Thomas Tessier
I’ve been a fan of Tessier’s since I read Finishing Touches, a subtle novel of psychological suspense about the loss of innocence, which leads to corruption.
In “Infidel,” Tessier deals with the loss of faith, which—as an invitation allows a traditional vampire to enter one’s house—here opens a door for despair to enter the soul.
“And how is me dear old friend Andy these days?”
“He’s fine. He’s in good health, and he said to tell you he plays golf at least once a week.”
“Tsk.” Monsignor Comerford shook his head in mock annoyance but couldn’t keep from smiling. “It’s a grand racket, the parish priest. Marry ’em and bury ’em, and count the weekly take. Tell Andy I said that, would you?
“I will,” Caroline replied.
“Did you know Andy and I were in college together in Dublin? University College. That was ages ago, of course.”
“Yes, he told me that’s where you met,” Caroline said. “And UCD was where James Joyce went too, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right, Earlsfort Terrace. Great writer, Joyce,” the monsignor added perfunctorily, as if he did not quite agree with his own statement. “A fine feel for the city back then, I’ll say that much for him.”
Caroline reached into her purse. “I took this snapshot of Father Andy a couple of weeks ago,” she said as she passed it to the elderly priest.
“Ah, will you look at that chubby little bugger,” Monsignor Comerford exclaimed with glee as he took the photograph. “He was always first at the table, now that I think back on it. Mind you, he never shied away from a gargle either, but you’d better not tell him I said that. He might worry about his image. Parish priests tend to fret about such things in America.”
“You can keep it, Monsignor,” Caroline said as he attempted to return the photograph. “It’s for you.”
“Thank you very much.” He set the picture down on his desk, next to the letter of introduction that Father Andy had written for Caroline. “But let’s skip that “Monsignor’ business, shall we? Gerry will do nicely.” Caroline smiled and nodded. “Good. Now then, how long have you been in Rome?”
“Four days.”
It came as a mild surprise for Caroline to be reminded that she was sitting in an office in Vatican City, not in a rectory in some leafy suburb of Dublin. Monsignor Comerford, she knew, had been stationed at the Vatican for nearly two decades, but he was still thoroughly Irish in his appearance, accent, and manner. The pink, well-scrubbed complexion, the curly white hair, the steady cascade of cigarette ash down the front of his black jacket, the gentle singsong voice—all seemed to belong more in a cluttered Georgian sitting room with peat blazing fragrantly in the fireplace and a big bottle of Powers on the sideboard than in this obscure corner of the papal bureaucracy. Caroline had no clear idea what the Monsignor did at the Vatican, but neither did Father Andy.
“And it says here—” tapping at the letter, “—you’re a librarian. Is that right?”
“Yes,” Caroline answered.
“Very good, and what exactly is it you’d like to do?”
“I’d love to spend some time just looking through the books, the archives. It probably sounds silly, but I’ve always dreamed of having a chance to explore the Vatican library. I love books and manuscripts, all forms of writing.”
Caroline hoped he wouldn’t ask if she had been to Trinity or the Bodelian or the Sorbonne, because she hadn’t. How could she explain to the priest that it wasn’t just books, but the Vatican itself that had drawn her? She really did dream of the Vatican—bizarre images of capture, of anonymous torture, of being trapped forever in an endless maze of barren hallways. Nothing was ever said, there were no signs, but somehow Caroline always knew that she was in the Vatican. At times she wondered if the recurring dreams were a form of sickness, but they never frightened her; on the contrary, she had come to feel almost comfortable with them.
“Is it the dirty books you’re after?” Monsignor Comerford’s eyes had turned steely. “We’ve a regular army of these so-called scholars who come trooping through here, most of them American I might add, and all they want to do is study the dirty books. Why we even keep them is beyond me, but nowadays destroying a book is almost a mortal sin. To some folks, anyway.”
The monsignor was apparently finished, so Caroline answered his question. “No. History and the history of the faith are my favorite subjects.” Faith, she thought, and the loss of it.
“Ah, that’s a welcome change."The monsignor beamed at her. “If all the fine young women of the world felt that way, there’d be a lot less bother taking place.”
