27
F ather Tolbert rolled a standard gray, two-tier cart, down a long, cold hallway in the Vatican Library, under the effervescent glow of ultra-soft fluorescent lights. The cart didn’t carry nineteen-inch televisions, DVD players, videotape players or overhead projectors that the children pushed at several middle schools he headed in Boston and Cleveland.
The cart he pushed contained soft brushes, opaline powder for cleaning delicate paintings, a low suction water vacuum for drawing mold out of the air, and a broad array of additional tools of the trade for cleaning precious Vatican treasures, including cotton gloves, acid-free, lignin-free folders and tissue, buffered boxes and folders that contained alkaline reserves for storage of severely degraded manuscripts and Mylar envelopes.
His assignment, one he found especially gratifying, was to help prepare rare manuscripts, Vatican heirlooms, artifacts, and selected frescoes and artwork from the Renaissance, for a Library of Congress exhibit in Washington D.C. He’d been charged with cleaning picture frames, vacuum containers, and packing crates which would house delicate antique pieces worth hundreds of millions of dollars, including an exquisite print of Michelangelo’s Last Judgment, Henry VIII’s love letters to Anne Boleyn, Latin and Greek copies of Homer’s Iliad, the first Latin translation of the complete corpus of treatise ascribed to Hippocrates, and so many more he could barely contain himself.
Father Tolbert opened the door to a living room sized, dust-free storage closet, and parked the cart in a reserved space near the back wall.
He’d been working since five a.m., and eagerly completed his six hour stint. Monsignor Roberto Baggio, overseeing the exhibit, didn’t allow shifts of more than six hours, with ten minute breaks per hour, to ensure that mistakes were kept to a minimum.
Father Tolbert changed clothes in a basement locker room, dropped off his overalls and smock for laundering, spent thirty minutes in prayer in a small chamber for that purpose, and headed outside to take in the splendor and opulence of Vatican City, and look for a place to take his life.
Working in the Vatican Library, a dream Father Tolbert never thought he’d realize, even with a Master’s Degree in Library Science from Northwestern University, gave him a temporary sense of ease and comfort that dissipated the moment he left the building. He counted it as a small victory to be so close to the historic remnants of the Renaissance, and the voluminous records of church progression and history. His past applications for a menial clerk position hadn’t amounted to so much as an honorable mention to the highbrow intellectuals who seemed to cherish the priceless treasures of the Vatican Archives more than the saints. For five years, steadfast and determined, he had applied for a foot in the door, and each time the rejection slips arrived in record time, as if they knew his application were coming and their response, sealed and stamped, had only needed to be dropped in the mail.
Standing outside the library, Father Tolbert closed his eyes and momentarily soaked up the warmth of the noonday sun. The controlled environment inside the library, with its low humidity and dim lighting, was like working in a tomb, and the first moments outside a rebirth.
He mounted the bicycle loaned to him by Father Marcus Johns, now away on an extended assignment in Kenya, and headed toward his first and favorite stop, Giardina del Vaticano, The Vatican Gardens.
Father Tolbert absorbed the power and majesty that penetrated everything in Vatican City, from the architecture to the art, an intriguing mix of modern and Renaissance flavors that toyed with his senses, catapulting his to a bygone era, but constantly reminding him of the present, and more importantly, his task at hand, death.
He guided his bike down Via Centrale del Bosco to the Vatican Radio Administration building, parked his bike and walked across the street to the Old Gardens. Nestled behind the spectacular landmark dome of San Pietro in Montorio, St. Peter’s Basilica, the garden grounds were once the location of Nero’s circus, where early Christians were martyred and St. Peter was crucified, upside down.
Of all the gardens, which covered forty acres, including a formal Italian garden, a French garden filled with the most stunning flowers in the world, and a romantic replica of English landscape, Father Tolbert’s favorite was Campo Santo Teutonico, a walled enclosure just south of St.
Peter’s Basilica. The garden, enclosed by a two-story, cantaloupe colored stucco wall, boasted a phenomenal horticultural delight of Canary Island palms, cedar of Lebanon, blooming oleander, and bay laurel.
Throngs of tourists poured into the Vatican each year to take in the Holy See’s majesty, including the Vatican Gardens, but only dignitaries and VIPs were allowed into Campo Santo Teutonico. Father Tolbert knelt down under a sign that read, Teutons in pace, Germans in peace, and said a brief prayer. Inside, he found a spot on the ground and sat where earth, believed to be brought from Golgotha by St. Helena, was spread to unite the blood of Jesus with that which was shed by thousands of proto-martyrs, the first to die during the persecutions of Nero.
Sitting there, on holy ground, Father Tolbert fought the contradicting forces that tortured in his soul. Being in the holy city energized his spirit, but the yearning of his flesh suppressed his attempts to rebound from the carnal degradation that enticed him to desire young boys.
Alone in the garden, Father Tolbert begged God for relief. Instead, his mind wandered as it often did, to thoughts of Samuel. He remembered how comforting it felt to love the boy. How he connected with his own lost childhood by blending himself with a child. Decadent nourishment he craved and needed to stay alive. Something the world would never accept.
Father Tolbert collapsed face first in the dirt, clawing the earth.
“Lord, please, forgive me! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” He cried and begged like an injured child for almost thirty minutes.
“Father, are you okay?” asked Geert Bauer, a small framed German gardener, one of thirty who tended to the gardens. He hurried over and helped the priest to his feet.
Father Tolbert leaned on the gardener for balance, head and heart pounding hard. “I’m fine, Heir Bauer. Just a little overwhelmed in prayer.”
Geert led Father Tolbert to a beige stone bench, eased him down and gazed upon the priest with compassionate eyes. “That must be some burden, Father. If you need an extra set of knees to help shoulder the burden, I’m here for you.”
Father Tolbert took a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned his face, eyes puffy, nose running. “I’ll be fine. I just need a minute to gather myself.”
Geert offered to fetch a glass of cold water, and a car to take Father Tolbert back to his quarters, but the priest declined, gave his thanks, and minutes later, sat alone once again. He looked around the garden and took in the serene quiet. He pictured himself hanging dead from one of the trees. A fitting end. But the thought of taking his life on ground sanctified by the same earth on which Christ died made him feel even more ashamed. He walked out of the garden, left the bicycle, and lumbered, head down, hands in his pockets, toward the most likely place on his list of choices to end his miserable life, the Sistine Chapel.
Father Tolbert dragged himself past tourists, Vatican staff, and fellow clergy, barely acknowledging those who spoke, not making eye contact with anyone. He looked up and took in the omnipresent dome of St. Peter’s Basilica, which hovered over the entire city like a holy sentry standing guard over all of Christendom. When he reached the Monument to St. Peter, northeast of the Sistine Chapel, he saw a sight that caused his palms to dampen, and his heart to lust. He saw twin boys, South American, age eight or nine he guessed, fidgeting uncomfortably while their father tried unsuccessfully to get them to stand still long enough to take a picture in front of the monument. Both boys shared the handsome features of their father. Ruddy, sun ripened skin, thick black hair and wide smiles. The scene coaxed a smile from the priest and raised his spirits. Watching the father and sons, playful and full of life, made him long for a family he never knew.
“I wish that were me,” he whispered, jealous, envious of the innocent. He walked over to the trio. “Maybe I can be of some assistance,” he said, smiling broadly.
“Oh, thank you, padre,” gushed the boys’ father, bowing as though he were meeting the Holy Father himself.
“I’m Father Tolbert,” he said, gazing down at the twins, both now standing at attention. “You have two fine
