boys.”
“Thank you, Father. My name’s Carlos Mercado, and these are my sons, Joseph and Raphael. We’re visiting from Brazil.” The boys beamed at the priest as he mussed up their hair. “Welcome to Vatican City, and they’re strong looking lads, handsome, and they look alike.”
Both boys burst into laughter. “We’re twins, padre.”
“Well, what’d you know, you are. I must need glasses.” The boys continued to laugh as their father beamed, chest out.
“Here, let me take a picture of the three of you,” said Father Tolbert, grabbing the camera from Carlos’ hand, who bowed his head in effusive thanks, almost knocking over Raphael as he backed up.
Carlos positioned Joseph and Raphael on each side of him, and the three smiled wide and bright. Father Tolbert counted three and snapped two shots. Carlos told the boys to stay in their places, and begged Father Tolbert to take a picture with the boys. The priest told them no, that he had to move along, but Carlos insisted, and the boys begged in unison.
“Pleeeease!”
Father Tolbert walked in between the boys, struggling to suppress the surge now bolting through his body. Joseph and Raphael each clung to a leg, and their touch, soft and gentle, made the priest tingle with lust.
He looked down at the twins.
“Now, let’s have a big smile,”
Both boys smiled wider then they had standing next to their father, who was now fighting back tears. He snapped several shots, then ran forward and shook Father Tolbert’s hand profusely.
“Thank you, padre, thank you. You’re truly a blessing. Since their mother passed away six months ago, we haven’t had many happy days, but today you’ve blessed us,” said Carlos.
A knife couldn’t have cut through Father Tolbert any cleaner or deeper. He thanked Carlos and the boys, and abruptly walked away. He looked back at the three, who waived enthusiastically, bidding him well.
He was more determined to end the life he knew he didn’t deserve.
Built during the time of Pope Sixtus IV, between 1475 and 1483, the Sistine Chapel stood effulgent as the Vatican’s crowning glory.
Approaching the ordinary looking, rectangular brown stone chapel gave Father Tolbert a rush, each step an inch closer to the gallows, he, the self-executioner.
Inside, he immediately fell into a trance. The sight of exquisite and overwhelming splendor set a charge in his bosom, and confirmed his choice. He fought to control his breathing and dabbed his forehead dry, not wanting to attract attention, or somehow give away the cesspool of emotions swirling inside.
Although the outside held no serious architectural distinction, except that the building was constructed in the exact dimensions of the Temple of Solomon as described in the Old Testament, the interior could make a blind man weep, and the power of the artists who gave birth to the frescoes, tapestries and paintings swelled inside the chamber, pulsating, rich in the Holy Spirit.
The chapel, closed to all except private tours for the day, was empty except for another priest and two gentlemen, who Father Tolbert guessed from the way they were dressed, hailed from India. He ignored them and honed his attention on the painter Botticelli’s fresco that adorned the wall to his left, depicting the Life of Moses. On the wall to his right the Life of Christ.
Father Tolbert marveled at the mastery of the paintings on each wall, not only for their artistic value, but for their political statement of the times. Sixtus IV, desiring not only to show the correspondence between the Old and New Testaments, employed a precisely conceived program to illustrate through the entire cycle, the legitimacy of his papal authority, running from Moses via Christ, to Peter, whose ultimate authority, conferred by Christ, finds its continuation in the Popes. The perfect blend of creative and political genius.
The Indians and their guide nodded to Father Tolbert on their way out. He acknowledged them with a slight tilt of his head, and continued on to the back wall where the altar fresco, painted by Pietro Perugino, depicted the Virgin of the Assumption, to whom the chapel was dedicated. Father Tolbert stood, hands behind his back, tears welled-up in his eyes, and silently begged that the cup of his destruction pass. He stood ramrod still, waiting for the answer. Did God not say of His children, whosoever shall harm one of His little ones, that it would be better for him to have a large millstone hung around his neck and be drowned in the depths of the sea? Silence echoed through the chapel of Father Tolbert’s mind. Yes, I’ve hurt children. I deserve to drown, but I want to live. But I can’t stop myself. I’ve tried, Lord, You know I have.
Tears streamed down the priest’s cheeks. His knees went weak and he struggled to keep his balance. He looked up at Michelangelo’s three year odyssey on the ceiling, barely able to make out the jaw dropping frescoes that seemed suspended from heaven. Father Tolbert’s vision cleared. He took in the beauty of Isaiah, David and Goliath, Zechariah, the power of The Separation of Light and Darkness, the Creation of the Sun, Moon and Plants, and the centerpiece of the artist’s grand inspiration, the Creation of Adam.
Father Tolbert dropped to his knees. If I could just have forgiveness, I might be able to get through this. He felt a sudden, renewed vigor and surge of strength course through his bones, and for the first time in years, felt something he could build on. Small as it was, it was there. He stood with a sense of determination. I can beat this, I know I can.
He strode toward the exit, but with each step, his resolve seeped away. Thoughts of Samuel crowded his head. He felt unsteady. Images of the South American twin boys and their gentle touch squirmed and worked its way into his psyche. He labored to breath and burst from the building, sucking in air by the bucket. He quickly put distance between himself and the chapel, and didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. He’d decided.
Loneliness crept in. Father Tolbert needed the closeness, the innocence only a child could give him. Something he never had as a young boy. He went to his room and changed pants, having soiled himself with urine.
He then hit the door, flagged down a taxi, and headed out on the hunt for a new love in Rome.
28
F ather Tolbert exited the taxi on Via Condotti, and joined the mix of tourists and locals taking in the Roman favorite pastime of passagiatta, strolling along the streets people watching and window shopping.
Via Condotti, busy, but not too crowded, boasted many of the city’s most fashionable shops and boutiques. Father Tolbert checked his watch.
It was just after lunch, the most important meal in Rome. Most of the shops were closed, and locals who still followed Roman lore, were deep into siesta.
Father Tolbert, hands in his pockets, fingered the rubber ball and hard candy he’d brought with him as bait. He scanned the crowd, nodding with feigned benevolence to each passerby who acknowledged his black suit and white collar, paying particular attention to each adult accompanied by children. Most of the kids he saw were far too young for his taste, although the bright faces and big smiles of even the little ones increased his desire and anticipation. He’d been without a lover longer than he thought he could handle, due mostly to Samuel’s abduction, but mostly because of his trip to Rome. He had no real connections in the city, at least not on its darker side, a disadvantage he planned to change soon.
An hour into his search, with no opportunities at hand, Father Tolbert caught another taxi to the open air market near the center of town. Filled with fresh fruit and flower stands, butchers and fresh fish, the market was fairly busy for a Roman afternoon. The priest stopped at a fruit stand and picked out a large red apple. The owner, a short, stout woman with large forearms, refused to let him pay.
“Grazie, grazie,” said Father Tolbert, thanking her. “Bless you.” The woman, near toothless, smiled and offered him more fruit, but he graciously declined and continued his search, taking note of each young boy as he strolled through the food-filled menagerie eating the apple.
Father Tolbert knew he could easily meet his needs in the red light district, but young male prostitutes provided only temporary satisfaction, and couldn’t give him the closeness, the tenderness of a child turned his way.
He dropped his half eaten apple on the ground. His jaw fell, his eyes widened. My God, it’s him! Samuel!
