The Stray Bishop Day Five

The domestic perfection of Marshal Chiattoni was shattered at five in the morning on Saturday by another ringing of the phone.

Fra turned onto her stomach and muffled her face with a pillow, making a grumbling sound, the kind that doesn’t contain words but immediately conveys its meaning.

“Who is it! Beppe! Are you kidding? Do you see what time it is... Escaped... Giò?... He couldn’t have escaped from a secure room, if this is a prank today at the office, you’re in trouble. Oh, it’s not a prank... Then how did he... You’re going to check... But... If I can reach you around nine, couldn’t you have called me from the office at eight instead of now? You didn’t want to suffer alone... Alright then, it’s settled, I’ll give you a hard time at the office today.”

He let himself fall with closed eyes, and Fra beneath her pillow continued to show her discomfort. He knew he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep, suspecting that Hairs had exhibited himself in that call at the limits of possibility just to make him work overtime. Couldn’t he wait until Monday to escape? Have a peaceful weekend like all Christians, while Chiattoni and company went on their outing, no.

The cat returned on the bed and was nipping at his feet.

***

The morning light still had a rosy tint as it seeped through the windows, casting gentle strokes on the walls of the Headquarters. For Beppe Dosi, it was a new experience; to him, nine o’clock was dawn, and he had always seen the rooms illuminated.

At that moment, everything was dark, the surveillance cameras were inert, the phones silent, the computer screens blank. In return, there was a lot of activity, teams of uniformed and civilian technicians extracting cables from walls and clutching their heads, people mourning their dead cell phones as if they were family members, an atmosphere of bewilderment one senses after a battle, or an earthquake.

And the door of the secure room was there, still wide open.

“And the security camera recordings?”

One of the scientific unit technicians was briefing him on the latest events. He must have recently graduated, around twenty-five years old, with slightly long hair parted down the middle; it was the only personal touch in an otherwise perfectly regimented appearance. He gave the impression of taking even the smallest details seriously.

“Since nothing works here anymore, they’ve been transferred to the Ministry of the Interior where they will be urgently reviewed. In reality, even the recordings might be damaged, but even if they remained intact, whoever was involved would have entered only after rendering the systems useless.”

“And the personnel on duty at the time of the incident?”

“All we know is that around three in the morning, everyone present in these premises suddenly fell asleep... Tomorrow we’ll know from the analysis of air samples what chemical agents were used... When they woke up, they discovered that every single cable or electrical component in the entire facility had melted and that the cell was empty.”

“But with no signs of forced entry on the door,” Dosi interrupted, examining the lock, “Did they use a key?”

“As far as I know, the key was found in its place. I find it more likely that they somehow managed to make a copy of it.”

“Introducing a soporific gas into the ventilation system is something out of a movie, but I can still believe it. Copying the key to a secure room... Difficult, but not impossible. However, destroying our electrical system without anyone in the vicinity noticing? How do you explain that?”

“The first thought would be an EMP, an electromagnetic pulse, but that’s impossible. First of all, it would have required a generator as big as a skyscraper to achieve it. Then it would have needed to spread uniformly and affect the surrounding buildings as well. Or microwave irradiation with a directional antenna? But then the same skyscraper-sized generator would have been needed, and it would have affected all metal objects... Anyone wearing a metal chain against their skin would have burns... Instead, only objects carrying an electrical current were selectively affected. It’s a phenomenon that doesn’t exist.”

Captain Dosi allowed himself a smile.

“So, we’re right in my field of investigations. But if this phenomenon happened, it means it exists.”

He paused for a moment, collecting memories of things he had heard in the days prior. “Could a particle accelerator do something like this?”

The technician answered slowly, speaking and reflecting simultaneously.

“ A particle accelerator might generate a particle beam that would burn through a wall but not affect circuits. Or a diffused neutron shower that would kill everyone like in a N bomb explosion. No, I don’t know why you would think of that, but it has nothing to do with what happened here.”

“A orgone generator? Do you know what that could be?”

“That’s a fantasy spread by the crazies infesting the Internet. Another thing that doesn’t exist.”

“But theoretically, could this nonexistent thing be transported by a truck?”

“I don’t know. I’m already considered a loser because I like science. Imagine if I started studying how fantasies work...”

While they were talking, another person approached them, stopping at a polite distance and waiting for the conversation to end. After seeing him, Dosi immediately dismissed the technician.

The newcomer was dressed in civilian clothes, shorter than Beppe. His clean-shaven face and perpetual smile made him look younger than he actually was, while his straight and fleshy nose, along with the shape of his lips and receding black hair, gave him a Levantine appearance. ZeroNine. That escape must have woken up a lot of people.

“Beppe, com val ?”

“ Vala bon. Finally you show up. The Mucky is upset because you arrived undercover.”

“I know. She even called my mom...”

As ZeroNine spoke, he led Beppe inside the secure room, and Beppe followed him. Inside, there were no windows from which someone could observe and read their lips. Spies quickly become paranoid.

“...who in turn called me while I was watching you.”

“Should I be surprised?”

“Let me finish. I stayed hidden because I wanted to keep my exposure to a minimum. Yes, I’ve been tracking your movements almost from the beginning. Only for half a day did I have to leave the surveillance to some colleagues, to pick up a person at the airport. Of course, you chose that exact moment to encounter the subject. If I had been there, I would have given you a call to tell you not to stop him. The mission isn’t to capture him. You’ve seen what happens when he’s imprisoned. We only needed to reestablish contact to keep tabs on him from a distance. The ones who died on Tuesday were surveillants.”