There was a barb in the compliment, for Caroline noticed how the monsignor glanced at her unadorned ring finger. History and books were all well and good, but he believes I should be married and taking care of a bunch of babies, she thought. That was fine with her. Caroline might disagree with Monsignor Comerford as to what a woman should or should not do, but she was actually pleased that he was a priest from the old school. She hadn’t come to the Vatican looking for trendiness or progressive attitudes. Her own faith had been blasted by the winds of modernism swirling through the Church in recent years.
“Well, you’d better get started,” the monsignor said, rising from his seat. “You can have the rest of the afternoon, just get yourself back here by five. That’s when I leave, and I wouldn’t want you getting lost.”
“Neither would I.”
“And if you haven’t had enough, you’re more than welcome to come back tomorrow. There’s so much of that clutter downstairs a person could spend years poking through it all, if he had nothing better to do with his life. And contrary to what you might have heard, none of it is off-limits.” The priest paused, then winked at her. “Of course, it’s not everyone that gets in.”
Monsignor Comerford left Caroline with Father Vincenzo, who was apparently in charge of “the collection.” A short, thin man who wore wire-rimmed glasses and spoke excellent English, Father Vincenzo showed her some of the noteworthy documents and volumes in the official library. Air-conditioned, computerized, it was a completely modern operation in a centuries-old setting. And yet, it was a good deal smaller than Caroline had expected. But then Father Vincenzo took her on a tour of the three main levels below ground, where one room grew out of another and the number of them ran into the dozens before she lost count. There were books and manuscripts and tottering heaps of papers piled on every inch of shelf space, from floor to ceiling. Tiny corridors appeared, and then abruptly ended. On the third and lowest level the floor was made up of large stone slabs, long since worn smooth. The rooms were small and boxy, and seemed to have been carved right out of the earth. The passageways were quite narrow and the only lights were strung along the low ceiling with electric cable.
There were no labels, no numbers, no signs, nothing at all to indicate order. If you wanted to find something, where would you start, Caroline wondered. But she was delighted, because she finally felt she had arrived where she was meant to be.
“These are the oldest stacks,” Father Vincenzo explained. “Everything valuable or important has been removed, but otherwise it is not very organized.”
“There’s so much of it,” Caroline said.
“Yes, it extends under most of Vatican City. The equivalent of two or three square blocks in New York City, I think.” Then a smile formed at the corners of Father Vincenzo’s mouth. “You are a book lover. This, I think, is what you came to see.”
“Oh, yes, yes. I’m amazed. It’s so much like I pictured it in my fantasies.” The word seemed too personal, almost sexual in its intensity. Caroline felt her cheeks flush, and all she could do was add weakly, “But more so.”
Father Vincenzo brought Caroline back to the stairs in order to show her how easy it was to find the way out, and then he left her alone to pursue her curiosity. She appreciated the fact that he didn’t feel it necessary to warn her against damaging, copying, or tracing over anything.
Caroline wandered aimlessly for a while, stopping to look at one item or another, and then moving on. Her knowledge of French and Latin was excellent, and she had a smattering of Italian, but most of the pages on the third level were handwritten, and sooner or later the calligraphy defeated her. Caroline simply could not concentrate, her mind refused to focus. What am I doing here?
Somewhere in a far corner of the third level, Caroline found a battered footstool in one room. She sat down on it, and leaned back against a wall of large, leathery tomes. She was tired, and her feet ached, the usual tourist curse, but she felt very happy. Pennsylvania seemed a billion miles away. She let her eyes close for a moment, and she sucked in the musty air. To Caroline it was like a rare and delicious perfume.
Books were the center of her life, and it had been that way ever since she was a small child. She liked to believe that she could still remember fumbling to open her very first picture book of nursery rhymes—but Caroline knew that was probably more her fancy than an actual memory. Books were mysterious, frightening, thrilling, disturbing, uplifting, nurturing, endlessly available, and always accommodating. Caroline had dated many men over the years, but she had yet to find one who offered the same array of valuable qualities. Most of the time that didn’t bother her. If you had to have something other than a relationship for the focal point of your life, what better than books?
