While on the internet one night, she came across a photo of a face she’d long forgotten. In a way, nothing had changed. Now an archbishop, he was still wearing the cloak of the priesthood alongside the cloak of diplomatic wealth, and time had been good to him. She had never felt comfortable calling him Father. They were too close in age, and she was not a believer. But then again, Monsignor was a bit too formal, and Mr. O’Connell just did not strike the right intimate and friendly note. So it had to be Michael. It was probably too personal for the church gossips—it had raised an eyebrow or two—but she didn’t care, and neither, it appeared, did he.
They’d first met over an unlikely game of doubles tennis, at the British High Commissioner’s residence. She was on her way home from a war zone and needed a break, so Cairo it was. The day had been hot, gin and tonics all around; it was late afternoon and there was a subtle haze in the air, mostly from the terrible pollution that Cairo suffered. A typically dry and windy day for March, the winds stirring up great dust clouds that from time to time stopped their game altogether. Michael had come over to properly introduce himself as they changed sides after the first game—she’d arrived slightly late and knew everyone else.
“Margaret, this is Father Michael O’Connell—he’s with the Papal See here in town.” The HC, an elderly bachelor friend of her family whose house guest she was, had done the intros.
“Why hello,” she’d said shyly as their eyes met.
This priest was terribly good-looking, in a clichéd, Irish priest sort of way—you know, black hair, piercing blue eyes, lilting accent and the like. She caught herself up short with that thought, the man was a priest after all, but what a strange priest.
She didn’t expect a priest to be wearing designer tennis clothes, drinking cocktails, and playing sports; perhaps the Vatican was more relaxed here in Africa with their diplomatic missions: sort of a laissez-faire attitude, she mused. She had heard tales of local African Catholic priests deep in the bush who had wives and children, but the Papal See was something else altogether.
“How long are you here for?” Father O’Connell said, smiling, interrupting her reverie.
Margaret thoughtfully twirled the racket in her hands. “Oh, I guess a week or two,” she replied.
“Well then, I’ll see you around. We can play some more tennis,” and he walked back onto the court.
Margaret hadn’t thought much of this meeting at first, except that she remembered him as slightly out of shape and pampered. After the match, the next day he called and invited her for a cup of the thick black coffee that everyone was so fond of drinking in the Middle East. They arranged to meet at a local tea shop, and she was surprised to find him again in street clothes, happily smoking one of the nargiles.
“Don’t you look right at home!” she said, laughing.
“How do you think I should look?” he replied playfully.
She shrugged, “I don’t know. It’s a bit confusing.”
“My world is a world of nuance,” he said. “The basic tenets of the Bible are there for all to see, so when people come to me it’s for interpretation of Canonical law. The problems of everyday life are never black and white, and whether I’m in my formal vestments or not doesn’t change how I’ll respond. But our interests are the same in some ways, you and I—for me, the focus is on divine justice, and for you it is earthly justice.”
“I hadn’t quite thought of it that way,” Margaret replied.
He put down the nargile and handed her a small cup of coffee. “I came from a very poor family where going into the priesthood was the only chance for a decent life,” he said. “We had absolutely nothing, and I was a bright youngster, so my parents insisted. The first year at the seminary was difficult but gradually I came to understand that I now had a new family. I chose law and diplomatic life because it’s so different from the small town in Ireland where I grew up. I like the stimulation of being in different countries, and the luxury. But quite frankly, as I’ve grown older, I guess I also see it as a way to deny my mortality. I grow older here but I’m not as aware of it since there are so many distractions. But I do know that when I finally return home to Ireland one day, I’ll be coming back to die.”
“I understand about mortality, Michael,” she said. “I see death all the time and being in a new place helps me to forget about it, at least for a while, and be happy in the present. I’m glad I stopped off here—meeting you has been really nice.”
* * *
They played a lot of tennis the next week, and swam in the pool. It was a comfortable, easy friendship; so relaxed that they would often sneak off and get stoned together to listen to The Bhundu Boys from Zimbabwe and maqam music, giggling like school children. Their friendship flirted with sex but the mantle of divinity kept both of them in check. Other sensual pleasures were almost as good: food, wine, drugs, sports. She’d witnessed a lot of death and he was bound by vows—so in a way, they were mirrors of each other in their desire to escape certain mortal truths about the urgency of living.
Michael called one day to ask her to his home for dinner. Margaret wondered what the evening might hold. On the way to his house with the driver he’d sent, she noticed that even the palm trees in Egypt had a certain sort of dignified composure, recreating the Arab landscapes of the Middle East. Mostly tall, and slender with feathery tops, they did not resemble their Latin cousins in the Caribbean whose broad, lush leaves enticed one to take sensuous refuge underneath, as their trunks leaned lasciviously over the pristine beaches of virgin sand. She grinned to herself. Belly-dancing traditions aside, there clearly was a certain decorum here in Cairo, not to be found further south.
The beauty of his home was surprising—no shacks for the Pope’s priestly diplomats. Tucked away behind very tall gates, the space was an oasis of serenity and calm. The villa itself was built with fine Italian marble and its interior was filled with the very best antiques and old master paintings. Michael had come a long way indeed, she mused.
He came to greet her from another room, dressed in a fine cotton djellaba, embroidered with various Berber motifs.
“This was a gift from one of my parishioners who travels here for mass on Sundays from very far away,” he said proudly. “Isn’t it lovely?”
She nodded.
“Please, let’s have some champagne, and then dinner will be served,” he said, graciously leading her towards a large living room.
