Road to Rome

As he walked up the stairs with bread and a can of mushroom soup, Antonio heard the faint ringing of the phone from an apartment above.When he reached the landing on the second floor, he realized that the bell was coming from his own residence, so he quickened his pace in a panic, fumbling for the key.A can escaped from the paper bag at the right time, and rolled down the stairs with a bang. Antonio had to turn around and run down, picked up the can, rushed to the door in three steps at a time, and unlocked it.

The bell stopped.The priest couldn't help being a little annoyed at the random pile of food on the dining table.He walked over to the phone and put his hand on the receiver, waiting for it to ring again.But that didn’t happen, the apartment was quiet, and Antonio could hear the couple upstairs playing vinyl again, some kind of jazz, notes slithering down the walls in bits and pieces.

Maybe it's not an emergency.Antonio told himself to go back to the kitchen, start preparing lunch, cut open the bread, and took out the cheese, which was as bland as white wax, from the refrigerator.The New York Times read in the morning is still on the table, with a front page featuring a soldier on a raft under the headline "Twelve Days at Sea on a Life Raft!"[*01].Scattered around the photo are bits and pieces of reports about the Battle of the Coral Sea.The priest brushed aside the newspaper and the empty food package, put down the plate and sandwiches, and set about making coffee.There was a knock on the door.

The scalding steam from the spout burned the back of his hand. Antonio let out a low cry, turned off the stove, rubbed a small piece of red skin, and walked around the dining table to open the door.

Standing outside was not a wizened old concierge, but a man he didn't know, wearing baggy overalls and a plaid shirt. Antonio thought he was a plumber who had gone to the wrong door, but he didn't have any tools.Why did the porter let him up?Although the old man had a bad attitude, at least he was unambiguous in his duty of guarding the gate.

"You're going the wrong way," said Antonio, about to close the door. "You should go downstairs and ask—"

"Father Pelligrini."

Antonio sighed secretly, and reopened the door.

"Father Clement wants to talk to you. Please change your clothes and go downstairs, not the main entrance. Father Clement doesn't want us to be too conspicuous. I parked the car in front of the garbage passage."

Garbage channel, awesome. "What's wrong with my current clothes?" "You don't look like a clergyman, our employer expects you to be in 'full costume'."

Costumes, it sounds very clement. "Father Clement is not my 'employer', I have no employer. Priesthood is not some ordinary office job."

"Whatever you want, Father, no, no. The car can't be parked downstairs for too long, is 10 minutes enough to change clothes?"

Antonio slams the door.

It wasn't fair to be angry with this man, he didn't understand, but at the sound of Father Clement's name, the nameless emotions that had accumulated since that rainy day at the end of April came to the surface, panicking, like a swarm of bloated dead fish.Antonio locked himself in the bedroom and sat on the bed for a while.He waited so long for Father Clement to appear, secretly hoping to find out something about Marco.But when the other party really appeared, Antonio just wanted to hide in this small forgotten apartment.What kind of news needs to be "talked" face to face?Maybe Marco died and the funeral had been held a week earlier.Maybe my brother is back in New York, or maybe he's going to Rome?

Antonio changed into a black shirt and trousers, went into the bathroom to shave, adjusted the Roman collar in front of the mirror, and then stood in front of the sink for 2 minutes, looking into his eyes, the person in the mirror looked pale and worried, and The hair is a little too long.Antonio took two last deep breaths, turned off the lights, and walked out.

Parked outside the garbage passage was a truck, white, with scratches on the front and rear. A huge wrench was printed on the side of the truck, and a line of big blue characters below it: "McKinnon Father and Son Hydropower Maintenance".If this is camouflage, Antonio has to admit it is very good, the passenger seat is stacked with toolboxes and coiled hoses, and there is almost nowhere to go.After the car started, there was a non-stop sound of metal collisions in the cargo compartment.

The car was headed for Brooklyn, he could tell.After crossing the bridge, the houses on both sides of the road gradually became shorter and more crowded, and the signs of neglect of repair became more and more obvious.Just when Antonio felt uneasy and the word "kidnapping" began to float and sink in his mind, the car drove into a potholed open space, close to the pier, and the greasy sea water beat on the cracked cement.

"Go in, the door is unlocked."

Antonio looked at the dusty wood shop, the dingy general store, the dingy bar, the suspicious shop with the faded umbrella displayed in the corner. "Where to go?"

"The bar. 'McNeill', right at—"

"I saw it."

"Good luck, Father."

