“What now, man?” James asked again. He didn’t like Templar’s glassy stare.

The behavior of his colleague in service, butcher or mercenary, in the pay of whoever opened his wallet most generously, seemed abnormal also. James approached Templar, seated on the plastic chair, put his hand on his shoulder, and gave him a push.

“Well, then?” he said. “Are you sleeping with your eyes open?”

The gun in Templar’s hand went off. Luckily it hit the ceiling where it was pointed. The vigorous push made him fall to the floor on his stomach without moving. James leaned over him in shock. Two holes in Templar’s jacket explained the rest. James looked at the chair where the two holes were repeated with a smear of Templar’s blood, dark red, the sign of death.

James panicked.

“Don’t move,” he cried. “Don’t anyone move.”

Confused, he aimed the gun randomly, turning toward every side, alert, looking for the source of danger, the origin of the bullets. He couldn’t find the shells, which meant someone had retrieved them or the shots hadn’t been fired inside.

“Don’t move,” he shouted again. “The first person who even breathes gets a shot in the head.”

“Okay, okay,” Simon agreed, uncomfortable with the panic reflected in his ex-lover’s eyes. “Be careful with that thing.”

Sarah looked around the room, trying to understand what was happening. When one lost control, one lost all dignity, she thought, watching James’s contortions.

James approached the huge window slowly and looked out, holding himself back to look at the glass.

“Oh shit,” he exclaimed.

Seconds later he was thrown back and fell on the floor. Simon let out a scream, more a howl, and saw, as did Sarah, a thread of blood flowing from James’s head. His eyes were full of panic as he died.

“Fuck,” Simon exploded. “Did you see that?”

Sarah didn’t reply. A strained, out-of-place smile came over her face as she looked out the window.

“What’s going on?” Simon asked, looking out the window for the reason for this smile.

In the glass, three small holes.

35

THE POLE AND THE TURK

December 27, 1983

The Holy Father never exhibited again the bright glow of former times. The Lord gives the burden, but also the strength to bear it. He thought of Franz Koenig, the enterprising Austrian, responsible, admittedly, for his election in October of 1978, as he climbed the stairs of the penitentiary in the direction of the cell. With him were the faithful Stanislaw, Dziwisz, his secretary, as always, and the director, some priests, and a few guards. A rigorous security perimeter was set up. There was no room for distractions after what happened two years ago in the foreign territory of Italy. The Lord gives the burden… The phrase returned to his mind. He’d thought about it a long time and come to a conclusion. What was important was not to carry, but to endure. He’d been the Shepherd of Shepherds in the Catholic world for five years and could confirm, better than anyone alive, that the papacy ages one and kills slowly. It was a constant weight, incomparable to anything else, and one had to endure it, not carry it, until one…

He climbed the stairs with difficulty, helped by Stanislaw. Age was another kind of burden. But it was the bullets that weakened him like this, making other such obligations and pleasures difficult.

The last step was like a victory without particular savor. It marked the beginning of recovering his strength, his breath. Wojtyla let himself be led through the gray, ugly hallway toward the cell where the young Turk paid for his notorious crime against the life of the pope, the very pope who was walking to see him.

“Are you all right, Holy Father?” Dziwisz, who’d devoted his life to the pope for many years, asked.

“Yes, I am,” the Supreme Pontiff replied, panting.

“Do you want to rest, Your Holiness?” the director asked at his side.

“Let’s keep going,” Wojtyla said good-naturedly. A slight smile accompanying this wish could be taken as evidence of his sincerity.

Some dozen feet ahead they stopped in front of a gray, iron-plated door, where two guards were standing at attention, one on each side. The director ordered one of them to open the door. The subaltern obeyed quickly, not without first going down on his knees before the Holy Father and kissing his hand, as respect for the clergy demands from the faith of common men. He turned the key in the lock and entered the cell first, while his companion remained alert by the side of the door.

“Please, Your Holiness.” The director extended his hand, indicating the way in.

Wojtyla entered, followed by Stanislaw and the director, leaving the rest of the delegation at the door.

Inside, the young Turk was on his feet looking at the Pole with an ashamed expression. He couldn’t maintain it for long. He lowered his eyes at once like a good boy who has done mischief and awaits punishment.

“Holiness, take as much time as you wish,” the director instructed. “A guard will remain here at all times with the safety off on his gun.”

“Perfect.” The secretary acknowledged the security instructions.

Wojtyla had already entered another level looking indulgently at the young Turk. They waited for the director to exit the cell. They heard the lock closing from the outside, followed by silence, oppressive for some, but not for Wojtyla. He looked at the Turk, who lowered his face submissively. The pope approached him, spontaneously lifted his wrinkled hand to the Turk’s face and raised it. The dead-looking eyes of the young man had nowhere to hide, nor could he close his eyelids. They remained open, naked before the man who ought to have died two years ago, been wept over, buried, and replaced, since life continues and only those who are here matter, like these two now who must overcome cultural, religious, ideological, and other more deadly differences.

Suddenly the Turk allowed some life to revive his pale eyes. They filled with tears and seemed to give in to the pope’s scrutiny. Wojtyla’s hand lifting his chin was firm as a rock. There was neither censure nor reproach in his expression, no sign of visible condemnation, only a man, the holiest of them all, looking into the depths of the other’s soul and understanding everything without saying a word or showing emotion.

As soon as Wojtyla let him go, the young Turk knelt at his feet with such devotion the guard almost fired on him. The pope raised his hand, as if saying lower the gun, and the guard obeyed.

“Forgive me, Holy Father,” the Turk pleaded with his head bent over the feet of Peter’s worthy successor.

Wojtyla crouched to lift him up and placed his hand on the Turk’s head.

“Get up, my son. What has to be forgiven was already forgiven a long time ago.”

He helped the Turk up and led him to the bed.

“Now, sit down,” he ordered. “Take a deep breath and tell me everything, my son.”