The Son, The Sudarium Trilogy - Book Two (12 page)

She suppressed a gasp.

This was the child, whose birth had so preoccupied Miz O, the child that had got away, the child that Santa Teresa had ordered to be…

Sally couldn’t let herself finish the thought. She picked up one of the photos of the young man looking off into the middle-distance. Sally thought he had deep, penetrating eyes, wise eyes, and a kind face. Did he know he was a marked man? She shuddered, as she gathered up the notebooks and put the photographs back in their envelopes. Miz O would be stirring before long.

All at once she felt a hand grip her shoulder. She let out a scream and turned to see Maria.

“Hello, Sally,” she said in a flat voice.

Sally glanced at her watch. “It’s only one o’clock, Maria,” she stammered. “What are you doing here so early?”

2:29

A few tourists were milling about the plaza, but not enough to allay the general feeling of emptiness that prevailed at this hour. A lone sanitation worker was sweeping up the stray palm fronds that had been carried from the cathedral the day before and then dropped or cast aside in the rush to get home. The young man was reminded that Holy Week had begun. Not that he had forgotten. He had come to Oviedo at this time for a sole reason: the cloth that covered the face of Christ on the cross, the holy sudarium, was displayed to the public only once a year on Good Friday. For others the culmination of the week would be the triumphant resurrection of Christ, spirit eternal trumping lowly flesh on Easter Sunday. But for the young man, it would be seeing the sudarium with his own eyes, beholding what was said to be the very blood of the lamb, a lamb led to slaughter. He put the bloody image out of his head. It was important that he react to the sudarium with a clear mind, free of superstition and prejudice.

As he and Claudia approached the cathedral entrance, they were sidetracked by an elderly beggar, who, having nothing of his own to peddle, had scavenged the plaza for the least damaged palm fronds and was using them to earn the pity of the passer-by and a coin or two. Mano fished in his pocket for some spare change. Automatically, Claudia dropped back and pulled out her camera, sensing an extraordinary photograph – an ironic commentary of Jesus entering the temple in triumph. The beggar struck a suitably humble pose, thinking it might increase his tip. Mano turned around just in time to see what was happening.

“No!” he said sharply, putting up his hand to shield his face. “No pictures!”

Claudia lowered the camera. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“It’s just that I don’t photograph well,” he said, trying to temper his outburst.

“As a professional, I can assure you that is definitely not true,” Claudia said playfully, raising the camera to eye level again.

“I’m serious. No pictures right now. Okay?”

“Well, sure. If that’s the way you want it…”

She tucked the camera away in her backpack, chastising herself for the second misstep in less than ten minutes. She was going to have to be more careful or she’d spoil everything. She was no longer the observer, taking photographs from afar. She was now an active participant in the story. To fail at this point would be unthinkable.

Mano tossed a few coins to the beggar who, misunderstanding the situation, continued to implore the young man to take the palm fronds. Claudia couldn’t have imagined a better picture. But she didn’t take it.

The view ran from the back of the cathedral to the splendor of the high altar. Nothing impeded it, so that the first, and most enduring impression imparted by the interior of the cathedral was not that of height, nor of openness, but rather of pure gold. The altarpiece actually consisted of dozens of oil paintings, depicting the life of Christ, but they were framed in gold, abutted by pilasters of gold, separated by gold pedestals. Until one got close enough to make out the subject matter of the paintings, it looked as if the gold had simply rained down from the heavens, streaking the altar with magnificence. Claudia would have lingered before such a sight, but Mano had a specific destination. A sign reading Camara Santa pointed them to the right.

“What’s the Camara Santa?” asked Claudia.

“It’s means the Holy Chamber. It’s where they keep the church’s most sacred relics.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t know. Let’s go see.”

Together, they walked briskly past several chapels, unlit and gloomy, until they reached the transept. Turning right again, they found themselves in a modern entry area that sold brochures, postcards and, most importantly, entrance tickets to the Camara Santa. Manning the ticket counter was a plump woman with a determined manner that matched the moustache on her upper lip.

