and his preference for any household task that could be accomplished by beasts of burden. Elijah thought of him as the small one.

Hurry, hurry, he nagged. His good eye was laughing; the other was scarred and set in a permanent wink. He was a Christian Palestinian, a gangly, uncomplicated boy who did not mind being insignificant.

He was not held in esteem by most of the fathers and brothers. He was sloppy and forgot the Rule almost every day—although he was always sincerely repentant. Their attitude toward him was usually patient; at its worst, and then only rarely, it was condescending. Elijah liked him very much, and between them there was a sincere, if detached, affection.

I happen to know, Father, that a big telephone call came from Italy an hour ago. Brother Sylvester told me when we passed in the hall after prayers.

He clapped a hand over his mouth, and his one good eye contorted in shame.

I’m sure that you and Brother Sylvester didn’t mean to break the Silence, said Elijah.

Yes, tomorrow I will keep the Rule perfectly.

And I’m sure that tomorrow you will remember to keep the Rule perfectly.

Yes, tomorrow I will keep the Rule perfectly.

God sees your heart. He knows that you love Him.

The small one nodded emphatically.

When you are praying, when you are asking Him to remind you of things, please pray for me so that I may keep the Rule perfectly?

I will, Father.

I am grateful for your prayers.

Thank you, Father.

They parted in the hallway outside the prior’s office. The small one bustled off to the church, where he would kneel before the Presence and ask pardon for yet another day in which he had failed to avoid transgression.

Elijah knocked.

The prior said to enter. Elijah did so, and waited. The prior bid him be seated. He was a German. His high, domed forehead, solemn features, and thoughtful gray eyes rightly belonged in the face of a scholastic, perhaps a northern Benedictine. But Elijah had long ago learned not to judge by appearances. This prior in particular was not what he seemed. He stood by the window overlooking the Bay of Haifa, watching the sun fall into the sea.

It is most irregular, Father Elijah. I do not feel peace about it.

About what, Father Prior?

Your namesake dwelt on this holy mountain three thousand years ago. He came here to listen for the voice of God.

Elijah waited, knowing there would be more forthcoming. The wind rummaged uneasily in the grape arbors.

"He heard it in a gentle breeze, not in rushing about the world looking for projects. Our vocation is a call to listening. To adoration of the One who dwells among us. That is why you came here. That is why you were born."

Elijah nodded.

As prior I have been given a grace of discernment for my spiritual sons. And I am distressed.

Are you distressed about me?

Excuse me, I have been talking without explaining. A telephone message came today. You are being called to Rome.

Rome? But our house there is full to overflowing. We are practically empty here.

You are not being called to the house in Rome. It’s to the Vatican.

The Vatican?

I spoke with a senior official in the Secretariat of State this afternoon. He sent the necessary documents by fax shortly afterward: the formal letter of instruction and the information for your flight. You are to meet with certain officials at the secretariat as soon as possible.

Did he explain the purpose of the trip?

He said very little. You will be informed when you arrive.

When do I leave?

That is the part which surprises me. The man I spoke with expressed a certain urgency. You leave on the next flight from Ben Gurion. Everything has been arranged. Visa, tickets. Rome arranged the details directly with the Israelis.

Surely he mentioned the purpose.

Only that it pertains to archaeology.

Archaeology?

You have a long-standing interest in archaeology, do you not, Father?

An amateur’s interest.

You have published papers on biblical archaeology in international journals.

Yes, but they weren’t exceptional essays. Mere speculations. More a spirituality of biblical archaeology than the strict science.

They seem to have drawn the attention of the Vatican.

There are no conferences on the subject in the near future. I don’t understand the urgency.

Nor do I. The prior stared at his desk.

How long will I be gone?

The official didn’t want to say. He would tell me only that there is work which may demand your absence for a considerable length of time. He said that the duration of the mission was uncertain and that it was of the highest importance.

What of my theology classes? Who will instruct the novices?

Father John can take them.

I was to preach the retreats at Bethlehem next week.

I can take them.

