The old man sat quietly, motionless, as Emil looked him over intently from the opposite side of the desk. This was, potentially, the individual in whom he was going to place an immense amount of trust. On whom much would rely, including Emil’s own future and freedom.
And he wore such tattered clothes.
‘You don’t look like I expected,’ Emil finally announced.
The man gazed back through expressionless eyes. ‘I suppose I could say I am sorry,’ he said, ‘though I have no idea what you were expecting, so I’m not sure whether I in fact am.’
Emil felt the urge to smile, and did. The shrewd remark from the older man pleased him. Laurence de Luca was at least twenty years Emil’s senior, if not thirty, with weathered skin that was kept close shaved, though today there was an emerging white stubble across his chin. His eyes were blue, sunk into sockets that seemed a size too large for them. His nose was hawk-like, a claw arcing down towards thin lips. But the man spoke articulately. Short breaths and raspy tones couldn’t mask either his erudition or his wit.
‘I take it I don’t address you as Father?’ Emil continued.
‘Not any more.’ The man answered without emotion.
‘You left the priesthood, what, a couple of years ago?’
‘A year and a half, if you’re looking for precision.’
Emil nodded. That timeline would work well for his purposes.
‘I’m interested in your reasons,’ he said, shifting slightly in his seat, ‘for that departure. You were a priest a long time.’
‘Almost thirty-five years.’
‘Though, I’ve been told, during that time, you weren’t exactly a seminary instructor’s vision of an ideal cleric.’
Finally, a change came over the hardened face of the old man now called simply Laurence. A grey eyebrow slowly rose. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘I’m told,’ Emil continued, ‘that you were that unique blend of a devoutly religious man who was wholly committed to the religious life, without being burdened by . . . what shall we call it . . . the shackles of actual belief.’
The man merely blinked, but Emil could see thoughts moving across his eyes. Laurence’s elevated eyebrow slowly descended.
‘I’d hardly call that a rarity in the clergy,’ he finally said.
‘The lack of belief?’
‘The ability to fulfil a calling without being overly concerned about that particular dimension of it,’ Laurence countered. ‘If the only priests out there were those that had unyielding faith in everything they taught, well, let’s just say the current clerical shortage wouldn’t seem so dire by comparison.’
‘Ah, I see,’ Emil replied, leaning fully back in his chair, permitting another smile to wend its way on to his lips. He folded his hands across his lap. The older man appeared unsure how to interpret Emil’s change in demeanour.
‘This is something laughable to you?’ he asked, a hint of defensiveness charring his words. ‘Is this why you’ve called me in here, to mock me about a lack of faith? I’m sorry if I’m not impressed. I’ve had plenty of time to grow accustomed to the scorn of others.’
Emil forced the smile from his face and sat forward.
‘You misunderstand,’ he said with genuine warmth. ‘I am not in the slightest bit perturbed by your lack of faith. You can be a rock-solid atheist or a devotee of the Faery Queen for all I care.’
Laurence’s expression slid towards real confusion.
‘Besides,’ Emil added before he could interject, ‘I’m hardly in a position to judge you on these matters. Personally, I find your position . . .’ He struggled for the right word. ‘Enlightened.’
The other man stared at him a few moments. It was clear this meeting was not what he had expected. Emil appreciated that.
‘In fact,’ he continued, ‘it’s what interests me in you the most. The fact that you didn’t believe, perhaps never really believed, yet worked for years among people who did.’
Laurence nodded, a simple affirmation.
‘Even helping them build up their belief,’ Emil continued, ‘fostering it. Speaking to it.’
‘I don’t see what this could possibly have to do with anything,’ Laurence finally answered. ‘I coped, did what I had to do to get by. And I left the priesthood when I couldn’t get by any more. I could make people believe I was pious. I could say the words they wanted to hear, go through the motions they expected. But at some point, a man has to ask himself how long he wants his life to be nothing more than an elaborate charade. I’d become a good actor, that was all.’
‘You were far more than that. I’m told you were extremely popular before you walked away from it all. Beloved in your parishes.’
The man sat silently. The comment made him uncomfortable, but he was still waiting to see where all this was going.
‘My question for you,’ Emil said, sensing his opportunity, ‘is whether you would be able to do it again.’
From that moment, the conversation between Emil and Laurence took on an entirely different tone. The older man’s stoic quietude gave way to a curiosity that grew by the minute as Emil spoke. The blue eyes buried in his face seemed to catch light, glowing ever brighter as the details of Emil’s plan were drawn out of secrecy and shared.
‘It would be hard to pull off convincingly,’ Laurence said, as Emil talked through the specific role he wanted the older ex-priest to play. ‘Groups like the one you’re considering are close-knit and generally suspicious of outsiders. They’re used to being looked down on and have grown protective and defensive to compensate.’
‘That’s precisely why you’d be a perfect fit,’ Emil countered. He leaned forward on his desk, resting on the fronts of his arms. ‘An outcast, joining the outcasts.’
Laurence pondered the idea, shaking his head mildly. ‘The analogy doesn’t fit. I wasn’t cast out, I left.’
‘But they weren’t either,’ Emil answered. ‘They’ve set up their own community on the periphery of the church. They’re outcasts by choice, just like you.’
This time Laurence didn’t answer, but simply soaked in the words.
‘You could easily mould your story to fit their ideology,’ Emil continued. ‘Say, I don’t know, that you left the clergy because you’d grown disillusioned with the institutionalised hierarchy of the church. The dead and soulless structuralism. You wanted something more . . . alive.’
A nod of acknowledgement from the older man. ‘They’re nothing if not committed to that narrative. Faith versus the church. Spirituality versus religion.’
‘Of course, it would mean concealing your own lack of interior conviction.’ Emil gazed closely at Laurence as he spoke. ‘Charismatics are a group ruled by the idea that faith has to be a living, breathing thing inside you. “In your heart.” It’s been like that in every charismatic group in Christian history, from the Montanists in the second century up to the Pentecostals in ours. The Catholic Charismatic Movement is no different.’ History had taught Emil so many lessons.
Laurence’s old head bobbed in affirmation, and he peered back at Emil with what looked like admiration.
‘Now I see why you focused on my past as we began,’ he said. ‘As you rightly noted, I’ve had a bit of experience in feigning faith to believers.’
Emil smiled wryly back at him, the sense of conspiratorial understanding binding them together.
Suddenly, the older man’s features darkened.
‘What is it?’ Emil asked, sensing the change of mood.
‘They won’t accept an outside priest, even a former one. Their leadership here in Rome is centred entirely around the spiritual leader of their congregation, a Father Aliegro, I think he’s called.’
‘Alberto,’ Emil corrected. ‘Father Alberto Alvarez.’
‘Yes, him. They’re totally devoted. They won’t welcome any new voice of leadership.’
‘Then don’t try to be a leader,’ Emil answered, his smile returning. He had anticipated this, already thought it through.
‘I hear they’re advertising for a more suitable job opening at the moment. Tell me, Laurence,’ he said, now grinning broadly, ‘have you ever contemplated life as a janitor?’