The Second Messiah

Ryan felt as jittery as a truant schoolboy. He was pretty sure that John Becket had already spotted him and realized that he was being tailed. Ryan could do nothing about that except try to remain well back and out of sight. But the store window allowed him to observe a reflection of what was happening in the café down the street. Sweat dripping from his brow, he focused on the reflection in the window and what he saw shocked him, so much that he risked a look back at the scene.

The pope was drinking and talking with a brassy, attractive blond woman wearing a short skirt and boots. Ryan asked himself, Am I seeing things?

There were no two ways about it: the way the woman was dressed in such a neighborhood said prostitute. He dreaded to imagine the field day that the rag tabloids would have if the pope were recognized, drinking outside a café bar with a hooker. The pictures would end up on the cover of every newspaper in the world. Worse, it seemed that the pope was actually enjoying himself. He saw John Becket smile in the young woman’s company.

Ryan shook his head. This is insane. Popes were not known to venture into red-light areas to talk with prostitutes. At least not since the debauched reign of Borgias in the fifteenth century, when Pope Gregory liked to frequent Rome’s brothels.

Ryan tried to convince himself that what he was witnessing was perhaps harmless. That the pope was making social discourse with the less fortunate of society. But he knew he was simply making excuses. His mind screamed out that something about all of this was very wrong. Not only that, this unsavory neighborhood could also be dangerous.

Ryan felt for the reassuring bulge on his left side. His subcompact Glock 27 was tucked in his inside-the-pants holster.

Just in case.

Confused, Ryan forced himself to turn back to the storefront window. Staring at the reflected images of the pope and the prostitute, Ryan’s mind was assaulted with a single, worrying thought: What in the name of heaven is happening here?

“Italian men think we should be paying them. They’re all peacocks.”

“You think so?” Despite himself, Becket found himself entertained by the young woman’s shameless, working-class honesty. She was a breath of fresh air after the stiff formality of the Vatican.

Maria said, “I know so. All they think about is sex, just like all men. Let me give you a good example of the typical Italian male. Have you heard the story about Luigi?”

“No. Tell me.”

“His young wife dies and at the funeral he’s sobbing his eyes out. As they lower her coffin into the ground, Luigi’s friend puts an arm around him and says, ‘Don’t worry, someday soon we’ll find another nice girl for you to settle down with.’ And a sobbing Luigi says, ‘That’s all very well, but what about tonight?’”

Maria giggled and slapped a hand on her leather boot. “Well, not bad, eh Padre?”

John Becket realized he was smiling. “Not bad. If I racked my brain I could probably tell you a joke or two but tonight I’m preoccupied.”

Maria sipped more Campari. “By what?”

Becket flicked a nervous look across the street. “Too many things to mention, Maria.”

“You speak good Italian but you’re not Italian, are you, Padre?”

“No.”

He didn’t offer any further explanation and she didn’t ask as she studied him, then raised her Campari in a toast. “You know, for a priest, you’re pretty okay.”

“You mean most priests are not?”

Maria put down her glass. “Not the ones I’ve met. They want sex just like any man. All men are born with an open fly.”

“We are all sinners, Maria, in one way or another. None of us escapes life’s impulses. Not even Jesus himself. But the important thing is that we try with all our heart to live our lives with truthfulness, dignity, and respect, and to follow his example. If we all did that, we might even live in a near-perfect world.”

“Hey, don’t tell me you’re one of these do-gooders who want to clean up the streets. Next you’ll be asking me if I believe in God.”

“Do you, Maria?”

“See? I stopped a long time ago.”

“What do you think of those in the Vatican?”

Maria snorted. “Half the world starves and they live like princes in their ivory towers. Will I tell you why I stopped believing? Because I always wanted to ask God why he allowed so much suffering, poverty, and injustice in the world.”

“He might ask us the same question.”

“How do you mean?”

“Don’t we allow it, Maria? Each of us. In our hearts and minds. In the way we ignore the suffering of others and close our ears to their cries of pain. The way we disrespect our fellow man and are selfish for our own needs. Much of human suffering is avoidable. But a righteous path has a high price, and many are not prepared to pay that price.”

Maria frowned. “You’ve lost me, Padre.”

Becket placed a hand gently on hers. “Maria, I could give you the deepest theological thought on the subject of human suffering. I could even explain how pain and torment bring us closer to God.”