Rain poured down on another wet Wednesday in Seattle.  The church bells of St Benedict’s rang in the distance to let the good (and bad) folks of Fremont know it was time for morning Mass.  Father Enzo Vannino ushered his flock and anyone else he could find, inside as the rain poured out of the guttering of the surrounding houses and onto the streets below.

“Come in, come in.  All are welcome.  Come on in.  Stay for some tea.”

The wooden floor squeaked and squelched as the water dripped down from coats and hats as the parishioners and people from the street mingled.  Father Vannino had lived in the city for forty years since his graduation from the seminary in Rome.  He still spoke with a thick Italian accent after all these years but when his Italian family arrived they laughed at his American twang.  Years on the liberal west coast had hardened his views on many things however irrelevant…inserting himself into arguments just to test the faith of those who sought his guidance.  He was best known for enjoying a drink at the Bell’s End across the road from his church.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we will begin our services shortly, let me get these good men and women a warm drink to make them comfortable.”

Father Vannino shuffled off to find his housemaid, Mrs Pizzilatto…a diminutive momma…first generation immigrant from the centre of Naples.  She had worked for Father Vannino for years after the death of her husband brought them together.  She tended to his meals, visitors and friends.  She would help him with his sermons and sometimes, when visitors started questioning the more controversial thoughts and opinions of Father Vannino she could be relied upon to stoke an argument long after tempers were calming.  Father Vannino reached the stairs at the bottom of the entrance to his quarters and he shouted

“Mrs Pizzilatto….MRS PIZZILATTO!  Can you come to the vestry please?”

He heard the soft steps of slippered feet coming down the stairs and the quiet Italian voice piping up

“Si?”

“Mrs Pizzilatto, could you make these poor wretched souls some tea.  Maybe a pot of soup if we have some.”

She nodded

“Si padre” and headed up the stairs to the kitchen.

Vannino shuffled back to the small crowd not noticing the presence of Don Corretta who had come into the vestry as the rain poured down once more.  Removing his hat and shaking the water off back into the street the don shook hands with several of the men and women.  The don was here to pay his respects to Father Vannino on his long service to the people of Fremont.

“You are welcome to come in to my service, please.  Let the word of the Lord enter your hearts and set you free.”

A couple of the crowd sat down on the cold pews, their wet clothes sticking to the varnished wood as Vannino walked slowly to the alter and started the service.

“Today’s reading, taken from Exodus 20:13 discusses life as we know it in these times and the case of murder we have in these streets.  Murder is a horrible crime against God and against one’s fellow man.  It may be the greatest offence of all given the enormity of death and what follows thereafter.  Now the 6th commandment says “Thou shalt not kill.” this means though shalt not murder.  While all murder is killing but not all killing is murder.  Those who engage in brutality and atrocities are murderers...”

The ears of some of those in the vestry pricked up.  While Father Vannino had a reputation for his forthright views he had always taken care to tread a fine line between pontification and causing offence…quick to use a defence of “these are merely a humble soul’s interpretation of my father’s words”.

“…God controls the exit of man from life and murder intrudes into God’s business. How do we insulate ourselves?  The solution is simple.  Unconditional love and absolute forgiveness.  Whoever you are angry at needs to be forgiven and that anger released.  It is better to suffer some injury than to be guilty of murder, even if it only hurting you.”

Vannino shuffled down and blessed the congregation as they stood and walked out to the vestry to greet the people as they left to have some tea and warming soup.  The last to rise was Don Corretta who placed a small roll of twenty dollar bills into the collection basket as he left.

“Padre, another very good sermon.  Quite…revealing don’t you think?”

The don steered Father Vannino to the side of the room.

“Oh Don Corretta, I did not see you come in.  Come now, we are all men under the one sun.  I take the words of our father and lay them there for my flock to digest.  Some of us, are…”

He struggled to think of ways to placate the don

“…used to a…errr…more nuanced diet?  I understand that not all my sermon applies to everyone that may hear it.  Some may pick and choose how they interpret…”

“But murder padre, that is surely not open to interpretation?  You live or you are dead.  If you are dead, was it meant?  Are you saying that how these things are interpreted is not for the men and women to decide, it is for you and God to pass judgement?”

“Ah Don Corretta, you are not taking my words as they are intended, I merely take the teachings of my father and give my people a solution to a problem they may feel they have.”

“Your people?”

