CHAPTER 4
The next morning, the opening ceremony began in the huge reception hall. The pope stood on a raised platform, behind a podium, to welcome his guests. Tess leaned against the wall, wearing a blue ball gown and a sparkling ruby brooch; she had agreed to sing for his guests the night before.
“It pleases me that every one of you leaders accepted my invitation.” He folded his arms on the podium, leaning forward. “That shows me that, with a little cooperation, we can yet make this world the harmonious sphere of tolerance that we’ve already worked to create. Unfortunately, there are still those who would destroy that peace and harmony with their divisive, intolerant beliefs. I don’t just refer to those who call themselves Christians, when I say that; I refer to the Jews as well.” A hard tone crept into his voice, as an expression of severity etched his face. Silently, Puccini left the room, followed by Dayan. Pope Benedict frowned, as he silently wondered what they were up to.
His face softening, he added, “However, I will not discuss that now. The purpose of this celebration is just what its name implies—to celebrate. Because, in spite of our enemies, we do indeed have much to rejoice over. We are a world community now. We have one government, one currency, and one religion. We have not had one war in the last three-and-a-half years, so world peace has become a reality, too. And so has prosperity—never have there been more well-paying jobs, all over the world, than there are now! Perhaps one day, we will all have one language as well.”
He paused. “And since we moved every nation to a cashless system, thievery and kidnapping for ransom have all but disappeared. The only danger that remains, as of now, is the possibility of having one’s debit card stolen. But we are working to devise ways to eliminate even that danger.”
A satisfied smile crept across his face. “You all have much to thank me for.” Behind the Greek leader, Giuseppe bared his teeth.
The pope nodded toward Tess, who slowly approached him, her shoes softly thudding on the Oriental carpet. “And now, lest I bore you with one of my lengthy speeches, may I present Tess. I have invited her to sing.”
The assembled leaders applauded as Tess stepped onto the platform. Without a word, the pope exited the reception hall in search of Puccini and Dayan. As Tess began to sing, Silvo approached Benito.
“Here,” he whispered. “Have a joint. It’s all I can give you, until you find your gold.”
Benito nodded. “Thank you.”
Silvo returned to his father; in an effort to look casual, Benito strolled toward the exit door in his usual slouched posture. Pausing in the entrance, he turned to glance at the others. All had their eyes fixed on Tess.
She sure knows how to sing, he thought. But there’s going to be more speeches after she’s done, and I don’t want to hear them. He made a face at the prospect. For a moment, he paused to gaze at the crystal dolphin that had once belonged to his father; it rested on a gleaming marble countertop. He fingered its smooth curves for a long moment, admiring the way it glistened in the chandelier’s light, then hurried through the doorway.
Benito could hardly wait to get away from the others. He had no interest in listening to some boring speeches; all he wanted to do was smoke the marijuana his friend had given him. The boy softly closed the mahogany door behind him. After watching and listening for anyone coming, he hurried down the hall toward an alcove. There, he pulled a cigarette lighter out of his jeans pocket and lighted the marijuana joint. As he took a long puff, he sighed in contentment. He stepped out into the hallway and crept toward the nearest room.
“What are you doing, Benito?!”
The boy whirled around to find his uncle gaping at him, a mixture of shock and rage etched on his beet-red face. “Uncle Giovanni—” he began.
“Don’t ‘Uncle Giovanni’ me!” The pope snatched the joint from Benito and examined it. He hurled it to the floor, then crushed it under his shoe. “We’ve had this discussion before, young man; I told you not to do this!”
“I’m just smoking some marijuana, uncle,” Benito retorted. “It’s not going to kill me!”
The pope aimed a quivering finger at his nephew. A vein pulsated in his neck. “Go to your room! Right now!” he barked. “You may not take part in the celebration or spend any more time with Silvo. I told you that if you were caught doing this again, you would be punished. I meant that, Benito!” He pointed down the hall. “Now go!”
After glaring at his uncle for a long moment, Benito trudged down the hall. Resentment swirled in his heart as he approached his quarters. This is not fair! he thought. All I wanted to do was smoke some marijuana, and he acted as if I was becoming a drug pusher or something!
Benito couldn’t stand the way things were going. His uncle was being way too controlling! It was his life, and he was going to live it the way he pleased. He wished—not for the first time—that he was old enough to be out on his own.
“Uncle Giovanni has told me I can’t spend any time with Silvo now.” Benito slammed his fist on the dresser’s unyielding surface; pain shot through his knuckles, making him wince. “Why did he even invite Silvo if he’s not going to let me be with him?!”
Slumping in the nearest armchair, clutching his throbbing hand, Benito gazed out the window for a long time, reminiscing. He thought about the days when he and Silvo would go to the movies, then to a restaurant afterward…when they’d spend the nights at each other’s homes, watching TV, listening to the radio and music CDs, and playing video games…when they attended Mass together, before the worldwide disappearances three-and-a-half years before. How Benito had missed Silvo since his move to Babylon! And what a joy it had been, to learn that Silvo was going to attend the celebration with his father.
“And now I can’t even be with him, so he may as well have stayed home,” Benito muttered. “It’s not fair!” He glared out the window at the expanse of desert stretching to the horizon. Unlike his uncle, Benito’s windows faced the open desert. “I hate it here! I hate Iraq.” He wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead. “It’s so hot here. And the desert is so ugly and bare.” He ground his teeth. “So bare, so hot, and so ugly!”
A knock on the door startled him. Before he could respond, it creaked open. Monica peeked around its edge. “May I come in?”
