he didn’t want to hurt the old man, but if he opened his mouth in public, everyone would suffer. He needed to be silenced, discredited, which was not difficult. A Muslim who sees Mary should be seen as a joke, cause only for laughter in the Catholic and Muslim worlds. The problem was what he was saying. If someone more intelligent were to think deeply about his words, he might easily find the truth behind them. And that couldn’t happen. They had to force the man to recant. Even if he actually saw Mary. She had to understand. There were Catholics and others, no mixture, and there never had been. The day this happened religions would come to an end. This was serious, very serious.
He got up again and went over to Abu Rashid’s seat. He rested with his eyes closed, smiling slightly.
‘I know it perfectly,’ the old man said without opening his eyes.
‘What do you know?’
‘I know where we are going. You were going to ask me that.’
The foreigner sat down on the seat beside him and sighed. He looked at the black briefcase strapped to the seat. Besides Abu Rashid, another of his responsibilities was that black case. These premonitions were unreal. Not for a moment did he think it was really the Virgin helping the old man. He’d lose all power and control if he let this idea take over. It would be her way of saying she couldn’t count on him or any other Christian. Or that in reality everyone was equal. Shit, shit, shit.
‘It might not seem so, but I’m here to help you,’ the foreigner claimed. ‘If you cooperate, it’ll be good for you and for us.’
‘I haven’t done anything but cooperate,’ Abu Rashid declared with his eyes still closed.
‘I need more on your part, Abu Rashid,’ he observed. ‘Give me what I need to intercede with my superior, and you can go free.’
A smile stretched the Muslim’s lips.
‘What you want is for me to lie.’
‘I want you to cooperate.’
‘I’m cooperating,’ Abu Rashid insisted. ‘It’s not my fault you’ve chosen the wrong side. But that’s your right. There are always two sides.’
‘Are you saying you are defending those who want to harm the Church?’
‘I am Muslim. I couldn’t be less interested in your Church.’ He opened his eyes wide. ‘I am on her side.’
‘I am, too,’ the foreigner claimed.
‘You are on the side of the Church.’
‘The Church that represents Her. That has made her image, made her what she is.’
‘Precisely,’ Abu Rashid offered, turning his eyes toward the window with a sad expression.
‘What do you know specifically about the place we’re going?’
‘I know everything I have to know.’ The old Muslim stroked his beard.
‘Can you be more explicit?’
‘Do you know what happened the thirty-third day after the death of the former pope?’
‘I don’t know,’ he sighed. ‘But, according to my contacts with my superiors, I don’t think you know, either.’
‘Maybe it would be better for me not to know anything,’ Abu Rashid confessed.
‘Does that mean we are coming to an agreement? You can forget everything you believe you know?’
‘My friend, you’re a politician and work for politicians. I can’t trust you. You’re capable of selling the Mother of Heaven herself.’
The foreigner got up and rolled up his sleeves. There were still a few hours of flight remaining.
27
Lucia
August 31, 1941
Lucia was not a pretty girl. The only thing attractive about her face, which was not repellent, were her two black eyes below thick eyebrows. Her hair, thick and black, was parted in the center and fell over her shoulders. She had a snub nose, thick lips, and a large mouth.
There was a certain urgency in the writing. The words surged forth, under pressure, hurled out by the ink of the pen, sliding in a precise, correct form, without unacceptable blots. These weren’t characters written with pleasure, elaborated or adorned in execution. It was work, a duty, an obligation. A copy of something already written by someone else. It lacked the spirit of her own creativity. The pages were white, unlined, some written on, others about to be. Those filled with the mother tongue, Portuguese, were separated into two piles, set on the left side. The reason for this separation was unknown, but it had an intrinsic curiosity that would call the attention of more perceptive persons, if there were any in the room. The pile on the right presented a beautiful handwriting, innocent, nothing scratched out, born of a pure hand, perhaps ingenuous, young. The other was like this page that was now being written, under pressure, captive to a vague obligation, as if she knew she shouldn’t transcribe those words that weren’t hers. The two stacks of manuscript pages were written in the same hand, but the difference between them stood out.
Why?
The same woman was writing them, seated in a dark wooden chair, bent over a small table, by the light of a candle, her head looking at the sheet of paper from a few inches away, though she didn’t see it clearly. Not that this was the reason for the difference in handwriting. The page at her right side was what needed to be copied in her hand.
The emissary in a black cassock came into the narrow cell, silently, with quiet steps toward the woman and deposited another pile of pages on the right side.
‘These are the last, my daughter,’ he said in a low voice to avoid disturbing her.
‘You can leave them.’ The young woman stopped writing and gave the man a worried look. ‘Are you sure about this? It doesn’t seem right to me.’
‘Don’t worry, Lucia. You are doing the right thing under God’s direction, through His intermediary, His Eminence Don Alves Correia da Silva.’
‘But I don’t understand this secrecy. Our Lady-’
‘Calm yourself,’ the emissary interrupted. ‘The faithful have to be led. We have to be very careful how we pass on the information so that we don’t risk ridicule, while we reach the most people.’
‘I don’t understand. You speak of secrets. Our Lady has never spoken of secrets.’
‘I am going to explain it to you again. The pope has decided to divide the revelations into three secrets. First, the vision of Inferno. Second, the end of World War One and the prophecy of World War Two, if we continue to offend God and Russia does not convert. Third, the secret we haven’t succeeded in interpreting. I ask you not to write about that one now.’
‘I understand. But Our Lady has never shown me any vision of Inferno, nor spoken about World War Two, nor of Russia’s reconversion
…’
‘As I have told you, it is necessary to prepare the faithful. Trust the Holy Father. He knows what to do.’
‘I trust him,’ Lucia declared.
The emissary settled into a chair.
‘Has Our Lady appeared to you?’ he asked timidly.
‘Every month.’
‘Don’t forget to put down everything she tells you. It could be important.’
