The unannounced return of the young wife, carrying a tray from which the smell of steam and mint leaves flooded the room already filled with odors of musk, imposed silence. She hadn’t forgotten her head covering. She left the tray on top of a small, round table next to the wall, and tipped the mouth of the teapot over her husband’s cup, pouring out greenish liquid and adding six spoonfuls of sugar. Devotedly, she placed the saucer with the cup into his hand. He took it without a glance at his wife, who, only then, began to prepare a cup for the visitor.
The old man sipped a little of the tea, showing no discomfort with the hot temperature and not taking his eyes off the foreigner, who received from the wife an identical porcelain cup.
‘And do you consider it necessary to recommend this commission?’ the old man asked as soon as his wife left.
‘I don’t know yet. I just arrived, and this is the first stop I’ve made.’
‘I understand. But surely you’ve made your own judgment about what you’ve heard about Abu Rashid,’ the Muslim continued. ‘Do you believe it’s necessary?’
There was a certain sly humor about the owner of the house that disquieted the stranger. His questions, his looks, seemed insolent, and as incredible as it might seem, a captivating aura of mystery surrounded the old man, invisibly, powerfully. Who is this man? the foreigner thought to himself. He decided to answer the old man.
‘It’s true the stories seem a little fantastic. We are talking about someone who might have the gift of curing the medically incurable. It seems he revived thirty people who drowned. He himself drowned and then resuscitated himself. There are innumerable examples in history of people with the gift of healing, some more believable than others… As far as that goes, until I see and judge, I can’t offer any evaluation.’ He took a careful sip of tea so as not to burn his tongue. It was too strong and sugary.
‘I know Abu Rashid very well,’ the old man began at last, searching his memory. ‘He’s a saintly man, able to cure the living… and the dead.’
‘The dead?’ The stranger squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. ‘That doesn’t sound likely to me,’ he dared saying.
The Muslim’s voice changed. His rational, critical tone was replaced by something more introspective, dreamy, as if he were gazing into another reality, while he reclined in the rocker.
‘Ah, but it’s true,’ the old man insisted, gazing into space. ‘Completely true.’
‘I’ll have to confirm that,’ the foreigner countered evasively.
‘How can you consider resurrection improbable if you believe your Messiah did it for himself and Lazarus?’ The old man appeared to have recovered some power of reasoning.
‘That’s why. He was the Messiah. No other person has had the power since then,’ the foreigner declared firmly.
‘Allah said, “As for the unbelievers, whether you admonish them or not, they will not believe.” I know very well what I’m talking about, since I’ve died and he brought me back to life.’
The foreigner felt sudden interest. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I’ve been dead and he brought me back to life,’ the old man repeated. ‘You’re not going to find lies here.’
They let the conversation lapse, each one concentrating on his cup of mint tea. Enough time had passed to cool the liquid and make it easy to drink. The owner of the house had already swallowed most of his while it was burning hot, the way he liked it.
‘What intrigues me,’ the old man continued, speaking more frankly, ‘is why this sudden concern in Rome. To recommend an investigation or not. Why? What does this have to do with Rome?’
‘You know the Church always defends her faithful and her saints. It may be that Abu Rashid will merit beatification and canonization, after his death, of course. This is an opportunity to document this now. Anyway, the miracles he’s done in life are not valid. Only those after death.’
The old Muslim gave a laugh that brought tears to his eyes.
‘Oh, then, so that’s it,’ said the old man, leaving his empty cup, in danger of falling, on the arm of his chair, swallowing back a guttural chuckle. ‘You can stay for dinner. You can begin your investigation with me. But it is not going to help you at all,’ he said, after he stopped laughing.
‘Why?’ asked the astonished foreigner.
The old man looked at him seriously.
‘Since when have Christians prayed with Muslims?’
‘No one said he was a Muslim. The stories mention a true Christian who sees the Virgin.’ The foreigner couldn’t accept what he had heard. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely. He’s not a believing Christian. But he sees the Virgin Mary.’ The old man got up, approached the other, and extended his hand. ‘Abu Rashid. Allah be with you.’
This man watching the city in the light of dawn through his window was very worried.
4
The church Dei Quattro Capi is called that because it is next to the bridge of the same name, formerly called the Fabricio Bridge and still known by that name if one decides to ask for it. It was named in honor of the master builder who laid the first stone in the year 62 before the birth of Our Lord Jesus Christ. This makes it the most ancient bridge in Rome. Before it was given the name Four Heads — derived from two busts with the sculptured heads of Mercury situated at one of the ends — the bridge was called the Pons Judaeorum for its proximity to the Jewish ghetto.
In the travertine of the arches that have supported the bridge for more than twenty-one centuries inscriptions are engraved on both sides that recall the builder, Fabricius, who wished to leave his mark on posterity. But the truth is, nobody remembers him; no historian is able to verify his first name with any certainty, except that it begins with F, as the inscriptions attest. People cross the Fabricio Bridge, forgetful or ignorant that it was once more than a footbridge and tourist site, a bridge for the passage of provisions, goods, valuables, and vehicles into the sublime capital of the great Roman Empire… but that was in the beginning.
Today people only cross it to go to the church, like this priest, uninterested in bridge engineering. Like all the houses of the Lord spread around the world, the small Church of Saint Gregory of Divine Mercy, its official name, in the parish of Sant’Angelo, welcomes all the faithful who wish to hear and feel His Word, lay down the burden of life for the interval of the Eucharist, and unite themselves in faith.
This Tuesday morning was no exception. Several people were entering the small church, most hardly bothering to admire the facade, perhaps accustomed to it, as if it were only one more familiar fortification, like the city itself where they live. Perhaps the Mass, which had already started, made them hurry. The few who looked at the facade were undoubtedly tourists, admiring the painting of Christ Crucified, wept over by Mary and Mary Magdalene, the common scene reproduced from diverse angles and artistic and subjective interpretations of the mother and alleged spouse who weep for their dead son and alleged husband who will rise again on the third day. Above the portico is a plaque that reads: Indulgencia plenaria quotidiana perpetua pro vivis et defunctis — a priestly and papal pronouncement of daily privilege for the living and dead within this sacred temple. The priest, who had just crossed the bridge, entered the church. Its interior reflected something of its exterior simplicity, though it possessed priceless relics, although fewer in number compared with those in other Roman churches.
This is not the first time Father Rafael Santini has celebrated Mass here, although it’s not the parish assigned to him. That lies to the north of Rome in a small village he barely knows — for reasons that don’t concern us.
This cool morning they were celebrating the silver anniversary of Father Carrara’s appointment as parish priest. He was Rafael’s friend of many years and colleague in service as priest and in other matters we won’t mention now. Rafael, though a priest, liked people, especially women, as has been common since the High Middle Ages. Men like Rafael look as old as they wish. We could be specific and say thirty-eight years, completed on the sixteenth day of April, but who can know with certainty his age and birthday? Anyone seeing him celebrating the Eucharist now at the altar of Saint Gregory of Divine Mercy could not fail to notice a certain indifference, unusual in a priest. The speed with which he read the missal bordered on a senseless mumble. He read the sermon without emotion, like a public official reading a traffic code or a student reciting the multiplication tables in front of the teacher.