“Now?” Don Clemente asked. He hadn’t realized the request was for immediate action.

“Yes,” the other confirmed.

Don Clemente consulted his watch. He frowned and looked at the great door of the cathedral.

“Wait for me here. I’ll be right back,” he decided.

And with these words he turned his back and walked off. Marius Ferris sat down in one of the pews looking at the altar.

Normally, a priest never makes confession in a confessional. It is said and known that one of the privileges of his office, if one wants to consider it such, is never to have to enter the claustrophobic cubicle to bare the soul, murmuring through the screen to the priest on the other side. When a priest confesses to another, he does it face-to-face, eye-to-eye, unburdening himself of past sins, purifying his spirit, in whatever way possible. The disadvantage, if there is one, is that, contrary to common belief, a colleague in office can’t tell another his most profound secrets. It’s not that there’s an exception for priests; confession functions the same way-closed, inviolable, not transmissible. Every word spoken can never be told to a third person. The problem is that the sinner is a priest, as is the confessor, and for one to have to guard the secrets of another son of the Holy Roman Catholic Church, depending on the secret and the sin, might give one man an advantage over the other. Everything depends on the other’s character. For this reason, when a priest confesses, he has to be very careful.

Don Clemente returned a little later dressed for the occasion with his clerical collar under the shirt signifying his calling. He sat in the pew and waited for Marius Ferris to approach.

“Tell me, Marius,” he asked. “Purify your soul.”

Marius Ferris came closer to his friend and looked at him for several moments, eyes moist with emotion. What he wanted to come out would be the total truth, without evasion, today, right now. Marius Ferris was going to open his heart without weighing his words. There would be nothing held back, no secrets.

“You’ve known me for many years, Clemente,” Marius Ferris began. “You know I was always devoted to the Lord, always followed His teachings, in His infinite wisdom, without any doubting.”

Don Clemente nodded in confirmation.

“I have done all I ought to have done, according to what was demanded of me, within my capabilities and values, sometimes with much sweat and sacrifice. Not everyone understands the paths of God as you and I do, you know that well.”

The confessor listened with his eyes fixed on the speaker, showing no judgment about what he was hearing.

“I can’t complain about anything. Leaving Compostela twenty years ago was probably my greatest test. Galicia robs the soul, holds on to us with claws and teeth and doesn’t let us forget her. There were many nights when I cried over being away from her and not seeing the cathedral or eating navajas at Don Gaiferos. I wept, yes, but in the room of my luxurious apartment on Seventh Avenue a few blocks from Central Park. I celebrated Mass in the comfort of my home in a room set up for that service for only a few well-to-do friends who had that privilege. I amassed a lot of money for God’s work.” He spoke in a restrained tone, appropriate for the atmosphere of the cathedral; for all that, there was a noticeable harshness in his voice. “Last year some things started happening that made me anxious.”

“What were these things?” Don Clemente asked, caught up in the story.

“I received some documents from a Portuguese Monsignor Firenzi. Have you heard of him?”

“I recognize the name,” Don Clemente answered, settling himself on the pew, “but I don’t think I know him personally.”

“You may have heard about him when they published the notification of his death,” Marius Ferris explained.

“Perhaps,” the other acknowledged with that thoughtful air of someone searching his memory for a name or event. “Of course,” he remembered now. “They found him in the Tiber last year.”

“Correct,” Marius Ferris agreed. “Valdemar Firenzi was murdered because of those documents. He was the one who sent them to me to hide in a secure place.”

“And what documents are those?” Don Clemente’s avid curiosity was well known.

Marius Ferris was silent for a minute, which further encouraged Don Clemente’s gossipy tendencies. The former was organizing his ideas, but not weighing his words. Everything had to be said.

“Documents written in the hand of Pope John Paul the First, which disappeared the night of his death,” he concluded.

Don Clemente stared openmouthed, but soon recovered his senses.

“But… but… what documents are those? Where are they? Isn’t that a myth?”

“No, I’ve seen them. I’ve had them in my hands and read them. Apparently Valdemar found them by chance in the Secret Archives of the Vatican, where they had been for twenty years. Apparently it was the murderer himself who put them there.”

“But how? Is he one of us? How is it that you have access to all that information? Is it reliable?” The torrent of urgent questions that burst from Don Clemente didn’t appear to bother his colleague or friend or whatever they were after twenty years of not seeing each other.

“I had the misfortune of finding out about it last year.”

“Who? The murderer of Pope Luciani?”

Marius Ferris made an affirmative gesture.

“Marius…” Don Clemente stared at him in astonishment. “Do you realize what you’re saying?”

“It’s the truth, Clemente. Completely true. He found out that I was guarding the papers and found me. I barely escaped.”

This confession began to become more of a conversation, a revelation, than an actual explication of worldly sins committed by the faithful Marius Ferris, follower of Christ.

“Go on,” Don Clemente told him. “If I keep interrupting you, you’ll never finish.”

“I was captured and held with a group of people who in one way or another also knew about the papers written by the pope. There were four of us. The only ones left. The others had already been murdered. The worst was awaiting us. But thanks to an emissary from the Vatican and a Portuguese journalist who forced an agreement, we all managed to escape, some more wounded than others. Thanks to the Good Lord, I got out unharmed. The papers I am telling you about are valuable only for historical reasons. They contain no information capable of shaking the foundations of our beloved Church. They are the thoughts of a liberal man already dead now. Nothing more. We are all free to think.”

“What you’re telling me is dreadful,” Don Clemente added, still astonished. “Nevertheless, I still haven’t heard a single sin in anything you’ve told me.” A smile spread good-naturedly over his features. “Incidents of destiny, yes. Imponderables of life, also, things that escape our control. But not one sin.”

“Now we’re getting there,” Marius Ferris warned him. “Now,” he repeated.

Don Clemente took the opportunity to rearrange his obese body on the pew, while his friend organized his thoughts.

“During this last year, I’ve done a lot of thinking. I’ve analyzed all my years of work and devotion, as well as those of others. I’ve discovered that there are many people taking advantage of the Church for their own gain, Clemente.”

“I know that well, Marius. But what can one do?”

“Many things. One can change everything.” Visibly irritated with his friend’s resigned attitude, Marius Ferris reproved him. “The work of God has to continue.”

“The work of God serves only the interests of a few.”

“How can you dare say such a thing?” The heat of anger spread over his face. “Over the years I have heard slander, but I never expected to hear it from an intelligent person like you.”

“Marius. You know what is true. You may be well intentioned, Marius. I don’t have any doubt about that, but you yourself said the same thing a little while ago. You celebrate the Eucharist in the comfort of your apartment for a few privileged people.”