The Frenchman, Monsieur Antoine Lafitte, is in a hurry. He has no time to watch the watches and jewellery in the shop windows. He doesn't gaze at the gorgeous Swiss ladies in colourful summer dresses. He doesn't pay any interest in the traffic jam of expensive cars in the street. He's on a mission, dedicated to finding something or someone much more important than his recently stolen 100 million can buy.
He goes left, turns right, and enters a small building through a big door.
I wait for Rostov to catch up: "What would you do if you'd just won the jackpot in the lottery, Rostov?"
"Celebrate, I guess. Have a nice meal and a bottle of champagne, buy a castle or book a trip to Tahiti."
"And what would you do if you'd just killed a man? What would you do if you just did something terrible? Imagine you're French… Catholic… A decent family man with a wife and children…"
Rostov gives the small building a second look: the tall windows, the slim tower with the cross on top of the roof, the large doors are always open, inviting to come in: "I guess…"
Suddenly, Mister Lafitte comes out of the church. We turn around to avoid him seeing our interested faces. In the shop window's reflection, I see Mister Lafitte cross the street and order a cappuccino on the terrace of an Italian restaurant. He keeps watching his watch. In another reflection of the same shop window, I see ourselves as the rest of the world sees us: South African banker Mister Dietz and his coloured servant Steven are extremely interested in the broad collection of sturdy flesh-coloured large-sized underwear for elderly people that's on summer sale this week.
"What's he doing? Waiting for a friend?", Rostov asks.
"Yeah, sure. He's waiting on a handsome, hot and horny friend so they can marry right away. Do you date girls in church? The man 'earned' 100 million Swiss francs in a transaction last night. You were right: he should be celebrating, but he enters a church instead. There are lots of things that money can buy, but peace of heart is not one of them. Do you see how nervous he is? He has done a terrible thing last night, perhaps he stole a fortune, perhaps he killed your boss, perhaps he did both, and now he's hoping for forgiveness… Keep an eye on him, Rostov. I'm going in, trying to find out what he was doing there. I hope the Lord can give me some good advice."
Rostov is smart. When I enter the church, I see how he changes his point of view to the window of a travel agency, studying all the offers to disappear forever. The inner doors of the church are closed. There's a piece of paper on them that says: "I'm coming in ten minutes."
Now I get really suspicious. If I would be in charge here and I was called away to save a soul, I would write «back in ten minutes» or «pray for my safe return». I try the doors: they are locked, but they open after a small exercise with the clip in my Swiss pocketknife. I slip inside and sneak through the empty church towards the private parts of the pastor…, I mean, towards the quarters where he has his private…, I mean, that door over here, which makes it impossible to see what happens on the other side, but is not thick enough to let me hear how our beloved father is extremely busy, sharing his love with one of his sisters. This door isn't locked. I open it silently, see what I need, take it and leave the lovers in their missionary position without causing a coitus interruptus, so the pastor can keep his promise to come in ten minutes.
Back in the entrance hall, I signal Rostov to come over. In seconds, I change my South African banker image of Mister Dietz into that of Father Brown. The habit is too big for me, but the rope around my waist solves the problem. I toss Rostov the other habit, the black-and-white one, and whisper: "Take off your jacket, double it before your breast and hold it so I can tie the arms together around your back. It will give you bosom. You've seen «Sister Act»? From now on, you're Sister Mary Clarence and I'm Father Brown. Can you do that?"
Rostov's grin is a welcome «yes». Everybody loves Whoopi. But Whoopi has a lot that Rostov hasn't, and I'm not referring to the habit of wearing the habit. He is much too male. We can't go out together like this.
"How do I look?"
"That's the problem. You don't. You're so ugly that even the Lord himself would turn the other cheek so he doesn't have to look at you. You'll need to act female, speak female and certainly look a lot more female."
At that moment, an elder lady climbs the stairs of the church. She reads the sign that tells her to hold her breath and her prayers for ten more minutes, and turns around in disappointment. I touch her shoulder and say: "Pardon, ma'am. You can wait inside if you want. The door is open and there are plenty of empty seats. But I hope you can help me. Sister Mary Clarence can't go out like this. She desperately needs a little make-up. Do you have anything in your purse that might make her… presentable?"
