The fourth prophecy, p.22
The Fourth Prophecy, page 22
“Was Studer there?”
“Of course.”
“He thinks I’m back in Boston, right?”
“I assume so. That’s what Emilio told him. I didn’t wish to participate in a lie. Did you find anything?”
“Not yet.”
“I’m afraid we’re out of time, Cal.”
“Not until tomorrow morning at ten. I’ve just learned that Charles Graves’s brother took a bunch of his books when he died. He’s agreed to let me see them. I’m on my way now. It’s not far. I’ve got a feeling this is it, Eli. I’ve got a feeling we’re getting close.”
16
Coimbra, 2004
His favorite library, bar none, was Biblioteca Joanina, and he took the opportunity of stopping in whenever he was in Coimbra. As a university student in Lisbon, he had developed an interest in the mystical works of the sixteenth-century writer António Gonçalves de Bandarra, and he first traveled to Coimbra to examine one of Joanina’s precious texts, an early copy of Bandarra’s ballads. When he recently learned he was being sent to Coimbra on assignment, he rang the head librarian and asked to see the book again, and a viewing was arranged.
Contentment coursed through his body as he sat in the ornate gilded reading room with the old leather book before him. High above his head, a single bat, which hadn’t yet settled in for its daytime rest, fluttered and swooped. What a wonder this place is! One could happily spend all one’s days here among the books, the painted wood, the bats. He donned white cotton gloves and paged through the ballads, settling on passages he had included in the thesis that had earned him high honors. After the happiest of hours, he returned the book and took a taxi across town.
Before becoming a priest, he had never been sure where he belonged in this world. His bloodline was aristocratic, tracing back centuries to feudal Portugal, where powerful families with fealty to the crown ruled the countryside. His grandfather and father had fared well during the autocratic New State rule of Prime Minister António de Oliveira Salazar. The politics of his family were in complete alignment with the Salazar government—conservative, nationalist, anti-communist—and their businesses fared well during Salazar’s four decades in charge.
Then came Salazar’s death and the 1974 Carnation Revolution that swept away the old guard in favor of a new, liberal democracy. The family holdings were nationalized, and they lost everything. His father shot himself while the future priest was in university, but far from being devastated, he felt liberated. He was now free to pursue his own path in life, unshackled from obligations of going into business or law. He pondered academia, although his observation of departmental politics convinced him that he didn’t have the stomach for clawing himself up the ladder. Besides, he had been imbued with right-leaning philosophy since youth, and he would have been a fish out of water on a university campus in the new Portugal.
The priesthood presented itself as an option by process of elimination. His family were devout, and the rituals and teachings of the Church had always given satisfaction. For him, celibacy and sacrifice were not problematic. He was uninterested in women, and, likewise, was uninterested in men. His apathy went beyond sexuality; he didn’t care for people all that much. He preferred ideas and books, art and music. Not every priest had to minister to a flock, and not every priest had to aspire to advancement through the hierarchy.
He felt there would be a place for him within the Church, and he was proven correct. After ordination, he applied for a posting to Rome. Performing unpressured research in John Paul II’s anti-communist Vatican fit him to a tee. Now, on the cusp of middle age, he was satisfied with his life. What more could one want?
The reason for his visit to Coimbra was delicate, and he planned to dance around its true purpose. Sister Lúcia’s condition was being monitored inside the Vatican, and John Paul II, her great patron, demanded frequent updates. She was ninety-six and in failing health. Her heart was weakening, her sight failing, and her hearing diminishing. It was apparent that the clock of her existence was winding down, and that the end was coming soon.
The Mother Superior of the Convent of Santa Teresa, Sister Madalena, sat behind her desk and declined his invitation to dance. The stern, no-nonsense woman demanded to know the reason for his visit.
“The Holy Father and others are concerned about the dear sister. They wanted a firsthand report. I am Portuguese, I know the area, they sent me.”
“They only had to ask me. I am perfectly capable of giving them information concerning her health.”
“Undoubtedly. Well, you know of the Holy Father’s fondness for Lúcia. I am certain that if his own health were better, he would have made his own pilgrimage to her bedside. I was asked to come, and, well, here I am.”
She looked over her reading glasses and said, “Why did you decline to sign the visitors’ book?”
“The Vatican does not wish there to be a record of my visit. It might appear unseemly.”
In a flinty voice sharp enough to slice flesh, the nun said, “Lúcia is unwell. Perhaps too unwell to see you. If your purpose for this visit is not persuasive, I am within my rights to turn you away.”
Confrontation made the meek priest wobbly, but it would be difficult to return to Rome empty-handed. “Your bishop would be displeased. He participated in the decision for me to come.”
“I can handle the bishop.”
“Very well, Sister. Let me be frank. There are certain truisms at play. The first is that Lúcia’s days are surely numbered. The second is that she has lived a remarkably holy life. And the third is that the opening of a cause for her beatification one day is inevitable. As you know, her cousins Jacinta and Francisco were beatified in 2000. With that in mind, I have been sent to perform a final interview to set the stage for a future process.”
