Road to Rome

The clothes were laid out on the bed, very ordinary, white shirt, featureless gray sweater, gray trousers, dark gray wool socks, light gray windbreaker, gray hat.It was all gray, exactly like the winter sky outside the window.The priest leaned on the sill of the window with peeling paint, looked outside, then at the civilian clothes, opened the window, closed it, and glanced at his watch.

In the distance, a ship blew its whistle.

The priest turned around, turned his back to the window, took a deep breath, and took off the rosary beads on his wrist first. The rope was a bit too long, and he had no time to change it. Usually, he should pay attention to reducing the range of movements so as not to throw them go out.Next, he undid the Roman collar, took off the black top, and quickly grabbed the shirt that was spread on the bed. This moment of nakedness was enough to make him shiver.This is the third winter he has spent in this room, and the radiator has never been lukewarm.

After putting on the sweater, he felt so much better that he could sit on the edge of the bed and slowly tie his shoelaces.The shoes didn't belong to him, but they fit perfectly, and he stood up and walked from one side of the room to the other, testing the comfort of the shoes, wondering who on earth was in charge of buying these clothes and hats, and how he knew his shoe size.In other words, a large number of shirts and leather shoes of uniform styles are stored in a hidden place of this building, stacked on shelves, in complete sizes, quietly waiting to be taken.If so, it was likely arranged by Father Clement, the personal assistant and confidant of the local cardinal.

As if he heard his thoughts from a distance, there was a sudden knock on the door, twice, softly, rather than "knocking", it was better to say that he was rubbing his knuckles against the door panel.Before he could answer, Father Clement opened the door and came in. As long as it is daytime, all the doors in this building are open.

"You've changed your clothes, not bad." Clement looked at his clothes up and down, "The car is on the road, a bit late, and the bridge is blocked. Three cars rear-ended, the radio said."

He nodded, stood respectfully, put his hands on his side, lowered his head slightly, but not too low, his eyes were probably at the chest level of the elderly priest, and he even slowed down his breathing. Easy to get rid of - maybe there is no need to rush to get rid of it, this is his role: obedient pigeon.Usually such pigeons live longer.

Father Clement pulled away the chair next to the desk, sat down, and smoothed the front of his robe: "Are you not nervous, Antonio?"

"I'm not nervous." The young priest in gray turned his head, "It's just that I didn't expect to go for the second time."

"To be honest, I didn't expect that either. I talked to the bishop yesterday—" Clement stopped suddenly, and stroked the black robe with his hand again, pulling a wrinkle that was not completely ironed, and finally managed to untie the broken one. The sentence is completed, "I mean, the situation changes every day and is out of our control, so we have to cooperate with some unexpected...people."

People, Antonio thought, there is no better euphemism.Cars honk downstairs.The two stood up without saying a word. Antonio held the door and let the elder priest go out first, and followed him down the stairs.He thought Clement would get into the car with him, just like the last time, but Clement stopped on the second-to-last step, reached out and grabbed the young man's forearm, and motioned him to bend down and lean into his ear .

"The bishop wants you to be firm," the cardinal's personal assistant ordered quietly. "We kept our promises, but they didn't. Antonio, you have to make them understand that if they don't do what they promised, the New York State government will take it back." The reward negotiated earlier. Be tough, will you, Antonio?"

Then you shouldn't have sent me.He thought, bowing his head: "Okay, Father Clement." "Go, get in the car."

He slid into the passenger seat.There was a strange smell of smelly socks and dirty carpet in the car. It should be rented. The bishop would definitely not agree to use a car in the name of the church to send him to his destination. It has nothing to do with Antonio's seniority, but just this task. a part of.The Catholic Church must not let people find out that they sent people to Manhattan Harbor secretly, let alone reveal the identity of the actual client.The cardinal certainly didn't mind promising to act as an intermediary for the federal government at a private cocktail party, and it wouldn't be the cardinal himself who ended up being driven to the pier on a cold, cloudy day.

Out of habit, he reached for the rosary, remembering that he was wearing a completely different "costume", put his hands down on his lap, and stared out the car window at the buildings passing by: restaurants, laundromats, gray deli, subway station entrance, empty store for rent, newsstand.The car turned right and the Hudson River suddenly appeared at the end of the street.The docks were still as busy as he remembered, but the berths were no longer occupied by cargo ships and ocean liners but by troop carriers and battleships.In the past, the place where passengers waited to board the ship was empty, with a few soldiers standing sparsely.It's only been three months since the attack on Pearl Harbor, which feels like three years.

