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The swifts’ soft screams accompany Vincent’s sermon. He is woken by the birds, he is sung to sleep by them too. The days get longer and longer, the birds not any less hungry.
He steals a glance towards the chapel’s roof, then returns his gaze to the mass. He spreads his arms for benediction and feels the warm gusts of wind coming in from the opened door.
Summer, again. The noises so familiar and yet so strange.
The birds scream tiny accents into the air, a zipping srii haunting the sky. The swifts would come to the Congo in October, staying for the warm December and leaving when February would hit.
To Iraq, they would come in spring. Loud and energetic, greeting the new year with rapid wing beats. Two of them, Vincent remembers, would breed in his roof’s eave. The chicks’ pervasive screams defining his summers.
He had never heard them in Kabul, but in Rome they’re a welcome companion.
He hears them at lunch and at dinner; In the hallways and during prayer. Their calls had come in through the shattered window mere minutes before he became the Innocent that stands in front of the people now.
It’s summer, again. Vincent has to collect himself, a goofy smile splitting his face in half. May is a very good month.
Two weeks later, Aldo shows up to a vesper with a brand new rosary.
Vincent eyes it for the duration of the procedure; During the hymn, the psalm and the responsories, his eyes won’t leave the ornament. It is displayed proudly, slung over his neck, the tiny cross dangling over his chest. He has a hard time drawing his eyes away from the novelty.
And apparently, so does Thomas. He is standing next to Aldo, both their heads bowed in prayer, but their shoulders turned to each other. Vincent barely suppresses the smile he wishes he would be granted.
Afterwards, as he shakes the hands of all attendees – his colleagues, the Curia, staff members whose shift just ended and those whose shift just begins – he stands before Aldo and takes his new piece of jewelry between thumb and forefinger.
A red checked wooden bead next to a green-blue one, next to a bead in the form of a flower, all strung up on a leather ribbon.
“Cool, right?” says Aldo, lifting his brow and grinning mischievously. Vincent has to giggle.
In the past few months, Vincent has learned that a cardinal’s rosary is a little bit of a big deal, when you don’t get to have much to distinguish yourself with.
He knows that Cardinal Sabbadin wears a metal one, engraved with little floral patterns on each bead. They clink together occasionally and produce a beautiful sound, akin to one the one a wind chime makes.
He has seen Thomas’ rosary so often, he could describe it in his dreams: A small piece of jewelry made with true Italian glass beads on a little silver chain. A gift from the late Holy Father to a young Englishman who had recently moved to Rome, Thomas had explained once.
Vincent himself is still wearing the same rosary after forty-five years: The one he was gifted by his parents for his First Communion when he was nine years old. It’s missing three beads and two others are nearly cracked in half. He wouldn’t dream of replacing it.
Aldo however, doesn’t seem to have the same inhibition. He stands in front of Vincent, dressed in a black cassock and a homemade rosary, presumably crafted by someone under the age of seven. He wears it with utmost adoration – his smile sparkling contagiously.
“Aldo,” Thomas calls out as he comes closer, “I couldn’t help but notice your new piece of jewelry!”
“Oh, really? Do you have anything to say about this masterpiece of craftsmanship?”
“It’s beautiful,” he laughs, “You should wear it for Pentecost!”
“You should. Just for the headlines,” Vincent agrees.
Aldo throws his head back, painting the front page into the air: “The Cardinal’s Secret Child – Kindergarten Art Project Revealed On Pentecost”
Thomas giggles; Vincent hides his behind his hand.
“Just thinking about that is giving me a headache,” Thomas says, grimacing, “Let’s keep it tucked away on the days with more attendance”
Aldo pulled out his pointer finger: “Don’t let my niece hear that. It came with a crayon letter professing my necessary unlimited duty towards this rosary”
“Well, in that case, this seems to be a binding legal contract,” Vincent smiles, thinking about how he hadn’t even known that Aldo has a sibling, let alone a niece.
“Your Holiness,” comes the voice of a Swiss Guard, before Vincent can lose himself in the philosophy of family relationships, “Eminences, I’m so sorry, but we plan to close the chapel soon”
“Of course,” Vincent says, “No worries,” and drags his friends out into the light.
The sunshine reflects on Vincent’s garments, bright and pristine. Together, always together, they make their way across the courtyard to their offices.
The grass – dry and dusty – rubs uncomfortably against his knees. It takes a few tries for his lighter to ignite. His hands shake as he brings the grave candle to the flame: Bright yellow joins soft red under the darkening sky. He stands with stiff knuckles, looking down onto the potter’s field.
Vincent folds his hands and prays for mercy, for absolution in death. For the edenic promise of eternal life. He prays for his father.
His hands fall lifelessly to his sides. He should have brought a jacket.
Vincent crosses his arms and pouts just as a man joins him. It’s too dark to make out anything about him, still, Vincent’s eyes trace his motions as he places a cheap bouquet to the abundance of anonymous gifts the mourners have left.
