I PAUSED OUTSIDE REVEREND SYNN’S DOOR, THEN QUIETLY KNOCKED. When I heard him call, I turned the knob and stepped inside. “Il Direttore, I hate to bother you—”
“Nonsense, signorina, come in, please.” Synn had been leaning back in his chair with a book on his lap, but at my approach he closed the book and leaned forward, a welcoming smile on his face. “I have been wondering about your research project. I have scarcely seen you these last few days.”
“I’ve been very busy.” I sank into the padded guest chair in front of his desk, then gave him an uncertain smile. “I’ve been a little concerned about one of our employees and had to do some background research before I approached anyone. And now, if you have the time to spare, I have a few questions to ask you.”
“I shall always have time for a lovely signorina.” A relaxed smile played at the corners of his mouth, and I felt some of my uneasiness begin to melt away.
“If I may speak of a confidential matter,” I lowered my voice, “I’d rather this not go any further, if you don’t mind. The employee in question has never done anything to jeopardize his work, and thus far he has been valuable to Global Union. But his beliefs are a bit unsettling, and I thought I’d ask you about them.”
Synn’s smile vanished as he raised his eyes to my face in an oddly keen, swift look. “But of course, I will keep your concerns to myself . . . unless you convince me there is cause for alarm.”
“There is no cause—at present. I just want to make certain there is no reason for alarm in the future.”
Synn nodded, his gaze never leaving my face.
“One of our employees,” I began, averting my eyes lest he read Asher’s name there, “is very religious. He believes, I think, every word written in the Bible and clings to it as if it were as fresh as the morning newspaper. He has interpreted certain portions of the Bible as predictions, and he believes a terrifically evil person will rise in the last days.”
Synn drew his lips into a tight smile. “You are speaking of the Antichrist. It is an old prophecy and common in many cultures.”
I smiled in relief, grateful that I had not been the first to say the word. “Yes—that’s what he called it, the Antichrist. In any case, he is quite serious in his belief that this antichrist will rise soon . . . and possibly from our own organization.”
Synn’s brow wrinkled and something moved in his eyes. I felt an instant’s panic, then he smiled, his blue eyes glowing with humor. “The Antichrist—coming from among us? How delightful! I shall have to tell Santos. He’ll be amazed anyone could think such a thing.”
I felt an unwelcome blush creep onto my cheeks. “Please, no. This is quite confidential.”
Synn’s smile deepened into genuine laughter, and no amount of protest from me could stem his hilarity. He giggled, his bulk shaking his chair, until tears ran down his round cheeks. I watched, perplexed and helpless, until he palmed the wetness from his face and looked at me with streaming eyes. “All right.” His voice wavered. “I’ll keep the story to myself . . . at least until Santos and I need a good laugh.”
I raked my hand through my hair, torn between being relieved that he’d found the idea hilarious and concerned that Asher was right. Synn’s response was overblown, and his exaggerated reaction might have been intended to cover embarrassment or discomfort.
“Reverend Synn”—I shifted in my chair to try a new tack—“do you believe the Bible contains prophecies that will come true in the future?”
“Ah, signorina.” He wiped more water from his eyes, then took a deep breath. “Of course the Bible is a holy book, and holy books are always relevant. It contains truth, certainly. It speaks wisdom and comfort to millions of people who have nothing else to guide them. But is it a crystal ball with which we can foretell the future? Definitely not. We are to live by faith, and faith does not rely upon fortune-telling and superstition.”
Listening intently, I nodded.
“You see, signorina, enlightenment must come from within a man or woman. When we look for God and giftedness in ourselves, we invariably find it. Jesus himself said, ‘Seek, and you shall find. Knock, and it shall be opened to you. You have not because you ask not, because you seek not.’”
The words sounded familiar, so I nodded again. “I’m sure you’re right,” I murmured, looking at my hands as a wave of guilt flooded my cheeks. “I ought to know more about these things, but I stopped going to church when I was eleven or twelve. I remember so little of what I learned as a child.”
“That’s the beauty of Holy Scripture—it remains with us, like a treasure in our hearts. And if you will look within, Claudia, you will find the beauty, the strength, and the peace you will need to survive in this hectic world. You will find God if you take the time to meditate on his love and unity. Think about him. Think about men like Santos Justus, who are leading mankind to a new world of harmony and peace. Think about the day when not even a child will be afraid to walk down the street at midnight because all will know the power of peace and goodness.”
He tilted his head in an expression of pleading, and I was surprised to see a trace of unguarded tenderness in his eyes. He had never spoken to me with such affection. His words warmed my heart and gave me the courage to ask a more pointed question.
“Do you believe in miracles?” I asked, thinking of Asher’s resemblance to the marble bust.
“I see miracles every day.” Synn leaned back in his chair, his eyes misty and wistful. “When I go down to the cafeteria and see Englishmen and Italians and Danes eating together, that’s a miracle. When I hear Rico announce the birth of so many new international chapters of Unione Globale, I know I am witnessing a miracle. And when I see the growth of love between a man and a woman . . . that is perhaps the greatest miracle of all.”
My fingers tensed in my lap. Was he referring to something specific?
Synn noted my expression and laughed. “Don’t look so frightened, signorina. Love is not shameful. But we have all noticed how you seek out Signor Genzano’s company. Signora Casale told me just the other day that you and your fiancé have called off the wedding, and now I understand why.”