“You should also tell me about his accomplices. It’s not possible that he’s doing all this alone. There must be people with access to classified technologies involved; they have to be working for some government. I had thought about the Russians, seeing him enter their church. I need to know these things to investigate.”

ZeroNine sighed.

“My mission isn’t to investigate. I have to reestablish continuous contact with the subject, that’s it. I only know what’s strictly necessary for the mission. What I can tell you is that one of the surveillants who died was working for the Russian Federation. The one I went to pick up yesterday was his replacement. I can assure you that they don’t know any more than we do.”

Before continuing, ZeroNine paused, as if something new had come to his mind.

“I can also assure you that if you investigate too much, you’ll be considered overexposed. It’s not a good situation. In fact, once we successfully complete the mission, there’s something you’ll need to do. After it’s all over, pack your bags and join your family in Lecce. I’ll have you officially listed as on a mission for us, so you won’t lose any vacation days. You must take the train... Never drive in situations like this... You need a crowded train where you can be seen by many. When you get to your family, you’ll find airplane tickets to one of our vacation resorts abroad. You’ll have to stay there with your wife and kids until I tell you it’s safe to return.”

Beppe felt a sense of warmth inside him. He could tell from ZeroNine’s tone of voice that he wasn’t pretending. He was genuinely concerned about him and wanted to keep him out of trouble.

At the same time, the warmth was mixed with the cold of fear as he began to understand the implications of what he was hearing. Through a series of maneuvers, he had created his own personal department to stay out of trouble and receive a nearly free salary. Now his clever idea was coming back to haunt him. An ungrateful fate.

“Is it really that serious?”

“Yes!”

With that word, ZeroNine, who had remained a bit distant from the entrance, pulled a gray device that looked like a keypad-less cellphone from his pocket and handed it to Dosi.

“This has an encrypted line and can call only one number: mine. For as long as this situation lasts, please use this and never call me on a regular phone.”

A few minutes later, Dosi was walking through dimly lit corridors to his office, ready to resume his work. His superiors had quite the demand: find Giò again, but without investigating. As if he should wait for another chance encounter in some café.

In reality, he and his colleagues were just a node in a much larger network that, as a whole, remained still and passive, waiting for the fish to swim into the net on its own. And that had actually happened a couple of times before; but had anyone ever seen an investigative method like this? Had it ever been seen?

Certainly, he could do exactly as he had been told, but there were possibilities he couldn’t ignore.

It was a fact that someone from the outside had organized Giò’s escape. People who somehow had access to technologies not yet officially recognized. There had to be a machine, a truck to transport it, maybe the same one used in Campo dei Fiori.

In the Campo dei Fiori market, it was impossible for anyone to notice a specific truck among many. However, what if that same vehicle had been parked near the HQ? It was necessary to review the exterior camera footage, if they hadn’t been destroyed, and then interview the personnel present during the night, as well as the residents of nearby buildings. If someone had noticed a truck and could provide a description, they could then ask the witnesses from Campo dei Fiori if they had seen something similar on that other day. It was a long chain of “ifs.” Yet, at the end of the chain, there could finally be a tangible lead to work with.

In his thoughts, he arrived at his corridor, quiet, the technicians hadn’t started working on that floor yet. The office doors lined the right side, and daylight filtered through their frosted glass. To the left, toward the center of the corridor, were three armchairs, similar to those in a cinema, for those waiting to be received.

The darkness seemed to stir, someone was rising from the chairs. Before he could even think anything, Dosi felt his right arm move and open the nearest door for light.

Impeccable summer jacket, mustache, curly hair, a smile. The Weaver. Another node in the network, another one who had risen early that day.

“Captain Dosi, I took the liberty of waiting for you. Unfortunately, it seems that someone wasn’t as efficient as you.”

Beppe felt a surge of anxiety, but managed to respond calmly, as if everything were normal.

“Furthermore, it seems that this inefficiency has disrupted the sleep of many today.”

“ Exactly... I didn’t even have breakfast... I assume you didn’t either. That’s why I’d like to invite you to my place. I have some elderberry and pear jam made by relatives. We’ll take my car, then I’ll bring you back here.”

Dosi didn’t respond; he couldn’t quite grasp the intention behind that invitation.

“ And in the meantime, I could show you something related to your work...”

Ah, now it was becoming clearer. Perhaps someone had finally decided to share some more information with him. He glanced briefly at the door to his office just a little further down the corridor. Only then did he realize that his phone and computer must also be out of order. He had come there out of habit, but there was nothing in his office that could be of any use to him that day. He was on a forced vacation, and there was no reason to refuse.

“Sure, let’s go.”

The car was parked in the reserved area for public officials, with a proper permit. A crimson red Audi A7 sports car, a display of power and wealth meant to convey a sense of inferiority to its viewers. In what was undoubtedly a duel between two tricksters of the highest level, Beppe Dosi knew he had to respond with indifference. He took his seat, continuing to converse politely about small matters, but without letting any questions or comments slip away.

They crossed Viale Regina Margherita all the way to Tiburtina, turned right, and parked in the open space between Via De Lollis and Via dei Marrucini. From there, the Weaver walked a short distance followed by his guest, until they reached a quiet alleyway that curved widely to the left.

On the right, it was bordered by what seemed to be a boundary wall with fragments of posters; someone had left a motorbike leaning against it. There was no sidewalk on that side and no cars either. Along their side, however, opaque ground-floor windows and narrow doors lined the way, with touches of green paint on a barred shutter providing the only splash of color.