The old nun sucked in her cheeks. “All this nonsense. I give thanks to God every day that I live a cloistered life of devotion, devoid of the bureaucracies of the diocese and the Vatican. This woman, Lúcia dos Santos, is saintly. Every aspect of her life has been holy and flawless. There is not a shred of doubt she will be declared a saint. Mother Mary chose Lúcia as her instrument. Why is it necessary to jump over all these hurdles? I am a simple woman. I don’t pretend to understand.”
The priest opted for patient explanation. “While I agree that her eventual canonization is probably a foregone conclusion, there are inviolate procedures that must be followed. Upon her death, the bishop with jurisdiction, in this case the bishop of Fátima-Leiria, would give his assent to open an investigation as to the virtues of the sister. Usually, this phase cannot commence until five years have passed. However, Pope John Paul or his successor could waive the waiting period. Her case is extraordinary enough that I would not be the least surprised if that were to occur.
“What follows would be an examination of her writings. A detailed biography would be composed. Eyewitness accounts would be collected. The bishop would then present his findings to the Congregation for the Causes of the Saints, and, at that stage, Lúcia would be designated as a Servant of God. At some point, her body would be exhumed and examined for signs of nondecay and incorruptibility.
“When sufficient evidence has been collected, the Congregation would recommend to the pope that he proclaim her heroic in virtue, entitled to be called a Venerable. To achieve beatification, proof would be required of the occurrence of a miracle of healing through the intercession of the Venerable.
“Once satisfied, the Venerable would be bestowed the title of Blessed. To be canonized as a saint, at least two miracles must have been performed through the intercession of the Blessed after their death. Assuming all these things occur, one day, a future Holy Father will conduct a canonization Mass, and Sister Lúcia will become a saint.”
Sister Madalena rose to show him the door. “To me, this woman is already a saint.”
The priest was escorted to Lúcia’s room, where a young African nun, Sister Ana, was tending her. The afternoon sun struck the windows in such a way that the half of the room where her desk stood was blazing in light, and the half with her bed was in deep shadow.
“This priest is here to see Lúcia,” the Mother Superior said. “I hope he will not tire her before her supper.”
Sister Ana surrendered her bedside chair and told him she would be within earshot of the small brass bell, should she be needed.
“You will need to speak loudly,” she said. “And if you smell something bad, summon me quickly.”
She was at the door when he asked, “Is she…all there?”
“All there?”
“Mentally acute.”
“Sometimes yes, sometimes less so. The doctor says her brain sometimes wants more oxygen than her heart can provide. We tried an oxygen tank, but she didn’t like the mask or the little prongs.”
The priest approached the bed tenuously. He could hardly tell that someone was there among the pile of blankets and pillows. As Lúcia’s heart problems had progressed, it was impossible for her to lie flat without fluid accumulating in her lungs, so a carpenter had built a padded incline that kept her head above her heart at all times.
When his eyes acclimatized to the shadows, he saw she was wearing some sort of knitted bonnet. She was lying so still that he thought she might be asleep, but then he realized her eyes were open wide.
“Hello, Sister,” he said. “Am I disturbing you?”
When she failed to respond, he remembered the young nun’s advice and spoke much louder.
“Who is that?” she answered, turning her neck. Speaking was difficult—breathy sounds mixed with faint vocalizations—and the priest had to lean over, bringing his ear within inches of her lips.
“I am a priest sent from the Vatican.”
“Oh! A priest.”
“Yes, Sister.”
She said, “Let me have your hand.”
He let her explore it.
“Smooth hands. You haven’t worked on a farm.”
“You’re right, Sister. I never did. I work at a desk. In the Vatican.”
“Oh. You must know the Holy Father.”
“I see him often. I have met him personally only one time. That was just before my visit here today.”
“He is a great man. A true man of God.”
“He is. I wanted to tell you why I came to see you.”
“Yes?”
“One day, the Vatican will want to study your life.”
“My life? Why?”
“Because of Fátima.”
“Yes, Fátima. Have you been?”
“Why, yes, Sister. I was born not far from the shrine. I have great reverence for what happened there.”
Her breathing suddenly became noisier and more labored, and he eyed the brass bell. He asked if she needed anything—water, medicine, Sister Ana?
“The Lord gives me everything I need,” she finally said, her lungs quieting. “What were you saying?”
“That I have great reverence for Fátima.”
“I was but a girl,” she gasped. “Jacinta and Francisco were even younger. Our Lady gave us such a great responsibility to bear. I had to bear it longer. They were taken to heaven so young.”
“Yes, they were. They are on the path to sainthood.”
“They were good children. They loved Jesus with all their hearts.”
“At the Vatican, people study their lives, just as one day, people will study your life. They will want to know all about what you wrote, and what you thought about your cousins, about Fátima, about the apparitions.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, for sure.”
“I think I wrote books. When I was younger.”
“Indeed you did, Sister. I have read your memoirs. They are very beautiful.”
“Are they?”
“They are. I am interested in learning of other things you may have written—unpublished memoirs, diaries, letters.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Are you sure? Do you keep papers in your room? Perhaps in your desk, or this chest here, or the closet?”
