Father Manuel stood at the doorstep of the palatial apartment building, certain he had copied the address wrong. The weight of his meager possessions taunted him in the presence of such luxury. He moved his bag to the opposite hand and let out a worried sigh.
A few days prior, he had entered a great cathedral with hopes of hearing from God. At the time, he had no idea his prayers would lead him here—to the home of Berto's family.
The cathedral's massive scale and solemn beauty had intimidated him; it wasn't the same as seeking God on the hillsides surrounding Guernica. For the grandest of man-made objects, even the sacred paintings and stained glass windows, paled in comparison to the smallest pinecone, perfectly designed, or the awe-inspiring delicacy of a bird's wayward feather as it fluttered from a nest high in the trees.
But even though the cathedral wasn't the setting in which he felt most comfortable, Father Manuel had known his prayers were heard, and he trusted God's purpose for his time in France. He'd left the cathedral with no answers, but instead a sweet peace had settled in his soul. And somehow, when he returned to his rented room and spotted Berto—the young man who'd first greeted him on his arrival in Paris—sitting in the hall by his door, he realized that they could help each other. Father Manuel was a stranger in a strange land, and Berto provided friendship. On the other hand, though Berto's physical needs were being met in Paris, perhaps Father Manuel could offer direction for the young man's soul.
So when Berto offered Father Manuel a place to stay with his family in the fine neighborhood of Le Marias, Father Manuel agreed. Now he breathed in the scent of flowers as he walked through the courtyard, awed to be transported into a private haven in the midst of a large city.
Three dozen large windows faced the courtyard, and just when Father Manuel had decided to turn around and go back to his small rented room, he saw movement in the window closest to him. Before he could take another step, the door swung open, and he found himself in Berto's warm embrace.
"Father Manuel! You found us. I apologize for not meeting you and carrying the bags myself. My mother discovered my tutor was not as diligent in his hours as she had hoped, and I am the lucky recipient of his eagerness to please her. It seems I have studied all day." Berto laughed heartily as he took the weathered satchel from Father Manuel's hand and motioned him inside.
Father Manuel's plain black shoes squeaked as he strode across the floors that shone like glass, and he followed Berto down the hall to the right of the entrance. His robe swished as the black fabric trailed over the geometric pattern of the floor. A maid hurried by, pausing briefly to bob a curtsy.
"It is a fine place, I suppose. It is only a short walk to the Place des Vosges, or to the best boutiques in Paris, if you care about those things." He glanced back at Father Manuel. "Which I suppose you do not, with those vows of poverty and the like." He laughed again. "If you would believe it, my favorite place to live was our summer cottage in Santander by the sea. It was small but nice, and just a stone's throw from the water. I miss it. We were just packing to go there last summer when the war erupted." Berto paused before a closed door and pulled out a key.
Father Manuel glanced back over his shoulder and counted—it was the fifth door down the long hall. The last thing he wanted to do was end up where he wasn't welcome. He felt uncomfortable enough as it was.
"No, I have not done much shopping in Paris," he commented, clearing his throat, "though they do have fine things."
Berto unlocked the door, then handed the key to Father Manuel. "My father, he is very different from me, and he appreciates his privacy. He anticipates his guests feel the same. I hope you do not mind."
Berto entered the room and set Father Manuel's satchel on a small bench by the doorway. "But if you happen to lose it, there is a master key." A grin curled on Berto's face. "I have used it before. But that is a story for a different day."
He flounced upon the bed, unconcerned with disheveling the fine layers of bedding. "I like to explore the city—not the shops, but visit with the people. That is how I met Señor Picasso, you know. A friend of a friend. And though I try to keep track, sometimes I lose more than a key, much to the dismay of my mother. Por favor, do not ask about the numerous textbooks she has replaced."
"No, of course not." Father Manuel pretended to lock his lips with the key, bringing another burst of laughter from his young friend.
"Well, then." Berto rose. "Dinner is in an hour. I will give you time to rest. I always like to check out the menu ahead of time." He winked as he hurried to the door. "Or rather the young maids who help serve." Berto's hand flew up to cover his mouth, as if just realizing to whom he spoke.
"Of course, I understand. A young man, old enough to be married, must appreciate beautiful young women. Then again . . ." Father Manuel reached out and patted the boy's shoulder. "That is not something I really do much, either."
Berto's laughter filled the hall as he hurried away with a wave. Manuel closed the door, hoping that someone would come get him when it was time to eat. He could always follow his nose to discover the dining room, but that might lead him to off-limit places, something that his host wouldn't appreciate.
Father Manuel recalled the day he'd met Berto. The young man had led him away from the reporters at the train station and found a small room for Father Manuel to rent. At first the priest had questioned Berto's motivation. Later he discovered the young man's political leanings drove his compassion.