“We’re fairly freewheeling behind closed doors,” he admitted as they sat down. “When the diplomatic bag arrives every Thursday, with all sorts of tedious bureaucratic requests, my boss has been known to shout various four-letter words into the winds towards the general direction of Rome before uncorking a bottle of very fine wine and getting quite drunk.
And I’ve been known to leave the office myself sometimes, burdened with endless memos from the Vatican, and as the door shuts behind me, I turn and slap my arm in that great obscene way that only Italians have when they want to let off steam and give offense.” He chuckled. “That’s why all this…” he gestured around him, “makes putting up with the rest of it worthwhile.”
She smiled slowly as she looked around. “I guess you might as well enjoy it now, because we both know that the kingdom of heaven belongs to the poor, right? Where do you think you’ll be then?”
It was an awkward moment, but he laughed it off. “I had enough poverty in my childhood to last a lifetime. But perhaps one day I’ll have come full circle, who knows?”
The table had been set by his Egyptian manservant, not in the formal dining room, but in a cozy eating area filled with fragrant plants, bordering French doors that had been opened onto a large patio and the cool night air.
“What a charming space,” Margaret commented as he led her in.
“I’m glad you like it. This is where I usually eat,” he replied.
His cook had gone all out and prepared a great variety of Mediterranean and North African dishes for them to enjoy. Margaret was quite overwhelmed.
“Look at all this! Is this how you normally eat?” she asked, incredulous.
“Oh no,” he replied. “I did this for you. I usually eat much more simply. But I learned many things during my seminary years. You see, my time in Rome was not wasted. Those were great years. We had regular hours. We ate fabulously. We got to flirt with beautiful women like yourself.” He grinned at her astonishment.
“But you’re supposed to be priests,” she said, somewhat primly.
“Oh, really?” he laughed at her. “We are! But if you’re not a man first, Margaret, how can you know how to be a priest? A little innocent flirtation now and then was harmless, at least for most of us back then. And many of my friends found they wanted to marry so they dropped out. But they had an extremely difficult time. Even for the most special woman, they found that they could not always leave the priesthood overnight. They are very different worlds.”
He stopped talking and looked at her in silence.
“And what about yourself,” she asked, summoning her courage. “Haven’t you ever wanted any children, or the companionship of a woman?”
“Of course,” he said, “but one must make a decision. And then a commitment. For without the ability to do that much, you’re worth nothing. My commitment has been to the church. If it is God’s will that such a commitment should change, then so be it. But I don’t look for it, and I’ve been quite happy so far.”
She blushed suddenly, feeling as if this speech had been an apologia meant for her alone.
“Come,” he said, taking her arm gently. “Let’s go outside.”
They sat in silence next to one another, sipping their wine, looking at the stars twinkle in the black, North African sky. Before long, they’d finished the bottle and had started on a second.
They were both a little drunk when he suddenly turned to her and asked, “Margaret, what do you want from me?”
She turned to him. “I want a world where men do not beat, rape or murder women,” she replied. “Someone like you represents decency, care, and safety, and I have to admit that I’m a little in love with that. Men really cannot understand the deep biological need women have for safety. It comes from a very real place. I’ve just traveled from a war zone where horrible things happened, and if I see a man I feel good with, there’s nothing more I would like right now than to be safe in his arms.”
It was Michael’s turn to blush.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she continued. “You asked me a direct question, and I replied honestly. But I fully understand your choice in the world, and would never do anything to try and change that. But the desire is there.”
“Yes, I understand that, I do…” he said, slowly leaning toward her.
At that moment Michael’s Egyptian manservant came out to the patio with a silver tray of mint tea and small petit fours.
“Oh, that looks delicious,” Margaret said, relieved by the change of subject. “Thank you.”
Eating an elaborate chocolate petit four, she discovered at its centre a strong curried filling. What a perfect metaphor for Egypt, she thought, clothed in a creamy, frosted Western guise, but at the centre was always an Eastern flavour.
“I’ll ask my driver to take you home,” Michael said abruptly. “It’s getting late.”
She nodded.
The streets of Cairo were filled with the poor, sleeping on the pavement. She was embarrassed to be in the huge silver Mercedes, and shrank down pretending to sleep. Soon she was back at the High Commissioner’s home and the heavy gates opened to let her in.
That Sunday she got a chance to see Michael at the local church. It was the Feast of the Annunciation, and waffles were served after the mass. She had always seen him relaxed, in street clothing, so this change into his liturgical vestments was startling and gave him a kind of stern authority that he hadn’t previously possessed. In his vestments, she saw him as a priest, untouchable and deeply revered by his parish, even if he did have the inevitable glass of booze in his hand after the mass was over.
She had stopped off there to say goodbye. Her next assignment was already waiting. He saw her coming and walked over.
“It’s time,” she said, gazing at him.
Michael nodded. Lingering, he held her hand in his, lightly, and kissed her in the Italian way, on both cheeks.
Margaret could smell his lovely aftershave mixed in with the brandy.
“I will see you again one day, I am sure,” he said, ever the diplomat. But they both knew that this was just a pleasant sort of social promise, albeit with a hint of real affection, delivered in public—and nothing more.
Karen Petersen has published poems and short stories, both nationally and internationally. Her poems have been translated into Persian and Spanish, and she has been nominated for numerous prizes, including ten Pushcarts, and most recently long-listed for the UK’s international Bridport Prize, Forward Prize, and Australia’s Peter Porter Prize. In 2022, her chapbook Trembling, published by Kelsay Books, won the Wil Mills Award, judged by Annie Finch, and her poem “The Price of Love” was nominated for Best of the Net. New work is in The Wallace Stevens Journal, and The Cimarron Review. Her next chapbook Wamponomon: The Place of Shells is now out with Finishing Line Press. https://karenpetersenwriter.com
