Thomas Greanias - Raising Atlantis

It was a good run while it lasted, which was almost seven years. Then, a few months after a personal crisis in South America, she returned to Rome for moral guidance and instead discovered that the Vatican was refusing to pay its water bills, hiding behind its status as a sovereign state and the obscure Lateran Treaty of 1929, which established that Italy must provide water for the 107-acre enclave for free but made no provision for sewage fees. “We neither render unto Caesar the taxes we owe Caesar, nor render unto God the honor we owe God as his stewards of Creation,” she said when she publicly renounced her vows and embraced the environment.

It was then that the media dubbed her “Mother Earth.” Ever since, she couldn’t stop people from addressing her as such, or as “Sister Serghetti.” She was probably the world’s most famous former nun. Like the late Princess Diana before she died, Serena was no longer part of the church’s royal family and yet somehow had become its “Queen of Hearts.”

Swiss Guards in crimson uniforms snapped to attention as her sedan pulled up to the entrance of the Governorate. Before Benito could open the door for her and offer her an umbrella, she was already climbing the steps in the rain at a leisurely pace, her sneakers splashing in the puddles as she looked up to the sky and enjoyed feeling a few drops on her face. If her history with the Vatican was any guide, this was probably the last breath of fresh air she’d be enjoying for a while. A guard smiled as she passed through the open door.

It was warm and dry inside, and the young Jesuit waiting for her recognized her instantly. “Sister Serghetti,” he said cordially. “This way.”

There was the buzz of activity from various offices as she followed the Jesuit down a maze of bureaucratic corridors to an old service elevator. To think it all started with a poor Jewish carpenter, she thought as they stepped inside and the door closed.

She wondered if Jesus would find himself as much a stranger in his church as she did.

She frowned at her reflection in the metal doors of the elevator and smoothed out her lapels. So ironic she should care, she realized, knowing the silk and wool were spun by the sweat of some poor child in a Far East factory to feed the global consumer market. The clothes and the image they projected represented everything she hated, but she used them to raise money and consciousness in a media age more obsessed with a former nun’s look than her charity. So be it.

But would Jesus wear Armani?

It was an insane world, and she often wondered why God had either made it that way or had simply allowed it to mutate into such an abomination. She certainly would have managed things differently.

The office she was looking for was on the fifth floor and belonged to the Vatican’s intelligence chief, a cardinal named Tucci. It was Tucci who would brief her and escort her to the papal residence for her private audience with the pope. But the cardinal was nowhere to be found. Still, the young Jesuit ushered her inside.

The study seemed older and more elegant than befit Tucci’s reputation. Medieval paintings and ancient maps graced the walls rather than the more modern, contemporary art that Tucci was reputed to favor.

Older and more elegant still was the man seated in a high-back leather chair with a pair of seventeenth-century Bleau globes on either side. The white regalia with the gold lace at the throat perfectly offset the silver hair. He looked every bit an urbane, handsome man of the faith, and the eyes, when he glanced up from the file he was reading, were clear and intelligent.

“Sister Serghetti,” said her Jesuit escort, “His Holiness.”

The pope, whom Serena instantly recognized, needed no introduction. “Your Holiness,” she said as the Jesuit closed the door behind her.

The great man seemed neither stern nor beatific to her. Rather, he radiated the businesslike aura of a CEO. Except that this corporation was not traded daily on the exchanges of New York, London, and Tokyo. Nor did it forecast its future growth in terms of quarters, years, or even decades. This enterprise was in its third millennium and measured its progress in terms of eternity.

“Sister Serghetti.” The pope’s voice conveyed genuine affection as he gestured to a chair. “It’s been too long.”

Surprised and suspicious, she sank into a leather chair while he looked over her Vatican file.

“Ozone protests outside the United Nations headquarters in New York,” he read aloud in a quiet yet resonant voice. “Global boycotts against biomedical companies. Even your Internet home page registers more hits than mine.”

He looked up from the file in his lap with quick, bright eyes. “I sometimes wonder if your obsession to save Earth from the human race is motivated by some deeper, inner desire to redeem yourself.”

She shifted in her leather seat. It felt hard and uncomfortable. “Redeem me from what, Your Holiness?”

“I was acquainted with your father, you know.”

She knew.

“Indeed,” the pope went on, “I was the bishop to whom he came for advice upon learning that your mother was pregnant.”

This Serena did not know.

“He wanted your mother to have an abortion.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” she said, scarcely able to contain the bitterness in her voice. “So I take it you advised him not to?”

“I told him that God can make something beautiful even out of the ugliest of circumstances.”

“I see.”

Serena didn’t know if the pope expected her to thank him for saving her life or was simply relating historical events. He was studying her, she could tell. Not with judgment, nor pity. He simply looked curious.

“There’s something I’ve always wanted to ask you, Serena,” the pope said, and Serena leaned forward. “Considering the circumstances of your birth, how can you love Jesus?”

“Because of the circumstances surrounding his birth,” she replied. “If Jesus was not the one, true Son of God, then he was a bastard and his mother, Mary, a whore. He could have given in to hatred. Instead he chose love, and today the Church calls him Savior.”

The pope nodded. “At least you agree the job is taken.”

“Indeed, Your Holiness,” she replied. “He gave you a pretty good job too.”

He smiled. “A job which I’m told you once said you’d like to have someday.”

Serena shrugged. “It’s overrated.”

“True,” the pope replied and eyed her keenly, “and rather unattainable for former nuns who have repeated the sins of their fathers.”

Suddenly her camera-ready facade crumbled and she felt naked. With this pope, a private audience was more like a therapy session than an inquisition, and she had run out of righteous indignation to prop herself up.

“I’m not sure I understand what His Holiness is getting at,” she stammered, wondering just how much the pope knew. Then, remembering the fate of those who so often underestimated him, she decided it was best to come clean before she further embarrassed herself. “There was one close call, Your Holiness,” she said. “But you forget I’m no longer a nun nor bound by my vows. You’ll be happy to know, however, that I plan to remain celibate until I marry, which I suspect will be never.”

The pope said, “But why then did-”

“Just because we did not physically consummate our relationship did not mean we did not emotionally,” Serena explained. “And my feelings left me no room for doubt that I could not be a bride of Christ in this life and burn with passion for a man. Not without being a hypocrite like my father. So if you’re thinking of using this issue to undermine my credibility-”

“Nonsense,” said the pontiff. “Doctor Yeats’s name came up in an intelligence report, that’s all.”