Sign of the Cross by Anne Emery Page A

hanging neatly with plastic over them to keep off the dust. There was a street scene that must have been Rome tacked on the wall, a calendar that obviously came from Ireland, and a couple of Renaissance reproductions in frames. No religious kitsch. I was especially taken with one of the prints and went over for a closer look.
    “Madonna della Melagrana, “
he explained. “It sounds better in Italian so I won’t translate. It’s Botticelli. Have you ever seen anything more beautiful than the face of this Child? It’s in the Uffizi. The first time I saw it I stood in front of it so long I missed out on all the otherrooms of the gallery.” He handed me a wine glass brimming with dark red liquid. He raised his glass and touched it lightly to mine. “Whatever it is you have to tell me, keep it till after we eat.”
    He produced some plates and silverware and cleared a table near one of the windows, gestured for me to sit, and we fell upon the pizza as if it was our first meal ever, or our last.
    “This wine isn’t for swigging,” I remarked, holding it up to the light.
    “There’s Chianti, and there’s Chianti,” he agreed. “But, if you like this, wait till we get to the next bottle.”
    “I just hope we’ll be able to appreciate it.”
    “We will.”
    “What was that piece of music you were playing when Sister Dunne and I walked in on you?” I couldn’t wipe the grin from my face. “I’m a product of Catholic schools and I can tell you that was the most ecstatic expression I have ever seen on the face of a nun.”
    “Oh, that little scene will sustain the good sister like the bread of life. That was Mozart’s
‘Laudóte Dominum. ‘
Sung to perfection by —” he looked over at me and raised his glass in her honour “— my beloved Kiri Te Kanawa. Did you hear those long lines? She doesn’t seem to breathe when she sings. And a beautiful woman to look at, incidentally. Well, you probably know that.” He sighed, and forked another bite of pizza into his mouth. We ate in silence for a few moments.
    “So you went to Catholic schools, did you?” Burke said. “I thought as much.” He made a show of looking at my hands. “Though I don’t see the scars. But judging by that boyish face, I’d guess you were everybody’s favourite altar boy.”
    “Yeah, I was an altar boy. I’ve since been defrocked.”
    “Nah, you still have the look. Must be an advantage in the courtroom. The poor wretched woman you had on the stand the other day didn’t know what hit her.”
    I had no desire to dwell on that episode so I went back to the cosh-wielding nuns. “I got slammed a few times, like everybody else,” I recalled.
    “I suppose you did,” he replied. “The only thing that saved me from getting pounded even more often was the fact that I was singing in the choir. I was no angel, but I sure as hell sounded like one.”
    “So, what made you decide to be a priest? With your voice, evenif you had nothing else going for you, you could be married to Kiri and have a houseful of little choristers.”
    “Houseful of little hellions, probably.” He took a sip of wine. “Why a priest? I got the call, Montague, that’s all I can say. I had other plans. I started university in the sciences. I was going to be an architect. But there are things I was meant to do, and I’m doing them. What’s your excuse? Why put yourself in the way of so much aggravation, being a lawyer?”
    And so it went. We exchanged stories from our university days, his time playing football at the home of the Seven Blocks of Granite, Fordham University. Mine playing hockey. I regaled him with some of the typical war stories any lawyer accumulates. He spoke about teaching at this or that university or seminary. Then he decided he wanted to teach children at an earlier stage of their development. I said I’d always thought priests were under orders to obey and go wherever they were sent. He said that was usually the case, but every few