“My father’s children, my flock…my people.”

Don Corretta smiled,

“Ah padre, maybe we bust each other’s balls.  Come now, let me taste some of Mrs Pizzilatto’s famous soup.”

Father Vannino walked slowly round the neighbourhood in the early morning sunshine.  Breakfast in the café was ideal on a morning like this.  Mrs Pizzilatto had been given the morning off to attend a doctor’s appointment.  One evening, two weeks before, when Father Vannino had been discussing the fall of the Roman Empire at the hands of the Visigoths with old man Sorrisso the butcher, when she had blurted out that the feast of Saint Barnabus was coming up.

“Mrs Pizzilatto, that feast day was almost two weeks ago.  Remember we had Monsignor Altobelli here for supper.  You made us a spicy chicken pie?  Mr Sorrisso gave us the chicken.   We ate so much we could not eat for two days.  Do you remember?”

Mrs Pizzilatto mumbled about the monsignor talking nonsense.

“No Mrs Pizzilatto.  The monsignor was not talking nonsense.  He was here to discuss the plans for my elevation to canon after all these years as your simple parish priest.  Are you ok Mrs Pizzilatto?”

She stood and walked to the door.

“I must get some soap and wash your mouth out young man.  You are blaspheming and I will tell Monsignor Aldo and he will speak to you at confession.”

“Mrs Pizzilatto, you are mistaken.  Come and sit down…”

That had been two weeks before and the signs were not good.  Mrs Pizzilatto was constantly in a little world of her own.  She would attend the funerals of strangers, she would greet people in the streets as if they were long lost friends or argue with total strangers as if they had spoken badly of the dear departed Mr Pizzilatto.  She was a worry to her family and friends but was now seeing a doctor.

Father Vannino sat down with a coffee as the young waiter brought over a croissant and jam.

“How are you young man.  It’s going to be a lovely day today young man is it not?”

The waiter nodded.

“Father, I have something I would like to get your opinion on.  Should I ask Esmerelda the…”

“Can I stop you there my son.  Please.  Can you not see I am eating my breakfast?  I do not wish this warm croissant to get cold.  Please.”

The waiter nodded as the few customers looked at the situation and sighed.

“I’m sorry I…”

Father Vannino put the croissant into his mouth and raised his hand to stop the young man from talking.

After finishing his breakfast, Father Vannino took the café owner aside.

“Please Luigi.  That young man that spoke to me.  I do not like to be interrupted.  Please, I do not wish to see him around here again.”

“Padre, that is my nephew.  My sister’s boy.  What has he done?”

“He interrupted my thoughts on the weather with banality about a girl.  Please, while you may like the boy, if you cannot be rid of him I would like you at least to ensure he does not speak to me.”

“Certainly padre, I will scold him as you require.”

Don Corretta sat down to dinner with his wife Costanza and daughter Esmerelda.  Both his wife and daughter were the light of his life.  If anything were to befall them, his anger would know no bounds.  Even when Esmerelda had been a child, when young boys had teased her about the colour of her dress he had taken it upon himself to have each of them humiliated in the town square.

“How was your day Esmerelda?  I saw Luigi’s nephew this morning.  I hear things, some of these things I do not understand but I hear that he likes you.”

Esmerelda blushed.

“Father!  No.  Rodolfo and I are good friends.  We…study together, today we discussed the works of Oscar Wilde, a story about an artist and his painting of Dorian.  He did not say that he saw you though.  He was quite upset when we met today.  Father Vannino had requested that he no longer work at his uncle’s café.”

“Why was this.  What had he done?  Offended the padre?  Given him cold coffee and a stale breakfast?  Luigi is usually so good when it comes to service.”

“No father, he did nothing.  Father Vannino had engaged him in a discussion about how he was doing and the weather and when he started replying Father Vannino told him to stop.  Then when he left, he told Luigi to get rid of him.  He is a horrible man father.”

“Now now.  He is quirky for sure but that does not seem to be the man we see each Sunday.  Why, only last month we had a convivial discussion about the nature of life and death. Shall I see if something is bothering him?”

“No father.  Please.  I just want him to leave Rodolfo alone.”

Don Corretta ate his dinner in silence.  The pork and tomato sauce that his wife  made was always a delight but tonight the knot in his stomach at his daughter’s unhappiness did not have the meal sitting well.

Rodolfo and his uncle knocked on the door to Don Corretta’s study.

