You Remembered...

The house was slowly turning into a home, and it would have taken way longer if not for the lack of pleasure of sleep in Maya's life. She spent the whole night and a large part of the day unpacking the cardboard boxes and decorating the empty house with the beautiful things her family had packed for her. The drawing room, bedroom, and office all were perfectly decorated, except for a few chores which required the help of Mr Moretti, like shifting the furniture and fixing the leaking taps of the upper floor bathrooms. The past sixteen hours didn't only involve exhausting work but also a whole bottle of Passerina, several orders from Randy's restaurant, a trip to the grocery store, and a video from her family, who were vastly relieved to see their Maya was finally adjusting to her new surroundings. But the writer was cautious not to mention the camerlengo in their conversation, or else she would have gotten badly scolded if she were to mention that she served him some casual street food. The ghostwriter's parents, despite being atheists held this young holy man in very high regard, and they had all the right to feel that way. Maya, too, felt for him that way, but there was more in her heart for Father Patrick. She was grateful to him. But now that she had been graced with his company and got the opportunity to observe what he was like in the privacy of his chamber and she was awed too. The young woman was not unaware of what it was like being a hero, after all, she had written uncountable of them. All of them had one quality in common - humility. Unfortunately, there is a difference between a real-life person and the ones who exist in the world of her words. In actuality, most men did not dwell on humbleness despite being famous, but he did. His soft yet assertive voice spoke volumes of his character, and yet it was never indented to intimidate her. He never once made her feel insignificant or degraded her. His voice never once hinted at the difference in their status, their race or their nationality. To Maya, it felt as if the handsome Priest saw just another soul not bothered by the material difference between them. But she did not mention the camerlengo to her family because why she served him street food would be easier to explain, what bothered her more was how could she ever explain this strange discovery of her to another soul. The situation she had landed in was far more complicated and controversial than she would have preferred. Having a man enter her house from a secret door was one thing but having the camerlengo enter her home from a secret door was a travesty against his reputation and that of the Vatican. Despite the politics of this situation seeming messier than she preferred, the writer wanted the secret door to open this evening so that she would not find herself fighting this loneliness all by herself but her loneliness was not the only reason she wanted Father McKenna to visit her. There was acceptance in his demeanour towards her, an acceptance she hadn't been graced with yet in a long time. Despite her zeal, the clouds of sorrow never truly left her heart. For she felt he would never return, the secret door might never open again, and that wretched her heart, but she was oblivious to the reason for this anomalous feeling that resided in her.

Presently, Maya was standing under the shower, the water raining over her, settling every muscle she had strained while labouring around the house. In the shower, the water came as a soothing cascade, calming her soul and making her forget every triviality she was currently facing. The young woman hated leaving the calming cocoon that was her shower as Maya forced herself to break the comforting embrace of the water. She did not have any commitments for today. Neither did she have an appointment with the editor nor did the author want to meet her over a meal to discuss the manuscript. So, the ghostwriter decided to work further on the manuscript the publishing house had sent her earlier that day. The author she was currently working for was a peculiar one, the type of author for whom she despised ghostwriting. Authors of this kind had all kinds of imaginations and authentic ideas yet a significant part of the story is wasted upon declaring the protagonist the chosen one, and she hated it. She was well aware that no one is born special, people are not destined to do great deeds. It is always an ordinary man's decision to do something great, to sacrifice all he has for the greater good that makes him special. What camerlengo Patrick McKenna did a year ago during the Papal conclave only solidified her thinking. And so, there was Maya Deol, sitting in her office, eyes glued on the screen of her laptop as her fingers lazily pressed the keys without caring to glance at them. The whole house was silent. So eerily hushed that a whisper in one corner of the house could be heard in the next, and that was how she liked working - in solitary and isolation. Many times oft, the writer's surroundings were so silent that it could deceive anyone into thinking no one was even there. The only sound that managed to penetrate the thick aura of silence was the sound of the keys when she pressed them and the sipping of the wine. Maya lost track of time as she kept working on her assignment until the sound of knocking fell in her ears, almost startling her. But before the young woman could have ensnared her senses and taken command of any action, the sound of a rusty metal door opening filled the room. The short-lived shock dissolved as soon as Maya conceded the sound of her secret door. The presumably centuries-old door produced a very distinctive noise due to its rusted hinges, but it also acted as a doorbell for Maya in this case. Pulling her raven hair in a ponytail, she started walking up to the living room where the ghostwriter found the camerlengo standing by the door, a surprised look overhauling his attractive face as his blue eyes widened on seeing the neatly furnished room. Father Patrick appeared genuinely surprised by the lack of cartons lying around that he was greeted by yesterday.

"Seems like someone have got some work done." Spoke the Priest as he passed Maya with a mirthful smile.