Why do I need luck?The priest walked slowly towards the run-down pub, avoiding the puddles.The door of the bar is made of fir and has been obviously deformed. The door is indeed unlocked, but the top is slightly stuck and needs to be smashed open.The space inside was smaller than he had imagined, only about a dozen tables could be accommodated, and there was a smell of fermented malt and sour fat.On the right side of the gate there is a large charred area that runs from the wall to the ceiling, it is not at all surprising that the place caught fire, it is strange that the owner did not repaint it.Antonio stood hesitantly at the door. After his eyes adjusted to the dim light in the bar, he saw a narrow wooden staircase next to the bar. He went up, pushed open another door, and found himself standing in a small In the small living room, the circular transom window is open, and the gray and white light spots illuminate the carpet and off-white sofa.Father Clement sat on the right, holding a wine glass.On another sofa, with his back to the light, is Marco Costa.

Antonio stared at him without moving, not even caring what Father Clements thought.Marco was wearing rumpled pajamas, looked like he hadn't shaved in two days, and hadn't slept well.He looked at Antonio too, shrugged, and gave a weary smile, as if sorry, as if to say "it's a pity you're back in this dirty water again".

I probably never left, Antonio thought. "Whiskey?" asked Father Clement.

"No, thank you, Father," he replied mechanically, taking a seat as far as possible from Marco, and staring at the back of his hand for the next ten minutes.Father Clement began to explain why he had been called here, the script, the unexpected situation, the meeting, and the seafood restaurant seemed to be mentioned, but Antonio almost didn't listen at all.It wasn't until Marco suddenly interjected, "This isn't a happy outing, maybe Father Pelligrini needs more time to think about it," that he raised his head and looked into the other's eyes.

"It's not necessary, Mr. Costa. I'll go wherever the Church sends me." This was the only line he could say at the moment, and it was specially designed for Father Clement's ears.Marco looked away, poured himself more whiskey, sank into the sofa and drank it without speaking.

Father Clement winked at Antonio, drank the bottom of his glass, stood up, and smoothed his shirt, which was actually unwrinkled.Unlike Antonio, the older priest, dressed today in a dark blue long-sleeved shirt and corduroy trousers, looked more like a retired chemistry professor than a priest.

"The meeting time has not been finalized yet, let's pray that there will be news within today." The bishop's personal assistant put his hand on Antonio's shoulder, "Before that, maybe you would like to wait here? We can't let the McKinnon and his son vans make two trips in the same day."

"If Mr. Costa doesn't mind, I have no objection."

"I don't mind." Marco dragged his voice lazily, "He can sleep on the carpet, the weather is not cold recently."

"Remember not to wrinkle your 'costume'." Father Clement said, there was no smile at the corners of his mouth or eyes, and Antonio couldn't tell whether he was joking for a while.The old priest went up to the narrow transom, gestured to something or someone outside, and went down the stairs.Antonio went to the window, just in time to see a white car bumping across the parking lot full of potholes, and parked silently in front of the bar.

Marco added more whiskey to himself, and the bottom of the glass wine bottle touched the coffee table with a bang, softly.

"No offense, Mr. Costa, but your rug looks like it's causing more than one contagion."

"It's okay, we both understand you won't sleep on it."

Antonio walked around the sofa and stood in front of him: "Maybe I'd rather sleep on the carpet."

Marco looked up and smiled at him. Antonio had already predicted his next move, but he didn't intend to stop him at all.Marco grabs his wrist without force, giving enough room to escape, but the priest knows what he wants to do.He squeezed into the armchair, clinging to Marco.The latter turned to hold his hand and squeezed Antonio's fingers.

"Miss me, Father?"

"Obviously not." Antonio retorted briefly, turned his head, and carefully examined Marco's face, "Are you okay?"

"Considering that my father is unconscious, my mother was kidnapped by the church and the federal government, and you and I are about to be used as bait, it is likely to die in a few days. But I still have enough spirits, so, still It’s okay, not bad.”

"give me."

"what?"

"whisky."

Marco handed him the glass, and Antonio took a long gulp, took a deep breath, and poured the rest down his throat, along with the ice pellets that melted into peanuts.Marco laughed, took the glass away, and leaned over to kiss him, the stubble scratching Antonio's cheek and chin.The priest grabbed him by the loose collar of his pajamas and pulled him closer.

"I was hoping you'd get out of these troubles," Marco whispered, pressing his forehead against Antonio's.

"As long as he can keep himself, Father Clement is even willing to sell the Pope at a price. It is nothing to push a little messenger into the fire pit."

Marco snorted, didn't speak any more, leaned on Antonio's shoulder, and let out a long breath, as if feeling tired.Antonio raised his hand and stroked his hair.The noise of the road comes in through the open transom: horns, the whistling of cars at high speed, but distant and faint, like the electrical hum of a radio, late at night, after all the shows are over.

"Antonio."

"Mr. Costa."

"Really happy to see you again."

Me too.Antonio thought, without saying a word.He dragged the bottle over, poured out half the glass, took a sip, and handed the rest to Marco.

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Note:

[1] Real Existence, see front page of The New York Times, May 1942, 5.