“Did the Pope give you this?”
“Yes,” she said. “I thought you saw.”
“What do you think of him?”
“The Pope?” She glanced at the high Vatican wall that continued on for some blocks hence. She whispered, “I think he’s very lonely.”
I nodded, feeling superstitious. “He doesn’t really belong here.”
A blast of aggressive Italian fired like a cannonade. Floodlights snapped awake at even intervals on the border. A long siren emanated from inside the compound. Shouted orders came around once in English and threatened us with all sorts of medieval promises.
Eleanor’s eyes grew very round. “We have to give it back!” she said.
“We have to run!”
“Run?” she shrieked. “Where the Hell are we running to?”
I grabbed her marble hand roughly. She held on to the wrist and I gripped the fingers and, so