“Come in” boomed the voice from inside.

The two men walked in and paid only scant attention to the man sitting on a chair in the corner.  Corretta motioned them to sit down on the seats opposite him.

“Please, Rodolfo, can you explain what has happened with you and Father Vannino?”

Rodolfo proceeded to tell the story from the other day.  Luigi interjected several times to ensure Don Corretta knew there were no issues with the food and that Father Vannino was simply disturbed by Rodolfo.

“Uncle Luigi…no.  I did not disturb him.  He started a conversation and then rudely refused to let me speak.  I did not mind but he spoke to me and now he expects you to either sack me or not serve him?  I have done nothing wrong.  If he was not a man of the cloth I should just…”

“Just?”

Rodolfo calmed himself down while Corretta sat with his hands on the desk.

“You have been studying with Esmerelda I hear.”

“Ummm…yes sir.  We read great works of literature.  She is too clever for me but she makes me smile when we are together.”

“You know, I do not approve of my daughter spending time with anyone…I should have sent her off to be a nun but her mother…the wailing I would have had to endure.  You seem a good boy.”

He rose, walked to the door and opened it…

“Please, stop in downstairs and have a coffee with my wife.”

When the two men left, Don Corretta turned to the man in the corner.

“You see Altobelli.  Vannino is not a man of his people.  He has offended me, he is neither compassionate nor nice to the people of the neighbourhood yet uses his position as a visible pillar of society to hide behind.  Do you have any suggestions?”

Sunday service was due to start in twenty minutes.  Father Vannino stood looking into the mirror reading this week’s sermon,

“Matthew writes Jesus said unto him, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself…”

A knock at the study door interrupted his flow.  Monsignor Altobelli had come to pay a visit.  Behind the door he could hear Father Vannino shuffling along.

“Yes?”

“Enzo, it is I, Leclerc. Are you decent?”

“Two minutes monsignor.  Is everything well?  I am getting ready to deliver Mass.”

“This will not take long Enzo.”

Vannino straightened out his cassock and opened the door.  Altobelli walked in, the smell of incense wafted out of the room.  Altobelli proceeded to explain to Vannino that the neighbourhood was growing tired of his narcissism.  That his stubborn and insensitive views were only popular with a fringe of his congregation and that his pronouncements regarding the business of many of his benefactors, while often bordering on the inflammatory were not good for business.

“Monsignor, but we are in the business of spreading the word of our father”

“Enzo, of that there is no doubt.  But who do you think pays for this?  Little old Mrs Migginsio?  No, it is the Don Correttas of this world that grease the wheels here.  They keep both you and I in the life we have become accustomed to.  What are you about to talk about today?  Did I hear you looking at love thy neighbour?”

“Yes.  I seemed to think it would fit in, we have the Correttas here today.  They should be reminded that we should treat each other better as we would treat ourselves.”

Monsignor Altobelli stood up and started pacing around.

“Enzo.  How do you treat people here?  I hear stories of you insulting the Correttas. I hear of you talking down to those who are just as good a person as you.  Is this how you think you should be?  We have been discussing the need for missionary work.  We think…you need to humble yourself more.  Get yourself surrounded by those who have nothing.  How is Mrs Pizzilatto?”

“She has not been here for almost three weeks.  Her daughter Agatha has filled in but it is not the same.  Mrs Pizzilatto is very unwell in the head.  I pray for her every night.”

“Enzo, we will…”

“NO!  I will not leave!

“Enzo, you are not a man of the people here.  You feel yourself to be better than these men and yet was it not Lord Jesus himself who lived with the whores and lepers of Bethlehem.  Yet what are you looking for here?  Gold, riches and a very fancy lifestyle?  No.  You live off the wealth of these people yet treat them with so much disrespect.  This is not the place for you Enzo.”

Don Corretta appeared at the door.

“Monsignor, please?  Can we get on with Mass?”

“Don Corretta.  Yes of course.”

Altobelli turned towards Vannino.

“Enzo.  You will be leaving, there is a car coming to collect you in three hours time.  Please be packed.  Nobody likes you round here.  Maybe a few of the people you seem to get along with but you do nothing but irritate and offend.  Let us find a way to rectify that or you will just end up being one man ranting to a fairly empty room.  Take the time to pack.  Take the time to visit Mrs Pizzilatto before her mind finally goes.”