He stopped in front of one of those doors, pushed it open without using a key, and invited Dosi to enter first.

Dosi expected to find a narrow corridor, perhaps with the door to a bike storage room and stairs further inside. Instead, it was a spacious, dimly lit room with a low ceiling supported by four columns arranged in a square. People were gathered at the back, reciting Latin formulas. Dosi waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light as the door closed behind him.

Gradually, the details became visible. On the side walls, there were low-intensity spotlights illuminating bronze bas-reliefs. On the right side, the myth of Proserpina was depicted, carried on the back of a bull among men engaged in fieldwork, symbolizing her residence among the living during the warmer months. Then, she was shown crouching at the feet of Pluto with the head of a donkey, representing her dwelling among the dead during the colder months.

On the left, scenes of war inspired by the epic were depicted. Mars on the battlefield, Diomedes striking him with Athena’s assistance, the abduction of Rhea Silvia and the birth of the twin brothers Romulus and Remus, the wolf.

A pagan temple, or perhaps an old deconsecrated chapel repurposed for this use. The chanting individuals all had towels on their heads, veil-like; both men and women were present, mostly quite young, many wearing t-shirts of Metal bands.

They were gathered in a semicircle around a niche opposite the entrance, containing a cubic block of granite on which a burning brazier was placed. A man in his fifties, fervent and agitated, led the ceremony while waving a trident. Upon closer inspection, he recognized some familiar faces; Spartacus was there too. Since they didn’t seem bothered by his intrusion, he approached, Sarto still following him silently. Their attention was focused on something on the ground.

He couldn’t immediately make out what it was, but when he discerned the face, it became clear that the long object lying on the ground was a person. However, they were rigid in an impossible pose, stretched out with their back completely arched, only their heels and the back of their head touching the ground. Their arms were so tightly pressed along their sides that they appeared bound, even though no visible restraints were present. The only signs of life in that body came from the chest, rising and falling in rapid breaths, as if he was trying to wake from a bad dream. The eyes were open, moving as well.

Beppe could clearly sense that the person was conscious, trapped in a body that had ceased to obey. But what hit him in the gut was the frozen fear on that motionless face. The same expression the dead in Campo dei Fiori had.

The trident continued to move dangerously close to the paralyzed man, as if at any moment it might pierce him. The voices died down, except for the officiant’s, who had switched from Latin to contemporary Italian.

“...we abhor you, Typhon. May the avenging lightning of Jupiter the Thunderer strike you down again...”

Sarto placed a hand on Dosi’s shoulder and gently pulled him toward a door in the inner corner on the left, moving him away from the scene.

“I wanted you to understand just how dangerous your man can be. That young man encountered him on Thursday night. Being a skilled martial artist, he thought he could restrain him instead of just reporting him to the authorities, as he should have. You can see the result.”

“Shouldn’t he be in a hospital?”

“He just came from there. Hysterical arching is a known phenomenon; doctors have tried all conventional treatments, every sedative that might alleviate it, but so far, no success. That’s why I arranged for him to be temporarily transferred here this morning to attempt this alternative therapy. They’re all his friends; they won’t do anything dangerous.”

“...Seth flees before Horus’ avenging dagger...”

“Playing little Polanski will surely help him,” Dosi replied in a hushed tone, “but are you sure that the setup isn’t just feeding into his delusions?”

“If this were a Christian exorcism, you’d speak quite differently!” For the first time, the Weaver’s detachment wavered, revealing an underlying emotion. “Yet even that has its choreography, with vestments, prayers, and all!”

“...we won’t listen to you, Voice that cries in the desert. Harpocrates will surely silence you...”

“But anyway, we’ve seen what we needed to. I’d say let’s not disturb them any further and head upstairs. Breakfast is waiting for us.”

Beyond the inner door, a steep staircase with wooden steps led to the upper floor. Sarto led the way without waiting for the guest. Dosi followed more slowly, finding a moment in the shadows to think.

The person leaving behind a trail of melted statues, dead and paralyzed, all bearing the same expression of a theatrical mask like a signature, was the same Giò, a bit eccentric but well-mannered, that he had met the day before? After the punch in the face, while getting up, Giò had said something that seemed like a madman’s fantasy at the time. “He let you do it. Maybe he likes you.”

It wasn’t a fantasy. Someone had taken the place of the surveillants, after annihilating them. For some reason, the unknown protector hadn’t wanted to intervene when Giò was arrested, only to then rape the entire Carabinieri HQ to retrieve him. But who was this genie in the lamp? Perhaps Giò wasn’t the real mad scientist. Or, even worse, there were more than one of them in circulation.

The other solution would have been to think that Giò was doing it all on his own and maybe talking about himself dissociatively, like multiple personalities. But that would mean attributing magical powers to him. No.

After all that Beppe had seen that day since waking up, Sarto’s kitchen seemed almost too normal. A narrow table with a loose leg, a patchwork curtain at the window, a Hello Kitty magnet on the fridge, a broom in the corner leaning against Frate Indovino’s almanac. The host had warmed the coffee and the milk pitcher, there were Athens biscuits with holes, and a jar of elderberry and pear jam with a long spoon. It could have been the apartment of any single man, like the thousands around it, even if it had a pagan temple on the ground floor.

After several biscuits, the Grand Weaver began his speech.