“How many?” she barked, by way of a greeting.

Mano held up two fingers.

“Ten euros,” she barked again, pushing the tickets across the counter. “Take the circular staircase through that door and follow the signs. A tour just began, so if you hurry you won’t miss much.”

They followed instructions, going up the staircase to a room above, then down a second set of stairs to the Camara Santa itself. Behind a stern iron grill that divided the chamber in half were a series of chests and trunks that contained the precious relics, some said to go back to the very days of Jesus. A dozen tourists were gathered around a young, attractive guide, who was explaining that this was the oldest part of the cathedral and pointing out various pre-Romanesque architectural details to buttress her case. The thick walls and tiny windows gave Claudia the impression of being in a subterranean prison, and the treasures behind the grill – the overwrought Cross of the Angels, symbol of the city of Oviedo supposedly fashioned miraculously by God’s angels – held little interest for her. It was when the guide turned their attention to the Holy Arc, a silver-covered chest, that Claudia noticed the sudden change in Mano’s attitude. Concentration had narrowed his eyes and his body had tensed up. All she could think was that he resembled a wild animal, sensing danger.

“It was in this trunk,” the guide was explaining, “that the holy sudarium was saved from the hands of the infidels and brought to Oviedo in the 9
^th
century. You all know about the sudarium, don’t you.”?

A few tourists coughed and one nodded vaguely.

“The sudarium,” explained the guide patiently, as she had already done no doubt several hundred times before, “is the cloth that covered Jesus’ face on the cross. No, not the shroud that his body was wrapped in. The shroud is in Turin, Italy. The sudarium is a separate cloth that was used by the Jewish people to cover a face distorted by the agony of death.

“After the crucifixion, the sudarium remained in Palestine until 614, when Jerusalem was captured by the Persians. Along with several other lesser relics – splinters of the cross, a thorn from the crown of thorns and sandals of lesser disciples – the cloth was spirited out of Jerusalem to Alexandria, Egypt. Then, when that city came under attack, the cloth made its way along the northern coast of Africa, crossed the Mediterranean Sea and ended up in Toledo, Spain. But only until Spain itself was invaded by the Moors and the sudarium was hidden in a cave outside of Oviedo. In 1075, King Alonso VI presided over the opening of the trunk and, discovering its invaluable treasures, ordered that they be housed in the Camara Santa, where they have remained ever since. So you can see that the sudarium has had quite an eventful history.”

The guide paused a moment for effect. “I don’t need to point out that the presence of the sudarium, makes this one of the holiest places in Christendom. It is now kept in the locked cupboard that you see at the back of the chamber. We can’t show it to you, of course, but a photograph on the outside of the cupboard will give you an idea of what it looks like.” She stepped aside to afford the tourists a better view. Several edged forward, pressing their faces against the grill to see the astonishing object. A mother tried to keep her two young sons from climbing up the grill. It was then Claudia noticed the blind woman in the corner. She had a white cane and dark glasses that obscured much of her face, and clung to the shoulder of a companion, who whispered periodically in her ear. The woman was not facing the relics, however, but appeared to be looking in the direction of Mano.

“Don’t push,” admonished the guide. “Everyone will get a chance to see.”

What they saw - in the faded photograph at least - resembled a small, wrinkled tablecloth, spotted with reddish-brownish stains that could have been paint. For a relic with such a dramatic past, it was, Claudia mused, surprisingly mundane. Mano thought of Saint Teresa’s finger, all but unidentifiable in its glass test tube.

“Any questions?” asked the guide, preparing to usher the tourists back up the stairs.

“Yes, how can you be sure the cloth is real?” Mano’s voice rang out in the confines of the chamber.

“What do you mean ‘real’?” replied the guide, indignation lending a flush of color to her cheeks.

“
Authentic.
How do you know the cloth is what you say it is?”