Altobelli closed the door and walked downstairs and shook Don Corretta’s hand.

“It has been a while since I have done this in such a small church.  Shall we?”

The last people had long since cleared the church, Monsignor Altobelli had said his goodbyes to Father Vannino and he sat in his study…stewing over the indignation that he was no longer wanted in Fremont.  The years he had spent here and for what?  He had given everything for these people.  The money he had raised for these ungrateful…wretches.  These bastards!  These actual bastards and sons of bitches.  Robbing him of this life of luxury.  These ungrateful, good for nothing peasants.

He stood up.  There was half an hour until he was due to leave.

He took himself to his kitchen and found a box of matches.  He walked down to the vestry and took a box of hymn books and missals and piled them onto the floor.

Nobody was taking this away rom him.  He was taking it away from them.  He had built this place up and it was his to tear down.  His!  ALL HIS!

Father Vannino poured some of the sacred oils onto the books, lit a match and started muttering to himself.

“All mine…nobody can tell me what to do…useless ingrates!  Stupid Altobelli.  Stupid Corretta.  All mine”

He put a match to one of the books and watched as it slowly caught fire then it slowly spread to another book and another.

He stood staring as the pile of books was now ablaze.  As the flames licked the sides of the pews Vannino walked to the front door and opened it.

“Mine!  Not yours! Mine!!”

Passers-by looked at the madman standing in the streets.  One or two spotted a wisp or two of smoke behind Vannino,

"Quick, the place is on fire."

Word spread quickly to Don Corretta.  He came running along with Luigi And Rodolfo

“Get Vannino out of here”

Vannino struggled and struggled as Rodolfo tried to restrain him.  Luigi punched him square in the head.  Vannino slumped over and fell to the floor as Rodolfo struggled to hold him.

Corretta ran into the church and quickly organised the growing group to get to work putting the fire out.  After half an hour, Altobelli returned to Fremont.

“Don Corretta, what on earth is going on?”

“It is Vannino, I think he has gone you know…”

Corretta twirled his fingers around by his head

“…a bit, you know nuts…daft…round the bend.”

The fire was quickly put out but Vannino still lay slumped on the ground outside.  Altobelli asked to make a call from Luigi’s café.

“A doctor please.  We have a madman, currently subdued in the street.  Can we get him taken to hospital please.”

Several weeks later, Father Enzo Vannino sat staring out of the window.  Wrapped in a straitjacket and sitting in a wheelchair.  Nurses came by and offered him some help or asked whether he needed a pillow.  Each time they came close, he would close his eyes and turn away.  No need to help me he thought, it’s you people who are all crazy.

Vannino rocked backwards and forwards. Despite his condition, people still found their way to the nut hut to check in and make sure he was ok.  His good friend Sorisso would come in to keep him company; rarely speaking but happy to get out of the butcher shop.  Occasionally a noise in the common room would startle Vannino and he would rush to hide behind Sorisso.

Even Corretta would come along with some music to put on the gramophone and music seemed to cheer the old priest up.  Renditions of choral music, recordings of hymns sung by his old flock in Fremont would seem to bring a tear to his eye.  Corretta arrived one day and asked the doctor for a report on his progress.

“Father Vannino continues to act strangely Don Corretta.  He can only stay silent for short periods of time but sometimes in group therapy he will spontaneously tell stories or recount songs and poems from his youth but when encouraged he turns insular and mocking and other patients ask us that he leaves them alone.  It may be his age, it may be he just thrives on the negative attention but he is quite disruptive.”

Don Corretta nodded.

“You have seen these types of patients get better though?  Despite the way he treated his flock, they do not wish to see him suffer.”

The doctor shook his head.

“You have to remember Don Corretta, this is a disease of the brain.  It is not like a disease of the body.  We cannot just open him up, remove the offending piece and sew him back up.  This is now how he is.  We could provide him with electric shocks or perform a lobotomy but in reality, this will not return Father Vannino back.  This is how he is now.”

Don Corretta sighed and started to turn away.

“Ahhh, Don Corretta…on other matters…the hospital is running quite low on…some of our medications.  Do you have someone you might be able to deal with to get me some things?  We need morphine and barbituates.  I have heard you may be able to help.”

Don Corretta patted the doctor on the back.

“For you doctor, I will see what I can find.  I cannot promise but I will do my best.  Please, take good care of our friend will you?”