The Last Cato by Matilde Asensi Page A

deal,” he proposed happily, taking hold of my arm, urging me to walk again. “I’ll tell you why I’m here and you tell me what you know about the all-powerful secretary of state.”
    “I can’t.”
    “Yes you can!” he fussed, cheerful as a child. You’d never guess that that exploiter of little sisters was fifty years old! “In secret confession. I’ve got the vestments in the chapel. Let’s go.”
    “Listen, Pierantonio, this is very serious.”
    “Great! I love it when you’re serious!”
    What made me maddest was knowing that if I’d concealed just a little bit more I wouldn’t have been in that situation. I was the one who let the cat out of the bag right in front of this insatiable gundog, and the more discomfort I showed, the hungrier he was going to get. I had to put an end to it.
    “That’s enough now, Pierantonio. Get serious. I can’t say anything. Especially to you. You, more than anyone, ought to understand that.”
    My voice must have sounded really severe, because he backed off and drastically changed his attitude. “You’re right,” he conceded, a repentant look on his face. “There are things you can’t tell. But I never imagined that my sister would get mixed up in Vatican intrigues!”
    “I’m not. They just needed my skills for a strange investigation. Very strange. I don’t know.” I murmured pensively, pinching my lower lip. “I do find it disconcerting.”
    “Some strange document? Some mysterious code? Some shameful secret from the church’s past?”
    “I’ve seen all that. I wish I could tell you! No, it’s something even more out of the ordinary. What’s worse, they’re keeping information from me.”
    My brother studied me, a determined look on his face. “So, go over their heads.”
    “I don’t understand,” I said, stopping to poke at the grass with my shoe. The night was cool. Soon the lights in the garden would go on.
    “Go over their heads. Don’t they want a miracle? Well, give them one. Look, I have a lot of problems in Jerusalem, more than you can imagine.” He started to walk again, slowly, and I followed him. More than ever my brother seemed like an important head of state weighed down by responsibilities. “The Holy See has entrusted us Franciscans in the Holy Land with very diverse, very difficult tasks, everything from reestablishing Catholic worship in our area to protecting pilgrims, to getting biblical studies and archeological excavations up and running again. We run schools, hospitals, dispensaries, nursing homes, and above all the guardian is involved in a multitude of political conflicts with our neighbors of other religions. My biggest problem right now is the Holy Cenacle where Jesus instituted the Eucharist. These days it’s a mosque run by Israeli authorities. The Vatican keeps pressuring me to negotiate a sale. But do they give me any money? No!” he exclaimed angrily. His forehead and cheeks turned bright red. “Right now, I have 320 religious people from thirty countries working in Palestine-Israel, Jordan, Syria, Lebanon, Egypt, Cyprus, and Rhodes. Don’t forget that the Holy Land is a region in conflict, where they fight with all manner of guns, bombs, and disgusting political maneuvers. How do I hold up this house of cards built of religious, cultural, and social work? Do you think my order can help? They haven’t got a lira! Do you think your rich Vatican has given me anything? Nothing! Not one cent! The Holy Father diverted money from the church: Millions and millions slipped under the table through figureheads, fake businesses, and bank transfers in fiscal paradises to prop up the Polish Solidarity Union and bring down Communism in his homeland. But how many liras do you think he’s given for our projects? Nothing! Nada! Zip!”
    “You can’t be serious, Pierantonio,” I whispered, pained. “The church takes up an annual collection all over the world for you.”
    His eyes flashed in anger. “Don’t make me