ghostly, almost deserted. It was the High Holy Days.
Cohen Brothers—New York, London, Tel Aviv. She paused and touched the brass plate in the lobby of the high-rise—surprising herself, as she had never felt anything for the firm. Still, she would not be coming back. She had left a message for her father and for the Halevys; she would not miss the jowly old men, and she didn’t believe they would miss her; only Rachel would weep a little. The cataract of money would astound them. Jules Halevy would figure out what to do with it eventually. Her father she would not be able to face. But maybe the day would come, after he was gone, when she could return to see new construction on the Temple Mount.
The lift opened into the cool glassy corridor that led to the chambers of Cohen Brothers. Catriel was relieved that everyone was at lunch and the office was quiet; she wanted to get in and out quickly. Pushing on the lavatory door, she glimpsed herself in the mirror.
It was then she realized she was not alone.
Cimitero degli Stranieri, Rome, 1200h
Only a few people were allowed into the cemetery for the committal of Monsignor Peter Chandos. It had rained intensely only minutes before, but the cold clouds opened and the sun turned the stone of the new tomb into a watery mirror. Maryse shaded her eyes. Three policemen in black uniforms and black gloves stood at a distance. The only other participants were the Commendatore of the Vatican Police, the Archpriest John Paul Stone, and Fatima Chandos, Peter’s wife. The funeral car standing nearby was unmarked, the gates of the cemetery locked.
Officially, this ceremony was not taking place.
It was a small, shallow tomb of black stone, unnamed, the lid open to receive the coffin, which the policemen had lowered inside. Stone read the service in English so that Fatima would understand it. His cavernous American voice was made for a much larger congregation than this one:
Our brother Peter has gone to his rest…May the Lord now welcome him to the table of God’s children in Heaven. With faith and hope in eternal life, let us assist him with our prayers. Let us pray to the Lord also for ourselves…
Maryse thought of the last funeral she had attended, and her throat constricted. Hundreds of people had come. Their shocked keening could be heard from the Priory Hall throughout the night—even after Maryse thought she had fallen asleep on her father’s bed, she could hear it. A moan filled the Vale of Glendalough that she could not distinguish from the continuing echo in her mind of her own cry at discovering her father dead.
And such a death. She had brought it on him. If he had not been with her, if he had been at home where he should be, it would not have happened.
At her father’s funeral, old boys from the Priory School brought their wives. People from town walked because of the long stream of parked cars along the lane, a persistent train of mourners in all shades of black, elderly veiled women from the farms, aged men who could hardly walk. They had all embraced her. Pure bad luck, they said, echoing the TV. Everyone said it. But it wasn’t. Only David Kane had known how she felt; only he had the cold facts of what had really happened. Strangely, he was the only one who had given her any comfort at all.
He had arrived in his helicopter, landing a mile down the road; and she watched for him walking up the lane with the others, taller and still formidable. It was the only time she had ever seen him wearing black. And it was the only time he had ever put his arms around her.
She was no further use to him, she had known that. Even if the publicity had not spun out of control, the hum of shock in her mind made her powerless to carry on. There was no strength left.
The days that followed were like a drawn-out eclipse of the sun. She had not seen Glendalough in green since then. The house belonged to the school; the head’s books were packed and donated to the school library; the only books she took were the ones her father had given her. And then she left. Every year on the anniversary of his death, she opened one of the brick-like art books just to look at it. She did not hear his voice or feel his presence, but she liked the pictures he had left her.
Our true home is in Heaven, and Jesus Christ whose return we long for will come from Heaven to save us…
Grant that our brother may sleep here in peace until you awaken him to glory, for you are the resurrection and the life. Then he will you see you face to face and in your light will see light…
As we bury here the body of our brother, deliver his soul from every bond of sin.
These words jarred her back to consciousness. A few paces away, Fatima Chandos stood like a pale, shuddering leaf between the sturdy figures of the Cardinal Archpriest and the Commendatore. Both seemed kind, able men, but Maryse knew that they were not really present to Fatima. She knew about the terrible, fateful tolling that Fatima heard in her imagining, about the shadow that stifled all her thoughts in her wakeful moments and suffocated her sleep.
Nevertheless, unlike Maryse, Fatima had something to awaken to in the morning, after the farewell. There would soon be a welcome. She was carrying the Monsignor’s child.
You raised the dead to life; give to our brother eternal life.
“Lord, have mercy,” Maryse whispered.
You promised Paradise to the repentant thief; bring Peter to the joys of Heaven.
“Lord, have mercy.”
Our brother was washed in baptism and anointed with the Holy Spirit; give him fellowship with all your saints.
“Lord, have mercy.”
He was nourished with your body and blood; grant him a place at the table in your heavenly kingdom.
“Lord, have mercy.”
After the Our Father, Fatima knelt slowly and kissed the coffin. Her face was drawn and dry as she stood. Then the policemen came forward and slid the cover into place over the sarcophagus.
“In this corner he will not be noticed,” Fatima said to Maryse, who had put an arm around the smaller woman. “That is a good thing.”
“It’ll remain unmarked for a while. We think that’s best—at least until some of the excitement dies down,” Stone responded. The Commendatore nodded.
“What will you do now?” Maryse asked Fatima.
“Go home. Go home and prepare for the child.” A little smile trembled on her face, and then was gone. “He will be fatherless, like his own father.”
“But he—or she—will have you,” Maryse tried to comfort her.
“Yes. He will have only me.”
They walked slowly together toward the gates with the men following.
“My mother left me when I was very young. My father was more than enough for me,” Maryse said.
“Was he? Was he really?” Fatima looked up at her, searching. The face looked unnaturally old, tired but hopeful.
Maryse answered with finality. “Yes, he was. He fed me, he taught me, he inspired me. He did all of that.”
“Then I can do all of that, too.”
She had known Fatima Chandos only days. A simple heart,
