22 ...

A faint "ping" announced to Bandone that he had received an email. He swung around in his chair, tapped once to open it and was quiet for a moment. 

"Tenente. One problem has been solved, I think. This is from the Carabinieri who were called to investigate the disappearance of 'Monet' from the Hotel Domus Romana. They've arrested a suspect. He had a fake beard and some period clothing in a backpack. Turns out this guy is a failed artist who likes to impersonate his heroes. He's done this sort of thing in several other cities in Europe. The photo we received earlier was a best guess, as the concierge swore that the suspect looked identical to Monet, whose picture he had seen in many art books. That's why we didn't have a positive I.D. earlier. Anyway, we don't have to worry about a kidnapping, it seems."

"Well that at least is good news," added Marchese. "Now, David, we'll let you get on with this other thing, and will expect to hear from you by the end of the day." He stood, signalling that the interview was over.

Newkirk rose from his chair, lost in thought, but smiling feebly. "Thank you, Tenente. I can use some fresh air. I need to clear my head."

"Paolo, please escort Signore Newkirk to the street entrance and hail a taxi for him." He turned to Newkirk, his hand extended. "Thank you for you cooperation, David. This is my card. I'll expect your call."

Returning to the office, Bandone sat down again at his computer and found the file that contained the early morning recording of the five men in the Sistine Chapel. Out of simple curiosity, he opened the file and pressed 'play.' Newkirk appeared as before. The others were nowhere to be seen.

*

That night, Newkirk issued the same mysterious invitation that, the previous September, had resulted in the big event in Venice. This time, he urgently advised everyone to meet at the church of San Pietro in Vincoli the next morning. 

Nave of San Pietro in Vincoli, Rome

Marchese had arranged with church officials to have the site closed to the public for the morning. He also enlisted the help of the Carabinieri in setting up a perimeter that could be monitored easily as the expected guests arrived and left.

At 7 a.m. on the morning of June 1st, Marchese and Bandone approached Newkirk where he stood alone to the right of the altar, staring at Michelangelo's Moses.

"Good morning, Signori." Again Newkirk shook hands with the two Guardia officers. "I'm sorry you missed everyone, but it all went well."

Taken completely by surprise, Marchese and Bandone exchanged glances. "What do you mean, we missed everyone?" asked Marchese.

"I suggested to them that an early start would be most discreet, so they arrived at 6 this morning, more or less, and everyone left just a few minutes ago."

Still puzzled, Marchese offered, "But the Carabinieri have been here since 4 a.m. They would have seen anyone entering or exiting. I was told that you arrived alone at about 5:30, and that no one else has entered since that time." Now all three seemed confused.

"But of course that's not possible, Tenente. I issued my invitation. They came. They left. It's as simple as that."

"Then how do you explain the fact that twenty highly trained policemen and women saw no one but you enter the church?"

Newkirk slumped against the iron railing that surrounded the sculpture. He remained silent for a long time, staring at the floor.

Finally he spoke. "Tenente. This place was packed. Are you telling me that no one else saw the hundreds of artists who came here this morning?"

"That is precisely what I'm saying, David ... Are you feeling well?"

Slow to respond and sagging even more, Newkirk said, "Oh yes. I'm fine. At least I think I'm fine." Another long pause. "It's me. It's just me, I guess."

"What do you mean, David?"

"I don't know. Maybe I am crazy. Maybe this is the grand delusion of a madman – harmless, I think, but also insane? No one sees these artists but me?"

"There is the small matter of our having recorded Michelangelo, Raphael, Bernini and Picasso with you in the Sistine Chapel. Are we all insane? Explain this please."

Bandone now reluctantly entered the conversation. "Tenente, I am sorry. I hoped that everything would be clear this morning. I neglected to tell you that I reviewed the tape from the Sistine last night. Only Newkirk appears. The others are not there. I can't figure it out."

Marchese's jaw dropped. Before he could respond, Newkirk uttered a single word ...

"Ghosts."

The other two took a step back from Newkirk. Marchese crossed himself, muttering "Dio mio." What was it that registered on their faces at that moment? Fear? Superstition?Disbelief?

