She frowned at him in absorbed consideration. “Jon,” she whispered softly, “what if Jeza really is a Messiah? What if we really are entering into the Last Days?” Her chin was trembling.
Feldman reached across the table and took her hands in his. “That's a path of thought I don't care to travel too far,” he told her. “But even if I knew for certain we were facing Judgment Day, there's one thing I have to cling to. While you and I may not be perfect people, Anke, and while we may not live religion the way a good many people seem to out there-I'd still put our ethics up against the best of ‘em-millenarians, clergy, whatever. And I don't think a fair-minded God could ignore that, do you?”
She exhaled and relaxed. “But, in fact, you really don't believe in her, do you?”
“In all honesty?” He paused for a long moment, growing gravely introspective. “No, Anke, I can't see it. Maybe it's that I don't want to see it, but at this point in time, I just can't accept that.”
Anke appeared to find some comfort in this, gazing into his eyes with a look of reassurance.
After dinner, strolling in the warm evening through the crowded, open-air marketplace bordering the harbor, Feldman and Anke held hands and leisurely browsed the exotic shops filled with spices, bolts of colorful fabrics, crafts and tourist curios. As they walked, Feldman appreciated his companion out of the corners of his eyes, delighting in her intrinsic happiness, her goodness, wholesomeness and beauty.
This was all starting to feel so comfortable to him. Finally, for the first time in his life, Feldman found himself settling into a loving relationship with a woman. Not kicking and scratching, nervous and skeptical. But willingly. At long last, perhaps he'd broken free of those irrational, constrictive, primal inhibitions a young boy and his therapist had once labored so painfully over.
At a sidewalk counter, Anke stopped to pick up an intriguing little item that caught her attention. It was one of those novelty “magic eye” children's books with the mysterious, now-you-see-it, now-you-don't holographic images lurking inside computer-generated patterns. This particular book happened to contain hidden three- dimensional pictures of the prophetess Jeza.
Anke flipped the book open and, laughing, held a page up to Feldman's nose, drawing it away from him slowly until the jumbled dots magically materialized before his eyes into the arresting face of the Messiah. Abruptly, however, a strange surge of disorientation began to envelop the reporter. An unpleasant, disquieting sensation. He grabbed on to Anke for support.
Startled, she dropped the book, peering into his colorless face. “Jon, are you all right?”
He staggered, inexplicably light-headed, as Anke anxiously attempted to support him. Fighting to regain his composure, Feldman had a sudden awareness. He released Anke and spun quickly around. There, not twenty feet from him in the milling crowd, looking inside him with those deep, unfathomable eyes, stood Jeza, the Messiah.
No sooner was Feldman's view obscured by passersby than she was gone. But there was absolutely no doubting it. This was no illusion. He had seen her. He had
56
The Papal Quarters, Vatican City, Rome, Italy 7:15 P.M., Friday, February 11, 2000
Nicholas VI was seated at his ornate desk, signing documents. He looked up as a knock came at the open doors of his chambers.
“Yes, Antonio, enter.” The pope had been expecting his visitor.
Antonio di Concerci, leather-bound attache case in hand, crossed the threshold and greeted his pope, but without his accustomed smile. Nicholas gestured him to a chair, removed his reading spectacles and turned in the prefect's direction.
“You look particularly thoughtful tonight, Tony,” the pontiff observed good-humoredly.
“And you look well,
“How is the
“On schedule, Holiness. And your deadline will be met without compromising the integrity of our work, I assure you.”
“Excellent. Then you wish to talk with me on another matter, I presume?”
“Yes. I'm struggling with a dilemma, Holy Father. It concerns Cardinal Litti.”
The pope took a long breath, dropping his chin, shaking his head.
“I must speak to you in confidence, Holiness,” di Concerci prefaced his remarks.
Nicholas looked up, his face changing from annoyance to concern. “Of course, Tony.”
“As you know,
The pope nodded.
“And as you may have noticed, he was behaving rather peculiarly even before he left.”
“Yes,” the pope agreed. “I've been worried about him. He's not been himself of late.”
“I'm afraid he's deteriorated considerably since last you saw him. He came to my office early yesterday morning, unannounced, unshaven, unkempt, and he demanded an audience. When I informed him of a conflicting meeting I had with Cardinals Thompson and Santorini, he became belligerent and insisted that I cancel my meeting and immediately review his findings from the Mormon conference.”
“What did you do?”
“Quite frankly, I felt his state of mind unstable, and rather than provoke him further, I agreed to do as he asked.”
“Did that placate him?”
“He insisted on sitting outside my office while I read the document in its entirety.”
The pontiff's eyes widened and he scratched his chin. “And what was the content of his report?”
Di Concerci leaned back in his chair, his lips compressed, as if hesitant to continue further.
“Speak, Antonio.”
The prefect placed his attache case on the corner of the pontiff's desk, flipped open the locks and removed a multipage document.
“Holiness, I don't know how else to describe this.” He laid the papers next to his attache case. “These are the ravings of a delusional fanatic. Litti has gone mad. He's renounced the Church. He recognizes this Jeza woman as the New Messiah and proclaims that our destruction is imminent.”
Nicholas sank back in his chair, stunned. “Alphonse, a millenarian?”
“He demands that the Church recognize Jeza as the New Messiah and that we support her message and mission-assuming anyone can determine precisely what her message or mission might be. And Litti demands that this report be included in the
The pope remained slumped in his chair, his chin cupped in his hand, his eyes far away. Almost to himself he said in a voice filled with reminiscence, “This is not Alphonse, you know. I remember so well, many years ago, when I first arrived here as a young, naive graduate from the Pontifical Theological Academy. Alphonse was one of my first friends. He was very carefree and easygoing. Not at all like he is now. I fear for him. I wonder if it could be a stage of early senility.”
Then to di Concerci he added, “I want Alphonse to see a physician immediately. A complete check-up. Will you see to this, Tony?”
“Yes, Holy Father, right away. But what about his report?”
Nicholas exhaled. “Leave it with me. But I can tell you, it will
After di Concerci had left, Nicholas let his troubled thoughts wander for a while until they finally returned to Alphonse Litti's poor misguided effort, lying in forty-odd pages on the edge of the pope's antique desk. In the very spot where once lay the marriage annulment petition from Henry VIII and the manifesto of Martin Luther's Ninety- five Theses.
The pontiff reached over, gathered up the papers, and placed them in a plain envelope he marked “A. Litti.”