“I can only tell you that Pope John Paul II prayed before this cloth. They say he spent several hours alone with it. There is a plaque on the side of the main altar commemorating his visit. He came specifically to pay honor to the cloth. Why would he do such a thing, if it wasn’t real?”

Several tourists nodded in agreement and cast disapproving looks at Mano, who refused to back down.

“But what is known scientifically about the cloth?”

The guide forced a smile. “Well, I am not a scientist, but I can assure you, after the Shroud of Turin, this cloth has been studied more than any other cloth in Christendom. Experts from all around the world come regularly to Oviedo to examine it. Historically, its existence can be traced back to Jesus’ day and -” she paused to take in the rest of the tourists – “I think our other friends today will find this interesting: Biologists have detected traces of pollen on the cloth, pollen that comes from plants that grew only in Palestine at that time.”

She let that sink in. Then added, “Most interesting of all, the blood stains on the sudarium correspond to those on the shroud of Turin. There are more than 150 points of coincidence, which means that both cloths must have enveloped the same body and that is the body of Christ…Now are there any other questions?”

Mano’s voice was more insistent than ever. “But the shroud of Turin is a fake. Everyone knows that.”

“I am sorry, Señor,” snapped the guide. “This is not the proper place for such an observation.”

“All I am asking is this: Is there any
proof
that the cloth touched the face of Christ? Or is it just a cloth that dates from that time period?”

“I told you that its history has been traced by experts back to the days of Our Savior. That is undisputed.”

“But how do we know it actually touched the face of Christ? You said it was Jewish custom back then to cover the faces of the dead with a cloth. Well, there were thousands of crucifixions. The blood on the sudarium could be that of a thief or a murderer. It seems to me—-“

The guide interrupted him. “Some things we must take on faith. People have dedicated themselves for years, for centuries, to the study and preservation of this cloth. I think to question their beliefs is disrespectful, don’t you?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. The crowd showed their agreement by pulling away from Mano and starting up the stairs that led out of the Holy Chamber.

He approached the grill, trying to decipher the blurry photograph on the other side of the black metal bars, when he felt a hand tug his shoulder. He turned and found himself just inches from the blind woman. Her large dark glasses made her look like a giant fly. She reached up and caressed his cheek. He stood frozen, not wishing to offend the woman, but at the same time feeling as if she were draining the very energy from his body. She spoke to him in German, repeating the same phrase time and again, until her companion gently took her by the hand and ushered her from the chamber. Claudia and Mano watched them make their way unsteadily up the stairs.

“That was weird. It sounded like she was saying the same thing over and over,” said Mano. “Too bad I don’t speak German.”

“I do,” said Claudia.

“Did you understand what she was saying?”

“Yes. She was saying, ‘Never fear the truth … Never fear the truth.’”

2:30

“Mom, come here! Quick! It’s important.”

Teresa’s voice brimmed with uncharacteristic excitement. Ever since Mano had left three days ago, there had been an undertone of tension in the house on Venustiano Carranza. Hannah told herself ten times a day that her son was an adult, who knew how to take care of himself. And if he didn’t, he’d learn quickly. But that still didn’t change the fact that Mano was all on his own somewhere in the wide world. How could she not worry?

She turned down the flame on the stove and covered the pot of frijoles she was preparing. “What is it?” she called out, anxiously, as she entered Teresa’s bedroom. Her daughter was glued to her laptop computer. “Look! There’s an e-mail from Mano!”

Hannah clapped her hands with joy, while Teresa made a place on the chair so her mother could sit beside her. Together, they read the e-mail.

Hi, everybody! Sorry I haven’t been in contact sooner, but I’ve been on the road and it took a while to find an Internet café in working order! Plus, to be honest, I am enjoying the solitude. You know me. The people I have met have all been friendly and helpful. And I have seen some extraordinary things. I just wanted you to know that all is well. Teresa, take care of Little Jimmy! Little Jimmy, take care of Teresa! I miss you all, but I’ll be in touch. Love, Mano. PS: Don’t worry so much for me, mom.”

