Veil - 02 - The Hammer of God (17 page)

Geert offered to fetch a glass of cold water, and a car to take Father Tolbert back to his quarters, but the priest declined, gave his thanks, and minutes later, sat alone once again. He looked around the garden and took in the serene quiet. He pictured himself hanging dead from one of the trees.
A fitting end.
But the thought of taking his life on ground sanctified by the same earth on which Christ died made him feel even more ashamed. He walked out of the garden, left the bicycle, and lumbered, head down, hands in his pockets, toward the most likely place on his list of choices to end his miserable life, the Sistine Chapel.

Father Tolbert dragged himself past tourists, Vatican staff, and fellow clergy, barely acknowledging those who spoke, not making eye contact with anyone. He looked up and took in the omnipresent dome of St. Peter’s Basilica, which hovered over the entire city like a holy sentry standing guard over all of Christendom. When he reached the Monument to St. Peter, northeast of the Sistine Chapel, he saw a sight that caused his palms to dampen, and his heart to lust. He saw twin boys, South American, age eight or nine he guessed, fidgeting uncomfortably while their father tried unsuccessfully to get them to stand still long enough to take a picture in front of the monument. Both boys shared the handsome features of their father. Ruddy, sun ripened skin, thick black hair and wide smiles. The scene coaxed a smile from the priest and raised his spirits. Watching the father and sons, playful and full of life, made him long for a family he never knew.

“I wish that were me,” he whispered, jealous, envious of the innocent. He walked over to the trio. “Maybe I can be of some assistance,” he said, smiling broadly.

“Oh, thank you, padre,” gushed the boys’ father, bowing as though he were meeting the Holy Father himself.

“I’m Father Tolbert,” he said, gazing down at the twins, both now standing at attention. “You have two fine boys.”

“Thank you, Father. My name’s Carlos Mercado, and these are my sons, Joseph and Raphael. We’re visiting from Brazil.” The boys beamed at the priest as he mussed up their hair. “Welcome to Vatican City, and they’re strong looking lads, handsome, and they look alike.”

Both boys burst into laughter. “We’re twins, padre.”

“Well, what’d you know, you are. I must need glasses.” The boys continued to laugh as their father beamed, chest out.

“Here, let me take a picture of the three of you,” said Father Tolbert, grabbing the camera from Carlos’ hand, who bowed his head in effusive thanks, almost knocking over Raphael as he backed up.

Carlos positioned Joseph and Raphael on each side of him, and the three smiled wide and bright. Father Tolbert counted three and snapped two shots. Carlos told the boys to stay in their places, and begged Father Tolbert to take a picture with the boys. The priest told them no, that he had to move along, but Carlos insisted, and the boys begged in unison.

“Pleeeease!”

Father Tolbert walked in between the boys, struggling to suppress the surge now bolting through his body. Joseph and Raphael each clung to a leg, and their touch, soft and gentle, made the priest tingle with lust.

He looked down at the twins.

“Now, let’s have a big smile,”

Both boys smiled wider then they had standing next to their father, who was now fighting back tears. He snapped several shots, then ran forward and shook Father Tolbert’s hand profusely.

“Thank you, padre, thank you. You’re truly a blessing. Since their mother passed away six months ago, we haven’t had many happy days, but today you’ve blessed us,” said Carlos.

A knife couldn’t have cut through Father Tolbert any cleaner or deeper. He thanked Carlos and the boys, and abruptly walked away. He looked back at the three, who waived enthusiastically, bidding him well.

He was more determined to end the life he knew he didn’t deserve.

Built during the time of Pope Sixtus IV, between 1475 and 1483, the Sistine Chapel stood effulgent as the Vatican’s crowning glory.

Approaching the ordinary looking, rectangular brown stone chapel gave Father Tolbert a rush, each step an inch closer to the gallows, he, the self-executioner.

Inside, he immediately fell into a trance. The sight of exquisite and overwhelming splendor set a charge in his bosom, and confirmed his choice. He fought to control his breathing and dabbed his forehead dry, not wanting to attract attention, or somehow give away the cesspool of emotions swirling inside.

Although the outside held no serious architectural distinction, except that the building was constructed in the exact dimensions of the Temple of Solomon as described in the Old Testament, the interior could make a blind man weep, and the power of the artists who gave birth to the frescoes, tapestries and paintings swelled inside the chamber, pulsating, rich in the Holy Spirit.