"Guess she had to do it at some point." Said the young woman playing into his mirth. She too was surprised to see Father McKenna back in her home. Her visible stun sunk Patrick's heart as it appeared she was not alright with his presence, so he asked -

"Should I not be here?"

"No - I mean yes, of course, you should be here if you want to and you want to be here, that I can see. But why would you ask so, Father?" Breathlessly muttered Maya, who was taken aback by his question. She did not mean to dishearten the Pope's advisor.

"Nothing, you just seem rather surprised to see me here." Vocalized Patrick in a stern yet soft voice, who did not like the idea of her not wanting him here. There was an anomalous pain in knowing that he might never be able to be in the company of this young woman.

"Oh, it's nothing like that. I just didn't expect you to return after the disaster the last evening was." Replied the ebony-haired woman. A chuckle escaped her lips as the remembrances from the last night came in front of her. The response was not a lie, this was the bare truth after all.

"Disaster would be a rather too harsh word to be used, I would rather consider it... eventful." Reassured Patrick. On his face was a warm smile which made the woman smile too. In that little moment of silence, they both registered wordlessly that yesterday felt like a lucid dream but a good lucid dream. Welcoming in the camerlengo, Maya poured some wine into a wine glass but opted not to refill her own, for she had already consumed more than her body was allowed to intake.

"So, what are you currently working on then," The young Priest asked the ghostwriter as he peeked into the laptop to get a glimpse of the work Maya had done. The writer on the other hand was placing some freshly baked brownies she had picked up on her way home from the grocery shopping on the ceramic plates for the two of them.

"It's fiction. A story about a young protégé finding his place in the universe that calls him the chosen one and eventually he becomes their saviour." Replied Maya, her tone bereft of any emotion. The visible disdain in her voice was enough for the Priest to understand that she was not a fan of the story she was currently working on. A little moment of silence prevailed as the pair enjoyed the brownies. He was savouring the taste of those sweet cakes. The young woman noticed how Father Patrick took every bite deliberately as if contemplating its taste.

"You didn't like the brownies, Father?" Asked Maya placing her plate down, a worried look casting over her small face.

"My mother used to bake brownies for me when I was a little boy." He spoke with an unintended smile playing on his face that gleamed his lovely face. "Her brownies were a little different from these," Patrick added unknowingly. These brownies were not like his mother's, the taste of those sweet cakes that melted in the mouth was long forgotten from his mouth, but they were still fresh in his memories.

"How did your mother make them?" Politely questioned the writer as she felt intrigued by camerlengo's interest in the brownies.

"I still remember her using cocoa powder. She always despised using chocolate to make brownies for some reason." Answered Patrick with a little chuckle. Chocolate was not allowed in the kitchen when Maria McKenna baked brownies for her son. She hated the little pockets of gooey chocolate that were formed because of using chocolate. The memories of him standing by the kitchen shelf flushed. The little boy used to help his mother cook, and those were the moments when the two of them talked a lot about school, Church the neighbouring old lady who used to scream at the kids playing in the street. But all of it was in the past. The past that no longer haunted him. The young Priest decided to leave it all behind. There was no remorse left in him, nor did he feel pity for himself. There was nothing he could do about it. Only now he lived with the realization that his mother was with her beloved god and she is much happier than she could ever be in this greed-ridden world where the very structure of her belief had been contaminated by people like Cardinal Strauss.

"Then I guess I won't be using chocolate anymore than." Joked Maya, who was clueless about the significance this dish had for Patrick.

"You bake?" A question came out of nowhere from the Priest, who did not expect his hostess to be a baker. The question had a genuine curiosity to itself.

"Often, mostly to resurrect my dead spirt or sometimes just because I have nothing good to do. And also because Rita loves them."

"Rita?"

"Rita... she is my younger sister." The writer heaved with a sad smile. The smile, despite being sad did not shatter the moment of comfort that the dessert had given the unlikely duo. In the blink of an eye, the sad smile was masked. Maya decided not to drift into her own thoughts.

On the other hand, Patrick, who sat across the table, was yet again distracted by the chain which hung around Maya's neck. The rusty ring still dangled by the loose chain as it rested against her bosom. Despite wearing an oversized shirt and jeans, the neckpiece with the peculiar pendant was still around her neck. The accessory stuck out like a sore thumb yet it was not distracting. It was Patrick who felt intrigued by it. His heart urged him to quench his curious thoughts by asking her about it, but the Priest had no significant reason to do so other than satisfy his vain curiousness. Father McKenna tried hard to shrug the thought off his mind, but it kept returning to him. So lost in his own thoughts that the Camerlengo failed to acknowledge that Maya was addressing him, it was when he saw her lips moving so softly that he realized she was speaking.

