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Part one-2

The woman with whom I had wanted to grow old walked out on me. She left me. She made in clear that she was leaving for good. I realised that there was no point in fooling myself anymore and that there was no hope left. Paradoxically that brought me some relief by ending the emotional struggle I had been experiencing for weeks. I had nothing to fight for anymore. The realisation that it can’t get any worse can offer such strange, bitter comfort.

However, when I thought that all I had to do is endure the pain, waiting for time to heal the wounds, the Piccola Lirica theatre where I worked decided to let me go. Due to drastic budget cuts for the new season, the theatre’s profile was being changed. The classic repertoire was to be abandoned and my countertenor, although supposedly “quite possibly the most superb in the whole of Italy”, was no longer needed. I couldn’t possibly imagine myself doing anything else. Piccola Lirica was my second home. Naturally, finding employment in another theatre would just be a matter of time but that was not the point. I loved that stage, that backstage, the audience. I loved it all like you love a woman.

Today I obviously realise how limited I was at that time, but I felt unmistakably that I had just lost the two cores of my whole world and that I was falling into a dark, infinite abyss. Arduous rehearsals, voice tuning practice and endless repeating of the practiced songs and then looking forward to the première of a new show; the evening meetings with my beautiful Editt, her smile which made the cheap wine we drank taste like divine ambrosia – that was my whole life. Editt and Piccola Lirica defined me, made me who I was. By losing them I lost myself completely.

The sun was still low when I descended to the Termini subway station. The morning rush hour was over but it was still quite crowded, trains were arriving and departing, commuters were getting on and off. People preoccupied with their own affairs were headed towards the city; others were running towards the train station. Everything was happening somewhere beside me, as if behind thick glass and it didn’t concern me in any way. I was sitting on a bench, numb as a lizard after a cold, sleepless night.

At one point I felt an impulse; something told me I had nothing to wait for anymore. I got up from the bench. The loudspeakers had just announced the arrival of a train, the speaker asked the passengers to step away from the edge of the platform. A small crowd of luggage-bearing passengers had already gathered.

Moments later red headlights flickered and the subway train appeared.

How tempting it was, one jump and that’s it. The huge wheels would obliterate all my despair and all my pain. I wouldn’t even have time to scream.

I headed towards the edge like a sleepwalker. The train was approaching inevitably, the navy blue face of the train growing with every second. I had reached the very edge of the platform and was one step away from the tracks. I knew that if I chickened out, if I let the front of the train pass me, it would be too late and I would not gather up the courage to try again.

I closed my eyes for all my worth. I got a grip and flexed my muscles.

I jumped.

It’s not true what they say about your whole life passing through your eyes, about that movie made up of your memories. I didn’t feel anything.

At the last moment someone caught my arm and pulled me back onto the platform with a decisive move. I lost my balance and fell. At the same time the train, coming to a stop, slowly rolled passed me with a deep roar; it was slow by that time, hundreds of thousand kilograms were reluctantly losing momentum.

I realised what had just happened. I knew I wouldn’t have it in me to give it another try. I got up slowly.

The man who saved my life was standing next to me. He was looking at me with a focused gaze, slim-built, around forty. He was wearing a clerical collar.

I felt weak, as if I was about to faint. He approached me, firmly but politely and led me to a bench. I didn’t say a word.

He sat next to me. He was silent for a moment and then said:

‘The world is huge, son. Much greater than we usually realise. The fact that you can’t find a place for yourself just now does not necessarily mean that it is actually like that.’

He paused for a moment; the train departing from the neighbouring platform would have obscured the sound anyway.

‘My name is Lucka,’ he reached out his hand.

I shook it, although I could hardly do it. I was drenched in sweat.

‘Giuseppe.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes,’ I lied.

‘I don’t believe in coincidence,’ he said. ‘God wanted us to meet today. My train from Milan was half an hour late. If it did come on time, I would have left the station over a quarter ago. In which case you wouldn’t have been around either, would you?’

I nodded.

‘And therefore,’ he continued. ‘God must have plans for you, son.’

‘I am not particularly religious...’

He smiled.

‘Do you think God ever minded that?’

We sat a few minutes more, talking. The priest was interested in me working for the theatre and performing in operettas; it turned out we appreciated the same outstanding vocalists.

Father Lucka gave me his business card. We said goodbye and I promised I would get in touch with him.

That is how our incredible acquaintance started; on that day I met archbishop Lucka and my life started anew.

I am still in his debt.

The archbishop puts down the documents he had just read. He observes me for a moment and nods thoughtfully. Then he speaks, in an unusually gentle voice. It creates a strange dissonance given how dark his words were:

‘Dear Giuseppe... It seems that we are in grave danger. We are staring to lose control over what is happening in the Vatican.’

