The Angel of Milan (14 page)

             
I must admit that Alessandra was the one I was interested in; the man following me didn’t matter a hill of beans. He or one of his associates would turn up again, but her…somehow I didn’t want her to leave so quickly.

             
The image of her looking straight at me when she turned would not leave my mind. It was the intensity of her eyes. She reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t think of anyone that beautiful. I just couldn’t put my finger on it. Usually women that attractive depend too much on their looks to get what they want. However, this one, beauty or not, displayed competence as well as confidence. In any event, tomorrow I would meet Burtuchi’s bogeyman for lunch and see what he had to say for himself.

             
You may believe that my celibacy was perpetual, but in fact, it was not. The official doctrine of priestly celibacy was only adopted at the Council of Trent in 1563 after centuries of discourse. It seemed that the Holy See’s real issue  was the inheritance of property. If a priest could not marry and had to remain calibrate, then there could be no heir to his property, and the Church would be the sole benefactor. I have never been too partial to man-made rules. I usually abstained to avoid fruitless entanglements, but not all the time. It was obvious to me that this might be one of those times.  

             
I took a taxi back to St. Andrew. The line of cabs had the usual bunch of drivers standing beside their rides, shouting to one another in small talk as they waited for their fares. I entered my taxi, telling the driver to go to St. Andrew. Unlike most Milan cab drivers, he didn’t say a word, but drove right off and remained silent the entire distance. I was thankful for that. I had a lot to churn in my mind about this Del Cielo and his beautiful messenger. I expected our paths to cross, but under much different circumstances than a lunch invitation. 

             
Strangely enough, I found no good reason to go back inside the rectory when I arrived. For the time being, things were at a standstill again, or so I thought. I decided to walk down the street, and made a point of watching for someone following me. It was unlikely that they would be back again so soon after just being seen, but you never know.

             
The outdoor café at the corner looked inviting; it was not too crowed, and an espresso might hit the
spot. Besides, the caffeine would help me think more
clearly. I had learned that little trick in university. If you wanted to crash through a test, just load up the java, and your brain becomes a rocket!

             
My waiter had just brought my coffee when I heard a familiar voice from the street.

     “Father Adama, what a pleasant surprise to see you here. May we join you?”

     When I turned around, my ass immediately began to hurt. It was Father O’Malley, that little Irish bastard that annoyed the hell out of me at the Vatican. He was with another priest, and they immediately began to make their way towards my table. O’Malley, already short, was made to look like a midget next to his companion, a tall, lanky, basketball player type. 

             
The overbearing shit didn’t even have the manners to wait for my acceptance of his request. Not that he would have gotten it; I am sure I would have found some reason to shoo him away. The waiter brought two more coffees as soon as they sat down.

             
“I heard you were in Milan, but I had no expectation of actually running into you here,” he said enthusiastically. “This is Father Donnelly. We are here on holiday, and were just on our way to Como.”

             
“This is a surprise,” I said, with a hint of sarcasm. However, I immediately suspected a rat. He gave himself away when he said he heard I was in Milan. No one knew that except Burtuchi and his minions. These two were as queer as a Turkish whore at a Rabbinical school. I noticed a funny gate on Donnelly when they approached, and decided to test a theory. When their coffee arrived I shuffled my chair, and made it a point to bump my knee into Donnelly’s thigh. He didn’t make a sound, but I caught a wince in his eye. There was no doubt in my mind about the sneaky bastards now. Donnelly was wearing a Cilice belt* on his thigh.
Sick, self-mutilating sons of bitches
, I thought.
Well, boys, we know your story now, don’t we.

             
“So, you are going out to Lake Como. Charming

mountain roads, excellent restaurants. You will certainly enjoy the area.”

             
“Yes, we are told it is magnificent.”

             
I had no intention of passing time with these two. My tolerance for their type is almost nonexistent. Of course, I just couldn’t leave them with any

doubt in their mind that I knew who, or rather,
what
, they were—ordained Opus Dei. 

             
“It is magnificent. You will have to tell me of your experience when I see you back at the Vatican. However, for now I must be going. It was very nice to meet you, Father Donnelly, but if you will take a little advice, I recommend you wear that Cilice around your genitals if you want the full effect.”

             
Donnelly went to stand up, but O’Malley reached for his arm to have him remain seated.