"Did you tell anyone about the passageway?"

"No, I did not. I would never do the mistake of telling them." Patrick answered in mere whispers almost instantaneously. Even the idea of the Swiss Guards knowing about this secret passageway infused a discomfiting feeling in Patrick's heart. The reply earned him a look of puzzlement from the lady who was unaware of the high-level security he lived under or rather felt imprisoned by. "The Swiss Guards are responsible for the security of His Holiness, and being his advisor, I too am coerced to the security although I strongly feel it is a waste of resources and time." He bewailed with no effort to mask his discontent. The Priest always felt that way, but even before the last year's incident, he was forced with such protections, and the Papal Conclave happening only made the situation worse for him. For his security was reinforced to match that of the Pope. Every of his request for lessening the security ended with him being reminded of the branding that was given to him by Cardinal Lamassé. The branding was still on his chest - neatly concealed behind the veil of his cassock. It was a daily reminder to him how men were about to fail the faith of millions because their faith failed once.

"So, if I am not wrong, they don't let you out of Vatican much? Do they?" Asked Maya, but it came across more as if she was clarifying his thoughts, for he found it hard to admit it. Only a slight nod came in return. "Maybe this was the reason this passageway was made in the first place." Unknowingly the words left the writer's lips as she placed the dishes in the sink. As her own words sink in, Maya finally concluded the reason for the existence of the passageway that connected her house to Father Patrick's. An excited squeal left her lips as every piece of the puzzle fell into its place, and she got a look at the larger conception.

"I finally figured it out! It nagged me the whole night, for I didn't have an answer. I got it now." Maya squeaked with zeal. Father Patrick, who did not care enough to give the reason for the existence passageway a second thought, could not comprehend his host's sudden excitement. On seeing the look of uncertainty on her companion's face, she spoke -

"Have you read The Prince and the Pauper?" Maya asked. Patrick nodded in reply. "Except here there is no Pauper, it's just you, and this passageway is your escape to the world beyond those restricting walls of the Vatican." The writer added in a voice that resembled the narration in movies. The camerlengo did not approve of the words used regarding the Vatican and it was evident in the frown that came over his dashing face.

"I never said the walls of Vatican were restricting. I simply believe they should invest such high level of security on just a camerlengo." Patrick corrected her. His silky voice was stern but not imposing.

"I would love to disagree on this, Father. I mean no disrespect, but you are not just a camerlengo. You are quite literally the man who saved the Vatican and I suppose they would never want anything to happen to you." Stated Maya as she chose her words wisely, not intending to offend the camerlengo. This statement earned her what appeared to be a disappointed sigh from the Priest who was now sitting on her couch. The writer's heart sank as she realized she might have unintentionally spoken something which she shouldn't have. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. A fragile silence took over them. Countless thoughts raced through Maya's head as she tried to conclude what she said was wrong.

"Forgive me if anything I said offended you, Father Patrick," Maya spoke with indecisiveness. Apologizing for a mistake was easier than apologizing for a mistake you never knew you made.

The writer's apology took Patrick off guard as it broke his chain of thoughts. The handsome man was considering the deduction that Maya had made, and it seemed plausible. The bizarre situation was making finally making some sense in his eyes.

"No, nothing you said offended me Miss Deol." Said Patrick. "I was just wondering if what you propose is really correct, then also it is of no use to me. I do desire to see the world for once when I am not surrounded by the Swiss Guards, but I don't have any intentions to intrude on your privacy either." The Priest continued, his soft tone sounded apologetic.

"Why would you think so, Father? You should know that you can come here anytime you want. I have no problem with that." Maya tried to reassure the conflicted Priest. Frankly, if it was anyone else who would have entered her house from a secret door, Maya would have most probably smashed a lamp on his head, but she couldn't do that to Father McKenna, can she? He had a peculiar aura around him. Something told the writer that his reservedness was not the product of his upbringing. Instead, it was a product of the amount of time he had spent serving as a Priest.

"So, Miss Deol, you are not against the idea of a strange man coming to your house." Posed Patrick, who did not expect this level of hospitality from his hostess, whom he had known for barely two days, and yet her company felt so exemplary to him.

"First of all, you aren't just any strange man," Disagreed Maya. "You are the God-damn Camerlengo. Secondly, I won't mind some company. It gets too lonely for me to bear sometimes. And lastly, please do call me Maya, Father. The weight of Miss Deol might just kill me." She added with a small smile. Ironically, the writer was known for her formality at work but hearing Miss Deol reminded her that five years ago if things did not turn out as they did, she would have been addressed as someone else, and maybe she might not even be in Italy, but for some reason, she did not want her mind to ponder on that thought.

