House Infernal by Edward Lee (7 page)

"Well, there it is," Richard said breaking the silence. "I
must say, it's..."

"It's ... well..." Maxine hesitated.

"It's the dullest, most lackluster looking church building I've ever seen," Venetia ventured.

"Took the words right out of my mouth," her father remarked.

What a letdown. Venetia scrutinized the long two-story
edifice. She'd been expecting an Edwardian masterpiece
with gables, Doric columns, and intricate cornice-work.
This is the work of the Vatican's master builder of the twentieth
century? "You know what it looks like?" she considered.
"An old English hospital from the twenties."

"Yeah, only duller," her father added.

"I thought it was designed by someone important in
the Vatican," Maxine posed. "I remember Father Driscoll
mentioning something like that."

Venetia grabbed her purse and laptop case. "It was, the
Pope's favorite modem architect, a man named Amano
Tessorio. For decades he built the most spectacular
churches, convents, and monasteries all over the world."

"I hope he didn't get paid much for this one," Richard
said, drawing on his unlit pipe.

"Tessorio was a Vatican-schooled priest," Venetia said.
"He got the same paycheck as all priests-a couple hun dred dollars a month. God's work isn't supposed to be a
big payday. But Tessorio was quite famous in his time."

The three of them got out and stared some more at the
unremarkable structure: simple brick and cement outer
walls interspersed by side-sliding windows, and it was
topped by a low-peaked roof with standard shingles. Indeed, the place more resembled an old school or institution
whose designers either lacked any architectural creativity
or were more concerned with function than appearance.

Maxine perked up, pointing to a pair of steel double
doors more suited for an urban high school. "Here he
comes!"

Venetia looked past several other parked cars, including a shiny black Mercedes. A man nearly six feet tall in
traditional black slacks, black shirt, and a Roman collar
approached them. He had intense blue eyes, and could've
been a Marine with his blond buzz cut. Mom's right. He is
handsome. She sensed a very serious demeanor behind an
expression that wasn't quite a smile ... which Venetia
also found weirdly alluring.

"Mr. and Mrs. Barlow, it's wonderful to see you again,"
he said, and then there was an exchange of pleasantries.
The blue eyes drilled into Venetia, "And you, young
lady ... sorry to sound cliched but the last time I saw you,
you were a yard high."

"Hi, Father." She shook his hand, which she found
strong and callused. "I'm sorry I don't remember you."

"Well, maybe you will after a couple of days here." The
comment seemed cryptic. "Back then, I wasn't much
older than you are now. And, a four-point-oh at Catholic
U? I graduated there myself."

"Really? I didn't know that."

"And I'll admit, I'm a bit jealous."

Jealous? "Why's that Father?"

"I barely got out of there with a three-point-five." His
gaze leveled, and again he seemed to be trying to smile
while never really doing it. "I only hope that a superior
student like yourself won't be too disappointed when she realizes the true nature of this field study option. There
won't be a lot of academics going on here, but we will be
working our behinds off: painting, wallpapering, and a
lot of yard work."

"That's fine with me, Father. I could use a break from
the books anyway, and if God wants a paint roller in my
hand instead of a midterm, then so be it."

"Excellent response." The priest turned and cast a
quick glance at the building. "As you can all see, the prior
house won't win any awards for beauty in architecture
but now that I think of it, the Church might've been better
off choosing utilitarian designs like this all along."

"What do you mean, Father?" Maxine asked.

"Think of all the money the Vatican would've saved over
the last two thousand years. God doesn't care if His house
is ugly as long as it works. But just for formality's sake,
we'll have it looking a little less ugly before reopening."

"How long has it been closed?" Venetia wondered.

"Well, it's never been totally closed. For decades it's
served a variety of uses for the Church: book repository,
warehouse, and sometimes parish priests would board
here while their own churches were refurbished. There
was a small maintenance staff the whole time, but they all
retired recently. So did the previous prior."

Venetia didn't want to sound nosy but she was suddenly
curious about this man. "What were your duties before
you received this assignment?"