It’s a little bit evil that everyone will die someday, Vincent thinks. It’s a little bit evil that I have to outlive some people and that others will have to outlive me.
A lighter clicks.
Lid opened, he angles the candle, but the lighter extinguishes. The man snuffles. Thumb over friction wheel, the candle is picked up, falls down. The lighter clicks. Darkness. The lighter clicks, again, the man’s hand shaking too hard to sustain the flame. Vincent can’t look at it any longer.
“Here. Let me help you”
He takes the lighter, ignites it, lets the man hold the wick until the wax melts and helps in putting the metal lid back onto the flame. The man wipes his nose, then places the candle where he wants it to sit. Neither man moves.
It’s been two years since his father’s passing. Vincent is pretty sure that it’s been less than that for the man next to him. You couldn’t pay me to go through the grief of the first few months again, Vincent thinks.
“Thanks,” says the man.
“Always,” Vincent responds.
Darkness envelops them. A steeple in the background strikes twelve. Behind the high brick walls, the bustling nightlife continues. The birds scream. It smells faintly of petrichor, peonies and soil. A strange kind of longing nestles itself into Vincent’s heart; The kind that one is not quite able to place. June is a very strange month.
June is for dissecting canon law. It’s for days and nights spent with juridical experts. It’s for thinking about legalities, gray areas, ambiguities in paragraph after paragraph after paragraph. It’s for sitting at lunch and asking yourself: Aren’t red table cloths forbidden outside of Easter season? And then immediately having to shudder at the prospect of becoming, for a lack of better description, holier than the pope.
June is a month for meeting and discussing and understanding how to push 1.39 billion people into one direction. It’s a month for grasping the true definition of herding to one’s flock. June is a month to consider acquiring a sheepdog or two.
It’s the first time in a long time that he’s talked this much straight. He spends hours filling his time with speeches and gestures. He stands in front of councils and world leaders and appeals for peace, prosperity, for common sense and respect. He knows it’s more of a symbol than any real action, so he throws himself twice as hard into the legal aspects of the Vatican.
In June, he thinks a lot about Najiba in Kabul; How she’s doing, how her Easter went. He thinks about Tahmina and her cat. He thinks about the children he saw every day on their way to school. He thinks of his old neighborhood, about how he is grieving it too, in a strange yet familiar way.
It’s some kind of theme in Vincent’s life: Digging something up. Something nearly forgotten under the accumulated dust. He doesn’t expect to find himself in these situations again; It’s not his first home he misses from a continent away. Then again, it’s not his first summer wherein the swifts surprise him in returning.
He sends a letter, a selfie and a check to Najiba and gets a swift answer back: Will you appoint a successor as Cardinal of Kabul?
It stays on his mind for longer than expected.
The wooden door springs open with a loud crack. Vincent feels like a spy, breaking and entering a strange apartment, even though it is Thomas who unlocks his own flat.
The rooms are tall and narrow, Vincent strips his shoes on the parquet, dodges hallstand, dresser and the doorsill as he follows Thomas into the kitchen – Aldo at his heels.
Thomas drops himself into a chair, legs scraping against terrazzo floor. “I could eat a horse”
Vincent opens the window’s glass and shutters for the evening, a cool breeze blowing through the room. From the third story, he sees the terracotta flats reflecting the day’s last orange sunshine. Potted greens frame each balcony and down below, he can see a playground in the courtyard.
“Vincent?”
He turns back.
“Sorry. It’s a really nice place to live”
Thomas’ smile is soft: “That’s why I haven’t moved out”
With practiced fingers, Aldo fishes a little battered espresso cooker out of the cupboard and starts the stove. Clearly, this is not his first rodeo in Thomas’ kitchen. He, in the meantime, rummages in another cupboard for something edible.
Vincent leans back. A well-oiled machine is whirring away just a meter in front of him. He feels like a voyeur; Dirty from just watching them work together.
“Oh, no.” Thomas groans, closing the cupboard and opening the fridge.
Aldo stops, a spoonful of ground coffee suspended mid-air above the Moka pot: “What is it?” His face forms a grimace.
“We can go shopping,” the door snaps shut forcefully, “Or we can try powdered soup in the flavor creamed mushroom”
Judging looks fly across the room: Apprehension, disgust, hesitation, realisation, and then, acceptance. Twenty minutes later, Vincent shovels a beige non-liquid onto three plates and stems his arms into his hips.
A confused silence lingers. Uncertainty, if the plasma masquerading as soup could actually be considered edible, let alone nutritious.
“Does anybody dare to bless this meal?” asks Aldo. Thomas shakes his head.
“Just scarf it down and hope that God doesn’t see. Buon appetito.”
“¡Buen provecho!”
En garde!, Vincent thinks as he lifts his spoon. It’s okay, in the end. He’ll live to tell the story. And if that doesn’t help, they still have the espresso to help wash down the aftertaste.