John Moss - Grave doubts

When Pope saw them, his wan smile suggested long-suffering forbearance. Miranda gave him an awkward hug, Morgan shook hands, and Peter Singh made incomprehensible gestures meant to indicate he had returned under forces over which he had no control, his pantomime ending with an open-palmed shrug.

“Alexander,” said Miranda. “What on earth have you been doing? Your gentle pilgrims have multiplied.”

“Exponentially,” he responded. “It’s all quite unexpected, and…,” lowering his voice, he continued, “quite undesirable.”

“What do your sponsors think?” Morgan asked.

“Oh, well, you know, I’m not sure.”

“If they wanted a tourist attraction, this could be another Lourdes.”

“No, I think not. One is more than enough. The object of this project was not to arouse shallow religiosity, but to bring an aesthetic wonder back into the world. I have not the genius to create such a work, but perhaps I do, to give it new life.”

“A not-modest undertaking,” said Morgan, mimicking what he heard as mildly condescending locution.

“But humbly undertaken,” Miranda countered, a little defensively.

Alexander Pope seemed unaware of or indifferent to the subtleties of their discourse. “These people interfere with my work,” he declared. “The quiet and calm is deceptive. I would be torn limb from limb as a heretic should I resume my labours by peeling away their sacred image.”

“They seem a gentle crowd,” Miranda interceded.

“Hell hath no fury like a zealot denied.”

“They do not seem zealous,” she responded. “Maybe the zeal is your own, and the fury, your suppressed rage at the intrusion.”

He looked down at her and curled his lips in a tight smile. “I am at a standstill, an impasse.”

“Celebrity is fickle,” Morgan observed, without lack of sympathy. “Fame interferes with what you are famous for doing.”

“It is not about me, Detective, I assure you. I am merely a talented enabler. I reveal what already exists. But they see what they wish, not what is there.”

Alexander Pope blinked several times and leaned back to his full height, gazing over at what, from their side-view perspective, still looked like a blank plaster wall. Morgan was intrigued by the arrogance of the gaunt man peering down at him. Miranda felt sorry for him. He was obviously distressed by his reduced role. The apparition was no longer his to present, but rather his to protect; it was the property of those who saw in it a miraculous vision. Peter Singh found the whole situation entertaining; he was bemused to see this rather austere and pompous man bereft of authority.

“Well,” said Miranda. “Let’s take a look. Lead on, Peter. You have the uniform.”

Singh walked straight into the double columns of people who were shuffling up through the nave and circling at the chancel to pass down in front of the panel before moving out through the vestibule. The crowd parted and let them through. From the far side, they looked across and Pope’s three visitors were astonished to see a brilliantly illuminated portrayal of Mary’s Assumption.

“My goodness,” said Morgan.

“My God,” said Miranda. “It may not be a miracle, but it’s magnificent. Alexander, I had no idea.”

“It is very beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It is the Virgin Mary on her way to Heaven,” Officer Singh observed.

“Actually,” said Alexander Pope, “it is Saint Marie Celeste. These people,” he said, lowering his voice to a discreet whisper, “most of them have never heard of Sister Marie. For them, it is Mary. They want miracles, but they want them familiar. Nothing too taxing on the imagination.”

“I would think your pilgrims are wonderfully imaginative,” said Morgan. “These people invest a beautifully rendered apparition with supernatural powers. Faith outruns reason; surely that’s imagination. Just not yours or mine.”

Miranda listened to Morgan with some surprise. He was the one who’d admonished her for saying she was an agnostic, when clearly, he would say, she’s an atheist, the same as him. And here he was, rising to the defence of the spiritually desperate. Yet she looked at the faces in the stream flowing by and saw no desperation, only a kind of suspended worldliness, a wishful innocence, a haunted yearning to touch with their eyes a vision of God.

“It is beautiful, Alexander,” she said. “Did you do it?”

Taken aback, he stammered, “No… I… How… I have not started on that wall. The plaster… perhaps it is what lies underneath. Somehow the image shows through.”

Miranda laughed. “I didn’t mean literally. But, like, did you orchestrate the phenomenon? Did you make all this happen?”

“No, absolutely not. I’d rather get back to my work.”

“But what do you think?” Morgan asked. “Where did the picture come from? Is it by the same artist who did the others? Maybe the plaster covering peeled away in the night — ”

“And was cleaned up by the pilgrims,” Miranda added, wanting to be part of the resolving discourse.

“It is possible,” said Peter.

The other three looked at him as if he had overstepped an invisible boundary. He brushed an imaginary speck of lint from his chest and repeated, “It is quite possible.”

“No,” said Alexander Pope. “It is not. The plaster on this one is the same vintage as the shrouds I have removed from the other four panels. It is not the same age as the original frescoes.”

“Is it possible for a fresco to bleed through?” Morgan asked.

“Perhaps, but not spontaneously. Perhaps over years the colour might seep, but not like this. It would not be such a clear replication.”

“Do we know what lies underneath?” Morgan continued.

“No, although logic suggests it would be the ascension of Marie Celeste, affirming her rise to the heavenly order. That in itself would have made the picture blasphemy in the eyes of the Church. Only Rome confers sainthood; God merely affirms the decision.”

“And this is clearly Sister Marie,” said Miranda. “You can follow her progress. In the fourth panel, she is beatific, but still of this earth. Here she has broken free of mortality; she’s not just floating, she’s soaring. Her stigmata have faded away. Her eyes are no longer raised heavenward — they look straight ahead and are radiant. Her dress is sky blue and her hair is the colour of sunlight. Alexander, she is breathtaking, stunning, a portrait of the truly divine. But it is clearly Marie Celeste.”

“Are we assuming this is by the same person?” asked Morgan.

“Oh, it is, Morgan. It has to be.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” said Alexander.

“And I as well,” said Peter.

Abruptly, Pope pulled away from their little enclave and pushed through the crowd, back to the base of the panel. When the others joined him, he said, “Sorry, I thought they were getting too close. They weren’t actually. They seem to be self-policing. Still, I worry.”

“You look absolutely exhausted,” said Miranda. “Why don’t you take a break, go out to your van for a nap, take a run into Penetang and have dinner? We’ll stand guard for a while.”

“I have a better idea,” said Morgan. “Close the place down for the night.”

“They’ll riot,” said Officer Singh.

“No they won’t. Believers climb mountains on bloodied knees for a glimpse of the shadow of God. Waiting overnight in a car will be welcomed as penance for imagined sins. They’ll feel they’ve earned their revelation if they have to wait.”

“How do you propose we go about this?” said Miranda.

“Simple. We close the door. Put up a sign that says ‘Visitors Welcome,’ followed by a clear indication of hours, say ten a.m. to four p.m. Make them feel welcome, but control their access. Let those in here file out. Close the other door. Alexander then has eighteen hours to do what he wants. Daily.”