"A lot of teaching, plus some counseling," the priest responded. His gaze flicked up when a seagull sailed by.
"Rome, France, India, Brazil, and all around the U.S. The
church has given me a lot of opportunities to travel. But
now the diocese wants me to reopen this place, so here I
am. It'll be different, that's for sure. I only wish I'd been
able to recruit more girls like you."

"Like me, Father?"

"Students of theology. It's my favorite subject. I put
fliers out at the theology departments of some of the
nearby colleges but no one replied. I was lucky enough to
run into your parents at my old church in Dover, and when they told me that you were at Catholic U, I thought
it couldn't hurt to ask you to apply."

Suddenly Venetia became self-conscious. I hope I don't
look too ragged from lack of sleep. She felt driven to make a
good first impression. "I just want you to know that I'm
very grateful, Father, for giving me this opportunity."

"Don't thank me yet." He turned with that same failed
smile. "Thank me at the end of the summer"-he swept
his hands across the cul-de-sac's unkempt excuses for
flowerbeds-"when we've gotten all these weeds pulled.
Sounds like fun, huh?"

"At least it's a bit more interesting on the inside," Driscoll
said once they entered. "A bit more interesting and a bit
more dirty."

Venetia stood just inside the doorway, her bags tugging
at her arms. The inside floor layout was an immense
atrium surrounded by four walls of offices and libraries
on the first floor and presumably living quarters on the
second. Two drab stairwells on either side led upstairs,
and a stair-hall wrapped around the atrium as well. A variety of throw rugs, some quite large, covered the floor, on
which couches, arm chairs, and writing tables were
arranged. In between each lower-level office door stood
rows of book shelves festooned by cobwebs.

"Wow," " Venetia said. "This is going to be a big cleaning job "

"Sure is. But at least the upstairs is already spic 'n span
and ready for painting."

"I noticed cars parked outside. How many others will
be on the job?"

"Three others-you'll be meeting them soon."

Three others? she thought with little enthusiasm. That's
not much of a work crew for this big dirty dump.

"I see you've brought your laptop," he added. "If we're
lucky enough to find a working phone line, maybe you
could e-mail some of your fellow students at the university . We can use all the help we can get, and it's an easy
three credit hours."

Easy? She doubted it. And she doubted that any of her
friends at school would want to abandon their summer
for such a job.

"While I'm thinking of it..."-the tall priest handed
her a key on a cord-"wear this at all times, and any time
you exit the building lock the door behind you."

Venetia put the key around her neck. Is he afraid of burglars?

"This area's never been known for much crime,"
Driscoll elaborated, "but there are a lot of valuable books
in here, some quite old." He briefly showed her the front
doors. "First thing we did was put high-quality locks on
all the exit doors, and alarm tape on the windows."

It seemed undue paranoia to Venetia. This is New Hampshire farmland, not downtown DC. "I suppose in this day
and age we can never be too security-conscious."

"Exactly," he said, and led her on.

Before her parents left, her mother had made her promise to call every night on her cell phone. Venetia wondered
what her parents' reaction would be if they'd seen the inside of the place. But she truly believed that things happened for a reason, and that God was often behind those
reasons. God must really want me to get dirty, she mused.

"I can guess what you're thinking, Venetia."

"I'm sorry, Father?"

"You're thinking that you've walked into a real clunker
of a job. I can see it on your face."

Venetia laughed. "It's nothing like that. I'm just a little
shocked. It's not what I expected from a Tessorio building."

"So you're familiar with his work?"

"I have several picture books of his monasteries and
convents-"

"They're magnificent, aren't they?"

"Yes.;"

"And this place ... isn't."

She giggled. "No, it isn't. Tessorio was known for fancy
Gothic Revival and Edwardian designs, right?"

"Pretty much." Driscoll frowned, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. "And I'm afraid what he wasn't known
for was air-conditioning."

Venetia only noticed that now. It was very hot inside.
More self-consciousness assailed her. Am I sweating? Are
my underarms damp? "At least the nights are usually cool.
They don't even have window units here?"

"hope. The boiler's fine for heat in the winter. My boss
at the diocese says he's going to have some fans sent out,
but who knows when that will happen. We have a lot of
hot work waiting for us, I'm afraid."

