Luís Rocha: The Holy Bullet

“Sit down,” the man ordered, pointing to another rocking chair like his own.

The stranger obeyed, almost without thinking. He left his briefcase on his lap.

“You want to meet Abu Rashid?” the old man asked.

“Yes,” he answered. “Do you know where he lives?” he found himself asking, like a child asking for a candy.

“He comes by here all the time,” the old man said. “What do you want with him?” he asked bluntly.

Despite not wanting to reveal what needed to be protected, the foreigner decided not to keep his intentions secret. Besides, he was increasingly aware of a feeling that, if he lied, the old man would know it.

“I’ve been sent from Rome.” His serious tone showed his professionalism and competence. “I’ve come to investigate the alleged visions of Abu Rashid.”

“Alleged?” The old man leaned forward, grasping the arms of the rocker with a questioning, mistrustful expression. “Perhaps Rome thinks it’s a fiction.”

“In Rome they don’t think anything. That’s why they’ve sent me,” the stranger explained, sitting on the edge of his seat, trying to keep his back straight. “There are several stories about Abu Rashid’s visions. I’m here to evaluate the case and recommend opening an investigation, if necessary.”

The unannounced return of the young wife, carrying a tray from which the smell of steam and mint leaves flooded the room already filled with odors of musk, imposed silence. She hadn’t forgotten her head covering. She left the tray on top of a small, round table next to the wall, and tipped the mouth of the teapot over her husband’s cup, pouring out greenish liquid and adding six spoonfuls of sugar. Devotedly, she placed the saucer with the cup into his hand. He took it without a glance at his wife, who, only then, began to prepare a cup for the visitor.

The old man sipped a little of the tea, showing no discomfort with the hot temperature and not taking his eyes off the foreigner, who received from the wife an identical porcelain cup.

“And do you consider it necessary to recommend this commission?” the old man asked as soon as his wife left.

“I don’t know yet. I just arrived, and this is the first stop I’ve made.”

“I understand. But surely you’ve made your own judgment about what you’ve heard about Abu Rashid,” the Muslim continued. “Do you believe it’s necessary?”

There was a certain sly humor about the owner of the house that disquieted the stranger. His questions, his looks, seemed insolent, and as incredible as it might seem, a captivating aura of mystery surrounded the old man, invisibly, powerfully. Who is this man? the foreigner thought to himself. He decided to answer the old man.

“It’s true the stories seem a little fantastic. We are talking about someone who might have the gift of curing the medically incurable. It seems he revived thirty people who drowned. He himself drowned and then resuscitated himself. There are innumerable examples in history of people with the gift of healing, some more believable than others… As far as that goes, until I see and judge, I can’t offer any evaluation.” He took a careful sip of tea so as not to burn his tongue. It was too strong and sugary.

“I know Abu Rashid very well,” the old man began at last, searching his memory. “He’s a saintly man, able to cure the living… and the dead.”

“The dead?” The stranger squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. “That doesn’t sound likely to me,” he dared saying.

The Muslim’s voice changed. His rational, critical tone was replaced by something more introspective, dreamy, as if he were gazing into another reality, while he reclined in the rocker.

“Ah, but it’s true,” the old man insisted, gazing into space. “Completely true.”

“I’ll have to confirm that,” the foreigner countered evasively.

“How can you consider resurrection improbable if you believe your Messiah did it for himself and Lazarus?” The old man appeared to have recovered some power of reasoning.

“That’s why. He was the Messiah. No other person has had the power since then,” the foreigner declared firmly.

“Allah said, ‘As for the unbelievers, whether you admonish them or not, they will not believe.’ I know very well what I’m talking about, since I’ve died and he brought me back to life.”

The foreigner felt sudden interest. “What are you saying?”

“I’ve been dead and he brought me back to life,” the old man repeated. “You’re not going to find lies here.”

They let the conversation lapse, each one concentrating on his cup of mint tea. Enough time had passed to cool the liquid and make it easy to drink. The owner of the house had already swallowed most of his while it was burning hot, the way he liked it.

“What intrigues me,” the old man continued, speaking more frankly, “is why this sudden concern in Rome. To recommend an investigation or not. Why? What does this have to do with Rome?”

“You know the Church always defends her faithful and her saints. It may be that Abu Rashid will merit beatification and canonization, after his death, of course. This is an opportunity to document this now. Anyway, the miracles he’s done in life are not valid. Only those after death.”

The old Muslim gave a laugh that brought tears to his eyes.

“Oh, then, so that’s it,” said the old man, leaving his empty cup, in danger of falling, on the arm of his chair, swallowing back a guttural chuckle. “You can stay for dinner. You can begin your investigation with me. But it is not going to help you at all,” he said, after he stopped laughing.

“Why?” asked the astonished foreigner.

The old man looked at him seriously.

“Since when have Christians prayed with Muslims?”

“No one said he was a Muslim. The stories mention a true Christian who sees the Virgin.” The foreigner couldn’t accept what he had heard. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. He’s not a believing Christian. But he sees the Virgin Mary.” The old man got up, approached the other, and extended his hand. “Abu Rashid. Allah be with you.”

This man watching the city in the light of dawn through his window was very worried.

The church Dei Quattro Capi is called that because it is next to the bridge of the same name, formerly called the Fabricio Bridge and still known by that name if one decides to ask for it. It was named in honor of the master builder who laid the first stone in the year 62 before the birth of Our Lord Jesus Christ. This makes it the most ancient bridge in Rome. Before it was given the name Four Heads-derived from two busts with the sculptured heads of Mercury situated at one of the ends-the bridge was called the Pons Judaeorum for its proximity to the Jewish ghetto.

In the travertine of the arches that have supported the bridge for more than twenty-one centuries inscriptions are engraved on both sides that recall the builder, Fabricius, who wished to leave his mark on posterity. But the truth is, nobody remembers him; no historian is able to verify his first name with any certainty, except that it begins with L, as the inscriptions attest. People cross the Fabricio Bridge, forgetful or ignorant that it was once more than a footbridge and tourist site, a bridge for the passage of provisions, goods, valuables, and vehicles into the sublime capital of the great Roman Empire… but that was in the beginning.

Today people only cross it to go to the church, like this priest, uninterested in bridge engineering. Like all the houses of the Lord spread around the world, the small church of Saint Gregory of Divine Mercy, its official name, in the parish of Sant’Angelo, welcomes all the faithful who wish to hear and feel His Word, lay down the burden of life for the interval of the Eucharist, and unite themselves in faith.