Father Prior was a gifted preacher and much in demand. The two men sat in silence for some minutes, listening to the evening birds.

Can you tell me the source of your distress?

I’m not sure. I sense that you are going into grave danger.

In archaeology?

We have an extraordinary Pope, a man of the spirit, and heart and intellect—a saint. But he is surrounded by enemies. The Church is in crisis to her very foundations.

Yes, bleeding from many wounds.

The worst of these wounds have been inflicted by her own children. Rome is a troubled place right now. A place of shifting illusions.

You spoke of danger.

Yes.

What kind of danger?

The spiritual kind. I tell you, I’m not at peace. I send you to Italy under obedience, for what does our life mean without obedience? Still, I know that I’m sending you into some form of peril.

I’m not afraid of death.

Death, said the prior, sighing, could be the least of dangers.

May I speak plainly, as son to father?

Of course you may. Do you think I fail to see the similarities between us? You are a convert from Judaism chosen by God to become a Carmelite priest—a branch pulled from the fire. And I, a refugee from German atheism. Both exiles who have come home. Brothers.

I revere you as my father.

Only three votes would have reversed the chairs in which we are sitting.

The Holy Spirit chose you.

And I wouldn’t be surprised if He chooses you at the next election. I would die in peace if this were so. But now I don’t think it will be.

Father Elijah looked at the prior quizzically. No?

Since the telephone call, I have been praying. And I hear a word that tells me you won’t return.

If that is so, then I’m grieved. This is my only home. You are my friend.

Friend. I treasure this word from you. Not good to have attachments, is it? But even here where we maintain universal charity, it is impossible not to see that certain ones are called to walk the same path.

I have long walked behind you on this ascent of Mount Carmel. You have taught me everything a father could teach a son.

If I have taught you to carry the cross and to die on it, then I have taught you everything. Have I taught you this?

You have taught it to me from the very moment of my arrival.

Do you know that when you first came here I thought you wouldn’t last? A Jew. A famous survivor of the Holocaust. A man powerful in Israel. How could a person like you accept becoming a hidden man of God? That is why I was so hard on you in the beginning.

The brothers used to say that there was never a novice master as rigorous as you.

The Prussian?

You heard that? It wasn’t a charitable nickname.

It was accurate. I had much to learn in those days. There were zones in my character where faith had not penetrated. Our times inflict peculiar wounds in the soul.

I often wondered if you were testing me.

Yes, I tested you. It was something unresolved in me. I didn’t have enough faith to overcome ‘impossible cultural barriers’. I simply assumed that the Palestinian brothers would never accept you. I assumed that you were bringing into these poor walls the disease of famous men: pride, the destroyer of souls—and communities. I was wrong.

You were right.

Father Prior looked at him steadily.

You were right because no man is exempt from that temptation. Everyone must wrestle with it, whatever form it takes. I wasn’t proud because I had been a minister of the government, or because it was said that I would be prime minister one day. I wasn’t proud because of my books. I was proud because a secret gnawing ideal kept whispering within me, a voice that said I could save the world. That I could prevent another Holocaust. I thought I was like God. A good, humble god, of course.

Ah, Elijah, said the prior, waving his hand as if to dismiss the thought, you weren’t pulled from the fire for nothing.

Fire is a test. It purifies or it destroys. It took years for me to throw off the thirst for vengeance disguised as justice. I was full of idealistic hatred—the worst kind.

Your whole family was annihilated. How could you not hate us?

I did for years. I became a cold, dead man. A shell. The mercy of God shattered it when I became a believer.

But not everything is accomplished at one stroke.

True. When I came to this house I brought the rage with me. Rage and indignation.

I often wondered how you controlled your dislike of me.

I didn’t want to dislike you. But the German accent. The mannerisms. It was too much for me.

I know. We have never spoken of this, Father. But I remember the month and the year when you forgave everything, totally. Your eyes changed. Until then you had forgiven much, but not everything.

You taught me this.

I taught you this?

Yes. You see, I knew that you knew my dislike. A lesser man than you would have become severer or, worse, kinder. But you remained detached, and gradually I came to understand you. It took years to see it, and when I finally saw it, I knew the great act of charity you had made. You had resigned yourself to being forever the Teutonic despot in our eyes.

