Vatican Waltz by Roland Merullo

Author:Roland Merullo
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Crown Publishing Group
Published: 2013-12-02T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINE

Breakfast was included with the price of a room at the Old Palace Hotel and was served on a second-floor balcony that overlooked the front yard’s fruit trees and flowering bushes. Strong coffee with hot milk. A creamy coconut yogurt. Cheese, salami, bread, a pear nectar I liked so much I promised myself I’d find a store at home that stocked it and buy a case. From my seat at a round metal table for two I had a view down over the tops of the lemon and fig trees, across the busy road, across the river, over the roofs of some low buildings, and as far as the dome of St. Peter’s. As I ate I found myself listening to a conversation of two couples at one of the other tables. They were talking about taking a trip to Assisi that day, and I had to restrain myself from asking if I could tag along. Two hours each way, I heard one of the men say. But the conversation and the sparkle of excitement I felt about being that close to the birthplace of two of the greatest saints, Francis and Clare, was like a layer of makeup over badly flawed skin. As fascinating as Italy was, the churches, the food, the ruins, and as much as I wanted to see the Colosseum and the Sistine Chapel, I hadn’t come to Rome to be a tourist; I’d had a purpose. Foolishly, I’d expected there to be some kind of ongoing conversation with people in the Church hierarchy. A series of meetings, maybe. A movement of sympathetic cardinals and clergy. The movement would come to the attention of the pope. Maybe we’d even have an audience.

It had been a fantasy, of course, I saw that clearly now. Egotistical, too. But I’d been so convinced of the authenticity of the visions, so sure that the messages came directly from God, that it was hard for me to believe I’d gotten one “no” and the case was closed.

I was sitting there with my refilled coffee cup and swirling disappointments when Claudia, the woman in charge of the hotel, stepped out onto the balcony. From the moment Father Bruno had introduced us, she’d been intimidating to me. Tall, trim, elegant, a perfectly proportioned face, black hair held back to show gold earrings studded with what looked like emeralds—deep down, in some hidden compartment of my thoughts, I had to admit that she was the kind of woman I wished, in another life, that I might be. Her English was nearly perfect. There was something regal about her. When I’d spoken to her, checking in, she told me the palazzo had been in her family for five generations.

In her right hand she held a cream-colored envelope. She greeted her guests with a cheery buongiorno, then came over to my table and handed me the envelope, keeping two fingers on my shoulder and smiling in a playful way. “Very early this morning a mysterious stranger stopped by and left this for you,” she said quietly.

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