“ Masonic families are often accused of hiding secrets to keep the rest of humanity in ignorance. In reality, though, there are many people who initially aren’t interested in learning our teachings, and others who find comfort in familiar small things and would be disturbed or confused by a broader perspective. So, it has been decided that those who want to know the secrets can come to us, and everything will be explained to them. Those who don’t want to be disturbed won’t be disturbed. We’re not here to be annoying preachers.

“ Take you, for example, Captain Dosi. When you were young, your father took you to the Temple and gave you the light, but after that, you chose other paths. Your initiatory journey stopped at the first step. No one prevented you from accessing the knowledge, and no one came looking for you when you decided to focus on other things.

“Now, however, an exceptional situation has arisen where your superiors have asked for the Temple’s help. So, we are forced to break the rule and disturb you with our knowledge. Personally, I am tasked with guiding you, while other individuals higher up... even higher than your colonel... will assess your reliability. Unfortunately, I can’t explain everything to you immediately as you would like. The truth must be conveyed in pieces, and we must be sure that you won’t become overexposed “

Overexposed. The same thing that ZeroNine had said, when? Memory and time play tricks in intense moments; it couldn’t have been more than two hours since he was talking to ZeroNine. It felt like a memory from years ago. What did it mean, then? Overexposed to radiation? To an infectious disease? A truth, an information that can spread like an epidemic. And what if they ultimately deemed him infectious? He had no more doubts about what would happen.

“Are you saying that before explanations, I have to put on an apron and hop on one leg in a salon in front of people in masks?”

“No, that’s done when there’s plenty of time to work on the raw stones. In this case, time is short, and you are already partially educated, due to your work. What seems to be the main entrance is actually the service door, and vice versa. You have the rare opportunity to enter through the direct path, an honor that carries many responsibilities. I’m sorry to say that your superiors wouldn’t be pleased if you were to refuse these responsibilities. So, I ask you to trust us and follow our method. If you’re willing, I can begin with the first lesson now.”

Beppe felt his long-soaked biscuit break as he pretended to be disinterested.

“Go ahead,” he said.

“Last time, you wondered how a researcher of the occult, with roles in an important initiatory order and connections in various anti-clerical circles, could also have friendships within the Church.

“ To explain, you need to understand the three degrees of our path. In the first, we are instruments in the hands of a craftsman. In the second, we are the hand that holds and manipulates the instrument. In the third, we are the craftsman who knows they have two hands and no longer identifies with a specific instrument.

“ Those below, for instance, are instruments, not because they’ve been deceived. The three degrees have also been explained to them, as to all who approach the Temple. These things can be found in any text on Freemasonry, even in common shops or market stalls. They know they are instruments but don’t want to go further, and we don’t force them. One could say that each person belongs to one of the three degrees from birth, and our work is to help them find their natural position.

“ So, since you have been judged as a potential master, try to reason as a master. Imagine having scattered garbage in your house and needing to pick it up. Using only one tool and one hand would make the task difficult, but if you have two hands, you can use a broom and a dustpan. The broom pushes, makes noise, creates traumatic events that scare and cause the garbage to seek refuge. The dustpan then meets it, welcomes it, reassures it, and finally surrounds the garbage so it can’t spread any further.”

“These neo-pagan Renaissance magicians, then, would be the broom?” Dosi interrupted.

“Yes, in this situation, they are.”

“And where is the dustpan?”

“Ah, well, you must know that the time for work spans from dawn to dusk. There’s a time for everything, the young and impetuous workers should be encountered at dawn, as we did. The more mature ones, however, need to be met in the tranquility of the evening. That’s why you’ll have to come back here after dinner, around nine o’clock, let’s say.

“ I can see from your face that you’re not pleased... I’m also aware of your plans for tomorrow. I know you’ll have to wake up early, but I can assure you that the other guests for tonight are busy people as well. Some are of a certain age; we certainly won’t keep you out late.”

Without waiting for a response, the Weaver stood up and began tidying the table. The breakfast was over.

“Please grasp the essence of this first lesson: It doesn’t matter whether you’re the broom or the dustpan; the only thing that matters is not getting caught in the middle with the garbage.”

Anyway, Beppe didn’t let himself be accompanied back. There was nothing functioning in the office, and it was necessary to clear the way for the technicians. He preferred to walk on his own, happy to have his Saturday off. Only after lunch did he reconsider work.

He was waiting for the H bus to the Sant’Angelo neighborhood and called his assistant to tell him to meet in front of the flower shop with a laptop. They had to meet with the rest of the group to finalize the details of their Sunday outing. The shop would be all theirs since Gebedia observed the Sabbath, so they might as well arrive a bit early and set up a workstation to see if they could make something up.

***

Marshal Chiattoni wasn’t happy. He had been woken up at dawn, arrived at the office a whole ten minutes before nine only to find it invaded by a group of electricians who still couldn’t get anything to work. He had waited almost two hours for his superior, tried to reach him on the phone, and the cell phone was turned off.

Finally, he went back home where Beppe had finally called, only to ask for a laptop, no explanation or apology. He was waiting in front of the closed flower shop with the requested laptop, ready to give it, over Dosi’s head.

When he saw Beppe approaching, all smiles as usual, with his usual hat and salmon-pink shirt with rolled-up sleeves, he lunged shouting, “Now you’ve really done it!!” raising the laptop with both hands. But when it came to dodging blows, Dosi was quick, and he managed to turn around to deflect the blow onto his backside, partly complaining and partly laughing.

Dosi had the irritating habit of not taking that sort of complaint seriously. He also had a psychosomatic defense; when he got beaten up, his skin would puff out in large blisters like a toad, red patches that managed to gross out even the most unruly aggressor.