The old lady opens her purse and supplies a dark red lipstick, purple eyeshadow, rouge for the cheeks, black for the eyelashes and even a pair of dark sunglasses. Sister Mary Clarence lets it all happen with an expression as being tortured by the Spanish Inquisition.
"You're not black, Sister Mary Clarence; you're coloured. We just give you a little more colour. What do you think, ma'am? Can she smile at an innocent man without giving him a heart attack?"
The old lady looks with a critical eye and decides: "It would be an idea if she would stand a little closer to her razor the next time she shaves her face, but I think for now it will do. For nuns, it's acceptable when they are a little ugly, my dear. If you would be beautiful, you would become a singer in Las Vegas instead of a nun."
We thank her and cross the street.
With a jovial smile, I walk to Mister Lafitte's table, grab his hand and greet him like we're old friends: "Monsieur Lafitte. Je suis désolé que nous soyons en retard. Voulez-vous nous parler? Je suis le Père Brown et c'est Sœur Mary Clementine."
Mister Lafitte is surprised to see us. His body language explains the urgent matters he has to discuss, but he'd like to do that in private: just me, him and the Lord. I change to English: "I guess that what you have to tell me is not a public matter. I understand. It's better if we speak English, so the waiter and the other guests can't overhear your confession. On such a splendid day it would be a waste to go inside, don't you think? How long since your last confession, my son?"
My direct approach overwhelms Monsieur Lafitte. He doesn't know what to say. The work of a spy is just the opposite: let others do the talking and limit yourself to listening. Our work is to collect information, not to give it. But there's that old police trick of giving a finger to take an entire hand. It's time-consuming, it needs dedication, concentration and patience, but I have a faint feeling that it might be the best approach here. I have to keep the initiative, do the talking, give away some information we already have to hope for the bigger prize, like a fisherman who uses a little fish to catch a big one.
"24 years since your last confession, Antoine? You don't mind if I call you Antoine, do you? 24 years is a long time, mon cher. A man can do 100 million bad things in 24 years. Perhaps it's best to start with yesterday. Tell me, and Him, about your sins of the last 24 hours."
The «100 million bad things»-remark causes a flash of horror in Antoine's eyes. I'm on the right track. First, I have to put him at ease, make sure he trusts me. There is no need to hurry. Keep the conversation going, push it away from the subject, and pull it back in, and let it slip away again, fighting that big fish on your hook.
"You were right to come here to me, to your emotional rescue. I am your saviour, steadfast and true. I hope you don't mind that Sister Mary Clarice assists me. She's still an innocent novice who needs to learn about evil and greed and all the other deadly sins. She's very good at keeping her mouth shut, by the way: the rebels in Sierra Leone cut out her tongue after they raped her when she was 12 years old…"
Sister Mary Claire shows that she learnt the language of the hand and the feet to make clear what she wants. With a naughty but innocent flirt, she draws the attention of the handsome waiter and, with the menu in her hand, she makes it clear what's missing on our little table.
I continue my sermon: "The Lord told us your sins. The Lord told us this morning that you would come to us with your head full of sorrow and pain about promises you never meant to keep. The Lord said that your wife, your beautiful wife Nicole, and your two precious daughters, Nina and Chloe, are not around to help you carry the burden of your sins. He knew you were on your way to us for the consolation and forgiveness that you so deeply need. The only thing The Lord could not tell us was the exact time of your arrival; that's why we were a little late."
Mon cher Antoine is sceptical about all this divine wisdom: "The Lord knows an awful lot. Does The Lord work for Interpol?"
"No, I was talking about the L.O.R.D., the Locator Of Real Desperation app, developed by The Vatican to make it easier for us to find every desperate soul who urgently needs our help. The official name is in Latin, of course: Locatelli Operandi Ratatouille Desperados."
The waiter, who returns to our table with plates, napkins, knives and forks, hears that last word: "Desperados? Three?"
"Yes, please. With a slice of lemon."
The waiter nods and runs off, to return two seconds later with three bottles of beer which are so cold that there's ice on the outside. Sister Mary Clementine and I lift our bottles and encourage our French friend to have a Mexican drink with us, a priest with an English name from Luxembourg and a Russian-born nun from Sierra Leone, on the terrace of an Italian restaurant in a Swiss town. He lifts his bottle, we clang and we let the cold drink find its way through our thirsty throats. I say: "Nasdrovia!", to complete the international aperitif of our early lunch, and to put another link on the table to the secret deal of last night that's worrying Mister Lafitte so much.
