Gabriel's Promise (Gabriel's Inferno #4)(84)

“No.”

“Good. We can eat together in the Refectory.” Paul grinned.

Julia nodded and turned to greet Professor Wodehouse and the rest of the workshop attendees.

She smiled at Cecilia but didn’t rush over to her. Julia stayed close to Paul, finding a seat next to him when Professor Wodehouse went to the lectern to inaugurate the workshop.

Paul quietly slipped her a note.

Julia unfolded the paper in her lap, reading it surreptitiously.

    Professor M. is an ass.



Julia had to cover her mouth to smother her laughter.

But she was careful to rip up the paper discreetly, lest it fall into the wrong hands.



* * *





Forty-five minutes later, Julia finished reading her paper and opened the floor for questions.

“Why should we think St. Francis of Assisi traveled to the circle of the fraudulent at all?” a professor from Rome asked Julia. “Guido was a liar. He made up the story. It’s clear.”

“It’s clear he’s fraudulent, but we know from historical sources that some of what he claims is true. He had a pact with the pope. He became a Franciscan. The problem is that Guido blames others for the fate of his soul. And he mixes truth with falsity. Sorting out the two is the challenge. So although it’s possible St. Francis never appeared and that it’s complete fabrication, given the other parts of Guido’s account, it’s more likely the story of Francis is partly true, partly false.”

The professor nodded and Julianne moved to the next question, which was from a younger professor from Frankfurt. “I enjoyed your paper. But what about the passage at the beginning of the Inferno, where Beatrice asks Virgil to guide Dante? She does this because she can’t. So I’m wondering if the same force that prevents Beatrice from wandering through Hell would also prevent Francis from appearing in the circle of the fraudulent. In other words, Guido is lying when he says Francis appeared after his death.”

“It’s possible he’s lying, yes,” Julia replied. “But again, the rest of his speech is a mixture of truth and falsity. The point about Beatrice and Virgil is a good one. She asks for Virgil’s help, but she also says she has no fear of Hell’s flames, and that she longs to return to Paradise. So perhaps it’s the case that she can visit Hell but only for a short while, which is why she can’t guide Dante. If St. Francis is in a similar situation, perhaps he, too, can visit Hell briefly, but cannot stay.”

“There are a lot of perhaps in your answers,” a professor from Leeds joked, but he did so good-naturedly. “I can see why Professor Wodehouse was eager for a workshop in which to explore them. Thank you.”

Julia reddened a little. She breathed a sigh of relief when there were no further questions and everyone clapped.

She sat next to Paul as Professor Wodehouse returned to the lectern to deliver his own paper.

“Good job,” Paul whispered, giving Julia a discreet thumbs-up.

“Thanks. I’m sorry you’ve heard that paper before,” she whispered back.

“It was even better the second time.” He winked and turned his attention to Professor Wodehouse.





Chapter Sixty-Two


Gabriel stood looking out the window of his room at the Goring Hotel in London.

It was past midnight. He’d missed a FaceTime call from Julianne and Clare earlier. He’d been out for dinner and drinks with Eleanor, the BBC producer; Maite Torres, the television presenter; and the rest of the academics Eleanor had gathered for the documentary.

Like a cross between Survivor and Antiques Roadshow, he thought, except the antiques are the academics. Save himself, of course.

He tasted his tea dutifully, wishing it were Scotch. He wished he were crowded into the small rooms Julianne and Clare were sharing at Magdalen College, rather than the luxury of the finely appointed space at the Goring.

He adored luxury, of course, but it was empty without them. No toys on the ground, inspiring him to call down curses when he tripped over them at night. No burping cloths.

He sniffed the air. No diapers.

And yet, for all the luxury that surrounded him and for all the fine dining in London and the (admittedly) interesting conversations with world-renowned Renaissance specialists, Gabriel would have eagerly traded the lot of it to be able to tuck Clare into bed at night after reading the (not terribly) profound Goodnight Moon.

Here was the transforming grace of the family. Here was his legacy and his future.

Nothing could replace the contentment he felt in the presence of his wife and child. Although he knew there would be times in his life when they had to be parted, he resolved to keep those times as short as possible. Because without them, his luxurious, pretentious, scholastic life was empty and small.

Perhaps it was this realization that caused Dante to pen The Divine Comedy. Having had so great a love, his life was small without it. So he had to write a magnum opus in order to describe adequately his experience.

Gabriel put aside his tea and strode over to the writing desk that sat on the opposite wall. He picked up his cell phone and did something he’d sworn once he’d never do: He took a self-portrait. And he smiled gently in it.

He put on his glasses and with a few flicks of his fingers across the screen, he attached the photograph to an email he addressed to Julianne. He told her about his day and evening and wrote a very specific greeting to Clare,