Venetia didn't mind. As a child she'd always looked forward to the brief New Hampshire summers; warm
weather always made her feel purged. "So the prior house
was built in 1965? 1 think that's what the sign said on the
main road."

Driscoll led her around the atrium's outer skirt, passing
bookcase after dust-filmed bookcase. "That's right. It only
took eight months to build, even as big as it is. The atrium
alone is almost five thousand square feet."

Venetia gazed across the great expanse. There were
probably several dozen couches and chairs set out, some
covered with sheets, some not. "Pretty simple design. It's
just not what I expected. I went to services once at the
Convent of Regina Pacis just before it closed, and I've visited the Gomang Monastery in Nashua several timesoh, and also the abbey at Saint Anselm College. They're
all beautiful pieces of architecture."

"This isn't supposed to be anything more than a place
for priests to decompress. The burnout rate's pretty high."

"I know. I remember reading about it in the Catholic
Standard. High suicide rate, too, I think."

Some of the tile flooring could be seen between the
throw rugs; the dust was so thick, Driscoll's shoes left
footprints. "The older a priest gets--and the more of his
life he gives to God-the more he becomes subject to basic
human frailties. Self-doubt, depression, wavering faith.
The prior house isn't intended to be a home for sick or elderly priests-it's just sort of a rest stop, in between jobs." He pointed to all the chairs and couches filling the
atrium. "That's what all that's for. Our guys can come
here and just sit around, read, meditate."

The way Driscoll talked seemed to humanize the sterile
exterior-referring to priests as "our guys," for instance.
The gesture reminded Venetia of his smile-something
that struggled to be seen.

Statues and busts on pedestals stood intermittently between the bookcases, set back in tall sconces. Venetia examined each one as they walked, and found that she
recognized most before having to look at the nameplates. Thomas Merton, Aquinas, Soren Kierkegaard, St.
Augustine...

"Here's one of my favorites," Father Driscoll said,
touching a granite bust of St. Ignatius of Antioch. "How
can anyone not admire him, even atheists?"

"The earliest progressive Christian philosopher," said
Venetia. "I guess you mean you admire his distinction of
the relationship between body and soul, and being the
first Christian writer to use the name 'Catholic?'"

"I forgot about that part," Driscoll admitted.

Venetia found the faux pas amusing. "What then?"

"His martyrdom. You can't deny the devotion of a man
who smiles as his body is being ravaged by dogs."

"The same for St. Stephen," Venetia said as they moved
to the next bust. "The first Christian martyr."

The next sconce stood vacant.

"Who's supposed to be here?" she asked.

Driscoll wiped off the dust-smudged plaque: FR. AMANo
TFSSORIO.

"The statue was never delivered, believe it or not, but
Tessorio built this recess and even mounted the nameplate
when the prior house was completed. He had a... lofty
ego, I guess you could say."

Venetia stalled over the comment.

"St. John's Priory was Tessorio's last assignment before
the Vatican discharged him," Driscoll added in a manner
that seemed hesitant.

"I had no idea he was discharged. What was the reason?"

"Well, the Catholic record says he was discharged due
to poor health."

What's he hedging? Venetia wondered. "It's curious how
you phrased that, Father. It implies that poor health
wasn't the real reason he was dismissed."

Driscoll nodded through an awkward pause. "The real
reason is he was caught attending a Black Mass in 1966 or
so. He was charged with heresy, banished from the
Church, and died of late-stage syphilis several years later."

Venetia snapped her gaze from the empty recess to the
priest. "You're kidding me."

Did the priest snort a chuckle? "The details may be exaggerated but it's essentially true. For years, Tessorio was
leading a very blasphemous double life."

Venetia was waylaid. "You're telling me that the Vatican's official architect was a Satanist?"

Driscoll led her away from the sconce, past more busts
and statues. "That's putting it a bit harshly. Sometimes
when priests get old, they become cynical and lose faith.
They believe that celibacy to God caused them to miss out
on aspects of their humanity. So they rebel. I don't know
that he was a bonafide Satanist, and I'm not even certain
that there is such a thing. It was probably a case of a
bored, bitter old man who joined a devil club to put some
spice in his last years."