Sighing, Benito nodded. Monica entered the room, the door clicking shut behind her. “Your uncle told me what happened,” she said softly. “It must be very hard, being told you can’t be with your friend.”
Benito glared at her. He clenched his hands so tightly his knuckles turned white. “You don’t know what it’s like, Monica! I don’t have any friends here—I hate it here! I wish my uncle would move back to Rome. I do.”
Monica laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I know it’s hard,” she said softly. Compassion radiated in her eyes as she gazed into his. “But smoking marijuana will not make your stay here any easier to endure. It will only cause you pain. Much pain.” She brushed a stray bang out of his eyes. “Have you thought about asking God to help you?”
“God? What God?” Benito snorted. “If there was a God, would He have taken my parents from me? Or let my uncle move me to this—this awful place? Think He’s going to listen to me now?!” He waved toward the expanse of desert stretching outside his window. “Anyway, my uncle wouldn’t let me do it!” He gazed down at his feet, misery welling up in him.
Monica put her arms around him; the boy took a deep, shuddering breath as he leaned into her embrace. The strong scent of perfume filled his nostrils. After a long moment, Monica stepped back.
“I must go back to the kitchen now, but I’ll be here if you need to talk to me.” She squeezed his shoulder. “I know this is a difficult time, Benito, but don’t shut out the people who love you. And don’t shut God out, because He loves you, too. Turn to Him and tell Him what you told me. I promise you, Benito, He will listen.” She cupped her hand under his chin and raised his face to meet hers. “And so will I.”
She withdrew a a paperback book out of her pocket and slipped it into his hand. “I know you don’t like to read, Benito, but since you’re confined to your room now, you might find this a diversion.”
With a tender, compassionate smile, she left. For a long moment, Benito stared at the door, thinking about what she’d said. At last, he shook his head.
“What’s the use in praying? He would never listen if I did talk to him!” he muttered. Sinking onto the edge of his bed, he gazed down at the cover of the book. “The Screwtape Letters, by C.S. Lewis?” He furrowed his eyebrows in bewilderment. “Who’s he?”
With a sigh, he dropped the book on the silky-soft bedcovers, then rose to his feet. Shoulders slumped, he trudged toward the dresser, where a stack of tarot cards lay next to one of his handkerchiefs. He really didn’t feel like reading; he had never liked books. It would not get his mind off things to do so now. Perhaps a private fortune-telling session would help. His uncle not only did not forbid his use of the tarot cards and other occultic items, he actively encouraged them.
As the boy cradled the card deck in his palms, a soft cooing startled him. Dropping the deck, he whirled to find a snow-white dove perching on his window ledge. Earlier, he had opened the window in the hope that a breeze would enter the stifling-hot room. The dove tilted its head this way and that.
Benito smiled, in spite of himself. He had always liked birds. Suddenly, the dove spread its wings and flew off.
Shaking his head, Benito turned his attention back to the tarot cards. As he reached down to pick them up, he hesitated. “Maybe I’ve got something else valuable,” he told himself. “If I can’t find my gold, I’ll find something else to trade, in exchange for Silvo’s crack. If I want to see him now, I’ll have to sneak out after dark.” He sighed. “Meanwhile, I need to wipe my face. It’s hot in here! I wish the air-conditioning wasn’t out of order.”
As he picked up his handkerchief, something under his bed caught his eye. He knelt to have a look at the shining object.
Gold! he thought. My gold! How did it get down there? Mouth agape, eyebrows furrowed, elbows flattening tufts of the soft, thick carpet, he stared down at the small gold bricks for a long moment.
“How did they get under the bed?” he muttered. “What happened? Gold bricks don’t just disappear from one spot and reappear someplace else!” He shook his head. “Could someone have tried to steal it? And then brought it back?”
A shrill jangle behind him startled the boy. The phone was ringing. Leaping to his feet, he rushed to his desk to pick up the phone.
“Hello, Benito,” said Silvo.
“Hello, Silvo.” Benito smiled. “Well, I found my gold—it was underneath my bed. But my uncle caught me smoking, and he’s confining me to my room as punishment.” He sighed.
“Don’t worry. I’ll come see you.”
“Thank you.” Benito glanced at the digital clock on his nightstand. “How about right now? My uncle will be busy with the celebration for the rest of the day.”
“I’ll be there. And I’ll bring something to hide the gold in so no one else will see it.” Silvo hung up.
Benito threw himself onto the bed; he craned his head to glance at the tarot cards and sighed. I’ve used those cards so much, he thought. And I’ve had my horoscope cast, and gone to fortune-tellers, and used my uncle’s Ouija board and crystal ball. I’ve been to séances, too! He bit his lower lip. Out loud, he asked, “Why do they not work? Why don’t they make me feel better? Why do they only make me feel worse?”
Folding his arms underneath his head, he closed his eyes. He would seek an answer to that later. Right now, he had to wait for Silvo. Maybe the crack would put him at peace where the New Age devices could not. He glanced sideways at the book Monica had brought him, then shook his head.
Meanwhile, Silvo picked up small bag of crack and slid it into his jeans pocket. He draped a burlap bag over the crook of his arm, to wrap the gold in. After peering up and down the corridor to make sure no one was coming, he softly closed the door and crept down the hall toward Benito’s room.
To his dismay, his father stepped out of one of the rooms to the left. The door clicked shut behind Giuseppe. “Where are you going, son?” the Italian leader asked him.
“Just looking around, Papá,” said the boy, his voice shaking.
END OF CHAPTER 4