1.3There is silence for a while. It seems as if the archbishop’s words are echoing ominously within those elegant walls and yet I know that it must all be happening in my head.

I don’t say anything. Archbishop Lucka sees the expression on my face although I do my best to conceal my emotions. He smiles. Was it not for my theatrical experience, I probably wouldn’t be able to tell that it is an empty, forced smile. And yet it does do the trick: It nips my fear in the bud, before it really got to me.

‘So far the power remains in our hands,’ the hierarch speaks in a gentle, soothing voice. ‘If we act calmly and reasonably, there is no way we could lose it. The stakes are very high and in such situations the winner is the one who is guided by reason. We must react fast and reasonably at the same time. Any mistake will immediately be used against us.’

I can’t help but notice that when saying this, he is unknowingly drumming his fingers on the edge of the desk. After a moment he notices it and his hands freeze.

‘Obviously, I am getting anxious,’ he sees I’ve noticed; his smile gets wider. ‘However I can assure you that we’ve developed a plan for such circumstances a long time ago. We are very well prepared.’

I am tempted to have a look at the papers lying on the desk, which obviously were the reason of all that agitation. I resist that urge. They were not written for my eyes to see. I would have understood very little anyway and no good would have come out of that, excessive curiosity was always frowned upon in the Vatican.

And I know my place. I am a humble man.

The hierarch speaks on:

‘In a nutshell, your task, Giuseppe, will not be different from the previous ones. I am not asking you to do anything you haven’t done before.’

The archbishop reaches out to a desk drawer. He takes out a flash drive, a small, inconspicuous USB memory stick and weighs it in the palm of his hand.

‘Once again you are going to take data to the safe in the Monastery. Just like you’ve done dozens of times before.’

‘Certainly, Your Excellency.’

He hands me the flash drive. I fiddle with it.

‘In the beginning was the Word,’ the archbishop says. ‘And the Word was with God... The Word, that is information, is still the most potent power and is the basis of every act of creation... or destruction.’

I am holding what seems to be an ordinary flash drive which you can get for a few euro in every electronics store. Flash memory, a few gigabits, or maybe several terabits of virtual space are captured in that plastic cover.

The archbishop continues:

‘Today, in the third millennium, we sometimes forget how great that power is. We are flooded by words from every direction and the media feed us with more information than we can imagine. We are drowning in this noise, we are becoming indifferent. And despite that there still exist words which, if said out loud, would strike with greater power than an atomic bomb. There is more and more information that has the power to change the world...’

A thought goes through my mind – how much can such a small cube weigh? Ten, maybe fifteen grams? Certainly not more.

‘I am saying this so that you realise how important your task is, Giuseppe. The flash drive you received is sealed. Its content has to remain a secret, both for your safety and the best interests of our cause. What you need to know however is that never before has such important data reached the Monastery. There is no second integrated copy of this information. If it got into the wrong hands it would lead to a great misfortune. There is no one else I would entrust it with than you, Giuseppe.’

I am not asking any questions. It is obvious that the data in question must be of great importance. The less important data is transferred electronically; naturally after they have been encrypted multiple times; only the most important information is transported on actual data carriers. The threat must be significant if the archbishop decided to lock it in a safe in the Monastery. In a safe where it is bound to be secure. In a safe which can be opened with only one key.

And I am that key.

‘You know how much I trust you,’ he says. ‘This time, however, for the sake of your safety, you will go with two companions.’

‘Casemiro,’ he addressed his secretary standing further in the office, that silent ghost, whose presence I have almost forgotten. ‘Please fetch Davide and Klaus.’

Casemiro approaches the door without saying a word. He opens it and for a moment I can hear the muffled bustle in room two.

Soon after the door opens again. Archbishop Lucka rises from behind his desk; I get up as well and turn around.

Two tall, well-built men are standing next to Casemiro. Both are wearing cassocks, but their posture likens them more to sportsmen or soldiers than priests: broad-shouldered, with broad chests, they exude physical strength.

‘God bless, Your Excellency,’ they greet the host.

The archbishop introduces us.

‘This is Giuseppe, and these are fathers Davide and Klaus.’

We greet, discretely and respectfully. Both of them grip my hand strongly.

Father Davide seems a bit older. He has long hair tied back in a ponytail, although his forehead is high and his temples are grey. The wrinkles on his face are not deep but quite distinctive; my guess is he might be around fifty. His dark eyes are penetrating and mysterious; you can tell by those eyes that not only are his muscles are strong but his mind is sharp as well.