It was Berto who'd taken him to the Workers Parade on May Day to see the thousands crying for support for the Spanish people. It was Berto who'd ushered Father Manuel into the private studio to meet Picasso. The great master had asked him to give a painful, eyewitness account of the bombing by German planes. And now . . . it was Berto who once again sought to help a simple, Spanish priest who questioned why he'd been saved when so many others had perished.
Father Manuel noticed a basin of water on a small table in the corner and washed up, drying his face with a towel that smelled of lemons and lilacs. Then, as gingerly as possible, he folded down the layers of blankets and bedding until only one sheet remained.
He kicked off his shoes and stretched out in the center of the bed. His glance darted from here to there, taking in the crown molding on the ceiling, the rose-patterned wallpaper, the fine burgundy drapes. His being here still didn't seem real. A poor country priest far from his people and home. Or whatever remained of both.
His mind wandered to the canvas of Guernica he'd seen earlier that week. He was amazed that the horror of the event could be captured by such abstract forms and shapes, representing the people and animals of the town. He also thought of the photos and paintings of the young American woman; had she escaped? He would look for her art, in hopes his worries were for naught.
Still, the ache in the center of his stomach that came each time he thought of the beautiful young American finding herself in war-torn Spain would not leave him. His teacher had once told him that sometimes the Spirit of God moves in such a way—as a reminder to pray. He closed his eyes and brought her needs before the Savior Jesus, whatever those needs were.
He also asked for forgiveness for not kneeling to pray at the side of the bed. For some reason, his body felt weary. Perhaps from the miles he walked in the city each day, but more likely from the overwhelming feeling that God had indeed brought him to Paris, but Father Manuel had somehow missed Him and headed the opposite direction from where he should be.
"Oh, Father," he prayed, "how has it come that I have found my way here? And am I right to believe that a young boy's heart is the assignment you have for me now?"
Father Manuel's words were cut short by a knock at the door. He rose, straightened his clothes, and opened the door, expecting to see Berto. Instead a taller man with dark hair and green eyes stood there. A camera bag hung from his shoulder as naturally as if it were a part of him.
"Excuse me, Father, for interrupting. I am Edelberto's cousin, and I've just arrived from Spain. I am not a patient man, and I am eager to meet the priest that my cousin says witnessed the bombing of Guernica."
The man spoke with an American accent, and didn't look Spanish. He shifted his weight, and Father Manuel could tell he favored his right leg. On closer inspection, Father Manuel noted bulkiness near the man's thigh, as if his leg was bandaged underneath his clothes.
Father Manuel stretched out his hand. "Edelberto? . . . Yes, I see . . . he calls himself by a nickname."
The man's hand was warm and his handshake firm. Father Manuel liked him.
"I am Father Manuel, and I am happy to meet you. I am sorry, but I did not catch your name."
"Michael," the man said with a smile. "My name is Michael. Come, and I will lead you to dinner."
Michael moved with slow, sure steps through the house, and Father Manuel found himself trying to keep track of the direction they walked and also follow the conversation. Not an easy task.
"So, Padre, I hope you do not mind me being so bold, but I have a friend who was also in Guernica at the time of the bombing—an American artist named Sophie. You would not have happened to have seen such a person there, now would you?"
Excitement stirred in Father Manuel's chest. "Why, yes, I did, just minutes after the bombing ended. She approached me with tears in her eyes and said she was looking for a friend. José something."
"Immediately after the bombing?" Michael cocked an eyebrow. "Are you sure it was not the next day?"
"No, I am very certain. Even in the shock of what happened, I could not forget the sight of an American woman and a Negro driver."
Michael chuckled softly, yet his eyes told Father Manuel that something was amiss. "No, I am certain one would not."
They resumed walking, and Father Manuel's stomach growled as the scent of chicken and other heavenly aromas filled the air.
"So my friend was with her driver. That makes sense. Did you happen to see her with any others? I am trying to find her, you see, and any help you give would be very much appreciated."
Father Manuel's footsteps slowed as he tried to think back. Then a tension caused his limbs to tighten as he remembered the woman had been with the man in the black hat—the very one who asked him to come to France, the one who also urged Father Manuel not to tell anyone of their meeting. Still, a priest could not lie. Besides, maybe this was an answer to the prayer he'd prayed not an hour before, prayer that the American woman would be okay. Yes, he was sure of it now. This man would help her.
"Yes, I saw her with two others. An American volunteer and a man with a black hat. I saw them talking often in the garden, though I could not hear them." Father Manuel shrugged. "I wish I could tell you where she is now. I only hope she is okay."
"I am sure she is fine. It seems those very men care for her now. And it is also helpful to know that she was looking for help from her friend José. Thank you for your assistance." He paused for a moment. "And now I can be assured that these three men have accompanied her all along. It helps me to piece some things together, and maybe—it is my hope—to find her."
"Sí, I am happy to offer such help," Father Manuel said as they entered the large dining room. "And when you do find her, can you tell her that I am praying for her? Can you do that? "
Michael nodded and pursed his lips. "That I will, Padre. That I will."