The prior replied, Man projects his wounds upon the world, my friend. He judges everything, and in the judging he reveals himself. Some of my family were persecuted by Hitler, a few, a pitiful few. My uncle, a priest, was martyred in Dachau. But most of my relatives were complacent, asleep, or frightened. They collaborated with evil. Several were members of the Nazi Party. One of my cousins was in the SS. Quite a mixture, my family.

A portrait of the human race.

Yes, the human race. It doesn’t change much from people to people, nation to nation. Only the seasons and the themes of the struggle change. If I had been a little older, I’m not sure whom I would have followed, my martyred uncle or my heroic cousin. Does that shock you?

No.

It shocks me, Elijah.

You were a boy.

I was never a boy like you. It is true that I was a youth during the Holocaust. Technically speaking I committed no sins. I console myself with that at certain moments, but it’s cold comfort. The Holocaust was a warning to the whole world. The most cultured, religious nation in Europe allowed the unthinkable to arise in its midst. My relatives and neighbors.

They sat in silence for several more minutes until the prior shook himself and stood.

You had better wash and pack. Brother Sylvester will drive you to the airport in the morning. Don’t wear your habit.

Why may I not wear the habit?

There have been incidents in Rome. Priests and nuns spat on and physically attacked. It’s growing more frequent.

What if there is someone on my journey who needs to confess? If he sees a priest, he may be moved to ask for help. Can we deny him the opportunity?

The prior looked at the floor and thought.

As usual, you are right, Elijah. Wear your habit.

He bowed his head for the prior’s blessing. Then the two men embraced without another word, and Elijah went to his cell. There he prayed for several hours and slept fitfully until about four in the morning, when Brother Sylvester woke him.

They drove south on the coastal highway in the predawn. As they went through the northern suburbs of Tel Aviv, he glanced east toward Ramat Gan, where he and Ruth had lived for two years. He wondered, as he had many times, what his life would have become if the bomb had not exploded. Or if she had gone to Jerusalem early, as he had suggested. But she had shrugged off his anxiety.

"I’m a sabra, Dovidl. I’m used to terrorist threats. They’re just part of the landscape."

She had a class to teach at the university in Jerusalem that afternoon and would not be home until late. She said that she would buy some feta cheese, pears, and smoked cod at the market first and would leave it in the refrigerator for supper. She scolded him fondly. He promised to feed himself properly. Go, he said, go. If she hurried, she would be on time for her class. She kissed him and left. A half hour later he heard the explosion from the office, and he knew. He could not explain how he knew, because he was not then a believer. At that time he believed only in Israel and in Ruth.

Brother Sylvester passed Ramat Gan at just above the speed limit, and mercifully they slipped through the city before traffic began in earnest. They checked in at Ben Gurion terminal by eight. There were some raised eyebrows at security when they saw his habit, but the name on his passport and a brisk consultation between officials got him through without the usual strip search—a custom intended more for the purpose of humiliation than for prevention of terrorism.

You’re lucky you have friends in the Knesset, said a guard.

*   *   *   *   *

At nine o’clock, Father Elijah was aboard the morning flight to Rome. He had a window seat. It had been many years since he had flown, and he enjoyed each sensation immensely. The jet rose up at a sharp angle over the Mediterranean, which was already a sheet of molten silver.

His two seatmates barely acknowledged his presence. The middle-aged woman beside him wore yellow plastic jewelry and smelled of gardenias. She was reading a French mystery novel. In the aisle seat, a sunburned man in a blue-flowered sports shirt typed on his laptop computer.

Elijah drowsed until breakfast.

The stewardess served the meal to his two seatmates, seasoned with smiles and friendly chatter. She served him without a glance and did not respond to his thanks. He dismissed her omission as absentmindedness. But when she took the trays away a half hour later, repeating the same warmth toward the others, and increasing the chill toward him, he thought it might be deliberate. He said a prayer for her and resisted a mild tug toward paranoia.

