“Yes, I am happy to report that it is,” the Cardinal smiled back at the pope. “Father Donovan is now 100 years old, as sharp as a tack. The demons, I am told, hate him.”
The pope smiled broadly.
“And now we have this young man who was trained by a master exorcist. Cardinal, please bring Father Corinth to Rome as soon as possible.”
The meeting was clearly over. The Cardinal rose to take his leave. As he turned, however, the pope spoke again.
“And do give our best regards to Father Donovan,” he said.
The Cardinal bowed his assent, and left the magnificent chamber.
CHAPTER 1
Truth be told, when he saw the strange customer waiting outside his shop, Marco was a bit annoyed. He’d been looking forward to his morning espresso – a necessary indulgence before his often-grueling, nine hour day commenced.
Marco considered himself to be the consummate hairdressing professional. This, in a Rome full of serious hairdressers, was a mark of pride, like his bella figura and amiable demeanor. Marco never lost his temper with a customer, no matter how irritating or demanding or yes, deranged they might be.
This, too, was a matter of necessity. Italians of a certain age visit their hairdresser once a week, a key to maintaining the necessary bella figura. Toiling long hours in a neighborhood of gossiping romani, Marco had worked hard to achieve his reputation of gentility.
But the man waiting outside his shop was a stranger. Marco wondered if he might be a visiting relative, or even a new arrival to the close-knit middle-class neighborhood.
As the man approached, he noted the closely-shorn haircut and the foreign cut of the clothes of – a priest?
Marco sighed. He’d been hoping for that twenty minutes with his espresso, but it was unlikely now. There was no rescheduling a priest, even if he was just a stranger without an appointment.
Half an hour later, Marco sat nursing his espresso with a rather bemused expression on his handsome face. The interlude with the strange priest had left him unsettled.
It wasn’t what the man had said, though his American-inflected Italian had been quite good, probably a product of his years studying in Rome.
“Don Signore, where are you from?” he’d asked, using the formal honorific. The slight, pale priest settled into Marco’s chair. Marco noted that he was the kind of American –rare these days—who aged well.
The priest was in his forties, with fine lines etched around his blue eyes and sensitive, long-fingered hands.
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