13

The tracts, testimony, medical examinations, bureaucracy, conditions, evaluations, impressions, interrogations, positive or not, that form part of the process of beatification or canonization are countless. Laws and rules exist, rigorous in most cases, that have to be followed scrupulously by the functionaries, emissaries, and prelates of the Holy See responsible for the case. A miracle, just one, is enough to unchain the machinery of verification. It can take years, sometimes decades, to legalize the facts, depending on the candidate in question and the interest of the Church in the matter. Much interest results in a faster process; little interest in delays capable of blackening and pulverizing the stones of the paved road. Preferably the candidate for sainthood should have been dead for more than five years in order to initiate the process of beatification, except in certain cases of sanctity in attitude or way of life. The venerable Mother Teresa of Calcutta is an example; in life she was more holy than many saints after death. Abu Rashid, the Muslim, seated on a narrow chair in a room on the seventh floor of the King David Hotel, might also fit that description.

Through the window the foreigner watched the ancient city, polemical but peaceful. Today was Friday, not yet noon, but already loudspeakers were heard calling to prayer from the tops of the minarets of the Al-Aqsa mosque. In former times it would have been the muezzin who called the faithful for the hour of prayer to Allah, facing the sacred city of Mecca.

“Tell me everything, Abu Rashid,” the man asked, not taking his eyes off the church cupolas of the Christian and Armenian quarters.

“What can I say that you don’t already know?” he answered.

The foreigner remembered the previous day and the fortunate visit to the Muslim’s house, as well as what happened afterward.

“You brought back the dead and whoever was with you in the Haj, after the monstrous flood that drowned thirty people, around…” the foreigner repeated for the fourth time. “Where are these living dead?” he asked sardonically.

“Around,” he said. “I don’t walk around counting the life of each one.”

“That we’ll have to see… we’ll have to see,” the other replied. “Can you imagine the work you’ve made for me?” An almost imperceptible look of irritation crossed his face.

“You’re more than used to it. Someone has to do it.” The voice remained calm, unaltered. Somewhat patient.

The foreigner left the window and sat down on the edge of the bed. He watched Abu Rashid with a certain reverence he wished to hide, which left him even more upset. He felt himself blush. The color rose in his cheeks. He hated this happening, especially when he was working on something important.

“When did you see… the Virgin?” Not without some fear he evoked the name of the Mother of God.

“Every time she appears.”

The foreigner reacted as if it were blasphemy. He felt as if Abu Rashid were insulting his own mother, which is true, since the Virgin is the heavenly mother of every Christian.

“And when is that?” He decided to calm down. There was nothing to gain in losing control.

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“On what she has to say to me.”

“She’s the Mother of Christ, a Christian icon. Do you believe in her?” Don’t lose patience, don’t lose patience.

“I believe because I see her.”

“It could be no more than a hallucination, man of God… of Allah,” he corrected himself.

“Allah is God,” the Muslim countered.

“But not mine,” the other replied decisively.

“Only one God exists. Mine could be yours.”

“Leave the dogma. You believe because you see her.”

“Correct.”

“But she could be only a hallucination,” he suggested.

Abu Rashid shook his head, denying it.

“No. Hallucinations are like mirages. They deceive.”

“And she doesn’t deceive?”

“Never. Everything she tells me is always true.” The word reflected the respect he had for the visions.

The foreigner got up again and paced from one side of the spacious room to the other. He sighed deeply, his hands behind his back.

“What has that vision told you?” he finally asked.

“Oh, many things…” He smiled.

“For example,” the foreigner insisted.

“She spoke to me of the flood and the drowning.”

“How many years ago was that?”

“Ten.”

“You’ve had this vision for ten years?”

“More,” the Muslim agreed, with the same smile on his face.

“When did you have the first vision?” the foreigner inquired, halfway between the bed and the door in his nervous demand. “Do you remember?”

“As if it were today,” Abu Rashid announced with a melancholy, nostalgic look, and remembered that day, his birthday, the eleventh, when she appeared at his side on the Mount of Olives, dressed in pure white, so brilliant that he had to shield his eyes with his hand. He was running back to the city to the same house he lived in today on Qadisieh Street to go with his father to pray at Hara mesh-Sharif.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” she asked him in a calming, melodious voice.

Contritely, respectfully, the boy explained his duties to God and his family.

“God is always within you. It is enough to hear and feel Him,” she replied like the song of a nightingale. The melodious reply had made the boy stop to see her better.

“Who are you?”

“I have many names. Maria of all wishes and ideas. The Virgin, anything you want to call me, including Lady.”

The boy found that very strange. A lady with any name you want to call her?

“Okay, okay, okay,” the foreigner said, calling him back impatiently to the present. “So, according to what you’re saying, she’s appeared to you since you were eleven years old,” he summarized.

“Correct.”

“Is there some specific day, some ritual you have to perform so that she’ll appear?”

“No.”

“Can you calculate how many visions you’ve had?” He sighed. He was losing patience.

“That’s easy.”

“It is?” At last there was hope.

“It is. All I have to do is count the days since the vision on the Mount of Olives.”

“I don’t understand.” He returned to sit on the edge of the bed, attentive.

“It’s simple. She’s appeared to me every day since then.”

The foreigner stared at him incredulously. “Are you saying the Virgin appears to you daily? That would be thousands of times.”

Abu Rashid confirmed it with a nod of his head.

“And this fact hasn’t converted you to Christianity?”

“As you can see, no.”

“Why?”

“Because the Virgin has never asked me to.”

“And would you convert if she asked you?”

“She wouldn’t ask,” the old man affirmed with certainty.

“But suppose she did?”

“She wouldn’t ask.”

“And what is it she tells you?” The foreigner changed the subject.

“I’ve already answered that.”

“But I didn’t know you’d experienced thousands of visions of Our Lady. This changes a lot of things. Okay, give me some more examples.” His tone of interrogation and challenge was obvious.

“She told me you would come.”

The foreigner gave Abu Rashid time to continue.

“She told me everything that’s going to happen to you and me.”

“And it’s turning out true?”

The ring of a telephone interrupted them. It was the foreigner’s cell phone. It couldn’t be anything else, since Abu Rashid hadn’t given in to the marvels of technology.

“Yes,” the foreigner answered, getting up and going over to the window. He spoke in whispers so as not to be heard by the Muslim, still not convinced of his visions. Anyway, it was unlikely that Abu Rashid understood Italian.

The conversation lasted several minutes, always in the same nasal tone. He couldn’t be too careful. The foreigner tried to be as evasive as possible, letting unconnected words be heard, like problem, prove, certainly, I’ll do what I can… Suddenly he looked back at the chair where Abu Rashid was sitting and couldn’t help thinking that he understood, or rather that nothing was news to him. He concentrated on the words of the person he was speaking with, setting aside the ideas distracting him. He couldn’t let himself be influenced by words. Only facts counted. The call ended with a click on the other end. He would never dare to hang up first.