             
“Another appointment with Cardinal Burtuchi, Father?” he said snidely.

             
I drove my knee hard into Donnelly thigh, and this time I got a groan, immediately followed by a

* Cilice – A form of corporal mortification. Often a spiked chain worn around the upper thigh.

long arm reaching for my jacket lapel. He just wasn’t fast enough, and I slapped it away, punching him in the thigh with the same hand. The Cilice must have drove deep. He clutched at it, and I thought I saw his eyes almost cross in pain.  
             

             
“I regret that I must be leaving now. Same place, same time tomorrow, gentleman?” I said in my most sarcastic tone.

             
On my way past O’Malley, I tipped his coffee cup into his lap, and just kept walking. Sometimes I just can’t help myself.

             
I walked off my anger for another hour, and found another café for the espresso I never finished. It was at least two hours before I returned to St. Andrew. I arrived just in time to find a commotion in the sitting room, and Dinard was in the middle of it. He had a bandage across a large scrape on his forehead, a bruised cheek, and his hand bandaged. I was concerned to see him hurt—a feeling I had not felt for anyone in a very long time. I went straight to him.

             
“What happened, Father?”

             
“Oh, it is nothing, Adama. Just a scrape and a bruised hand.”

             
“How did it happen?”

             
“I was mugged.”

             
“Mugged? Who mugs a priest? If you had more than five Euros in your pocket I would be surprised!”

             
“No matter, Adama, it is nothing.”

             
The others were drifting away, talking in pairs about the incident. I hung back to talk to him alone. I can catch a lie even when the good guys tell it.

             
“Ok, what really happened, Father?”

             
“I said it was nothing.”

             
“Tell me.”

             
He took a deep breath, and opened his eyes wide. I did not want to tell the others.

             
“I was mugged by two priests. I couldn’t believe it. I was minding my own business, and these two came up from behind me and shoved me. I turned to see who it was, and there stood two priests. At first I thought I might have known them, and they were just fooling around, but that was not the case. The little one threw a punch at me. Now, in my youth I was something of a street tough, so I took the punch pretty well after all these years. I managed to return the favor, and punched him in the teeth. I think his tooth broke, and that is how I got the cut across my knuckles. Unfortunately, I don’t move very fast any more,” he said, holding his monstrous belly, “and the big one shoved me to the ground. That’s when I got the head scrape. He got in a few kicks before several people came around the corner and they ran off.”

             
“I’m afraid I am to blame for your mishap.”

             
I related my afternoon with O’Malley and Donnelly to him, apologizing for the trouble I had caused him.

     “The fact that you were singled out tells me that there is an Opus Dei informant in St. Andrew. They know we have become friendly and are making a point. Watch your back, my friend.” To my dismay, Dinard broke into laughter.

             
“You told him to do what with the Cilice?”     

7
             
             
             
             
             
             
That evening and the next morning passed slowly, and I found myself pacing the place with nothing to do but wait—not my best virtue. A little before twelve, I decided to freshen up before my noon appointment. A clean shirt and collar with a little soap and water, and I would be ready for lunch at the villa.
Hm, the villa
, I thought.
I guess very wealthy people don’t live in houses.
I had some time yet, but I decided to wait outside in front of the rectory. No sense having Alessandra walk in, scaring the hell out of everyone, and causing the brethren to run to their confessors. 

             
Lake Como is only forty kilometers from the city. If Alessandra picked me up on time, we should be there in a little less than an hour if traffic allowed. I looked at my watch—12 noon on the dot. The loud tire chirping and engine roar pulled my head up to find a black Mercedes SL6000 Roadster pulling to the curb in front of me. The automatic window was rolling down.

             
“Ciao, Adama. I’m glad to see you are on time.” It was Alessandra, dressed in a black jumpsuit to match the car.

             
“Ciao, Alessandra, yes I’m all ready to go,” I replied, smiling. I thought I might as well try to get off on the right foot with her as our last meeting was a bit awkward. The second I closed the door, the car lurched from the curb, cutting off several cars screeching their breaks to avoid a collision. I looked over my shoulder to see several men waving their fists out their windows as the Mercedes sped away. 

             
“That was close,” I managed to say after a moment.  

             
“Not at all, Padre, not at all,” she replied with a smirk, in a perfect American accent. “One has to assert oneself in this life to get what one wants.”