Like last time, the car was parked in an alley a kilometer or two away from the pier.Antonio was running late and had to get out of the car and start running.When passing Pier 88, he couldn't help slowing down, looking at the overturned "Normandie" troop carrier.The traces of the fire are still clearly visible, and the colossus lay motionless on a hard bed of ash, salt water, diesel fuel and frozen silt.Antonio stood in the cold wind, panting, looking at the ruined ship.Everything in this port suddenly became about him, and if he later did what the Bishop expected of him, no ship would have been consumed by fire like the Normandie.

He continued to run to the appointed place, tightened the felt hat on his head, and regretted not taking a pair of woolen gloves from the closet.A few porters huddled behind the tool shed, smoking and sharing steaming coffee, watched suspiciously as the gray young man ran by.Lunchtime came and went, and Antonio was utterly late.

-

"you are late."

"Yes." Antonio agreed, but did not apologize. He sat down on the other side of the bench and kept a distance from the other party. "There was a traffic jam on the bridge, and there was a traffic accident. The radio also said."

"Really?" The man in the crimson scarf nodded.He looked like he'd have no trouble sitting outdoors for five hours, hat, scarf, gloves, coat with a thick fur collar that looked like half a groomed lion.Antonio looked back to see if there was a car or a bodyguard waiting on the side of the road.No, even if there was, they hid it very well.

"I came here on foot." The other party obviously noticed his movements, "I just happened to be discussing business on the pier today."

"Then you must have noticed Pier 88."

"Oh, I couldn't help noticing that I looked at the pictures in the papers from the day the fire started."

"The last time we met, you and your...organization made a commitment that no more ships would be sabotaged in Manhattan Harbor."

The man in the scarf turned sideways, facing Antonio, with one hand on the back of the pew: "Father, no one 'sabotaged' the ship. As the papers say, a careless welder ignited the fire." Huge fire. The ship would still be afloat in its berth just fine if the idiot commanding the navy hadn't insisted on flooding the same side."

"Mr. Costa—"

"Marco, I'm Marco. It's not too late for you to call me 'Mr. Costa' after my father dies."

Antonio refused to use the other's first name: "I'm just a messenger. You need to convince the church and the 'friends' of the church. They expect calm waters on the pier, but you and your organization let them see the burning boat in the newspaper."

"What kind of friend?"

"Many friends. You and your organization—"

"Is the word 'Mafia' very difficult to pronounce, Father? Only three syllables."

"Mr. Costa, what I want to tell you is that if the client believes that your service is not as good as expected, your father must return to federal prison, no matter how serious his 'kidney stones' are."

Marco Costa rested his chin, stared at the priest, and said nothing until the latter raised his chin slightly and stared back at him, then looked away and looked at the port: "So, who is the client? "

"Your father knows, you should ask him."

"So you know who the client is."

"I'm just a messenger."

"It's not a denial or an admission."

"Exactly what I wanted, Mr. Costa."

The man in the red scarf didn't answer the conversation, his eyes were still looking at the port, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, as if carefully admiring the smell of salt water and oil.Antonio's nose, as numb as his fingers, stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and arched his shoulders.

"Listen carefully, Father." Costa said suddenly, leaning closer to Antonio, "The 'Normandie' has nothing to do with us, and it has nothing to do with the other gangs on this pier. It was indeed an accident. But I can tell you about the German gang In planning a new attack, I can even give names, locations and physical evidence if the church or 'friends' of the church support me."

"What type of support?"

"I'm not going to refuse you to put your hand on my head and let me receive electric shock or something, but financial support is the best."

"Are you asking the church for money?"

"Exactly, Father."

"I don't see why my superiors and clients would agree."

Costa spread his hands and smiled like a completely innocent six-year-old schoolboy: "I don't know about it, but please tell me the exact words of my proposal. When your obese bishop sees the port on the front page of the newspaper When something explodes, there's no need to send a half-frozen priest to harass me."

Antonio thought it sounded like a not-so-clever hoax, but he couldn't be sure, and maybe it wasn't up to him to judge.Messenger, he reminded himself, you just need to transport messages from one place to another. "I'll tell the relevant people," he said, no longer trying to hide his shivering, pulling his coat tighter with both hands, and standing up, ready to go back the way he came, but Costa grabbed his wrist.Antonio was so cold he couldn't even tell if the tingling on his skin was from the chill, the pressure, or the rough wool.

"You should tell me your name, after all we have to meet at least once."

"You can call me 'Father.'"

"What is your name, Father?"

All the priest wanted now was to go back to that gray birdcage bedroom, to get rid of this port, this cold, and this disturbing interlocutor, at once.He twisted his wrist, but it tightened.The name is not necessarily a secret, he has nothing to hide: "Antonio. My name is Antonio."

Marco Costa smiled at him and let go.Antonio strode away, shivering, the cold wind from the sea pushing against his back, helping him to go faster, if not more securely.When he persuaded himself to look back, there was no one on the bench.