"Basilica di San Pietro in Vaticano," he waves at the utmost beautiful church in front of us.
"Mama Mia!" I find myself saying. I am not mocking him. Truly, the whole place and the church are magical. I can’t believe I have been trapped in the asylum for all this time. The world outside is mad, but it’s also beautiful. If I weren’t here on a mission, I’d be touring this location and taking pictures all day long. "But wait a minute, Professor Carlo Pallotti," I say. "What does this have to do with the White Queen?"
The Pillar doesn't answer me. He ushers me to some kind of a parade nearby. Not in the sense of carnivals and dancing girls. This is a very respectable celebration. All people look peaceful and modest. They seem to be waiting for someone, all looking in one direction. Carriages pass slowly between the spectators on both sides. It looks like the Queen of England's birthday parade, which I have just seen footage of on the plane.
The Pillar takes off his hat and tucks it in his suit. He tells me that there is a dress code for being near the basilica. Hats aren't allowed.
"So what are we waiting for?" I ask.
"We're waiting for her," the Pillar says, knocking his cane proudly against the ground. “The White Queen herself.”
"I notice you haven't smoked since we came back from London," I remark, standing among the celebrating people.
"That’s true,” the Pillar nods. “Here is what you have to know. Of all enemies I have met in my life, I only respect one,” the Pillar says, chin up, saluting other people waiting on the opposite side. "The White Queen.” He nods his head toward a red carriage pulled by two white horses. It's filled with a number of nuns or priestesses waving solemnly at us and the people around. I feel like I have to bow my head and wave back. They are beautiful. Old. Wise. And their smiles are relaxing. It’s as if they have no envy or anxiety in their hearts. I wonder why they don’t send the likes of them to nurse us in the asylum, instead of Waltraud and Ogier.
Still, I don’t think any of them is the White Queen.
"Vatican protocol formally requires that women, Catholic queens and princesses precisely, wear a long black dress with a collar, long sleeves and a black mantilla," the Pillar whispers in my ear as he salutes them with me.
"Mantilla? You mean that shawl on their heads?" I say.
"That's it."
“So are these women nuns or princesses?"
"Those are nuns. This is a very special ceremony," he explains. "Only a few selected princesses and queens were exempted and allowed to wear white in the course of the history of the Vatican.”
“Really?”
“It’s a very sensitive exemption,” the Pillar explains. “Only a few queens, like the Queen of Belgium, Italy, and Luxembourg were given that privilege. They like to call it Privilege du Blanc, ‘the privilege of the white,’" he says. "Of course, the most important woman who was ever exempted is her," he points at another carriage that appears. "She’s both a nun and Wonderland's White Queen."
There is one woman in the carriage. She wears all white, her hair is white and smooth, and her face is gleaming with some invisible serene power. She isn’t old like the others, probably in her late-thirties. Men and women nod at her as she waves at them. The way people look at her reminds me how people used to look at Mother Teresa years ago. The woman simply has my heart, and strangely enough I want to go to war for her. I feel like I have met her in the past buried behind my eyes.
"Her name is Fabiola," the Pillar announces. "The White Queen." For the first time, I see him bow his head when her carriage passes before us.
Chapter 45
St. Peters , The Vatican City
We follow Fabiola to a hallway inside St. Peters. The Pillar tells me that its inner designs are one of the most renowned works in Renaissance architecture. When I look at all this from another angle, I am such a lucky mad girl, having been to one of the oldest universities and churches in a couple of days.