"We should celebrate, my dear Antoine. Life is short and you never know who will crucify you next Sunday. Did you know that Jesus himself was a notorious drinker? It's in the Bible: during the last supper, he buys a round of wine and explains to his students: «This is my blood». Our modern leaders try to convince us it's not permitted to drive when we have 0,05% of alcohol in our blood, but Jesus confessed that his blood had the same healthy 12% of alcohol as the wine he offered to his friends. Therefore, you should not worry about any sin you committed when you were drunk because Jesus himself told us to follow his example."
I empty the bottle of Mexican beer and give it to our waiter, so the man doesn't have to walk back to the kitchen empty-handed after filling our table with a huge pizza, a plate of ravioli, a salad of tomatoes and mozzarella, a bowl of lasagna, a fantastic Cartoccio di Pesce Spada al Limone (swordfish with lemon, the big fish I referred to earlier), a bottle of white Lambrusco, a bottle of red Chianti and a candlestick with three burning candles.
I take the hand of Sister Mary Cannelloni in my right hand, the hand of mon cher Antoine in my left hand, close my eyes and perform the opening speech for the upcoming battle against all the good that the Roman culture has brought us, hoping we will forget what they did to the Son of God: "My dearest beloved. Here we are gathered to celebrate together the glory and the wealth and the millions you gave us. We don't want to end like John the Baptist with our head on a plate. We prefer to live like Augustin, who loved women, wine and song, and all those special pleasures of doing something wrong. I say Yeah… I mean, Amen."
"Amen.", repeats Antoine. I let the hand of Sister Mary Poppins go, but hold Antoine's hand firmly and move it into the burning flame of one of the candles. Antoine is deeply hurt by my kind demonstration: "AU! Are you crazy? You made me burn my hand."
"Wasn't it written in Babylon Bridges 97:2? «And you can stand the torture, And you can stand the pain, You can put your faith in Jesus, When you're burning in the flame». The Lord doesn't want you to suffer, Antoine. He guided my hand so you could feel for just a tiny moment and just on one tiny spot how it feels to burn in the flames of hell. The Lord doesn't want you to suffer that pain on your whole body, surface and intestines, for eternity. Do you have any idea how long eternity is, my son? Imagine how long it will take before París Saint-Germain will win the Champions League. Divide that by two and you're pretty close to Eternity. Can you imagine the pain to burn for eternity? Can you imagine that in Hell, they will never run out of coal, oil and Russian natural gas? When you get there, you'll see «This entertainment was sponsored by Gazprom» on every billboard. But this wasn't a taste of the tortures of Hell. This was the moment when you should see the light. Jesus hit you with a blinding light: he gave you the chance to begin your life again, without the burden of the money that you stole. You should give it to the church, so we can take care of the poor raped children of Sierra Leone. Now let me break the bread and let me pour the wine, in memory of Him who taught us to share and eat together, and let us stay silent until dessert because it's not polite to speak with your mouth full."
I stand up, break the bread, the pizza in this case, and put a slice on everyone's plate. Then I take the wine, the red one, because we're talking about bloodshed here, and fill our glasses. After this beautiful tradition, I add a little of my own too: I take the remainder of the pizza in one hand, the half-empty bottle in the other and say aloud in French: "Is there anyone here who is hungry? I say Yeah. If you want to share in the wealth of a faithful servant of the Lord who has more than enough to pay for the meal of everyone who's hungry, I say Yeah. From now on, the church will not only spread the word; it will also act as written, by giving food to the hungry and shelter to the homeless. I invite you all to come, eat and drink as much as you can, and all this, thanks to our friend here, Saint Antoine, who will pay for everything."
On the other side of the street a homeless couple hears my speech, they stare at us as if we're goldfish in a glass bowl, they stare at each other as if they can't believe their own eyes, turn into believers after seeing my kind and encouraging smile, follow the gestured invitations of Sister Mary Taylor Moore who guides them to a table, and smile at the waiter who hurries to welcome his new clients. Their joy is heart-warming. They take their mobile phones out of their rags and start calling all their homeless friends to tell them about the miracle they just witnessed: there were only one pizza and one plate of fish, and like a miracle, now there is enough to feed a whole town. Ten seconds later it's on Facebook and Twitter, and then it takes only minutes until all the homeless of Geneva join our holy celebration. People sit on the pavement, occupy the street, sit on the bonnets of the parked cars and we all enjoy this Beggar's Banquet in deadly silence, afraid for the moment to come, after the tiramisu has disappeared, after the coffee has been served, the moment of truth, the moment that will be recorded on fifteen hundred mobile phones in the hands of fifteen hundred tramps, drifters, homeless, mistreated human beings who are all convinced that it's impossible that anyone can have so much money that he's able to pay the bill of this celebration.
