“Oh, I’m sorry, Father, I’m so sorry,” cried Sister Bravo, blushing as she quickly gathered up her things.
Exasperated, he reluctantly bent down to help her. “Don’t worry, Sister, it was an accident. It seems it’s just not our day.” Father Tolbert and Sister Bravo scooped up her belongings, and spent ten minutes having customs look through their suitcases, before finally loading up and heading down Via Appia Antica Road, toward Rome. Sister Bravo used the car cell phone to let the Vatican know they were running late. Father Tolbert, satisfied that they would finally arrive soon, leaned back and rested his eyes. He heard the nun hang up the phone.
“Cardinal Polletto left a message, asking me to run a special errand for him. There’s a car waiting for me downtown.” Father Tolbert continued to relax. “We must do what we must do.”
“You’ve not been to Rome lately?” asked Sister Bravo, after a few minutes silence.
“Not in a long while,” said Father Tolbert, his eyes still closed. “But I plan to make the most of my time here.”
“You’re fortunate that Cardinal Polletto could get you such an assignment on such short notice. To work in the Vatican Archives is a real honor.”
Yes, if you consider hiding out an honor. “Thank you, Sister, that it is.”
The car slid into downtown Rome. Father Tolbert sat up and looked out at the hustling, busy streets, taking in the unique flavor of one of the world’s oldest cities. He marveled at the sight of ancient ruins and marble columns, standing beside office complexes, luxurious villas, and modern apartment buildings on noisy boulevards. Father Tolbert pressed his face against the glass. The duality between the past and present left him astounded.
The driver navigated the downtown streets with an ease of the familiar. They traveled down the narrow and busy Via del Corso and went north from the Piazza Venezia, past the Piazza Colonna to the heart of the city.
“The other car is just up ahead,” said the driver, swerving in front of a parked Benz, identical to their own.
“I’ll see you at the Vatican,” said Sister Bravo. “The driver will tend to my things.”
Father Tolbert heard shouting and a commotion behind them. The driver and Sister Bravo bolted from the car. Father Tolbert turned and saw several men, including the driver, run into a crowd gathered on the other side of the street, with Sister Bravo in tow. Confused, Father Tolbert jumped out and headed in that direction.
The driver quickly ran toward him, waving him back to the car.
“Sister Bravo says that we should continue on to the Vatican,” he told the priest.
“What’s all the fuss about?” asked Father Tolbert.
“Nothing to worry yourself about, Father. We should go on to the Vatican. She’ll catch up with us later.”
“But we shouldn’t leave her stranded,” Father Tolbert pressed.
The driver, dark and robust, with long thick fingers scowled. “We should leave immediately,” he growled.
Father Tolbert felt a shiver. The driver’s face said it was not a request. y slid back inside the back seat, perspiration pouring down his forehead into his eyes. He pulled his already wet handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket and wiped his drenched face. He continued to look back, but there was still no sign of Sister Bravo.
The engine revved and the driver sped off, sending nonchalant patrons crossing the street, diving for cover.
17
S amuel bolted down the sidewalk, arms and legs pumping like mini pistons, his jaw as tight as a pit bull. Everything around him zipped by in a blur. He crashed into several angry Italians, including, to his chagrin, an old woman, probably somebody’s grandmother, fell hard to the pavement, chest-first. Then he sprang to his feet and kept running, with no idea where he was or where he was going. Terrified, he looked back.
Nobody was chasing him.
Legs aching, needles prickling his lungs, he slowed down to a trot, then a fast walk, constantly glancing back over his shoulder. Samuel squinted through the sweat searing his eyes, but there were no galloping hooves or cursing priests rocketing in his direction. Five blocks later, he leaned up against the brick wall of an old antique shop, breathing hard, heart pounding, and his legs rubber. Eyes glued down the street, he was ready to take off at the first sight of Father Sin’s gargoyle mug, but the faces that stared back at him flashed only mild interest and curiosity, not the intent to kill.
Samuel stomped his feet hard on the concrete to fend off the numbness in his legs, a trick he learned during cold winters in Chicago.
He pressed his face against an antique shop window, but only old furniture, dusty lamps, and an assortment of dull, lifeless figurines, the kind you might find on many grandmothers’ mantles, stared back, sparking not a single bit of interest. His stomach tightened. I want to go home.
He looked around the dimly lit, nearly barren, street lined with small shops and stores all closed for the night, and felt a wave of anxiety wash over him. He sobbed. I’m lost. He steadied his breathing, lungs grateful for the rest, took another long look down the street, and then headed in the opposite direction at a brisk pace.
“Excuse me, can you help me? I’m lost,” Samuel pleaded to an old man toting two brown paper sacks.
The old man reminded him of the cartoon character he’d seen on old cartoon reruns on Nickelodeon, Mr. Magoo, with his big bulbous head, thick glasses, and total confusion. The old man gave an indifferent huff, humped his shoulders and kept walking, mumbling under his breath in Italian.
Samuel spotted a young couple walking toward him, arm in arm, and stepped in front of them. “P-P-Please, I’m lost,” he stammered, his eyes filled with tears. “Can you help me?”
The young man, a Brad Pitt clone, pulled out several coins and dropped them in Samuel’s palm. His girlfriend, apparently moved by his generosity, kissed and hugged every inch of his face. The young lovers crossed the street, lips locked tight, as though the ten year old was never there.
The darkness brought a stiff, cold breeze that cut through Samuel to the bone. He continued down the street, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched forward for warmth. Most of the buildings he passed were empty. The longer he walked, the more the area took on the ambiance of a cheap horror film. Samuel forced himself to think, what should I do?
He looked around for a policeman, a taxi driver, anyone who looked official, but saw nobody. Think! Think! Samuel stopped. Of course, the Embassy! The U.S. Embassy!
He spotted a woman, who looked to be about his mother’s age, walking across the street in the opposite direction. He ran over to her, shaking, nervous. “Please, I’m looking for the U.S. Embassy. Can you help me?” he frantically asked.
The woman, tall with long reddish hair, and a mosey nose, furrowed her brow. “Excuse me?” she asked.
“The Embassy,” said Samuel, struggling not to scream. “I need to get to the U.S. Embassy.”
“I no understand,” said the woman, confused. “What’s Embebe?”
“No, Em-ba-see,” he repeated, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“American’s Embassy.”
The woman ran a hand back through her long, silky vines. Finally, a look of recollection lit up her face. “Oh, American’s, Em-baa-see.” Samuel, encouraged, wiped his face on his shirtsleeve. “Yes,” he said. “I need to get there. Can you help?” The woman, now happy she could be of assistance, pointed down an alley to a well-lit street about fifteen hundred feet on the other side.
“American Embassy on Vittorio Veneto.”
Samuel slowly repeated the street named. “Vi-tor-ia Ven-e-to.” He said his thanks and gave her, to her astonishment, a tight, extended hug, then sprinted across the street into the alley, a smile chiseled on his face.