"What more likely place is there in the world to see ghosts, if there are such things?" asked Newkirk. "And for a moment, they revealed themselves to you, as well as to me. Do you have a better explanation?" He looked at each of the policemen in turn. They were still dumbstruck. "Look," he continued, "until now, this whole thing – from Venice to the Sistine – it has all been mine: my metaphor, my fantasy, my hallucination. Call it what you wish. I told you that I felt the presence of these masters while I worked in my studio, and they are still with me. I suppose I have projected their presence, their influence into situations where they seem to fit. The fact that you too saw several of them – if you still believe that you saw them – I think it just means that one cannot dismiss their powerful presence in Rome, even though that presence may not actually be physical in nature. You were both sufficiently convinced of what you saw that you had me picked up by the Swiss Guard and delivered to your doorstep by the Carabinieri. That is hard to discount, don't you think? Are we all crazy? We keep asking that question. I think the answer is no, we are not crazy." The three exchanged nervous glances; their shared anxiety was palpable.

Bandone turned to cover a nervous cough and quite by accident … he farted. In that vast, marbled nave. 

Silence and looks of horror lasted for 4 seconds. And on 5, unrestrained hilarity exploded (as well). The three laughed so hard that they needed the support of walls and railings to remain standing. None could see clearly for the tears streaming down his cheeks. 

"Stop! Stop! Please ... it hurts ... I can't catch my breath ..." escaped one spitting, drooling mouth after another. Then, induced by the powerful laughter, a burst of 'aftershocks' shook Bandone, and all hope was lost of regaining anything that resembled composure. The three fell to the floor, and sat or lay there wiping away the tears, alternately quieting and bursting helplessly anew into giggles and brash laughter until a priest appeared from somewhere. With much trial and error, a fanfare of hearty guffaws, and streams of staccato 'tut-tuts' the priest finally was able to shoo the three offenders out of the church as they continued to struggle with their laughter.

Sunlight, and twenty staring and incredulous Carabinieri seemed to have a sobering effect. Newkirk, Bandone and Marchese stood gazing through the arches and over the pavement and the police cars. The air was cool and fresh. A small flock of birds circled overhead in a clear blue sky. All seemed right with the world, and apparently the universe, as Pierre Trudeau once suggested, was unfolding as it should. Reality or imagination? The debate was irrelevant for the moment. Calm returned, and the three stood quietly pondering their recent conversation.

Marchese broke the silence. "Alora. David, as you explained, this ... whatever this is ... it is yours. Maybe Paolo and I shared in it for a moment; maybe we did not." He shrugged, and his hands flew through several eloquent gestures as only Italian hands can do. "My advice? Don't worry about it; enjoy it. This is a gift for you, carrying these passengers of yours. How many others would like to have such feelings to cherish? Get back to your conversations with these people for whom you have such respect. Forget about us, and although I doubt that we shall forget about you, there is no reason for us to involve ourselves in your, uh, your ongoing metaphor ... your conversations. And believe me, this is far from the strangest thing we have seen in our years as policemen, eh Paolo?" He was smiling broadly now.

"È vero, Tenente."

“I’m curious, though,” Marchese continued. “What happens to these people when they are not with you? Have you ever asked one of them about just how they experience these things?”

Newkirk looked at the pavement, took a deep breath and answered. “I have, in fact. When we were in Venice, I had a moment alone with the great Diego Velázquez – such a charming and gracious man, and a giant of a painter of course. Anyway, I did ask him that very question. He smiled and shrugged, and said that in his case at least, his experience of time was seamless. He had no idea when or how he apparently shifted from his own time to ours, or vice versa, or if he were in both places simultaneously. When he found himself at home in the 17^th century, he had no memory of this adventure in the 21^st, although when he was here, memories of his real life were entirely intact. He laughed, and added that if too many dreamers were to summon him to other times and places, he’d never get any work done. “But how am I to be certain that it’s not happening all the time?” he chuckled. Frankly, I doubt that the artists who were here early this morning have any clearer understanding of this thing than you or I.”

Marchese retrieved a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, and offered it to each of the others in turn. Both declined. He shrugged, and smiled again. "I too have almost quit. Almost. Now I have a cigarette perhaps three times a week. That's big progress for a man who smoked three packs a day for many years, no?" He lit up and inhaled deeply. The others both felt a twinge of envy along with sympathy for Marchese's effort to quit. Smoke curled lazily upward in the still air. It smelled delicious.

*