Books, and belief. But belief was an increasingly elusive notion. For years it had been a natural part of Caroline’s life, but lately it seemed irrelevant, or not even there. Nothing specific had happened to cause this change, yet it seemed as if the deep well of her faith had gradually evaporated to the point where it was now not much more than a thin, moist residue. But you can’t control faith, anymore than you can choose your dreams.
Caroline stood up and resumed her wandering. In one large room she came across signs of fairly recent activity. There were stacks of bound papers on a table, many more on the floor around it. A prospectus announced the publication of the Annals of the Propagation of the Faith in five hundred volumes over a period of twenty years. Caroline knew that the Annals were regular reports to the Vatican from Catholic missionaries all over the world. It was a staggering thought. How many centuries of this tedious and obscure paperwork had accumulated by now? And yet, Caroline was sure that some of it must be quite fascinating. However, clipped to the prospectus was a laconic handwritten note, dated November, 1974, which stated that the project was abandoned because of the bankruptcy of the publisher. And of course the Vatican wouldn’t squander its own funds on such an improbable commercial venture, Caroline thought, smiling as she left the room.
She walked until she came to the lowest (the floor had a way of gradually winding down into the earth) and most remote corner of the third level. Certainly this was where the overhead reach of electric cable and lights ended. About twenty feet away, just visible in the gloom, was a stone wall that marked the end of the passageway. The books and manuscripts, stacked from the floor to the ceiling on each side, were wedged together so tightly and had been undisturbed for so long that they appeared to have hardened into a solid mass, and Caroline was afraid she would damage them if she tried to remove any one item for scrutiny. She started to turn away, intending to make the long climb back up to the street level, but then she stopped, as she thought she noticed something odd about the far wall.
It was an optical illusion, aided by the feeble light. Yes, she realized, moving closer. There was not one wall, but two, at the end of the aisle. The outer wall, which came from the right, stopped just short of the stacks on the left, and the inner wall receded almost imperceptibly behind it. Caroline approached the gap, barely a foot wide, and peered around the corner.
Total darkness. She reached into it, and felt nothing but cool air. The passage continued. Caroline didn’t know what she should do. She wanted to follow it, to find out where it went, but she had nothing to light her way. She could trip and tumble down a hole, or walk into a den of snakes or vermin—too many bad things could happen. Buy a flashlight and return tomorrow.
Yes, but first … Caroline slid her foot along the ground and edged herself behind the wall. Just a step or two, she promised, to see if it ends abruptly. Her outstretched hand bumped against something hard, not stone. A metal bar. Caroline gripped it and harsh rust flaked loose in her hand. It had to be a gate, which meant that the passage did go on. Caroline shook it firmly once, and the whole thing broke free. It was too heavy and unwieldy to control, so she shoved it away from her. The sound that came in the darkness told her that the gate had hit a wall and then slid down to the left. Firm ground, and a turn.
Caroline worked her way along the narrow passage. The wall swung back to the left, as expected. She moved cautiously around the turn, probing the air with her hand. Caroline stopped. This was as far as she could safely go without a light. She stared at the uniform blackness ahead of her. Beyond this point she could easily get lost in a maze of passageways. Okay, she thought, you found something interesting; come back tomorrow with a flashlight and a sack of bread crumbs.
Caroline hesitated, her mind dancing with possibilities. It could be a long-forgotten catacomb, or a burial chamber that held the mummified remains of ancient Romans. She might even discover some manuscripts that dated back two thousand years. She should discuss it with Father Vincenzo, and together they could organize a proper exploration. But even as Caroline considered this, she found it impossible to turn back. The priest’s office was so far away, such an enormous climb—and Caroline felt too tired. The cumulative effects of travel and touring and the miles of walking had finally caught up with her. The dead air didn’t help either. She would have to rest for a few minutes before leaving.
As she stood there, leaning against the wall, Caroline began to notice the quality of the darkness. You could say that it had no depth at all, or that its depth was endless. But it was not a perfect darkness, she realized. Somewhere in it, close by or off in the distance, there was—not light, but the subtlest texture of light. I must look like someone on drugs, Caroline thought as she stared ahead. Pupils dilated wide as drift nets to sweep any random photons across the threshold of visibility. I look like a freak, but that’s okay because it’s a freaky situation. Caroline felt dizzy and disoriented, as if she could no longer tell which way was up, and yet there was nothing she could do—except fall down, if that’s what was going to happen—because she was just too tired, too damn tired to care. But she was not wrong. There was light, or something like it.