“Well, that’s good news.” Hannah exulted. “He sounds happy.”

“I’m going to tell Dad,” Teresa said, darting out of the room.

Hannah sat in front of the computer and read over the e-mail several times. Then for the first time in longer than she could remember, she found herself mouthing a silent prayer of thanks.

Jimmy was on a stepladder, arranging a display of new paper mache masks that came a small village in Guerrero, when the electronic door chimes rang, indicating that a customer had crossed the threshold. “
Buenas tardes
,” he called out to the man, who made his way to the back of the store, examining a few objects along the way. Jimmy divided customers into two groups – the browsers and the buyers – and classified this one as a browser. So he finished hanging a surrealistic wolf mask on the wall (the snout was purple, the ears pink, and in the midst of its forehead, flowered a magnificent white magnolia blossom), before joining the man.

“Can I help you?” he asked in Spanish, unable to identify the customer’s nationality, although it was clearly not Mexican.

The man looked up from a set of azure ceramic dinnerware, laid out as if for a formal dinner. “Father Jimmy?” he asked.

Jimmy tried not to let his surprise show. It had been twenty years since he’d heard “Father” attached to his name. “Just Jimmy is enough these days,” he said.

“Forgive me. I guess you’ve always been Father Jimmy to me. In all these years, with all that has happened to both of us, you and I have had only one conversation. Isn’t that correct? On your lawn in New Hampshire over twenty years ago. Of course, your wife is a different story. She and I know one another quite intimately. She is fine, I presume?”

Even if Jimmy hadn’t recognized the face, the courtly manner would have been a give away. “Dr. Johanson, isn’t it?” he said firmly. “You have changed very little in twenty years.”

“So kind of you to say so, but I am afraid the body is weary, oh, so very weary.”

“Not weary enough to prevent you from harassing my family. I don’t know what you’re after this time, but I don’t want anyone bothering my children. Is that clear?”

“Very clear, indeed!’ said Dr. Johanson with a perfect look of understanding. “That is the reason I wished to talk with you. To apologize for Judith’s intrusions on your family. She and a friend came to speak to your eldest. They had not intended to approach the boy. It is not something that will occur again, if we can help it.”

“You can. Just keep away from my children.”

Dr. Johanson picked up a dinner plate and studied the pattern, before speaking again. “Do they know, by the way? Do they know who their older brother is?”

Jimmy bristled. “My family is none of your business.”

“I see.” Dr. Johanson replaced the dinner plate carefully in its setting. “Such a beautiful blue color! How ever do they achieve it? … I understand that the young man is away.”

“Yes, he is. So there’s no reason for you to remain here any longer.”

“Why? Is he gone for good? Doesn’t he intend to come back?”

“Look, I see no need to prolong this conversation. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave the store.”

He reached out to take the man’s arm, but Dr. Johanson sidestepped the gesture and resumed his examination of the dinnerware. “Do you know that he is not alone, Father Jimmy?”

Jimmy let his hand drop and stepped back. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, there is a young woman with him. A young woman who, unfortunately, does not wish him well.”

“And you do?”

Dr. Johanson sighed, as if the truth had been evident from the start and it were pointless at this point to repeat it. “What you have failed to understand all these years is that we are his disciples. We wish him no harm. Quite the contrary. We will do whatever is necessary to protect him. Our place has always been to follow.”

“All the way to Mexico, it appears.”

“To the ends of the earth, if need be. You can’t expect to hide him any longer. He’s not a child.”

“Exactly. He’s a young man and he won’t be manipulated by you or anyone else.”

Dr. Johanson allowed himself to pick up one of the azure-painted soup bowls. “How much?”

“I’m sorry?”

“How much are you asking for all six place settings?”