He had managed to avoid rightful punishment like this on other occasions, and even this time, the assistant was forced to give up.

After these formalities, they went up to Gebedia’s house, who was still dealing with his lunch prepared the night before. Ignoring his protests, they lowered his Wi-Fi router from the courtyard window until it was hanging precariously at the height of the backroom, giving them a connection for their needs.

“Pietro! Have you seen my new Doc Martens? Look how cool they are! Pieeeeee, just look up for a moment!”

Cri’s voice was a cross between a squeaky door and a drill. The work at the temporary workstation consisted of two phone calls to the colonel, checking Beppe Dosi’s email, and a thorough examination of a Cuban cigar website that featured remarkable models. Father Timoteo asked through Facebook for Beppe to visit him later. Then the gang had arrived.

“Chiatta!”

As usual, Cri was bouncing around while talking, and this time she had let her red hair down.

“If you keep bouncing in front of the screen, how am I supposed to see them? I’m starting to get seasick.”

A stray peanut hit him on the head. Gigi Naso called shelled peanuts “barbagigi”, and He had brought a bucket full of them in transparent plastic and organized a contest to throw the barbagigi into the same bucket they were taken from, from a certain distance away. Beccaccia, Spartacus, and Sanfone Plinsky were also trying it out. Occasionally, they hit the mark, but most of the projectiles flew in unpredictable directions. Gebedia was sitting there, determined to observe the Sabbath. In reality, he wasn’t much different on other days.

Marshal Chiattoni closed the laptop. “Enough, we can’t go on anymore. Shall we start setting the car crews for tomorrow?”

Beppe Dosi stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Hold on. With all the commotion yesterday, we forgot something. There was a flyer with a phone number to trace. Can you do it from this remote workstation? Being the diligent saver you are, you probably still have the same pants on, and you had put it in your pocket.”

“Being the diligent idiot, after a certain phone call, I rushed to the office with yesterday’s clothes instead of minding my own business like some others do. Yes, you’re right, the flyer is still here.”

With a sigh, he lifted the screen.

“Alright, now you stand here and shield me from the peanuts while I work.”

Tracing the owner of a cellphone number wasn’t a lengthy task, but it required some confidential passwords that were written down in the office.

Chiattoni had to rely on his memory, which was slowing down the process. Meanwhile, the peanut throwing slowly shifted from the bucket placed on a chair towards his superior; even Picciò and Cri had joined the game.

“Beppe, please, could you open your mouth? It’s worth five hundred points...”

Dosi wasn’t cooperating, he remained still with a fixed smile as if posing for a photo, using only a corner of his mouth to address the assistant behind him.

“Hurry... They’re killing me...”

“Yeah, like it’s a big deal. You know what? The number belongs to someone we’ve already encountered: Father Balduini. Wanna bet that if we searched among the members of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, his name would pop up again?”

There was no response; Beppe had moved, prompting protests from the peanut throwers who couldn’t complete their game without a target. It wasn’t until late afternoon that Chiattoni had a chance to bring up the subject again. All the details of the outing had been discussed, and Dosi was leaving the club to visit Father Timoteo.

“Don’t you think we should contact this Father Balduini on Monday and ask him to cooperate once and for all? They might have some information at their end as well.”

The captain, at that question, remembered that he had an appointment for the evening.

“I have a feeling I might be meeting him all too soon, even without calling.”

***

Father Timoteo’s cell was the same as always, and so was the vinsanto. Beppe wondered if the friar had his own personal stash of bottles of that sweet wine he unfailingly offered to anyone who visited him in his cell. They were both seated on the cot, as if it were a small sofa.

“So, you’re going with your friends to the Inn of Peace tomorrow?”

“Yes, it’s far, but they serve really good food. We organize a trip once or twice a year.”

“And you’ll be passing by the cemetery in Predappio.”

“Of course, the Inn is in the village after, and you can’t pass by there without a visit to the crypt.”

Father Timoteo pulled a candle wrapped in a cloth from the nightstand.

“That’s why I asked you to come by. I’ve personally blessed this candle, since you’re going there, could you light it for him on my behalf? But please, don’t sit on it; it needs to be kept cool. But anyway, you don’t have the look of someone about to go on vacation, do you? Your heart isn’t here at this moment; you’re somewhere else, a dark place, I’d say. What’s hurting you?”

“I’ll be on vacation tomorrow,” Beppe Dosi replied with a suddenly weary voice, “but tonight, I’ll still be occupied with my case, and it’s something I can’t talk about. But I have a question: do you know anything about a certain Father Balduini?”

The friar seemed taken aback by the question, and it wasn’t easy to shake him.

“Indeed, him. You must have gathered some information, but there’s something you can’t know. He’s the new Stray Bishop! He received his consecration the day before yesterday, precisely on the day we spoke about him. He’s the new Stray Bishop, yet he hasn’t left Rome yet.”

“Perhaps because the object of his mission is here now.”

Those words had escaped Beppe abruptly, carrying with them the weight of the investigation, so much so that he couldn’t stop and continued until he had told everything, even the most incomprehensible details. The friar, accustomed to all kinds of confessions, listened in silence. Even in silence, he managed to convey the intensity of his presence, his closeness, and the absence of judgment for whatever was being said.

At the end of the narrative, he remained still without saying anything, deep in concentration with a very serious expression. Eventually, he stood and picked up a copy of the New Testament from one of his piles of books.