Caroline was aware of the fact that she was walking. Toward the light, into the dark, it didn’t matter which. She felt oddly detached from what was happening, as if her body had decided to move and her mind was simply floating along with it. Probably no one still alive in the Vatican knew of this hidden area, Caroline thought dreamily. Which means, No one in the world knows where I am now. But that didn’t frighten her. On the contrary, she felt caught up in something of real importance out on the boundary of faith and uncertainty, and dreams.
A suffusion of light infiltrated her right eye, knocking her off balance. It wasn’t that strong, Caroline saw as she steadied herself and her eyes readjusted. It was a glow, a hazy cloud of cold light some distance away, too weak to illuminate this place. Yet it had confused her for a brief moment. Caroline crossed the intervening space and walked into the faint light. She looked at a flight of crude stairs that coiled down and away from her, deep into the chilly earth.
For just an instant Caroline’s mind slid toward the idea of leaving, but just as quickly it skittered away. Her body had no strength for going back now. It was as if she were caught on an electric current that carried her only forward, and down. And so Caroline descended the wet and slippery steps, pressing her hands against the close walls and bending her head beneath the low rock ceiling. Count the number—but the numbers bounced around like a flock of billiard balls clicking in her brain, and the momentum of her descent increased rapidly, flooding her with apprehension, so she couldn’t.
Almost brightness. Caroline’s knees sagged as her feet hit bottom suddenly and there was nowhere to go. She had arrived in a small room, really nothing more than a landing. Then she saw the gate, another gate. No, it was a door. Through the bars, a square cell, empty but for the old man lying in the middle of the floor. A clutch of tattered rags. The man looked ancient. What light was this?
Ah, child.
—Who … are you?
The words formed in her mind but never escaped her lips. It didn’t matter. The old man smiled, and felt, disturbingly, as if he somehow made Caroline’s face smile with him.
Mani.
—What?
Caroline’s brain swirled sickeningly, and it took an effort of the will to remain on her feet. The old man kept smiling that near-death smile. A sack of dead skin. But the smile, and those eyes, were very much alive. He moved slightly, the muted sound of dusty parchment rustling.
Ma-nee.
The first syllable prolonged, the second quite crisp despite the long vowel. Caroline shook her head slowly. —No …
Manicheus, if you wish.
Impossible, Caroline thought. It was all wrong and she knew she should leave at once, but instead her body sank down on the wall until she was sitting on the bottom step. —The holy man? Paraclete. Yes.
—No. Manicheus died in A.D. 275. Was put to death. —As a heretic. Yes, as a heretic.
The old man’s laughter simmered uncomfortably in Caroline’s brain. This is crazy, she thought, I’m hallucinating, the dreams are pushing up and breaking the surface.
No.
She struggled to recall what she knew of Manicheanism. It was one of many heretical sects that had sprung up in the early years of the Church, and perhaps the most dangerous. The Church had spared no effort to wipe out the Manicheans, although some of their beliefs still lingered on in the despair and cynicism that permeated so much of modern life. They claimed that the universe was made up of two equal forces, light (good) and dark (evil), in eternal conflict. God was good, but God did not reign supreme in this universe. If you put evil on a par with good, then all else is permanently diminished and faith becomes a matter of arbitrary choice. Human beings were just insignificant players in a cosmic struggle without beginning or end. So the gap between the Church and the Manicheans was a vast theological chasm that could never be bridged. But it was an issue of purely academic interest now, or at least it should be, Caroline thought.
—How could you be here?
They brought me back and locked me in this place.
—But why? Didn’t they kill you?
Yes, but to them I was a heretic.
—I still don’t understand.
The laughter came again, rippling through Caroline’s mind in a very unpleasant sensation.
They believed that heretics return to this world, possessing terrible powers. The power to draw the lifeblood of faith out of other souls. To control the feeble human mind. That is why they burned heretics, and tore the bodies to pieces.
But that was another time, centuries ago, and now not even the Church believes in such things. Beliefs change, but do they ever matter?
The Pope had to see me, to see for himself that I really was dead, and so they brought me back from Persia.