The in-fight film portrayed a legal battle between the lawyers of an unnamed Western superpower and a psychotic cult-leader. The idealist young lawyers, male and female, were handsome, witty, brilliant, moralistic (aside from their fornications), and determined to save the world from fanatics. By contrast, the cult leader was nothing short of loathsome. Between acts of sexual violence and brainwashing, he repeatedly barked his fidelity to my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. At the film’s climax, he led his entire following in an act of communal suicide. Father Elijah wondered if he had missed a few developments since entering the monastery twenty years before.

The stewardess returned and repeated the pattern of selective charm. She offered a choice of periodicals. Elijah took Jerusalem Daily News and Worldview. He had never heard of the latter. Its masthead informed him that it was a journal of international events, published weekly in English, Italian, Spanish, German, Japanese, and French editions. Worldwide circulation: seven and a half million. The face on the cover was unknown to him. A distinguished-looking man in his early fifties. The caption read in bold letters: A New President for the Federation of European States.

The feature article discussed the President’s rapid rise, his background, his numerous achievements, honors, degrees. A figure of outstanding human qualities. There was a paragraph about his sociopolitical philosophy. He was first and foremost a humanist, it seemed. He was speaking everywhere about the forging of a global civilization and the rebirth of a fundamental option for mankind.

Addressing the International Court of Human Rights in The Hague the week before, he had said, Because of the widespread violation of human rights during the past century, we have suffered a loss of confidence in man. He reminded the jurists that the age of nation-states waging war for territorial acquisition was drawing to a close. Now at the beginning of the third millennium of the Common Era, all mankind must turn toward the future and accept a vision of our destiny that embraces everything human, in its totality, including the concept of man as a spiritual being.

Elijah paused.

This indeed was a leader above the usual run of politicians. A philosopher perhaps.

The woman beside him tapped the cover of the magazine.

"C’est beau, ça! Le monde a besoin de cet homme."

Speaking in French, Elijah agreed with her that the President was saying some important things. True things. He might, indeed, do some good for the world.

She looked at him askance.

"Some good? But this man is the best thing Europe has produced since the war. He’s the one to do it. You watch. He’s the one."

Elijah nodded and went back to the article. It said that the President was currently at his villa near Naples, resting from a prolonged speaking tour.

The woman leaned over him and pointed out the window. Look, over there. It’s the heel of the boot. We’re going to cross the coast of Italy in a minute.

Elijah offered to trade his seat, and she readily accepted.

The man on the aisle glanced over and said in English, Going to see the Vatican?

Yes, I am.

Rome’s a great place. You been there before?

No.

Israeli?

Yes.

The young man did not need to tell Elijah that he was an American.

Are you returning to the United States?

Uh-huh. Shore leave.

How long have you been away?

Three years.

Are you lonely for America?

You bet. Land of the free, home of the brave.

Ah yes. Tell me, please, what do Americans think of this new European president?

We’ve got our own new president to worry about. They’re all pretty much the same these days, you know.

In what way?

Everybody’s a sociologist.

But not you?

Nope. My workshop’s the good old dependable human body. Give me an appendix over a psyche any day.

You are a doctor?

Uh-huh. I’ve been an embassy staffer in the Near East the last couple of years.

Jerusalem?

Several places.

Are you a military doctor?

Navy, he said tonelessly.

Changing the subject, the American flipped open a copy of Worldview. It was an older issue of the magazine.

Hey, this guy’s in every one of these. He gets around. Here he is arranging with the World Bank to prop up the Russian economy again. A month ago he stopped a war between two banana republics in Africa. Quite a guy. Looks like a class-act hero.

So it seems, said Elijah pensively.

You some kind of monk?

Yes. I am some kind of monk.

I used to be Catholic.

No longer?

Nope. I gave it up for Lent a long time ago.

Why did you give it up?

It didn’t work. It never did work too well, did it? Hell, you people are still galloping into the twenty-first century on the back of a snail. This ain’t the Middle Ages anymore, fella.

He proceeded to instruct the priest on the several follies of the Church’s doctrine.