Saint Antoine has been silent during lunch, in deep meditation about everything that happened, trying to be strong, but unable to uphold the image at the moment of truth, the moment of which everybody is waiting, the moment when the waiter comes to our table with a slip of paper of almost two metres long: the bill.
"Brother Antoine. The moment of truth is here."
Brother Antoine mutters, in an ultimate, desperate attempt to sell his soul and save his bank account: "You'll never make a Saint of me…"
I grab his hand, bow to him and say softly: "Isn't there anything I can say, anything I can do to change your mind? Come to your emotional rescue, Antoine. This whole thing is now live on YouTube and if you refuse, the rest of your life will be a hell on earth for you. I'm your friend. I'm here to help you. You have it in you. Now be brave and show it to us!"
A small teardrop falls from the eye of Antoine Lafitte. I think I hear an angel cry, but before I can lift my head, Antoine straightens his face and stands up like a king. The crowd falls silent. The traffic stops. Even the ever-present buzz of the air conditioning holds its breath.
Antoine speaks loud and clear: "I do believe in miracles and I want to save my soul and I am indeed a sinner, I will die here in the cold… but I say Yeah, I'm going to pay this bill and I say Yeah, I have a platinum credit card with three diamonds that allows me to spend so much money all at once."
He takes his hand out of the inner pocket of his dark blue jacket and shows the miracle to the world: "I say Yeah!"
The world sees the miracle, the power of more money than anyone present can make in hor entire life, and all cheer in chorus: "YEAH!"
I look at Sister Mary Clarence, Sister Mary Clarence looks at me, and we both do a perfect imitation of that stupid grin that made a guy named Rostov famous. A banker who invites the poor for lunch… The world is still capable of miracles. All we have to do is believe in them. This one will hit the nine o'clock news as The Mass of The Masses. But Rostov reminds me with a brief gesture that we're on a mission, not on a missionary, and he's right: we did all this work to crack Mister Lafitte and make him tell us the truth about what happened yesterday evening.
I stand up, put my hand on the banker's arm, whisper: "Come with me.", and guide him through the standing ovation towards the entrance of the empty church. Sister Mary Christmas closes the doors behind us and stays at a respectful distance when Mister Lafitte and I walk through the main aisle of the solemn building, climb the stairs and sit down on the table that fills the centre of the stage.
I point at the cross above our heads and say: "The Lord knows what you did, so you should not be afraid and confess. If you're honest, he'll forgive you, but if you try to lie to Him, He'll put all the facts on WikiLeaks."
Antoine is in pain. But he's in doubt too. There's only one way that I can solve this matter. I stand up, put my hand on his shoulder, say: "Don't tell me.", point with my other hand up and say: "Tell him." Then I retreat from the scene without looking back.
Antoine follows me with his eyes until I stand next to Sister Mary Clarence at the entrance of the church, but then he turns around, looks up to the man on the cross, kneels, folds his hands, bows his head and starts to confess.
"I can't hear a thing of what he says.", Rostov whispers.
"I have to confess: neither do I."
"How did you know how to crack him?"
I think about Rostov's question. The truth is: I didn't know. If you want to find a weak spot in someone else's character, you have to know this person a lot better than I know Monsieur Lafitte.
"I was lucky, I guess. This man is a leader, the head of a big organization with lots of power and lots of responsibility. Leaders used to have a tradition of being a good example for the people they lead. Knights, Chevaliers and Caballeros were called «nobles» in a time when that word meant showing fine personal qualities, high moral standards and excellent behaviour. In the world of animals, the leaders were just the monkeys on top of the rock, the strongest animals of the tribe with the biggest chances to survive. In the world of humans, the nobles were the gentlemen who stood above the infantry, the ones who protected the old, the poor and the weak, the knights who defended the honour of innocent virgins, the individuals who were superior in human qualities like sacrifice, honesty, fidelity, bravery and generosity.