“Two thousand four-hundred pesos. They’re hand-painted and lead free.”

Dr. Johanson turned over the cup and read the artist’s signature on the bottom. “Signed, too.”

“Yes, each piece is an original.”

“Such a lovely blue… May I say one more thing in all frankness? You say your son is now a young man. That, I would suggest respectfully, is precisely the issue. When one is young and male, temptation is difficult to resist. I think you know that as well as anyone Father Jimmy. Excuse me,
Jimmy
. You gave up everything, your life’s calling, for a woman. Tossed aside years of preparation, the wishes of your own family. Because temptation, when it is strong, is irresistible. I think you, above all, would know how urgent it is to warn your son of the dangers presented by this woman.”

“Who is this woman you keep talking about?”

“Someone who, unlike us, does not have your son’s best interests at heart. Her name would mean nothing to you. But it would not be overstating the case to say that your son is in mortal danger.” This time, it was Dr. Johanson who put his hand understandingly on Jimmy’s shoulder.

It all sounded preposterous to Jimmy - a mysterious seductress, pursuing his son. He knew Dr. Johanson and his followers were devious people. Look how they had trapped Hannah! And yet what he said about temptation was not to be dismissed lightly. The flesh followed its own rules. Jimmy had wrestled personally with the issue. If his son were engaged in a similar struggle, he needed help and support.

He wanted to ask Dr. Johanson just what dangers his son was facing, but that would be giving the doctor an opening, letting him into the family circle, and he wanted no more traffic with the man.

Dr. Johanson sensed a weakness and seized the chance to exploit it. “We ask so little. If you could just tell me where—-‘

The door chimes and a girlish voice, coming from the front of the store, interrupted him. “Dad, Dad!”

“Just a minute,” he said.

“It’s important. I’ve got something to tell you.” Impetuously, Teresa ran up to her father and gave him a hug.

“I’m dealing with a customer right now.”

“But we just got an email from Mano.” It was then she became aware of Dr. Johanson’s presence, and shrunk back. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

Dr. Johanson gave no indication of anything unusual. Casting a final look at the dinnerware, he said, “Well, you certainly have a lovely store. And I am quite attracted to the dinnerware. But the price is a little out of my range. I hope I didn’t insult you by trying to bargain. I thought that’s what one did in Mexico. Bargain. Reach an agreement that is acceptable to both parties. So, who knows, perhaps, upon reflection, you will consider my offer, after all.”

He extended his hand in a vigorous handshake. Then he looked down at Teresa. “And this must be your daughter. How do you say? ‘
Muy guapa
.’ Very pretty, indeed!” With that, he strode out of the shop, triggering the chimes once again.

“Dad? I think that’s the guy I ran into on the street?”

Distracted, Jimmy stared down at the dinnerware. “I don’t know, hon. Is it?” His finger aimlessly traced the interlocking pattern that wound around the edge of a dinner plate.

“I think so,” Teresa said, stepping out the front door and looking up the Calle Cinco de Mayo. Her body activated the chimes, as Dr. Johanson’s had seconds before. “Boy, Mom was right about tourists being everywhere. He must be part of a tour or something. It looks like the United Nations out there.”

“What do you mean?” Jimmy said, joining her. Eric was conferring with a group at the corner of the block. It consisted of ‘Yan from China’, ‘Stanislau from Russia’, ‘Pierre and Yvette from Belgium’ and ‘Feodor from the Ukraine.’ Something the doctor said prompted the Russian to glance back fiercely at Jimmy. Almost as one, the rest of the group followed suit and for a second, it seemed as if they were about to return to the store en masse. But Eric grabbed the Russian by the arm and forcibly walked him around the corner, out of sight. Reluctantly, the others in the group disappeared, too.

Jimmy and Teresa were left in the doorway to wonder what had just transpired. The electronic chimes continued to ring out repeatedly, their gentle welcome transformed into an urgent alarm that ceased only when father and daughter stepped back inside the store.