along the edge of the table now.
“As I’ve said, Sister Claire was . . . Well”—Beppe hesitated as if gathering his thoughts—“she was still alive when I arrived. And . . . she was dying. I’m sure she was aware of that. I’m not sure how clear her mind was.” Beppe smiled faintly. “The prioress claims her mind hadn’t been clear for some time now.”
“She spoke to you?”
“Yet, at that moment of death perhaps she was very clear. At first she was mumbling, praying. But then . . . Sometimes as one draws near death, there exists a profound clarity. Do you ever feel that, Giovanni?” he asked. “When you sit with someone at the last moment, when they take in and then exhale that last breath, do you ever feel that presence, the presence of our dear Lord, when you hold the hand of a dying soul? Do you ever feel as if you are handing them over to the Lord?”
Giovanni knew other priests who had described a sense of God’s physical presence in claiming a soul.
Both men were silent for a long moment. Giovanni knew from experience it was sometimes more fruitful to refrain from interference or suggestion that might alter one’s perception and memory, though he was getting impatient.
“She told you something?” he finally asked.
“Yes.”
“Then we must start from there.” Again, Giovanni Borelli forced himself to be still.
“After the initial mumblings,” Beppe said, starting in once more, “her words were very clear, but the reliability, the proper interpretation, I’m not sure.” He looked at Giovanni, deep into his eyes.
Dark circles hung beneath Beppe’s warm brown eyes, and myriad wrinkles fanned out from the corners, something Giovanni hadn’t noticed until that very moment, as if his friend had aged during the short time they’d sat in the garden.
“She told you what she saw?” Giovanni asked.
Father Ruffino shook his head. “Sister Claire had been completely blind for the past ten years.”
• 7 •
Ornate Bohemian palaces and sturdy Renaissance homes lined the avenues of the Malá Strana. Tall, slender structures in a variety of pastel confectionery colors, topped with red tiles, stood shoulder to shoulder along the narrow streets. A group of tourists gathered before a wheeled cart, eating mustard-slathered
klobásy
cradled in buns not quite long enough to fully embrace the sausages. Dana was tempted by the spicy, warm aroma, but she would wait for lunch at the convent. She was meeting Caroline at noon.
Emerging from a narrow street into an area clogged with foot traffic, she gazed up toward a wide stone path already bulging with visitors making their way up to the castle. She turned in the opposite direction and strolled down toward the river and onto the Charles Bridge, the Karluv most. A walking-only bridge, it overflowed with artists, vendors, musicians, and tourists. Baroque statues of saints perched on the balustrades of each side. She stopped to look at the miniature paintings displayed by a young artist with a mop of blond hair, an untrimmed beard, a colorful tie-dyed shirt. Little fairy-tale scenes of the city. She lingered for a moment, joining the crowd gathered to listen to a quartet of musicians. A fellow wearing a baseball cap sat on a stool playing a guitar, a man plunked a bass, one played a flute, another slid a trombone. The bass player smiled at Dana flirtatiously. She smiled back. After listening several more minutes, she placed a euro, left over from Italy, in the instrument case propped open for the listeners’ offerings. The bass player nodded a thank-you. Dana moved on to the far side of the bridge and watched a skeleton marionette, dressed as a sad-faced clown, play a guitar orchestrated by an enthusiastic puppet master. A group of tourists knotted in a circle around the performance.
How different the city had been those many years ago when she’d visited. No holiday crowds gathered in a carnival-like atmosphere. Those congregating then
“As I’ve said, Sister Claire was . . . Well”—Beppe hesitated as if gathering his thoughts—“she was still alive when I arrived. And . . . she was dying. I’m sure she was aware of that. I’m not sure how clear her mind was.” Beppe smiled faintly. “The prioress claims her mind hadn’t been clear for some time now.”
“She spoke to you?”
“Yet, at that moment of death perhaps she was very clear. At first she was mumbling, praying. But then . . . Sometimes as one draws near death, there exists a profound clarity. Do you ever feel that, Giovanni?” he asked. “When you sit with someone at the last moment, when they take in and then exhale that last breath, do you ever feel that presence, the presence of our dear Lord, when you hold the hand of a dying soul? Do you ever feel as if you are handing them over to the Lord?”
Giovanni knew other priests who had described a sense of God’s physical presence in claiming a soul.
Both men were silent for a long moment. Giovanni knew from experience it was sometimes more fruitful to refrain from interference or suggestion that might alter one’s perception and memory, though he was getting impatient.
“She told you something?” he finally asked.
“Yes.”
“Then we must start from there.” Again, Giovanni Borelli forced himself to be still.
“After the initial mumblings,” Beppe said, starting in once more, “her words were very clear, but the reliability, the proper interpretation, I’m not sure.” He looked at Giovanni, deep into his eyes.
Dark circles hung beneath Beppe’s warm brown eyes, and myriad wrinkles fanned out from the corners, something Giovanni hadn’t noticed until that very moment, as if his friend had aged during the short time they’d sat in the garden.
“She told you what she saw?” Giovanni asked.
Father Ruffino shook his head. “Sister Claire had been completely blind for the past ten years.”
• 7 •
Ornate Bohemian palaces and sturdy Renaissance homes lined the avenues of the Malá Strana. Tall, slender structures in a variety of pastel confectionery colors, topped with red tiles, stood shoulder to shoulder along the narrow streets. A group of tourists gathered before a wheeled cart, eating mustard-slathered
klobásy
cradled in buns not quite long enough to fully embrace the sausages. Dana was tempted by the spicy, warm aroma, but she would wait for lunch at the convent. She was meeting Caroline at noon.
Emerging from a narrow street into an area clogged with foot traffic, she gazed up toward a wide stone path already bulging with visitors making their way up to the castle. She turned in the opposite direction and strolled down toward the river and onto the Charles Bridge, the Karluv most. A walking-only bridge, it overflowed with artists, vendors, musicians, and tourists. Baroque statues of saints perched on the balustrades of each side. She stopped to look at the miniature paintings displayed by a young artist with a mop of blond hair, an untrimmed beard, a colorful tie-dyed shirt. Little fairy-tale scenes of the city. She lingered for a moment, joining the crowd gathered to listen to a quartet of musicians. A fellow wearing a baseball cap sat on a stool playing a guitar, a man plunked a bass, one played a flute, another slid a trombone. The bass player smiled at Dana flirtatiously. She smiled back. After listening several more minutes, she placed a euro, left over from Italy, in the instrument case propped open for the listeners’ offerings. The bass player nodded a thank-you. Dana moved on to the far side of the bridge and watched a skeleton marionette, dressed as a sad-faced clown, play a guitar orchestrated by an enthusiastic puppet master. A group of tourists knotted in a circle around the performance.
How different the city had been those many years ago when she’d visited. No holiday crowds gathered in a carnival-like atmosphere. Those congregating then
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