“Acts of the Apostles, chapter two; in verses four to twelve, it explains how the Apostles and those with them were filled with the Holy Spirit on the day of Pentecost. Many of them went out into the streets prophesying loudly. Jerusalem at that time was filled with travelers and merchants from all the neighboring lands. There were Greeks, Phrygians, Egyptians, Persians, Romans, people from everywhere. Yet each person heard those words as if they were spoken in their own native language. In the fifth chapter, we see Ananias and his wife Sapphira die for lying to the Apostles and the community of believers. They fell dead without any apparent cause, by the decision of the Holy Spirit. Still in the same chapter, the Apostles are imprisoned, but an angel frees them, and the next day, the cell is found empty, with the door still closed. And again, in the twelfth chapter, verses four to ten, Peter is imprisoned once more and guarded by sixteen soldiers. Yet during the night, an angel sets him free, opening all the doors and leading him past the eyes of the guards, who don’t notice anything.”

After saying these things, they remained in silence for a while before Dosi offered a response.

“So, the Holy Spirit is now into killing people?”

“He is the Lord and does as He pleases. Since childhood, we’re accustomed to thinking of good and evil with the categories invented by the Enlightenment thinkers, and we’ve even come to identify Christianity with those concepts. However, the Scriptures tell a very different story. It seems the Spirit isn’t concerned with categorical imperatives, solemn declarations, or immortal principles. For Him, killing is like moving a fish from a bowl to a larger tank. Who wouldn’t be grateful after witnessing the new arrangement?”

“But... Does God allow Him to do these things?”

“He is God, one of the persons of the Trinity! It’s like talking about the three layers of your brain. We can distinguish them, trace the nerves they’re connected to, and attribute different functions to them, but it’s always about you and only you that we’re talking about. I hope you have no doubts that you’re one single person and one single will.”

Dosi didn’t want to spend the whole afternoon in philosophy and went straight to the point.

“But even if that’s the case, these things concern the Apostles, who lived two thousand years ago. There are none among us now.”

Father Timoteo lowered his head, as if disappointed to be brought back to Earth from his metaphysical flight.

“Moses lived the necessary time to fulfill his mission... A hundred and twenty years... And in the end, he was still spry enough to climb Mount Nebo without assistance. Yet two thousand years are a completely different matter. I know, common sense dictates that there are no Apostles alive today...”

The tone of the friar hinted that he had more to say, but he didn’t want to go further. The conversation ended there, and shortly after, Beppe took his leave.

***

The theater was packed. The concert of Blixa Bargeld and Alva Noto was an event for the industrial scene, and all the seats were assigned.

Gebedia had his ticket in his pocket since the beginning of the month, dressed in the attire of a decadent vampire; black linen pants, a white shirt with a hint of lace covering the buttons, hair pulled back. Most people around him were dressed in cyber fashion, but he had no intention of getting different clothes for every slight nuance of the scene.

There was also a fair amount of young, beautiful, dark girls. That kind of aesthetic attracted them like moths; it was off to a good start. However, it all changed for Gebedia as he reached his seat. He had a second-row armchair, almost right under the stage, but in the middle. As soon as he sat down, he felt squeezed as if he had been put in a cage. The lights were still on, no one on stage yet, and he was already contemplating leaving everything behind and running away; only the thought of having paid for the ticket held him back.

He had never experienced claustrophobia attacks in his life, and yet it could be nothing else but that, emerging out of nowhere for no reason. The lights dimmed, the two artists appeared on stage, and Blixa began with a polite “Buonasera,” then he waved a water bottle in front of the microphone to create a sound effect.

The performance was supposed to divert his mind from that passing discomfort. The first notes from the synthesizer and vocalizations filled the air, a red square was projected onto the dark background of the stage, but the unease of the soul was soon replaced by something more material. Irritation of the colon, something he recognized as there had been occasions in the past. But never in the midst of a concert in front of a theater full to the last seat, trapped halfway in a row of chairs. If he could have predicted it, he would have booked a seat on the outer edge, allowing him to easily move without passing in front of others.

He felt cold but was sweating; between panic and flatulence, he couldn’t even listen to the first piece. When there was a pause, it became clear to him that he wouldn’t have another chance, and he turned to the group of people sitting on his left, asking to pass.

It was better to ask once of a group than to disturb many individuals. However, this meant he had to go through the central aisle, passing in front of the entire theater with a bewildered look. Blixa was behind him, probably wondering who that guy was, running away from his concert. Gebedia was almost rushing towards something that could have been a spotlight or maybe a camera.

The last thing he needed was to be caught on camera during his dash to the restroom and end up in official concert videos, circulating online, being clicked on and commented by thousands of users around the world.

The usher at the door of the hall looked surprised to see him back, but when he asked for the restroom, she quickly understood and gave him clear directions. She was a cute girl, but there was no time for such thoughts, not at all.

From the foyer, he entered a corridor, restrooms to the right, entrances to the balconies on the left. Two people from the balconies were smoking in the hallway. They could come and go without any disturbance.

Gebedia felt a pang of envy as he hurried past them like a bullet and threw himself into the first available stall. To make matters worse, he had found the only one without a light. He realized it only after closing the door, too late. He was now in complete darkness.

The music still reached him there; the bass vibrations were palpable even in the tight space. He could practically follow the whole concert from inside the restroom. He no longer felt claustrophobic. But it was clearly an exaggeration; he had paid for his seat in the second row and had already sorted out the most pressing issue.

He stood up, and unable to bear the elastic pressure of his boxers, took them off, and stuffed them into the back pocket. Back in the vestibule, in front of the hall door, he realized he had been too optimistic. He turned back to the restrooms, choosing a lit one this time.