My brittle laugh sounded more like a yelp. “Oh no, Il Direttore, Asher had nothing to do with my engagement. We are only friends.”
“Of course, I could be wrong,” Synn said, but with a significant lifting of his brows. “So it’s ti voglio bene and not ti amo?”
“Um . . . I think so.”
My confusion must have shown on my face, for Synn laughed. “Ti voglio bene means I care about you, and the expression is used for friends and family. Ti amo, of course, is reserved for romance.”
“Well, then, it’s ti voglio bene.” I grinned in relief. “And don’t worry—I would not allow my personal feelings to interfere with my work.”
“We never thought you would. You have done a fine job, and I’m delighted you’ll be remaining with us a few more weeks.”
His last statement felt like a dismissal, so I slid to the end of my chair. “Thank you for your time, Reverend. I will try to explain these things to the employee in question. I’m sure he’s just confused.”
“Do you really understand, signorina? Happiness is not to be found in following a creed or clinging to an outdated book of rules. Peace and contentment are found through the simplicity of truth—in living authentically, simply, peacefully. Seek the peaceful life, and you will find it.”
I smiled as an inexplicable feeling of contentment rose inside me. “I think I understand, Il Direttore. Thank you for explaining.”
He stood and came from behind the desk, taking my hand as he helped me to my feet. “If you seek, you will find,” he repeated, his dark eyes jumping in their quick, electric way. “I promise you this and more, if you will follow my guidance.”
After leaving Synn’s office, I decided my task was clear—I would find Asher, present him with what I’d learned at the library, and explain how he had probably latched onto the legend as a child. With patience and compassion, I would tell him he didn’t need to be ashamed of his insignificant background. Lots of people invented personal histories; Hollywood starlets and politicians embellished their biographies all the time. Faced with facts presented with love and concern, perhaps I could weaken his delusion.
Feeling more resolute than I had in weeks, I visited the small cubicle Asher used for an office but saw that he had already left for the day. Brimming with determination, I left the building and hailed a cab, directing the driver to the Sole al Pantheon. If Asher had decided to walk home, I would certainly arrive first, but I didn’t care. I could use the time alone to gather my thoughts.
After paying the taxi driver, I walked through the lobby of the ornate hotel, uncomfortably aware of my wooden heels clacking on the marble floor. The desk clerk, a full-figured woman with piercing eyes, lifted her brows as I walked past, but I lifted my chin and obeyed one of the most basic laws of body language—walk confidently and act like you know what you’re doing, and most people will leave you alone.
I turned the corner into the darkened hallway, then made my way over the worn carpet to Asher’s door. On the off chance that he had arrived first, I knocked, then stared in surprise when a uniformed maid opened the door.
“S-scusi,” I stuttered, wondering if I had inadvertently interrupted something I’d rather not know about. “I am looking for Signor Genzano.”
The maid gave me a knowing smile, then pulled a vacuum cleaner through the doorway, babbling in Italian so fluent I couldn’t catch a word. She conveyed her meaning, though, in a sly wink, then she practically pushed me through the doorway and into the foyer. When she closed the door behind me, I pressed my hands to my sides and looked around, amused by the hotel gossips’ assumptions. I had obviously been noticed in the building before, and apparently some people were eager for me to spend some time with the bachelor hotel owner.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, several people at Global Union had painted us as a pair.
I checked my necklace watch, then sighed and moved into the front room. A cool breeze came through the half-opened window and fluttered the linen curtain, casting shadows around the book-lined space. With nothing else to do, I scanned the shelves of leather volumes, expecting to see titles printed in gold leaf like the aged books I’d explored in the library. Cracked spines and faded leather I saw, in various sizes and colors, but not a single book was marked on the outside. Curious, I drew a volume from the shelf and opened to the flyleaf.
Journal 1155, Asher’s bold hand had written, in the year of our Lord 1203. My journeys in England.I riffled through the book and saw that every page had been filled in.
Amazed, I lowered that book to the writing desk and tugged on the one next to it. The second book was journal 1154, dated 1202. My journeys in Normandy. The pages that followed were written in French.
Ripples of shock were spreading from an epicenter in my stomach, making the tips of my fingers tingle. I reached for another book on a high shelf and saw that the inscription on the flyleaf was written in Latin and Roman numerals.
“No.”
I shoved all three books back to the shelves and hastily stepped away. Asher’s delusion could not have progressed this far. Why, there were hundreds of books on these shelves, and through the doorway I could see more in the bedroom beyond.
Two thousand years . . . two thousand books?
Impossible. I ran my hand through my hair and drew a deep breath, then moved to the window and lifted the curtain, hoping for a glimpse of Asher on the street. He would explain this when he came home. I couldn’t wait to hear how he had written stories in all these journals, and how he managed to make some of them look positively ancient . . .
I sank onto the settee and clasped my hands together, then found myself at eye level with another row of books lined up like planks in a solid fence. What if he hadn’t written in all the journals? Or what if they all contained the same story?
A scene from an American horror movie flashed across my brain— Jack the would-be author typing “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” over and over and over again as he slowly sank into madness.
I reached out and pulled another volume from the shelf, a single black binding among so many in red and blue and brown leather, then lifted the cover and smoothed the first page. The binding cracked as I read Journal 1615, in the year of our Lord 1690. My Journeys in Madrid.
I quickly scanned through the pages and saw that they were written in English. Well—Asher had once told me he liked the language.
I shifted my position until the gray window light fell across the faded pages, then began to read.