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“I beg you to do no such thing!” Father Matteo said. “In the name of God, gentlemen—”
“Yes, the name of God!” the second man cried. “And for the liberation of Catalonia!”
“Viva Catalonia!” the first man echoed.
“Please, the Holy Father is in South America,” Father Matteo pleaded. “I beg you, do not desecrate this room—”
“South America?!” the smaller man said, looking confused.
“Idiot!” the heavyset man said. He slapped his partner. “You said you had checked the schedule!”
“I—I must have looked at the wrong page,” the other man said woefully.
“Idiot!” the larger man repeated. “Now we will have to—” He paused and cocked his head—and Father Matteo heard it, too.
Rapid footsteps—coming toward them.
A flicker of hope came to life in Father Matteo’s breast. It had to be the gendarmes—perhaps even the Swiss Guard! There was still a hope to save the frescoes! “They are coming for you now,” he called to the two men. They looked at him. “Please, let us have peace in this holy place. Do not resist with violence.”
The two looked at each other. The larger man said something urgent and rapid in a language Matteo did not understand—Catalan? The other man nodded agreement, and the first man glared at Matteo. “Tell the Holy Father that unless he gives his blessing to the independence of Catalonia, we will return!” and he turned to the window, kicked it open—and the two men disappeared outside.
Father Matteo lunged to the window and grabbed the smoking black pot. It was hot, and it burned his hands. But he carried it to the center of the room anyway, placed it down on the floor, and immediately undid the cincture around his waist and whipped off his cassock, flinging it on top to extinguish the fire.
He was standing there in his underwear a moment later when the gendarmes pounded into the room. “Hands up!” the young man in the lead called, aiming a pistol at Father Matteo.
The second gendarme was older and recognized the father. He pushed his companion’s weapon down and said, “No, Fredo.” He looked at Father Matteo. “What happened, Father?”
“Two men,” Matteo said. “They demanded an audience with the Holy Father. They had this, this thing—” He kicked at the black pot, now hidden by his cassock. “And the smoke—a great stream of oily smoke—as you see, it has damaged the fresco!”
“The two men, Father,” the older gendarme said. “Where did they go?”
Father Matteo hadn’t even considered the two men—not when the frescoes were threatened. “They went out the window,” he said dismissively. And staring upward, he tried to assess the damage they had done. He followed his gaze and walked toward the window, barely aware that the gendarmes were speaking to him.
“Out the window, Father? Are you sure? We are on the third floor, you know—Father?”
“Oh, dear—oh, no, look at that,” Father Matteo said as he saw that a black smudge was indeed spread across the front of the fresco. “And that smoke—so oily—it will soak into the paint and—no, no. No, we cannot allow it!”
The two gendarmes watched the priest as he stood there in his underwear, gaping upward at the smudged painting. They exchanged a significant look.
“Father?” the older gendarme called. “Did you mean these men went out this window?”
“This third-floor window?” the younger man added.
“Yes, of course. Right out the window,” Father Matteo said. “I can only hope that—I must call Berzetti immediately. If we hurry, perhaps it can be saved—Berzetti can save it!” And he strode rapidly toward the door.
“Father!” the older gendarme called urgently. Happily, his tone was compelling enough to cause Father Matteo to pause and look back.
“What is it? Really, if Berzetti is to save the fresco, I must hurry—”
The gendarme nodded understandingly. “Of course, Father—but perhaps you should put on your clothes first . . . ?”
Father Matteo moved his mouth like a fish out of water and then, with a start, glanced down at himself, clad only in his underwear. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “Oh, my . . .”
He rushed back and recovered his cassock. The fire in the black pot was out now, but the cassock had several large holes burned into it, and it stank. Still, it was better than nothing—much better. As he struggled into the reeking, still-smoldering garment, the gendarmes looked out the window for any sign of the two men. There was nothing to see, of course. But had they been able to look up on the roof, they would have seen both of the “Catalans” doubled over with laughter and clutching their sides as they hurried away.
In the meantime, Father Matteo finished tying his cincture. “Now then!” he said. He nodded at the gendarmes and hurried from the room. If he and Berzetti were quick enough, perhaps they could save the fresco.
Father Matteo devoutly hoped so. The Liberation of St. Peter was one of his favorites.