After his second attempt, he managed to enter the hall. The usher looked understandingly at him again, and his understanding neighbors stood up once more to let him pass to his seat.

Blixa had placed his lit mobile phone on a microphone plate, creating a terrifying reverb, like twenty scratched chalkboards screeching together. Amidst this noise, Blixa and Alva Noto stared at the audience, shoulder to shoulder, hands behind their backs. Occasionally, Blixa would make a gesture towards the vibrating phone, but it was just a feint.

Sitting on his crumpled boxers, Gebedia realized that it wasn’t the elastic band causing his distress. The discomfort was still there, giving him a sensation of needing an outlet, even though he knew there was nothing left to be expelled. At that moment, his right-side neighbor, previously just an anonymous figure, placed a hand on his belly, sliding it under his forearm.

Normally, such an intrusion would not have been tolerated, but that hand emitted warmth that spread throughout his body, cleansing him, bringing tranquility. Simultaneously, words reached his ears, not in Italian but in his native language.

“Courage, there’s no need to run anymore.”

On the stage, Blixa produced the most absurd vocalizations while conveying composure and irony through body language, like a theater actor. Gebedia was finally able to grasp the details, to follow the performance.

He didn’t say anything to his savior, not wanting to disturb him. Only when they were leaving the theater did he look at him in the light, curly hair, familiar features.

“Are you the one everyone’s searching for?”

“Everyone is looking for me, but no one wants me.”

They walked in line toward the exit. After that single sentence, the stranger paused. He walked in pace with the crowd, but his eyes moved from side to side as if he were reading a suspended page in front of his face, visible only to him.

Gebedia walked beside him, fearing that he might suddenly fall into an epileptic fit. There was a resemblance to the movements of REM sleep, but he was awake.

They emerged into the open air. The theater was elevated above the street, with three steps leading down. The crowd dispersed, and the stranger smiled.

“You’re a friend of someone I recently met, the Carabinieri officer.”

It wasn’t a question, and there was no time for Gebedia to respond.

“I’m sorry I had to decline his hospitality. Please give him my regards when you see him. Tell him that those who search can also be found.”

Confronted with these acts of illusion, Gebedia remained impassive, not allowing himself to appear surprised.

They courteously shook hands, descended the steps, and the stranger walked away into the night.

***

While Gebedia was busy with the concert, at eight forty-four in the evening, Beppe Dosi was ringing the doorbell at the Sarto’s house. He too was experiencing a nervous irritation in his stomach, he had nothing but a sandwich for dinner.

The door opened without any verbal response; it was the main entrance, on a different side from the one with the temple he had seen in the morning. It was a rather large building that seemed to belong entirely to the Weaver.

Following the instructions, he took the elevator to the third floor. Upon his arrival, he found no one waiting for him. There were three doors, probably leading to different apartments, but with no names. However, the door directly in front of the elevator was open.

He peered into a very small vestibule, almost square, which could barely accommodate two people. It was illuminated from above, and the floor was occupied by a modern circular mosaic depicting a cross with the inscription INRI at the top, suspended in a sky of distant clouds against a blue background, but the cross was empty.

Beyond the vestibule, another identical door led into a living room. He could see a couch covered in fiery red velvet and the curved leg of a low wooden coffee table.

He took a step inside, and the walls and furniture of the living room were arranged to create an optical illusion. Standing in the antechamber, Dosi felt as if the room beyond the second door was triangular. In fact, it was just the tip of a triangle in which the small square room was inscribed, with the circle encompassed in it.

“BOO!!!”

A fierce monster lunged from the living room. Dosi saw a wide red mouth open wide. He jumped in place like a spring, his hair standing on end, while he let out a horse-like noise from his throat.

Such a reaction wouldn’t have done much against a determined attacker ready to tear him apart, but the figure remained still within the door frame. As Beppe’s feet returned to the ground, his mind took in the details: the clothes, build, and posture were those of the homeowner, but the face resembled the head of an oven shovel with two holes gouged out for eyes, a vivid red irregular rectangle painted under a nose carved between the eye holes. An African mask.

The masked Weaver bent backward, almost splitting in half from his laughter.

“What a face! Hahaha, what a face! And what a jump!”

“Do you think this is the right time for jokes? Imagine if I had my gun with me!”

“But I know you never carry,” Sarto replied, removing his mask and allowing Beppe to enter the living room. “Nevertheless, it wasn’t just a joke. This is an initiation mask from Mali. Africans have a mask for every moment of life.”

The room held three identical sofas arranged in a U-shape around a round Chinese-style coffee table. The open side faced the entrance, and between the middle sofa and the others, two doors were visible. A copy of “The Fall of Phaeton” engraved by Piranesi hung between the doors. On the left side were two windows covered with hemp-colored curtains tied back with velvet ribbons matching the sofas.

The coffee table displayed a collection of plastic cups, bottles of water and orange soda, one half-empty and likely flat. Grapefruit soda without sugar, and a bag of potato chips that no one would open. All of this merchandise was a hallmark of the people who were about to arrive.

Seven individuals entered the antechamber, and the host rose to greet them, inviting Beppe to stay seated.

Of course, Father Balduini was among them, but there was also the superior of the Franciscans in civilian clothes and several other unknown individuals.

None of them wore anything that could identify them as priests, yet it was evident, they all had that strained smile he had noticed before, identical.

As they entered, they did something unexpected: Each person stopped in the antechamber, spat on the floor amidst the mosaic – on the cross – and did so with enthusiasm and broad smiles.

