He had gone to a side entrance, a discreet one, not used by the cathedral’s flock, and rung a bell.
A man, tall and austere, had opened the heavy door for him. And that man, a fool, told Giulietta all she might need to know. The man glanced sharply to the right, to the left, then straight out into the poorly lit parking area. Then his arm went round Father Demetrio’s shoulders and he was brought inside. The priest was not there to discuss a set of hymn books for the village school or the service to celebrate the next commemoration of the patron saint, Francis of Paola. It was an entry of stealth and guilt.
She waited.
‘That’s what I know.’
Two heads close together, almost touching.
‘I cannot, Demetrio, make up your mind for you.’
A choir of children were practising without accompaniment, guided by the master.
‘I’ve harboured the guilt for too many years.’
They were in a darkened corner of the cathedral, where few candles burned. ‘You didn’t have to come to me. You know the words of the Holy Father. “Blood-stained money, blood-stained power, you can’t take it with you into the next life.” That was what he said to the mafia leaders.’
They sat on hard seats, hunched.
‘I’m getting old and want to leave this world in peace.’
‘You must follow, Demetrio, the road that is clear to you. Conscience cannot be manipulated for convenience. The Holy Father also said, “Repent. There is still time not to end up in Hell, which is what awaits you if you continue on this path.” His message was unequivocal.’
‘A prosecutor at the Palace of Justice is investigating this family.’
‘Don’t ask me to be your messenger, Demetrio.’
‘To see him would be a mockery of my whole professional life as a servant of God, a friend of that family. I believe I have little time.’
‘Is your health not good, Demetrio?’
He could have mentioned then that he had almost been driven off the road. Had the tyres lost purchase, gone over the edge, there would have been a drop of forty or fifty metres into a dry riverbed. He supposed he had come to the cathedral to see a man he had known for many years – he was not a close friend – and had hoped his resolve would be strengthened.
‘I’m reasonably well. Thank you for your support. I hope I have enough time.’
‘Because of your unique position in relation to this clan, would you consider, Demetrio, an anonymous denunciation? An alternative if your courage fails you.’ You might also consider the wider implications.
‘No.’
‘You would be aware of the potential for the embarrassment of the Holy Church, should a priest be required to testify in the aula bunker and be associated with a matter so sordid. Ponder the difficulty the Church might have to confront. Yes?’
‘I’m grateful for your wisdom.’
‘You’ll consider it, then?’
He thought they would work late at the Palace each evening. The newspapers reported that they were always at their desks. He had looked up the number before leaving and would announce himself before he reached the building. He thought he had been offered an unworthy escape from responsibility and responded in time-honoured fashion. He squeezed the man’s arm, a gesture redolent of comradeship and understanding. Demetrio was rewarded with a smile of complicity. Their cheeks brushed. It would be believed, as he left, that he would write a letter but not sign it, then post it, having wiped the paper and envelope to remove his fingerprints. He was told he was brave, that one day his courage might be known to a wider audience and that it was the task of all citizens to fight the evil of criminal conspiracy. He was asked if he would now drive back to the village, cross the range of mountains and prepare himself for the funeral mass in the morning. He smiled, turned and was gone.
His shoes clattered on the flagstones and he crossed the three great central naves, ducking his head before the principal altar. There, he crossed himself and went out through the door.
Near to the parked car, he made a call. He said whom he wished to speak to, and on what matter, then rang off. A great tiredness afflicted him, and fear.
‘Is there a rhinoceros here?’ Fred asked.
They were at the roadblock. The fire in the drum burned ahead of them. They could see the men’s cigarettes glowing and sometimes heard their voices. The lights of the house were up the hill before the wall of darkness that was the foothills of the mountains.
Carlo answered, ‘I don’t think so.’
A carabinieri van with women officers had come for Consolata. They’d brought a rucksack of assorted clothing and underwear, uncertain as to what would fit. She’d dressed in the back of the van – the women had put newspaper up on the windows.
‘You cannot say for definite that there’s no rhinoceros.’