But this morning he had wandered among them trying to hide his pain, smiling when he was asked to smile and replying when he was asked to reply. But as soon as he was alone it all crashed down on top of him, like objects falling out after being crammed into a closet.
For the first time in his life as a priest, he didn’t know what to do.
He had found himself in that situation before, when he still lived in the world, before realizing that what he wanted to do in his life was to serve God and his fellow man, and he had resolved his doubts and anxieties then by entering the peace of the seminary. This time it was different. He had called Cardinal Logan without a great deal of hope. If he had been in New York, he would have met with him more for moral support than to obtain an authorization he knew would never come. Not in the time or the circumstances that would be needed. He knew perfectly well the iron rules that governed that aspect of the relationship with the faithful. It was one of the fixed points of their creed, guaranteeing as it did that anyone could approach the sacrament of confession with a free heart and without fear and receive absolution in return for repentance. In his capacity as a minister, the Church condemned him to silence – and simultaneously condemned hundreds more people to death, if those attacks continued.
‘So you’re the famous Father McKean, the founder of Joy.’
He turned in the direction of the voice and found himself facing a tall woman in her forties, with dark, impeccably groomed hair. She was too heavily made-up, too elegant, probably too rich. She was holding two glasses full of what must have been champagne.
The woman did not wait for his answer. Anyway, it hadn’t been a question, but a statement of fact.
‘They told me what a charismatic and fascinating man you are. And they were right.’
She held out one of the two glasses. Taken aback by these words, Father McKean took it instinctively. He had had the impression that, if he hadn’t, the woman would have let go and it would have fallen on the ground.
‘My name’s Sandhal Bones and I’m one of the organizers of the exhibition.’
The woman shook the hand he held out and kept it in hers a moment longer than necessary. Father McKean added embarrassment to all the emotions already churning inside him. He looked away from her and saw little bubbles rising vivaciously to the surface of the flute.
‘So you’re one of our benefactors.’
Mrs Bones tried, without too much success, to downplay her role. ‘Benefactor is pitching it a little high. Let’s say I like to give a hand where it’s needed.’
Father McKean, although with no desire to drink, lifted the glass to his lips and took a small sip. ‘It’s thanks to people like you that Joy continues to thrive.’
‘It’s thanks to people like you that it exists at all,’ she replied, taking him by the arm.
He smelled a delicate and doubtless highly expensive perfume, and heard the swish of her dress.
‘And now let’s go and see the work of your protégés. I’ve heard great things about them.’
Making her way nonchalantly through the crowd, Mrs Bones moved to the other side of the balcony overlooking the little lake.
The Boathouse Café was an elegant venue in the middle of Central Park, joined to the rest of the city by East Drive. A single-storey building, its facade consisted of wide windows that allowed the customers a view of the water and the greenery as they dined. When the weather was fine, tables were put out on the terrace that ran all the way alongside it, and visitors could eat in the open air.
It was here that an exhibition of paintings, sculptures and crafts involving kids in the care of institutions similar to Joy had been organized by a committee whose name Father McKean could never remember. It was a way of allowing them to communicate with people, both personally and through their artworks. When the idea had been suggested, Father McKean had approached Jubilee Manson and Shalimar Bennett. The two of them were still in the middle of a difficult journey, but eventually he had become convinced, as had John, that this experience could only do them good.
Shalimar was a white girl from a normal middle-class family. They had managed to get her off heroin, as well as the self-harming that had covered her arms with scars. Father McKean wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, not even the Inquisition, but she was his favourite. She had a face that inspired tenderness and a wish to protect her. And light seemed to radiate from her eyes whenever anyone complimented her on her work, which was halfway between sculpture and jewellery. Original and colourful bracelets, necklaces, earrings were all made from materials that were not so much random as rudimentary.
Jubilee, a seventeen-year-old black boy, came from a very different kind of family, one where there were no rules and where in order to survive you had to fight. His mother was a prostitute and his father had been stabbed to death in a fight. His brother Jonas claimed to be a rapper, under the stage name Iron7. In reality, he was the head of a gang mainly involved in drugs and prostitution. When his mother had found crack in Jubilee’s room, she had realized that her younger son was about to follow in his brother’s footsteps. In one of her rare lucid moments, by some lucky intuition, she had taken him to see Father McKean at Joy. The same afternoon she had killed herself.
Once past his initial difficulties, Jubilee had adapted well to the life of the community and soon after his arrival had shown marked artistic gifts, which had been encouraged and cultivated. Now some of his most interesting works – although quite immature and needing allowances to be made – formed part of this exhibition in Central Park.
Father McKean and Mrs Bones reached the area where three of Jubilee’s paintings were displayed on easels. The influence of pop-art, and particularly Basquiat, was obvious but the bright colours, and the originality with which they were juxtaposed, showed great promise for the future.
The young painter was standing next to his works. Mrs Bones stopped in front of the pictures, in order to cast an eye over them.
‘And this is our young artist.’
She examined the works with great attention, not devoid of a certain bewilderment. ‘Well, I’m no critic and this certainly isn’t Norman Rockwell. But I have to say they are… they are…’
‘Explosive?’
Having suggested this definition Father McKean winked at Jubilee, who was trying hard not to laugh.
Mrs Bones turned to the priest as if she had seen the light. ‘Of course. That’s exactly what they are. Explosive.’
‘That’s what we all think.’
Having gratified both the artist’s ego and Mrs Bones’ obsession with patronage, Father McKean started to find her presence annoying. A short distance away, he saw John Kortighan talking to a group of people and threw him a glance that contained a desperate plea for help.