After this peculiar gesture, they all took their seats and chatted about various topics with the Weaver. The arrangement of the sofas resembled that of a Roman Triclinium, and just like the triclinium beds, were designed to accommodate three people.

It was therefore no coincidence that Father Balduini took the place reserved for the most important guest in a triclinium: the right corner of the central sofa, “imus in medio.”

Sarto, on the other hand, took the host’s place, which positioned him face-to-face with the guest: the left side of the left sofa, “summus in imo.”

Beppe, who was sitting closest to the entrance, was invited to move to the middle sofa next to Balduini.

There were no formalities. It was clear that everyone knew each other and discussed their own matters, making references that were difficult for an outsider to grasp. However, they carefully avoided involving the captain and the prelate at his side. Their conversation would be private.

“Father, we met four days ago,” Dosi began. “I would have preferred to see you in a more official setting. My office has sent multiple requests for information, and I have received no response. I had to find out on my own that several people are looking for my suspect, with instructions to report sightings to your phone number instead of the relevant authority...”

The priest interrupted him, placing a hand on his knee.

“Captain, I can assure you that the truly competent authorities are constantly informed. I understand that Mr. Sarto has already explained to you, it is your superiors who have not yet authorized us to provide you with certain information. Your competence is appreciated, but they need to ensure that you also have the necessary qualifications, and we will know soon enough. However, I must change the subject. Please be patient. You must have noticed that we have a peculiar way of greeting each other at the beginning of our evenings. So, what do you think of it?”

“That’s not new; it’s a trend that existed in certain circles for a long time. I just didn’t know it had reached you as well.”

“The trend you’re thinking of, though, involves the Crucifix, not the Cross. As you’ve seen, we use an empty Cross because our love for Our Lord leads us to despise the instrument of His torture.”

The manual of the perfect trickster states that when possible, you should never accept the initial offer. So, Beppe recalled fragments of conversations he had with Father Timoteo in search of something that would allow him to negotiate the price.

“But what you call torture is the sacrifice. Jesus deliberately incarnated Himself to be the sacrificial Lamb. The Cross was the purpose from the beginning, and the means He Himself chose to free us from original sin. To reject the Cross is to reject the entire logic that God established and turn Jesus into something other than Himself.”

The priest didn’t remove his hand from Dosi’s knee.

“You’re right. However, you must understand that those who assume greater responsibilities within the Church must have an adult faith. We can tolerate the people supporting their faith with drawings, statues, and relics, but we cannot reduce ourselves to this cult of images. That’s why with that symbolic act, we are actually distancing ourselves from idolatry.”

Dosi noticed that the priest was getting closer and wondered if he might try to sit on his lap. He could clearly smell the mouthwash.

Nevertheless, he made an effort to respond, partly to keep him at bay.

“But the prohibition of images pertains to the times of the Old Testament, when God revealed Himself to the Prophets solely as an immaterial, invisible Word. Since He became a man, who can be seen and touched, it has been necessary to develop sacred art and use images to remember the Incarnation, which is the foundational event of the entire Christian religion.”

As Dosi spoke of seeing and touching, the priest barely restrained himself from extending his other hand; his body language clearly expressed excitement. Beppe was beginning to sweat.

Yet Balduini’s voice remained normal, focused on the topic and at the same time detached from his actual demeanor.

“The Incarnation is a foundational event, but not definitive. Our Lord incarnated Himself, but after the Cross, He returned to the Father as an incorruptible Spirit. Similarly, the Elect will be freed from the cross of Matter to rejoin the Father in the same manner. Thus, you see, that cross no longer represents the mission of the Son, but symbolizes our personal bodily imprisonment, from which we wish to be liberated. This is why we can despise it without committing sacrilege.”

He was using increasingly intricate arguments, as if trying a bunch of keys on a lock in search of the one that would make it click.

On his part, Beppe was getting tired of holding onto that increasingly convoluted discussion, all for the sake of Father Timoteo. He understood that at that point, if he continued to pull, the rope would snap.

He attempted to detach himself from the conversation.

“Father, we’re delving into proper theology here, and I’m not that knowledgeable in this area. If you say things are as you described, I can only believe you.”

There was no change in tone in Balduini’s voice.

“Those who don’t take on commitments can simply believe, but those who are capable of bearing serious responsibilities, those in whom the Pneuma prevails over Matter, think for themselves. You aren’t asked to believe, but to understand on your own what is right. Not immediately because it’s getting late tonight, you’ll have time to reflect, but next week we’ll have another one of our sessions. Of course, you’re invited. We expect to see a spontaneous sign of your mental openness, of your alignment, that would make us realize we haven’t chosen you in vain.”

After those words, the priest finally withdrew his hand, and the conversation shifted to more mundane topics before coming to an end.

As promised, the meeting didn’t last long. By midnight, Beppe was back home with the prospect of six hours of sleep before needing to wake up for the outing.

However, he couldn’t sleep.

If he didn’t find Giò within a week, he would have to return to those people. And then what? What did “spontaneous sign of mental openness” mean?

Allowing that person to touch him? To spit on the cross, just like the others did?

Despite his friar friend, he never really attached much importance to religion, never considering himself as having faith. Spitting on a mosaic should have been a matter of indifference to him.

He had never thought of himself as having faith, and yet, now that they were threatening to take it away from him, he realized he didn’t want to be without it.

( The flower shop lies in an alleyway departing from Piazza Mattei and the Turtle Fountain )