The chapel, closed to all except private tours for the day, was empty except for another priest and two gentlemen, who Father Tolbert guessed from the way they were dressed, hailed from India. He ignored them and honed his attention on the painter Botticelli’s fresco that adorned the wall to his left, depicting the Life of Moses. On the wall to his right the Life of Christ.

Father Tolbert marveled at the mastery of the paintings on each wall, not only for their artistic value, but for their political statement of the times. Sixtus IV, desiring not only to show the correspondence between the Old and New Testaments, employed a precisely conceived program to illustrate through the entire cycle, the legitimacy of his papal authority, running from Moses via Christ, to Peter, whose ultimate authority, conferred by Christ, finds its continuation in the Popes. The perfect blend of creative and political genius.

The Indians and their guide nodded to Father Tolbert on their way out. He acknowledged them with a slight tilt of his head, and continued on to the back wall where the altar fresco, painted by Pietro Perugino, depicted the Virgin of the Assumption, to whom the chapel was dedicated. Father Tolbert stood, hands behind his back, tears welled-up in his eyes, and silently begged that the cup of his destruction pass. He stood ramrod still, waiting for the answer.
Did God not say of His
children, whosoever shall harm one of His little ones, that it would be
better for him to have a large millstone hung around his neck and be
drowned in the depths of the sea?
Silence echoed through the chapel of Father Tolbert’s mind.
Yes, I’ve hurt children. I deserve to drown, but I
want to live. But I can’t stop myself. I’ve tried, Lord, You know I have.

Tears streamed down the priest’s cheeks. His knees went weak and he struggled to keep his balance. He looked up at Michelangelo’s three year odyssey on the ceiling, barely able to make out the jaw dropping frescoes that seemed suspended from heaven. Father Tolbert’s vision cleared. He took in the beauty of Isaiah, David and Goliath, Zechariah, the power of The Separation of Light and Darkness, the Creation of the Sun, Moon and Plants, and the centerpiece of the artist’s grand inspiration, the Creation of Adam.

Father Tolbert dropped to his knees.
If I could just have forgiveness,
I might be able to get through this.
He felt a sudden, renewed vigor and surge of strength course through his bones, and for the first time in years, felt something he could build on. Small as it was, it was there. He stood with a sense of determination.
I can beat this, I know I can.

He strode toward the exit, but with each step, his resolve seeped away. Thoughts of Samuel crowded his head. He felt unsteady. Images of the South American twin boys and their gentle touch squirmed and worked its way into his psyche. He labored to breath and burst from the building, sucking in air by the bucket. He quickly put distance between himself and the chapel, and didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. He’d decided.

Loneliness crept in. Father Tolbert needed the closeness, the innocence only a child could give him. Something he never had as a young boy. He went to his room and changed pants, having soiled himself with urine.

He then hit the door, flagged down a taxi, and headed out on the hunt for a new love in Rome.

F
ather Tolbert exited the taxi on Via Condotti, and joined the mix of tourists and locals taking in the Roman favorite pastime of
passagiatta
, strolling along the streets people watching and window shopping.

Via Condotti, busy, but not too crowded, boasted many of the city’s most fashionable shops and boutiques. Father Tolbert checked his watch.

It was just after lunch, the most important meal in Rome. Most of the shops were closed, and locals who still followed Roman lore, were deep into siesta.

Father Tolbert, hands in his pockets, fingered the rubber ball and hard candy he’d brought with him as bait. He scanned the crowd, nodding with feigned benevolence to each passerby who acknowledged his black suit and white collar, paying particular attention to each adult accompanied by children. Most of the kids he saw were far too young for his taste, although the bright faces and big smiles of even the little ones increased his desire and anticipation. He’d been without a lover longer than he thought he could handle, due mostly to Samuel’s abduction, but mostly because of his trip to Rome. He had no real connections in the city, at least not on its darker side, a disadvantage he planned to change soon.

An hour into his search, with no opportunities at hand, Father Tolbert caught another taxi to the open air market near the center of town. Filled with fresh fruit and flower stands, butchers and fresh fish, the market was fairly busy for a Roman afternoon. The priest stopped at a fruit stand and picked out a large red apple. The owner, a short, stout woman with large forearms, refused to let him pay.