I was at the latest UN conference on population, as an observer. You know what they were saying in the halls? They were saying there are two main problems in today’s world. The first is, there are three billion people too many on this planet, and they gotta go. The second problem is the Roman Catholic Church. And it’s gotta go.

I have read reports about this conference, and I saw no such remarks.

It was the kind of thing delegates were saying in the hallways, private conversations, you know. The public speeches were something else. Working papers and all that stuff. You could get the drift of it, but not loud and clear, not what people really felt. Even so, your Pope rejected most of the conference statements. He’d better smarten up fast if he wants to keep what remains.

What do you mean?

I mean, your Church is the only thing that stands in the way of making this a healthy planet to live on.

You are perhaps overlooking communist China.

Things are changing there. They’re bringing their population problem under tight control. Capitalism’s coming on strong, and elections are scheduled for two years from now.

The Chinese can be masters of illusion.

The bottom line is they’ve got massive birth control and compulsory abortion.

If we destroy three billion people to make this a supposedly healthy place to live, what kind of a place will it be? Would you want to live with the people who remain?

Look, it’s the age of democracy, and you guys are still trying to run a medieval monarchy over there in Rome. At least the US bishops have got it right. They’re trying to decentralize, trying to get power back into regional governments.

I have heard.

Not that it matters really, because I don’t think you have too many believers left over there.

Fifty million.

How many of them listen to the Pope?

I don’t know.

Well, there y’go. Take a look around, pal. It’s a whole new world shaping up fast.

The American opened his magazine and began to read to himself.

Elijah glanced over at the window and saw mountains below. The Apennines. The jet banked imperceptibly and began its slow descent toward Rome. He saw across the aisle the west coast and a bay that must be Naples.

He opened his copy of Worldview and turned to the religion section. Under the title, World’s Theologians Reject Latest Papàl Encyclical, he read the following:

Six decades ago Albert Einstein rejected the idea of an anthropomorphic God and declared his love for beauty, mystery, and contemplation of the marvelous structure of the universe. Theologians at the time were upset that he bypassed the tradition of Judaism and Christianity, which proclaimed a God who exists beyond and above his creation. But theology has come of age, and the perennial role of theologian as handmaiden to the papacy is gone forever. A new generation of religious thinkers strives to address transcendent realities from a broader perspective.

Meeting last week in Tubingen, Germany, the International Association of Catholic Theologians hammered out a definitive response to the latest papal encyclical. The result is nothing less than a little masterpiece, an articulate manifesto for a religious vision appropriate to the twenty-first century. The co-chairperson of the association, Dr. Felix von Tilman, a former priest and present director of the Gaia Institute for Studies in Religion and Politics, spoke for the five thousand worldwide membership when he said, The time has come for the human community to take a quantum leap in its theology of creation. The former distinctions between plant, animal, and human realms have proved disastrous for our planet. No longer can thinking persons accept without question the tragically stunted utterances of hierarchs or bonzes, ayatollahs or gurus.

Although Dr. von Tilman made no accusations against the present pope and did not directly associate the religious tyrannies of the past with the papacy in its present form, he emphasized the concern of world theologians that the pope’s encyclical, On Freedom and the Human Person, neglected consideration of recent breakthroughs in theology and spirituality—what von Tilman calls the deep ecumenism. There is a consensus among theologians, he states, that the papal document overemphasizes the concept of absolute truths to the detriment of dialogue between world religions.

Taking the podium, Dr. Mary Ellen Miller of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, past president of the International Council of Superiors of Women Religious, affirmed her organization’s support of the IACT’s document and called for the Vatican to reassess its positions on moral theology.

Speaking calmly, with conviction, she pointed out to the assembly that hierarchies tend to degenerate into tyrannies. There are vestiges of the Inquisitional Church still active in the modern church, forces that work against the progress of humanity toward an era of universal harmony. These forces must be confronted at every turn and forced into powerlessness. The empowerment of the people of God has come into its own.

