The Book of Q (61 page)
“Sounds reasonable enough, doesn’t it?” asked Peretti.
“So no Manichaeans,” said Pearse.
“No,” answered Peretti. “Something that well entrenched wouldn’t blow over so quickly. This way, we defuse the current situation much more effectively.”
“And then?” asked Pearse.
“Then …” Peretti bobbed his head from side to side. “Then we publish Q and tell the world that it’s actually something called the ‘Hagia Hodoporia.’ That should send a shock wave through the Manichaean cells. Impotence has a tendency to undermine even the most powerful of heresies. I imagine it might even make your friend Cesare a little more talkative.”
Pearse nodded.
Peretti continued to stare at him. “But it’s not the instability, is it?”
Pearse waited. “No, Eminence, it’s not.”
“Then why?” When Pearse didn’t answer, he continued. “I realize the priesthood might not be what you want now”—he glanced momentarily at Petra and Ivo—“and I would certainly understand that, but you have the chance to take the church someplace it’s never been.”
“But built on what, Eminence?” Again, Pearse waited. “A few hours ago, we had the Word at its purest, and we decided to alter it to protect the church.”
“True,” countered Peretti, “and if I remember, you were the one who said we had no other choice.”
“Fair enough. But that’s always the argument, isn’t it? Protect the church, keep it strong, no matter how much we might need to change the message.”
“It’s still a very powerful message.”
“To a point, Eminence. I suppose taking a match to the ‘Hodoporia’ helped me to see that.”
Peretti’s tone was slightly less inviting “And how is that?”
Pearse waited. “I always thought that if I found something pure enough, everything would fall into place, no matter what the expectations surrounding it. But that just isn’t the case. Nothing stays that pure when it has to fit into a man-made structure. And Christ knew that. That’s why He designed the message with each singular spirit in mind. That’s His infallibility, His power. To know that everyone brings his or her own faith to the table, purely individuated, purely isolated, and yet, it’s in that perfect singularity that the message makes sense. It defines a relationship built on one brutal truth: that it’s our responsibility to find connection with the world outside us. No one else’s. And certainly no church’s. In a strange way, the Manichaeans brought that home to me.” Not even aware of it, Pearse pulled Petra’s hand closer to him. “It’s that connection that lies at the heart of purity, and makes clarity possible.”
Peretti continued to stare at Pearse. “You realize, of course, that it’s the church’s sole purpose to enhance that connection.”
“I’m not sure I agree anymore.”
Peretti was about to answer. Instead, he held back. “Well,” he said, nodding, “then we’ll be sorry not to have you.”
“So,” said Angeli, clapping her hands together and standing, an attempt to diffuse the moment, “you’re leaving me with His Eminence.” She laughed to herself as she looked at Peretti. “I’ll tell you, I’m not easy to work with.”
Peretti smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Ashtrays,” said Pearse. “I’d recommend them as a peace offering.”
“Very funny,” said Angeli. “So, now it’s back to the States, then?”
Pearse looked at Petra. “We’ll see.”
“I have some very good friends at the Biblical Institute in Boston. They’d love to get their hands on you.”
He smiled at Angeli, then turned again to Petra. “I think the first order of business is to get this little one to sleep.”
“Of course,” said Peretti, immediately on his feet. “We have rooms for you upstairs. And please, the villa is yours for as long as you need it.”
Pearse stood as well, then Petra, as Ivo hopped down to the floor. Pearse waited until he had Peretti’s gaze, then said, “Thank you, Eminence.”
“No,” said the cardinal, “thank you … Father.”
Pearse turned and picked Ivo up. He then took Petra’s hand.
Before they had taken a step, Angeli was on the move. “Wait, wait.” She darted in and kissed Pearse on the cheek. “I’ve always liked doing that. I suppose I’ll miss it.” She smiled at Petra and Ivo, then looked back at Pearse. Before he could reply, she was already bearing down on Peretti. “Now, the way I see it, Eminence, we have two choices. Well, one, really, if you understand how the …”
Her voice trailed off as the three of them stepped out into the corridor.
“She speaks very fast,” said Ivo.
Pearse and Petra both laughed softly. “Yes, she does, Ivi,” said Petra. “Yes, she does.”
T
he sun hovered on the horizon, more yellow than orange, dipping ever faster into the perfectly still bay. No wind on the beach, the heat gentler than an hour ago, every breath suffused with the taste of salt. Late September on the Cape, the days grasping desperately at what no longer was theirs.
Pearse stared out, the easy rhythm of the tide lapping at his feet. Three weeks home, and he was only now beginning to have a sense of where he was.
Blaney had been right. The papacy had gone to Peretti a week after the first news stories. Special circumstances. The
novemdieles
had been cut to six days, eight cardinals and a healthy dose of bishops called on to convene the conclave. They’d elected him on the first ballot.
More interesting, though, was the piece of scripture—“The Book of Q,” according to the scholars—that Peretti had been so instrumental in saving from the clutches of the so-called conspirators. Guarded more closely than the Dead Sea Scrolls, Q was helping people to regain focus in the still-raw aftermath of the bombings. Angeli was making the news, always fun to see. And important people were beginning to sit around tables. A first step. It would be some time, though, before a sense of normalcy—whatever that meant—might return.