“Grazie, grazie,” said Father Tolbert, thanking her. “Bless you.” The woman, near toothless, smiled and offered him more fruit, but he graciously declined and continued his search, taking note of each young boy as he strolled through the food-filled menagerie eating the apple.

Father Tolbert knew he could easily meet his needs in the red light district, but young male prostitutes provided only temporary satisfaction, and couldn’t give him the closeness, the tenderness of a child turned his way.

He dropped his half eaten apple on the ground. His jaw fell, his eyes widened.
My God, it’s him! Samuel!
Standing fifty feet from him, dressed in a soiled white apron and black cap was Samuel. The priest’s legs went weak, but he managed to take a few steps toward the fish stand where Samuel was working. He tried to get the boy’s attention, but each time he made eye contact, Samuel turned away and continued to help a dark-skinned man with serious eyes and no nonsense jaw at the fish stand.

“Eduardo,” the man called, without looking at the boy.

“Si, Papa?” the boy answered.

“Get Signore Ugo ten fresh eel, rapidamente!”

“Si, Papa, rapidamente!”

“Eduardo?” Father Tolbert whispered.
It’s not him. It’s not my
Samuel.

Father Tolbert eased closer to the fish stand, keeping an eye on the thick necked Italian, who he assumed to be Eduardo’s father, but continued to focus heavily on the boy who could’ve passed for Samuel’s twin.

“Posso esserte utile desidera, Padre?” asked the thick Italian. “May I help you, Father?”

“No thank you. Just looking, Signore.”

“Ahhhh, Americano!” the man answered, his heavy demeanor transforming to one of delight.

“Yes,” said Father Tolbert. “I’m an American. Please excuse me my Italian is not so good.”

“Don’t worry, Father, we speak some English. It means money around here.”

Both men laughed, as Eduardo appeared from behind a drape with a fresh box of eel.

“And who is this fine lad?” asked the priest.

“Please, excuse Padre. My name is Armanno DiRisio, because my father and my father’s father were soldiers. I, sir, am not. And this is my son, Eduardo, because one day he will be a very rich man.” Eduardo gave a wide smile. “Si, Papa, very rich.” Father Tolbert introduced himself.
Amazing, if I didn’t know it
couldn’t be true, I’d swear this was my Samuel.
Awestruck, he had to work not to stare at the boy too long or hard, not wanting his attraction conspicuous.

“Eduardo, give me the eel, and keep Father Tolbert company while I take care of Signore Ugo.”

Eduardo handed his father the box. The priest took a piece of candy from his pocket, knelt down and handed it to the boy. Eduardo thanked him, and pulled off his cap to reveal thick locks of jet-black hair, unlike Samuel’s dirty brown, but sported the same soft blue eyes. The longer Father Tolbert looked, the more enchanted he became. If he couldn’t have Samuel, this replacement would do.

“You’re a very handsome boy, Eduardo,” beamed the priest.

“Thank you, Father. Papa says I’m smart too,” said Eduardo, slipping the lemon-lime candy in his mouth, smiling.

Father Tolbert glanced over at Armanno, who finished his business with Mr. Ugo, and was attending to the next customer, an old woman wearing a black scarf and gray shawl, who couldn’t seem to make up her mind.

The priest reached in his pocket. “Do you like sports?” he asked Eduardo, gripping the rubber sphere.

“Si, Padre, I like baseball, but Papa says football is the game I should play.”

Father Tolbert knew Eduardo was referring to the game of soccer, and smiled at the opportunity. He put a finger to his lips and motioned for Eduardo to keep quiet. He slipped the ball from his pocket to the boy.

Eduardo’s eyes widened, his face brightened.

“I like baseball too,” said Father Tolbert. “We can play catch sometimes, but let’s keep the ball our secret.” Father Tolbert looked over at Eduardo’s father, who was still consumed with the old woman. He smiled at the boy. Eduardo laughed.

The priest put the boy’s hat back on his head, whispered in Eduardo’s ear that he had a baseball glove he could have, and would get it to him soon.

Eduardo gave Father Tolbert a hug. The priest folded another piece of hard candy, cherry this time, in the boy’s hand and kissed him on the forehead. Armanno finally finished with the old woman. Father Tolbert stood.