—And put you down here and forgot about you?
Oh, they played with me awhile, using their knives and hot irons. Dry laughter, like whistling sand. But then the old Pope dies, and yes, I was forgotten. —When did you last…
See someone? A charming young novice in the thirteenth century. I haven’t been able to move from this spot in about perhaps three hundred years now. Easy to find souls, but not to bring them all the way into this place.
The old man was crazy, Caroline had no doubt. But whatever the truth about him might be, he obviously needed care, and maybe medical attention. He certainly did not belong down in a clammy dungeon. It was a miracle he wasn’t already dead. He looked so frail and helpless, and there was such sadness in his eyes.
—I’ll get help.
Don’t leave me, child.
—What should I do?
The door. Come to me.
Caroline approached the cell door. The hinges looked as if they wouldn’t budge. She put her hands around one of the bars in the center of the door, and shook it. The hinges held, but there was some give inside the lock. Caroline shook the door again and the corroded latch crumbled steadily beneath the pressure. Rusty flakes showered down to the floor. The hinges shrieked painfully as Caroline forced the door open.
The old man looked up hopefully as she slipped into the cell and went to him. She wasn’t sure what to do next. He looked too weak and fragile to move.
Hold me.
Caroline sat down on the floor beside him, took him by the shoulders, and carefully lifted him up. His head lolled against her shoulder, then slid a little, resting over her heart, and he smiled gratefully. Caroline had no desire to move.
Touch me with your skin.
Caroline stroked his cheek lightly—it felt cool and dry, like one of the old manuscripts she had examined. Regardless of who he was or why he was there, the old man responded to her hand on his cheek. His eyes brightened and his features became more animated. He was certainly old, but so small and shrunken, like some lonely, withered child. I need to be closer.
Caroline didn’t understand. Her mind felt tired, lazy, and remarkably tranquil. She didn’t want to move at all. She hugged the old man closer to her.
To your warmth.
Her mind couldn’t follow a complete thought anymore. Nothing mattered but the moment, and her part in it. Caroline unbuttoned her blouse and the old man quickly pressed his face to her skin.
More.
Her bra was in the way. Caroline pulled it down, uncovering her breasts. The old man rubbed his face against them, burrowed between them, and then she felt his tongue, like fine sandpaper, seeking her nipple. Caroline was paralyzed with delirium, dazed with a sense of giving. It felt as if her body were a vessel full of precious liquid, a kind of inner sea of living warmth that was now flowing through her skin into him. But there was nothing to replace it, and Caroline’s heart quickened with a sudden surge of useless alarm.
—Holy man …
Once.
—You brought me here? In a way, yes.
—You spoke to me in dreams …
In dreams you spoke with yourself, and I am what you found. —You took my faith … What we let go was never there. —Help me …
Become what you become, as I did. —They were right… Well, yes.
—You became … What they made me. —God help me … And who is that, child?
Caroline reached up to touch her own cheek and was amazed to find that it already felt as cool and dry as onionskin. Too weak to move, Caroline rested her hand on the man’s bony shoulder. She was vaguely aware that she ought to push him away. There was no muscle strength left in her arm. Then Caroline was unable even to remain sitting up, and she fell back flat on the floor. She felt so light there was no pain when her head hit the stone. The old man moved lower and rested his face in the warm softness of her belly. He left no mark on her, for the touch of her skin was enough. An image flickered across her mind—she was buried beneath a million books, and it was not an unpleasant experience. Then the books began to fall, tons of them raining silently down through the darkness, and Caroline fell with them, a fading ribbon of liquid heat that spun and swirled as she flew gloriously out of herself.
She wakes in darkness. Disoriented for a moment, she shoves the dead bones off her bare skin. Now she knows where she is and what comes next. She stands, buttons her blouse, and leaves. She knows the way. So much time has gone by. It’s late, and she has a million things to do.
Dona Rintelman got me wondering about what might have been lost or forgotten in the recesses of the Vatican over the course of centuries. This story is for Dona, but it is emphatically not about her.
Any similarity between the hold that the world’s religions exert on some of their believers, and the legendary power that vampires have over certain hapless human beings, is of course entirely in the mind of the observer. Things always look different from the inside.
Thomas Tessier