The priest continued to distribute Holy Communion to the communicants kneeling along the rail. An elderly parishioner served as altar boy. He was holding the paten when he looked up and saw the police. The gold paten held under the chin of a communicant began to tremble in his grasp.
After receiving the host, the communicants blessed themselves and returned to their pews. Fracassi brought the extra Communion wafers back to the altar. He placed the lid on the gold pyx and set it aside. He drank the remaining wine in the chalice and buffed it with the altar cloth. He folded the cloths neatly before placing the pyx filled with the consecrated hosts into the tabernacle.
Fracassi sat for the reflection, his back to the pews. After a while, he rose to give the final benediction. He blessed the parishioners, making the sign of the cross over them.
Fracassi usually led the recessional to the back of the church and greeted his flock as they dispersed. Instead he said, “My friends, I would like you to leave the church before me this morning.”
The parishioners looked at one another, confused. They turned and saw the policemen in the back of the church.
“Do not be alarmed,” the priest said kindly. “The gentlemen are only following orders.”
Instead of exiting the church, the small group of parishioners lined up at the foot of the altar to express their gratitude. The priest blessed each one and advised them to be instruments of peace and leave the church without trouble. When the church was empty except for the priest and the policemen, Fracassi joined them.
“Don Fracassi, you are under arrest.”
The priest nodded. He turned and genuflected to the altar. In his haste, he had left the tabernacle door open. The good Sisters would close it when they came for the altar linens.
GLASGOW
Amedeo and Piccolo Mattiuzzi were waiting on the sidewalk outside their shop to be collected by the police. They had packed one suitcase each, per the law. They wore their Sunday suits and shoes. Mattiuzzi wore the Borsalino hat his wife had given him on his last birthday. His son wore his father’s old brown fedora, which was still in good shape.
Lester McTavish, their stout Scot neighbor who owned the emporium next door, joined them outside. “Best to be agreeable with these folks. You’ll be back in no time. I’m talking to the authorities. Don’t worry.”
“Do you know where they’re taking us?” Mattiuzzi asked.
“Isle of Man or one of the Orkney Islands.”
“And for how long?” Piccolo asked.
“May be a week or two until they process the good Tallies from the bad.”
“Two weeks,” Mattiuzzi grumbled. “I don’t have time for this nonsense. My business will suffer.”
“I will help your wife however I can. She’ll keep the place open, take orders until you return. Look at your arrest like a glitch. You’ll take some sun, get some good rest, and the war will be over in no time,” McTavish assured them. “At least it’s summer.”
Mattiuzzi’s wife and daughter watched from the upstairs window. Mattiuzzi had been fearful that if the women waited with the men on the sidewalk, the police might have a second thought and take the women too.
Margaret Mary McTavish wrapped a proper shawl around herself as she closed the door of her father’s shop and joined the men on the sidewalk.
“Hurry up, Margaret Mary,” her father said as he surveyed the street from side to side. “They’ll be here soon.”
“Yes, Papa.”
Piccolo followed Margaret Mary into Mattiuzzi’s shop. “I wanted to say goodbye.” She smiled.
Piccolo pulled her close and buried his face in the waves of her russet hair. He inhaled the familiar scent of jasmine. He kissed her tenderly. “When I come home, I’ll talk to your father.”
“You’d better.” Margaret Mary gave his arm a playful slap before she covered her lover’s face in kisses. When she saw her father turn toward the storefront out of the corner of her eye, she pushed Piccolo away. “Go on,” she said.
* * *
“You cannot take your telescope, Arcangelo. There’s no room,” his wife, Angela, said as she arranged his suitcase for the last time.
“It will fit.”
“No it won’t. Cheese or a telescope? Eat or dream? Those are your choices. You can give up looking at the stars, but you can’t starve. You’re taking the cheese. I want to know you’re eating. There’s a long baguette.”
“I’ll be back in a day or two. That’s too much bread and cheese.”
“There’ll be others who packed nonsense and forgot their cheese. You will see. You’ll need extra. You’ll thank me.”
Antica stood across the bed he had shared with his wife for forty-seven years. “Yes, Angela. I will share the cheese. And the sausage.”
“And the grappa.”
“And even the grappa.”
“There are three pair of socks. Three underpants—”
“Please. I understand, after all these years, how to dress in the morning.”
“I want you to know what I’ve packed.” She snapped the suitcase shut.
His wife left the bedroom. Antica held up the telescope he had made. He had fashioned the optical tube out of birch wood, which was soft enough to bend into a cylinder. The eyepiece and lens were made at the jeweler’s. Mattiuzzi cut the glass and beveled the sides with a file. It had taken several tries to get it just right. Antica attached the lens, along with the focusing knob and the cradle. He mounted the telescope on the tripod he had built. Any night without rain would find him on the roof of his home in Glasgow, looking at the stars overhead.
He cocked his ear and listened for his wife. He removed the extra shirt and a pair of underpants to make room for the telescope. He placed the telescope next to the cheese and his socks and closed the suitcase.
“Arcangelo,” she called out. “They’re here.” Angela’s voice broke. She waited at the bottom of the stairs for her husband. When he reached her, Angela put her arms around him and kissed him repeatedly.
“That’s enough.” He took his wife’s face into his hands. “I’m coming back.”