responsibility, so we still don’t know if we’re dealing with a terrorist attack or a tragic accident. The only thing we know for sure is that the toll of the dead and missing is quite high. The rescuers are working around the clock to get the bodies of the dead out from under the rubble, although they haven’t given up hope of finding survivors. Here are the images taken from our helicopter, which show better than any words could the extent of this tragedy that’s shaken the city and the whole country and reminded us of other images and other victims that’ll never be forgotten.’
A series of aerial shots now followed, with Lassiter heard as a voice-over. Seen from above, the scene was even more harrowing. The building, a twenty-two-storey redbrick construction, had been cut in half straight down the middle. The right side had collapsed but, instead of the building imploding, it had slid to the side, leaving the other half still standing like a finger pointing to the sky. The fracture was so sharp that on the standing side you could still see the rooms without their outer walls, and in them the remains of furniture and other relics of everyday life.
On the top floor, a white sheet had got caught on a trellis and was flapping in the wind caused by the displacement of air from the blades of the helicopter, like a flag of surrender and mourning. Fortunately, the part of the building that had come away had fallen on a wooded area, a small park with a children’s playground, a basketball field and two tennis courts, missing other buildings. If it had hit them, the death toll would certainly have been greater. The explosion, occurring over toward the East River, had spared the buildings on the other side even though all the panes of glass within a significant radius had been knocked out by the blast. Around the shattered building and in among its debris was the highly coloured frenzy of rescue vehicles and men, bustling about full of energy and hope in a race against time.
The TV cut away from these images of desolation and death and back to a close-up of the reporter.
‘Mayor Wilson Gollemberg declared a state of emergency and rushed to the scene of the disaster. He took an active part in the rescue operations all through the night. We have his first statement, recorded last night soon after he arrived on the scene.’
They cut again, with that slight loss of quality that a recording made in those conditions involved. The mayor, a tall man with an open face who gave the impression of throbbing with anguish and at the same time conveying self-confidence and strength, was illumined by the motionless white lights of the TV cameras fighting against the background of unchecked flames behind him. At that moment of confusion and panic, his comments were few and to the point.
‘It’s impossible right now to draw any conclusion from this tragedy. The only thing I can promise as a mayor to all my fellow New Yorkers and as an American to all Americans is this. If any person or persons are responsible for this atrocity, I want them to know that there will be no escape for them. Their cowardice and savagery will receive the punishment they deserve.’
Back again to Mark Lassiter, reporting live from a place that for many people would never be the same again.
‘For the moment, that’s all from the Lower East Side of New York. A press conference is due to be held shortly. We’ll let you know if there are further developments. I’m Mark Lassiter, returning you to the studio.’
Just as the anchorman reappeared on the screen, the cellphone on the small table next to the armchair rang. The priest turned down the volume on the TV and answered. From the other end came the voice of Paul Smith, the parish priest of Saint Benedict, slightly blurred with emotion.
‘Michael, are you watching television?’
‘Yes.’
‘Terrible, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘All those people dead. All that despair. I can’t come to terms with it. What goes through the mind of a person who could do something like that?’
Father McKean suddenly found himself overwhelmed by a strange, desolate tiredness, the kind that strikes the humanity of a man when he is forced to confront the total absence of humanity in other men.
‘There’s something we have to realize, Paul,’ he said. ‘Hate isn’t an emotion any more. It’s becoming a virus. When it infects the soul, the mind is lost. And people’s defences against it are increasingly weak.’
At the other end there was a moment’s silence, as if the elderly priest was thinking over the words he had just heard. Then he came to what was probably the true reason for his call.
‘Given what’s happened, do you think it’s right to celebrate solemn mass? Don’t you think something more modest would be better in the circumstances?’
McKean thought about it for a moment and shook his head, as if the parish priest at the other end could see him.
‘I don’t think so, Paul. I think that solemn mass, especially today, is both a statement of opposition and a specific response to this atrocity. Whatever its source. We won’t stop praying to God in the way we consider most dignified. And in the same way, we’ll pay tribute to the innocent victims of this tragedy.’
He paused briefly before continuing.
‘The one thing I think we could do is change the reading. The planned reading for today was a passage from St John’s Gospel. I’d replace it with the Sermon on the Mount. It’s part of everyone’s experience, even non-believers. I think it’s very significant on a day like this, when mercy mustn’t be overwhelmed by an instinctive desire for revenge. Revenge is the imperfect justice of this world. The justice we must speak of isn’t worldly and is therefore uncontaminated by error.’
At the other end there was a moment’s silence.
‘Luke or Matthew?’
‘Matthew. The passage from Luke includes an element of retribution that isn’t in line with what our feelings should be. And for the hymns I’d suggest
Another pause, before Father Smith replied with relief in his voice, as if all his doubts had faded away. ‘Yes, I think you’re right. There’s just one thing I’d ask you. And I’m sure everyone would agree with me.’
‘Go on.’
‘I’d like it to be you giving the sermon.’
Instinctively, Father McKean’s heart went out to Father Smith. Paul was a highly sensitive man, and easily moved. His voice often broke when he had to deal with delicate subjects.
‘All right, Paul.’
‘See you later, then.’
‘I’ll leave in a few minutes.’
He put the cellphone down on the little table, got up and went to the window. He stood there with his hands in his pockets, looking at the familiar view without seeing it. The same shapes and colours as always, sea and wind and trees, which today seemed like alien spectators, images without meaning, incomprehensible. The news he had just watched on TV continued to superimpose itself on what he had in front of his eyes. He remembered the terrible period around September 11, the day that had changed the world for ever.
He thought again of how many crimes had been committed in the name of God, when God had nothing to do with them. Whichever God was being evoked. Instinctively Michael McKean felt like asking one question. Some time earlier, John Paul II had apologized to the world for the behaviour of the Catholic Church of some four hundred years earlier, at the time of the Inquisition. What was being done now that the then Pope would have to apologize for in four hundred years’ time? What would
Faith was a gift, like love and friendship and trust. It was not born out of reason. Reason could only, in some cases, help to keep it alive. It was like a railroad track running parallel to reason, in a direction