There were positive signs, though. A group of Methodist ministers in the States was claiming that the Vatican was hoarding Q for itself—rumors of Catholic scholars having pieced much of it together for their own purposes. The internal bickering had started.
There was hope after all.
And, of course, no mention of the Manichaeans.
A splash of water hit him in the back of his head. Pearse turned to find Ivo, his little hands pulled up to his mouth, a look of anticipated
retaliation in his eyes. It was only in the last few days that he’d begun to act more like himself, Salko’s death still so close.
“Uh-oh, Ivi,” said Pearse, “I think it’s beginning to rain.”
Another burst of laughter, a quick run to the water’s edge, then back. “It wasn’t rain! It wasn’t rain!”
“Hmm.” Pearse nodded seriously. “Then what could—”
He didn’t have a chance to finish as a bucketful of water streamed down onto his head. Chilled for an instant, Pearse jumped to his feet, Petra quickly retreating out of arm’s reach.
Howls of laughter as Ivo ran to her side. “We got you! We got you!” he screamed.
Pearse bent over, hands on his knees, eyeing his prey. A mischievous grin rose on his face.
“I think we made him crazy, Ivi,” she said.
Ivo’s eyes went wide as he ducked in behind Petra. “It was Mommy who did it.” He laughed. “Mommy dumped the water. Not me. Mommy.”
Pearse began to move toward them. More shrieks of laughter from Ivo as he and Petra slunk backward. She, too, was laughing. Pearse was within striking distance, when Ivo bolted away. Pearse looked at her, the smile so inviting. He then darted after Ivo, more howls and shrieks until Pearse caught him and picked him up, charging wildly into the water.
“No!” Ivo screamed in laughter.
Deep enough out, Pearse tossed him in the air, waiting to see the doused little face reappear.
“Do that again,” Ivo chortled after he’d wiped the water from his eyes.
“Time to get Mommy,” said Pearse. He turned and began charging out of the water. The look on Petra’s face was almost too perfect. A moment of panic, then utter capitulation. Ivo was cheering.
Pearse drew up to her, arms outstretched, ready to hoist her onto his back. Instead, he slowly straightened up and wrapped his arms around her, the heat from her body pressed against his chest.
She held his gaze for a moment, then kissed him.
“You still don’t look like a priest,” she said.
“I’m not anticipating that’s going to be much of a problem anymore.”
She smiled.
“Have you told your family?” she asked.
“They knew the moment I stepped off the plane.” He suddenly picked her up and began to walk toward the water.
“No, Ian. No. Come on. The doctor said I can’t go into the water—”
“Until today. That’s what he said.”
He was up to his knees, Ivo now at his side.
“Boy, you’re going to get it, Mommy.” He giggled.
Pearse whispered in her ear. “Or we could wait for the midnight swim?”
“Yes, we could,” she whispered back.
He gently kissed her, then placed her feet in the water. A moment later, he was after Ivo again.
“So I’m going to get Mommy, am I?”
Ivo howled as he tried to escape. But to no avail.
As one, they fell into the water. Pearse grabbed him and pulled him tightly to his chest. They floated there, heads bobbing together.
Far from insignificant in a seemingly empty sea.
I
t would have been impossible to attempt this book without taking advantage of the truly extraordinary scholarship that is now available on early Christianity. For their work on Gnosticism, I am greatly indebted to Elaine Pagels, Kurt Rudolph, Hans Jonas, Robert M. Grant, Charles W. Hedrick and Robert Hodgson, Jr., Geo Widengred, David M. Scholer, and Bentley Layton. For their studies of Q, John S. Kloppenborg, Christopher M. Tuckette, and Burton L. Mack were invaluable. And for their more general overviews, John Dominic Crossan (whose
Jesus:
A
Revolutionary Biography
is simply a marvel), Leif E. Vaage, Jaroslav Pelikan, Robert W. Funk, Roy W. Hoover and The Jesus Seminar, and, of course, Peter Brown provided the strongest of foundations on which to build my own Q.
The world of the Manichaeans was a bit tougher to dig into, but the research there is, I discovered, equally rich. Iain Gardner, Luigi Cirillo, John C. Reeves, and Paul Mirecki and Jason BeDuhn have put together some of the most intriguing collections and commentaries on Manichaean scripture. Peter Brown's chapter on the Manichaeans in his
Augustine of Hippo
remains essential reading.
I would also have been hard-pressed to imagine Greece and the Balkans, both during and after the war, without the exceptional books of William Dalrymple, Michael S. Sells, Sabrina Petra Ramet, Misha Glenny, Laura Silber and Allan Little, Noel Malcolm, and Peter Maass.
Together, they made my own research a genuine pleasure.
T
here are always too many to thank, but I would particularly like to mention Dottore Massimo Ceresa of the Vatican Library, who opened the archives to me and was equally generous with his time and expertise; Professor Peter Brown of Princeton University, who offered insights that went far beyond the Manichaeans and Gnostics; Matt Bialer, who remains the ideal agent; Kristin Kiser, who continues to teach me the art of editing; Peter Buchi, Joanne Lessner, and Emily Stone, who provided seasoned ears for my Italian and Latin; Rob Tate, Rob Roznowski, Maya Perez, and especially Jen Smith, who gave such helpful comments on earlier drafts of the book; my family, who seem to possess an unlimited enthusiasm; and Andra Reeve, who simply makes it all worthwhile.
