Cecelia tried to catch his eye several times; she felt tales of blood and surgery were not suited to the dinner table, although most of the guests were discussing their own operations, along with their children or what kind of snow-removal equipment they owned.
When the waiters removed the dessert plates, including Phil’s uneaten profiteroles, the room quieted so that his was the only voice that carried. “That’s what they really mean by a physiological map,” he said earnestly. A ripple of laughter made him blush and break off in midsentence. It also drew the head table’s attention to him.
Mrs. Paciorek had been too busy entertaining Archbishop O’Faolin to look at her children during dinner. Since eating had been well under way when we arrived, she probably never noticed Phil and me at all. Now his exposition and the laughter made her turn slightly so that she could identify the source. She saw him, then me. She froze, her well-bred mask slipping slightly. She glanced sharply at Cecelia, who made a helpless gesture.
Mrs. Paciorek nudged Archbishop O’Faolin and whispered to him. He, too, turned to stare at our table, which was only fifteen feet or so away. Then he whispered back to Mrs. Paciorek, who nodded firmly. Instructions to get the Swiss Guard to throw me out?
Phil was furiously stirring cream into his coffee. He was also still young enough to mind very much being laughed at. Under the noise of scraping chairs, as people rose for Cardinal Farber’s post-dinner benediction, I patted his arm comfortingly and said, “Remember: The only real social sin is to care what other people think of you.”
Farber gave a brisk blessing for the meal we had just enjoyed, and went on to talk about how the Kingdom of Heaven could only be tended on earth with the help of earthly things, that God had given us an earthly creation to care for, and that the work of the temporal church could only be carried out with material goods. He felt especially blessed in being the archbishop of Chicago, not just the world’s largest archdiocese but also the most generous and loving. He was gratified at the response Chicago had made to the urgent needs of the Vatican, and here to thank us in person was the Most Reverend Xavier O’Faolin, archbishop of Ciudad Isabella and head of the Vatican Finance Committee.
Well pleased with his praise, the crowd clapped enthusiastically. O’Faolin stepped to the podium at a raised stand in front of the room, commended his words to God in Latin, and began to speak. Once again the Spanish accent was so thick as to be nearly incomprehensible. People strained to listen, then squirmed, and finally began murmured private conversations.
Phil shook his head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him tonight,” he said. “The old boy usually speaks perfect English. Mother must have knocked him off balance.”
I wondered again at the whispered exchange between her and O’Faolin. Since it was impossible to follow the Panamanian archbishop I let my mind wander. Applause roused me from a doze, and I shook my head to try to wake up again completely.
Phil commented sarcastically on my sleeping, then said, “Now comes the fun part. You go around the reception detecting to see if you can find your mysterious caller, and I’ll watch.”
“Great. Maybe you can incorporate it into an article on search-and-sort routines in the brain.”
As we got up to follow the throng into the George IV Salon, Mrs. Paciorek pushed herself against the tide of traffic and came up to us. “What are you doing here?” she demanded of me abruptly.
Phil pulled my hand through his arm. “She’s my dinner date, Mother. I didn’t think I could face the Plattens and Carrutherses without some moral support.”
She stood fulminating, her color changed dangerously, but she had the sense to know she couldn’t order me out of the hotel. At last she turned to Cecelia and Morris. “Try to keep her away from Archbishop Farber. He doesn’t need to be insulted,” she tossed over her shoulder.
Phil made a sour face. “Sorry about that, V.1. Want me to stay at your side? I don’t want anyone else to be rude to you.”
I was amused and touched. “Not necessary, my friend. If they’re too rude, I’ll break their necks or something and you can patch them up and come out looking like a hero.”
Phil went to get me a brandy, while I started counterclockwise around the room, stopping at small knots of people, introducing myself, chatting enough to get everyone to say a few words, and moving on. About halfway up the left side, I ran into Father Pelly with Cecelia and some strangers.
“Father Pelly! Nice to see you.”
He smiled austerely. “Miss Warshawski. I hardly thought of you as a supporter of the archdiocese.”
I grinned appreciatively. “You thought correctly. Young Phil Paciorek brought me. How about yourself? I hardly thought the priory could afford this type of entertainment.”
“We can’t. Xavier O’Faolin invited me-we used to work together, and I was his secretary when he was sent to the Vatican ten years ago.”
“And you keep in close touch. That’s nice. He visit the priory while he’s in town?” I asked idly.
“Actually, he’ll stay with us for three days before he flies back to Rome.”
“That’s nice,” I repeated. Faced with Cecelia’s withering glare, I moved on. Phil caught up with me as I was nearing the knot around O’Faolin.
“Nothing like an evening with the old gang to make you feel you’re in kindergarten,” he said. “Every third person remembers when I broke the windows at the church with my catapult.”
He introduced me to various people as I slowly worked my way up to O’Faolin. Someone was shaking hands with him and leaving just as I reached the group, so Phil and I were able to slip in next to him.
“Archbishop, this is Ms. Warshawski. Perhaps you remember her from my sister’s funeral.”
The great man favored me with a stately nod. He wore his episcopal purple shirt under a black suit of exquisite wool. His eyes were green, from his Irish father. I hadn’t noticed them before. “Perhaps the archbishop would prefer to converse in Italian,” I said, addressing him formally in that language.
“You speak Italian?” Like his English, his Italian accent was tinged with Spanish, but not so distortingly. Something about his voice sounded familiar. I wondered if he’d been on television or radio while he was in Chicago and asked him that.
“NBC was good enough to do a small interview. People think of the Vatican as a very wealthy organization, so it is hard for us to bring our story of poverty and begging to the people. They were kind enough to help.”
I nodded. Chicago’s NBC station gave a lot of support to Catholic figures and causes. “Yes. The Vatican finances have been much in the papers here. Particularly after the unfortunate death of Signor Calvi last summer.” Was it my imagination, or did he flinch a bit? “Has.your work with the Vatican Finance Committee involved you at all with the Banco Ambrosiano?”
“Signor Calvi was a most loyal Catholic. Unfortunately, his ardor caused him to overstep the bounds of propriety.” He had switched back to his heavily accented English. Although I made one or two more attempts at conversation, the interview was clearly over.
Phil and I moved off to sit on a small couch. I needed to rest my feet before tackling the other side of the room. “What was that about Calvi and the Banco Ambrosiano?” he asked. “My Spanish is just good enough that I could follow some of the Italian… You must have miffed him, though, for his English to go bad again like that.”
“Possibly. He certainly didn’t want to talk about Ambrosiano.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes. I gathered my wits for an assault on the rest. of the party. Suddenly, behind me, I heard the Voice again. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Addington. His Holiness will be joining me in prayer for all of you generous Chicago Catholics.”