She closed her eyes. He feared she had drifted off, but she opened them again and said, “Do I? I don’t remember.”
“Would you give me permission to look?”
“Whatever you think is best. You are a priest. You know the Holy Father.”
Her bedside chest was within arm’s reach. Inside were old-lady’s clothes, a blanket, and a few toiletries. Her desk was immaculate. Beside a typewriter was a stack of books, including her own memoirs. Standing, he thumbed through them. One day soon, they would surely become museum pieces.
The desk drawer had writing implements, India ink, and writing paper. A folded piece of paper had the beginning line of an undated letter, never finished.
Holy Father, I wish to thank you for—
The closet was more promising. Ignoring the hanging garments, he went straight for the two dozen or more shoeboxes that occupied the floor and the shelf, and, as he suspected, they did not contain shoes. Each one was filled with letters. The boxes were not arranged in any chronological order, but the letters within each were from a similar time frame. He imagined that whoever was tasked with cataloguing the letters one day would appreciate the semblance of structure. He counted the letters in a single box, multiplied that by the number of boxes, and made note of the total. He took a box with correspondence from the 1980s to the desk and began pawing through it. Sister Lúcia, motionless in her bed, was a silent presence. After a while, he found a letter of historical significance. It was written longhand on papal letterhead, dated July 13, 1981.
My Dear Sister Lúcia,
I write you on the sixty-fourth anniversary of the Miracle at Fátima, when you and your cousins Jacinta and Francisco Marto received the prophecies from Holy Mother Mary. I have had occasion to read your account of the Third Secret of Fátima. It has filled me with gratitude. I wish to thank Our Lady of Fátima for the gift of my life having been spared, and you for being her vessel.
The message of Fátima is an exhortation to conversion, prayer, especially the Rosary, and reparation for one’s own sins and for those of all mankind. It is an outpouring of the love of the Heart of the Mother, who is always open to her child, never loses sight of him, and thinks of him always, even when he leaves the straight path and becomes a prodigal son. Mary’s maternal love is best shown in her compassion on Golgotha, when she became the mother of all those redeemed by Christ. From that time on, the greatest concern of her Immaculate Heart has been the eternal salvation of all men and women.
Mary’s apparitions at Fátima indicate that still today the Blessed Virgin desires to exercise through this same prayer that maternal concern to which the dying Redeemer entrusted, in the person of the beloved disciple, all the sons and daughters of the Church.
When I am recovered, I wish to meet with you so we might pray together and give thanks to Mary.
John Paul ll
The priest returned the letter to its envelope and the box to the closet. No doubt, the world would see it published one day. For now, he had accomplished his mission. His report would delineate the wealth of correspondence in Coimbra and give recommendations for its timely preservation.
At her bedside, he drew near to her. Her eyes were open, and so watery that he almost felt the need to blot them with a tissue.
“Thank you, Father.”
“You have a great many letters.”
“Do I? Who wrote me?”
“Many, many people. Ordinary people of faith, bishops, popes.”
“Why?”
“Because of Fátima.”
She alerted to the word. “Yes, Fátima. I remember.”
“I saw a letter you received from Pope John Paul, following his assassination attempt.”
“A great man. Our Lady saved him as she said she would. Each of the three prophecies came to pass. I am sad I will never see—”
“See what, Sister?”
“The last of Our Lady’s prophecies.”
She choked on secretions and began to cough, and he was forced to put his rush of thoughts on hold to raise a cup to her mouth and place a plastic straw between her lips.
“Better?” he asked.
“Better. Where is Ana?”
“Nearby. Do you need her?”
“Soon.”
“What did you mean by ‘the last of Our Lady’s prophecies’? Were there more?”
She looked toward the white ceiling. “Don’t you know?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.” His excitement made him bolder. “Can you tell me?”
“I’m not sure. Can I? It may be a secret. I cannot remember.”
“Have you told it to anyone?”
“Have I? I don’t think so.”
“As a priest, people tell me their secrets all the time.”
“In confession,” she said, showing a glimmer of her old, logical mind.
“Would you like to confess?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Go ahead.”
She freed her hand from the blanket and weakly made the sign of the cross and said, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was—”
“Yes?”
“I can’t remember.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“My sins are…I can’t remember those either.”
He went to the door to close it. Her hearing was so poor that everything had to be practically shouted, and he sought discretion. He leaned over her again and said, “Tell me about your secret, Sister. Surely, it’s a sin to keep something so important to yourself.”
“I must show my contrition before I die,” she said.
“Indeed you must.”
“All right, Father, I’ll tell you.”
Her breathing was labored, her diaphragm a weak bellows forcing words past her dry lips. The priest listened in astonishment to her account of what the apparition of the Virgin had told her almost nine decades ago. In ordinary conversation, the nun seemed to have a diminished capacity, but her recollection of what a ten-year-old girl had experienced on July 13, 1917, was clear and precise. It was so seared into her memory that he suspected it might be the very last thing the old woman remembered.
