The Take(56)

“I killed someone for Signor Bonfanti,” he said. “Didn’t I tell you?”

The monsignor continued and Simon knew he was after something. “So it was punishment?”

“Not exactly.”

“Oh?”

For once, it was Simon’s turn to perplex his mentor. “It was my choice.”

“To come here? To spend your days in a bug-infested cell smaller than a shoe box?” The monsignor shook his large, shaggy head, laughing dryly at this impossibility. Simon had never seen him smile so broadly. The priest’s teeth were straight and white, and he became ten years younger on the spot.

“What’s so funny?”

A wave of the hand. “Nothing. Please go on.”

Simon explained about his agreement with Bonfanti and explained that after killing the Egyptian, Al-Faris, he had been given a choice. He could give up the name of the man who’d betrayed his crew or he could serve an indefinite sentence in the hole.

“And you refused?” said the monsignor.

Simon didn’t reply. He was standing there, wasn’t he?

“Why?”

“Why do you think?”

“Because you’re a tough bastard who doesn’t forget or forgive.”

“That’s about right.” The answer pleased Simon and he couldn’t ignore the surge of pride, the reflexive swelling of his chest.

“Sure you made the right decision?”

“I’ve had eighteen months to think it over.”

“And you don’t know how much longer you’ll be here?”

Simon shook his head and the monsignor looked away, his face screwed up in the way it got when he was thinking. After a minute, he returned his gaze to Simon.

“How do you know it’s going to be worth it?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, this fellow you’re after may have died since then,” the priest explained reasonably. “Or he may have moved away. Maybe he found God.”

“Coluzzi? No. He’s alive. I can feel it. And he definitely hasn’t found God. I’ll see him again.”

“And when you do?”

“I’ll do what I have to do.”

“Take his life?”

“He’s getting off easy dying. The way I see it, he killed four of my friends.”

“And nothing you can do will bring them back,” said the monsignor, adding force to his words for the first time that morning. “Do you think they would do the same for you? Pretty expensive ticket to punch.”

Simon wanted to say yes, but in truth, he didn’t know. He could only answer for himself.

“I guess, Simon, my question is, are you really here for them or are you here, suffering like this, for yourself?”

“I’m here because I have to be.”

“That may be so, but it isn’t you who made that decision.”

“What does that mean? Who else made it for me?”

The priest shrugged and Simon knew that it was his way of saying that there were mysteries in the world and that any man who thought he knew all the answers was a fool. After a moment, he drew nearer.

“You’re not here,” he said, “because you blame this man, this Coluzzi. You’re here because you blame yourself.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“‘It is mine to avenge,’ sayeth the Lord. ‘I will repay. In due time, their foot will slip. Their day of disaster is near and their doom rushes upon them.’”

“Save the Bible for the next guy.”

“I believe that’s you. How many more do you think I will have the chance to help?”

“Plenty.”

“Look at me.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

Simon cast his gaze elsewhere. In the short time they’d known each other, the priest had grown visibly weaker, his skin grayer, his shoulders more stooped.

The monsignor put his hands on Simon’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. “‘Do not repay evil with evil,’” he said slowly, meaningfully. “‘Repay evil with blessing, because to this you were called so you may inherit a blessing.’”

“You’ve got a lot of them up your sleeve this morning.”

The monsignor put back his head and smelled the air. “I have hope, Simon, and my hope is you.”



But the hours in the yard were not just for examining his soul. The monsignor had more practical advice to pass along, some of which surprised Simon, and at first even hurt him.

“Hit me.”

Another Sunday. Cold and rain instead of the spring sunshine. An atmosphere of gloom inside the yard, and outside, where no voices could be heard, no joyous cries from passing children. Just quiet, and quiet was the enemy when you spent your days locked up alone in a cell underground.

“Did you say ‘Hit me’?” asked Simon.

The monsignor nodded easily, as if this were the most normal request in the world. “In the face. Here. A jab to the cheek.”

“I will not.”

“Frightened you might hurt me?”

“You should be frightened, not me.”

“All right. Suit yourself.”