Citing numerous references from the recent encyclical, she demonstrated that the church of Rome clings to a kind of absolute authority over the conscience, which, she argues, negates the concept of personal freedom and contradicts the avowed objectives of the encyclical. The manner in which theologians have been handled by the Vatican, she pointed out, is a prime example of its actual view of freedom. Enforcement of bad theology by hierarchs is unworthy of the name church and should be called by its true name, she concluded. Its name is injustice. Its name is sacrilege.

Archbishop Raymond Welland of New York added his voice to the growing chorus of dissent when he said in a homily at the association’s closing mass, Under this pontificate, the church has displayed a flagrant disregard for the voice of the people. This voice is, in a profound sense, the voice of God. We have too long ignored this grassroots magisterium in favor of an isolated man sitting on a lonely throne in distant Rome, demanding blind obedience.

Elijah shook his head slowly.

The jet’s wheels hit the runway at that moment, and the lurch of the craft prevented any return to the article.

He was cleared through customs after considerable difficulty. He just barely passed an interview with the head of airport security, who snapped questions at him and interrupted every one of his answers. He was strip-searched by two guards, one of whom was female. They tore his luggage apart. When he emerged through the customs barrier he was somewhat dazed and unprepared for his reception committee.

2

Rome

It was a committee of one, a short, fat man with a florid face waving to him from the end of the gate at the main terminal lobby.

Davy! the man yelled with a show of teeth. Over here, lad!

It took a moment for the face and the grin to register, and then Elijah burst out laughing. I don’t believe it! Is that you, Billy?

In the flesh!

This is a surprise. Are you the one sent to meet me?

None other.

I had no idea you were in Rome.

"I came visiting with the primate of England last year, and the Curia asked if they could keep me for a while. Special missions for various congregations. A glorified ‘gofer’ is what I am, with a Monsignore tacked to the front o’ me name and a purple sash and everythin’."

I don’t believe it! You, a monsignor.

That sounds like a compliment and an insult all in one.

Same old Billy.

Yeah, same old Billy.

Congratulations! That’s wonderful news.

He pumped the Englishman’s hand.

Billy Stangsby was now over fifty years of age. Despite his rise to the position of curial monsignor, he was as fresh faced and as childlike as ever. Billy the Kid, someone had called him at l’Ecole biblique. Many people thought him a frivolous personality. Elijah had spotted the depths and taken to him instantly. Obviously, someone at the Vatican had too. To look at him you would never guess that he was a master of biblical theology, a civil lawyer, an ex—member of Parliament, and a famous convert from Anglicanism. He was a diocesan priest of Birmingham, England. In his last letter, written from there over a year ago, he had mentioned that he was trying to obtain his doctorate in canon law. He looked like a taxi driver and talked like one. Elijah noted that he was not dressed in blacks and collar. He wore a salmon pink sports shirt, a light cotton jacket, gray flannel slacks, and expensive leather shoes. The wristwatch was gold, the pen in his breast pocket was gold, several of his teeth were gold, but the shock of unruly hair was pure Billy.

You look more prosperous, Monsignor, than the last time we met.

And you still look like a rabbi with a bad haircut. Wow, the hair’s white, what’s left of it.

Getting old, getting old.

Looks like they ruffled you up in customs.

Do they treat everyone this way?

Nope. Special treatment for clerics. I thought my boss told your boss to send you in civvies.

He did suggest something like that. I argued against it and won. I wish I had lost.

Billy took his suitcase and said, Let’s get out of here. You’re getting more hate stares than a sensitive lad like me can stand.

On the way to the main entrance, they passed an illuminated kiosk displaying a poster of a nude man and woman embracing. It was an advertisement for perfume.

That is astounding, said Elijah, looking away from it.

Ooh, you’re in for some big surprises, Davy. That’s nothing. Take a look at the other side.

The reverse side of the kiosk was an advertisement for cognac. Displayed on it were two nude men lying on their backs in bed, arm in arm, gazing into each other’s eyes, both sipping through straws from a single brandy glass.

Am I seeing correctly?

You are. You are, grumbled Billy. Maybe I should blindfold you till we get out to the parking lot.