“Would you like another manhattan, Father?” an attendant interrupted.
“No, thank you. I want to be cold sober to see this movie!”
It was undoubtedly a testimonial to the wretchedness of the film that by halfway through its showing, all in the cabin were either gathered around the mobile bar or asleep.
Father Koesler was snoring.
SAN FRANCISCO
A massive black fist closed around the pole as the man swung himself easily onto the cable car. As long as he had lived in San Francisco he had delighted in riding the cable cars. The openness, the sense of being at one with the rolling city, the sardinelike closeness of his fellow passengers—all contributed to the atmosphere of conviviality, or at least camaraderie one usually found on board.
And he desperately needed something cheerful. He had just attended a conclave that had deeply depressed him.
He did not belong to the group whose meeting he had attended. But he was able to transcend many disparate groups. He had the irritating feeling he should do something about what he had heard at the session. But what? The matter did not directly involve him. And if he did react, how far was he prepared to go?
The flow of his thoughts was interrupted by a sweet little blue-haired lady seated next to him.
“I beg your pardon . . .” She touched the sleeve of his black suit coat.
“Yes?” He looked up, startled.
“Are you a Father? I mean, are you a priest?”
“No, madam, I am not.” He resembled and indeed sounded like James Earl Jones. Or possibly Robert Earl Jones. Somewhere between junior and senior. His accent was that of a highly cultured Haitian.
“No? Well, I didn’t think so, even though you’re dressed like one. But, then, you never can tell these days. The people who look like priests aren’t, and the ones who don’t look like priests are. Land a’ Goshen, how’s a body to tell? Though the good Lord knows there aren’t very many . . . uh . . . uh . . .”
“Black priests?”
“Exactly. Well, then, if you don’t mind my asking, just what are you? A Baptist minister? No, they don’t wear roman collars, do they? How about Anglican? Episcopalian?”
“I am a Roman Catholic deacon, madam.”
“Oh, really? I don’t think I ever met one of those before. Well, then, how are you addressed? I mean, what do I call you?”
“You may call me ‘Reverend’ if you feel comfortable with that.”
“Oh. Reverend. Reverend! Oh, I like that! You don’t get to call many people ‘Reverend’ anymore. All your priests want to be called Bill or Bob or Harry. Oh, I like ‘Reverend’! And what is your name, Reverend?”
“Toussaint. Ramon Toussaint.”
“Reverend Ramon Toussaint. Oh, I like that! It has a fine ring to it. Is that French?”
“More or less. It means ‘all saints.’”
“All saints! Oh, I like that! That’s a feast day, isn’t it? I mean, a holy day of obligation, that is. There aren’t that many people pay any attention to holy days of obligation anymore. Go to church on a holy day of obligation nowadays and you could fire off a cannon in the middle aisle and never hit a soul.
“What do you think, Reverend Toussaint? Do you think there’s the respect for holy days of obligation that there used to be? Or haven’t you been a Catholic all that long?”
“I would be forced to agree with you, madam. But, now, if you will excuse me, I would like to read from my book.”
“Oh,” she noted for the first time the small black leather-bound book Toussaint held, “the holy office! Oh, I like that! Used to be you could see the priests walking up and down, up and down, hours on end, reading from their little holy office. Don’t see that anymore. Why, you take your average new priest and put the holy office in his hands and I’ll just bet he wouldn’t know what to do with it. Well, I’m all for that, Reverend Toussaint; you just go right ahead and read your holy office!”
Toussaint nodded and opened his commonplace book. He would not discard the reprieve just to correct a mistaken impression.
It was, he thought, fortunate. God does indeed move in mysterious ways His wonders to perform. If it had not been for the blue-haired lady’s incessant prattle, he would not have tried to escape behind his commonplace book. And if he hadn’t opened his book he would have completely forgotten the shopping list Emerenciana had given him. But, here he was, looking at the list. A marvelous coincidence!
Toussaint rose and nodded pleasantly to the blue-haired lady, who smiled sweetly in return. He swung down from the cable car and walked toward the grocery. The neighborhood was most familiar to him. It had been his community for the past several years since he left Detroit for an assignment in Our Lady of Guadalupe parish here in San Francisco.
As he walked, he was greeted by nearly everyone he encountered. Shortly after his arrival, he had become the acknowledged leader of what had once been a Chicano barrio but was now simply another mixed neighborhood. He was respected as much by Hispanics as by blacks. Catholic as well as non-Catholic.
He addressed each person by name. But he offered no more than that. He was still disquieted by what he had learned at the meeting he had attended earlier.
He completed the marketing and returned home directly.
During dinner, there was little conversation, and what there was was awkward. Very unusual.
“What is it, Ramon? What is wrong?” His wife clutched her coffee cup with both hands as if for needed warmth . . . or reassurance.
Toussaint placed his fork on the plate and stared at it for a few seconds. “I must leave, ‘Ciane . . . for a short while.”
“For where? Why?”
“I must go to Rome. That is all I can tell you.”
“Rome! But you just came back from Canada!”
“Yes. But something has happened. I must not tell you what. But the situation requires my presence.”
She sipped her coffee. “Is there danger?”
He shrugged, then smiled. “To me? No, I think not. To others? Possibly.” Then, after a moment’s thought, “Very possibly.”
“Does it have to do with those who will be inducted into the College of Cardinals?” She caught his suddenly pained expression. “Does it have to do with Archbishop Boyle?”
Back in Detroit, Boyle had been close to being a friend. Indeed, it was Boyle who had ordained Toussaint a deacon. The Toussaints would have unreservedly considered him their friend had it not been for the fact that the Archbishop was ordinarily so reserved that almost no one but a few peers considered him in the category of a friend.
Toussaint smiled again. “Now, I have told you I cannot explain the reason I must go to Rome. Only that I must go and that I will return as quickly as I can. In a matter of days. Two weeks at the maximum.”
“You will see Archbishop Boyle?”
“Of course.”
“Then give him my greetings.”
“Of course.”
“When will you leave?”
“Time is of great importance. I will leave tomorrow morning.”
“Then come. We will make one of our prayers for this journey.”
Emerenciana Toussaint was a mambo, a voodoo priestess. This was known to almost no one outside the Haitian community. Among the few who knew was Father Robert Koesler. And he had told no one.
ROME
“Ladies and gentlemen, we will shortly be starting our descent into Rome. The local time is 8:45 a.m.”
Father Koesler stirred in the narrow seat. He glanced at his watch. No, it isn’t, he thought; it’s 2:45 a.m. by my metabolism’s time. He seldom slept in his clothing and didn’t much care for the experience. On top of that, he was convinced he had, as the advertisement so euphemistically phrased it, the worst breath of the day.