» In our modern society, our examples are different: we have politicians, captains of industry and famous entertainers like film stars, singers, athletes or football players. They care little about other people. All they care about is themselves, their image and their bank account. You said it yourself: your boss orders you to keep the clients stupid, so it's easier to milk the money out of their pockets. My boss sent me on a mission to serve and protect leaders who give the world an example that only the most ruthless, selfish and greedy people can reach the top. If Monsieur Lafitte would have been such a man, he would never kneel for a Higher Power. He would think that he himself is a God, like that countryman of him, Louis XIV, who compared himself to the sun. Too much power, too much money or too much fame is bad for everyone, not only for the person who has it, but also for the ones who gave him that power, wealth or fame. We were lucky, Rostov. Monsieur Lafitte is one of the last Chevaliers."
Rostov thinks about it and whispers back: "We are not lucky at all. If we were lucky, we would hear what he is saying right now. We started this whole sister act to find out what happened, but so far we still have no idea. Do you think Mister Lafitte stole the suitcase from me? Do you think he kidnapped or perhaps even killed Mister Nikolai? I have little practical experience in this work, but based on what I learnt from the movies, I would say that he doesn't fit the profile."
"He doesn't fit the profile. But he did something horrible. He needs a lot of time to tell all the details to his judge."
We stand and wait in silence for a while.
I ask Rostov: "How late is it?"
Rostov struggles with his habit and asks: "Doesn't your own phone have a clock on it?"
"It does, but my phone lies under the bible on the altar, recording the entire conversation between God and Mister Lafitte. Why do you think I leave him alone with his confessions?"
Rostov grins and goes on with his struggle. It takes him minutes to fish his mobile phone out of the pocket of the trousers he's wearing under his heavy penguin outfit: "Almost one o'clock. Why?"
"We have to be back at the hotel at one. I have to serve lunch for the guests with full pension service. And we have to get out of these clothes too, but we'll have to wait until we said goodbye to His Holiness Saint Antoine. The man is on his knees so long that I fear he can't get up anymore. Shall I go to him and ask if everything is okay?"
Monsieur Lafitte gives the answer: he stands up, crosses his heart several times and walks away from the altar. The impressive temple and the ancient values where it stands for had a purifying effect on his mood. When he passes us on his way out, he shakes the hand of Sister Mary Clarence, then my hand, and whispers: "Thank you, Father. You were right. Thank you very much for your advice."
He wants to leave, but I don't let go without one last piece of advice: "Good advice is expensive, my son. Words don't mean a thing if you don't practice what you preach."
Monsieur Lafitte tortures his memories, searching for the author of those holy words, and doubts: "Was it Moses who said that? Or are these words from the book of Revelations?"
"Saint Johnny Winter in the psalm «Talk Is Cheap»."
"I'll make a donation… A big one."
I whisper my goodbye: "Thank you, my son."
Sister Mary Clarence gives her best wishes too: "May the Force be with you.", but Monsieur Lafitte is too impressed to realise the miracle: a nun, whose tongue was cut out by rapists in Sierra Leone, got her speech back again.
We close the doors behind our French banker, lock them with the key, pull our habits over our head, and return to our characters of the South African banker and his coloured servant. When I listen at the door of the private parts of the priest, their little adventure is reaching the climax of the last chapter of the trilogy, so the dearly beloved probably never noticed that their clothes went out for a walk. We leave the church and hurry back to the hotel, with the earphones of my spiPhone in our ears, eager to hear what Monsieur Lafitte had told his counsellor:
"I couldn't help it. It just happened. She was so beautiful and so willing, and she whispered in my ear so sweet… I couldn't resist. She made me feel the best lover in the world. She adored me. She said she wanted me more than anything. But it was just one night, and when I woke up this morning, she was gone. I've searched everywhere, but I can't find her. So… They say that God knows everything… Every time she whispered «Oh, my God, I'm coming», so I thought your father knows her pretty well; perhaps she's a fallen angel or something… Could you please ask your father if He can tell me where I can find her? … Or text me her phone number? … Mail me her email address? … The link to her Instagram account or her Facebook page would also be a highly appreciated token of good faith. I promise to watch from now on God Channel and Bible TV each Sunday night. It was real love, you know. Of course, the sex was fantastic too, I've never made love before until half-past six in the morning, she was an animal and I didn't want to disappoint her, but it was the love we felt for each other that made the sex so great…"