Not a word escaped Patrick's mouth, but his heart was overjoyed. The Priest never had what people called a friend. No one liked being friends with the son of the Archbishop. At school, he was never bullied by anyone for the same, but it never compensated for the fact that he had no one to cherish his childhood moments with. The Conclave incident only managed to estrange him further. The people created an invisible wall to separate themselves from the angel sent by God - who was not to be seen in the eye, just to be bowed to. And here is this woman Maya who very unknowingly shattered the unseen wall as if she wasn't even aware of it and looked him in the eye. It had been a long time since Patrick felt something he was feeling at this moment. The camerlengo was oblivious to how this will end but decided to not stress himself with that and instead relish what was in front of him, with him at present.

*

For the coming week, Maya looked forward to the arrival of Father McKenna from the secret door as she made sure that she had some dainties to serve him. Sometimes, they spent the evening at her place. Other times the Priest insisted they went to his chambers to enjoy a nice cup of tea and some snacks, which left the writer wondering how much she thought he lived under a rock. Despite being born into a religious family and then being adopted by an archbishop the young man was not out of touch with current media, technology and even science. The mention of his religious upbringing reminded the writer how much different they were. Maya was brought up in an atheist family, and despite that, she always had a liking for holy places, which her parents said was the effect of her grandparent's company. She found them peaceful and comforting. Why did the lady find them so? Even she didn't know the answer to that question. And so when the Moretti's asked for her company to the Sunday mass at St. Peter's Basilica, she found it hard to deny. But there was more to her visit than her appreciation for faith. Maya hoped to see the camerlengo at the mass. The young woman wanted to see the devotion he had for his spirituality, and her heart said that the man would not disappoint him.

The Saint Peter's Basilica was grand as always. The white structure was covered with renaissance architecture for a large part of it. The gargoyles made out of stone looked down at the ones who came to pray, some held fear for the almighty in their heart, and some could feel nothing but love for him. The art of the church held a tantalizing history behind it. The whole of the Vatican's architecture was captivating, although a considerable part of its past was dark and oppressive. The reconstruction of the damage was almost complete, but there was a painfully visible difference between the structures which stood old, testing the wrath of time and the ones which were reconstructed by fine artists from all across the world. Maya was not orthodox when it came to art, but the painfully obvious reconstruction made her appreciate the old art more than she already did. Lorenzo Moretti was taking an excess of pride in narrating to Maya all the glorified versions of the history that he was taught while growing up as they drove through the streets of the Vatican in her red Fiat. While the old couple was thinking about taking their Model 415 convertible, Maya offered to drive them in her red Fiat. The writer silently hearkened to the old man's historical descriptions, which were more fabricated than some of the stories she had written. It was no doubt that Lorenzo Moretti - a man born in a strictly catholic family was taught a little lie so that his faith in religion does not evaporate with his increasing consciousness. The writer refused to pass any judgement, but at times, Maya found it hard to stop a chuckle from escaping her lips when the old man's stories crossed the limits of historical liberties he was taking. Soon came an end to the journey she had started to enjoy. Mr Moretti undoubtedly had a magnetic way of narrating the stories. Unfortunately, the charismatic man was forced, by his family to continue their family business pf running a hardware shop.

The evening mass at five-thirty was the last one of the day. The sun was commencing to get low in the sky, its brilliance hazing by the passing moments. Maya sat beside the old Moretti couple on the last row, the mass invocations echoing in the enormous chapel. Every eye in the crowd was fixed either upon the prayer book in their hand or on the comparatively young man who stood among the Priests. Maya was one of the latter ones. She had her raven orbs fixed upon the camerlengo as she sat quietly while everyone sang their prayers with deep tenderness. Father McKenna's soft lips hummed the devotions with the utmost solemnity. Father Patrick meant every word he spoke from the depth of his heart, and it was evident. The mass

Maya idly strolled down the gigantic halls of the Basilica, her eyes scanning the paintings on the walls while her neighbours conversed with a Priest named Father Williams. She had asked them to call her once they were, done with the exchange. Turns out the old couple was still living with the regret of losing their only son, and even their faith in the God was not helping them to cope with the loss, which reminded her of someone she knew way too well. Maya understood the pain very well. The pain inflicted by the loss was the worst one to be born. And she had been abiding it for far too long. But the old couple were lucky they were not forced to bear the sufferings alone, for their son-in-law cared for them more than a son would ever care for his own parents.

The mass ended a while back, yet the chapel was far from empty. Many families had stayed to have a word or two with the holy men. The writer could hear the echoes of her footsteps in the grand hallways. This section of the Basilica was not restricted for the visitors like a few other hallways, which she was dying to go in. Despite that, not many people were there, and the emptiness gave the halls an eerie hollowness. It disheartened her how very few people actually cared for the art this old Basilica gave sanctuary to.

"Maya?" Her name resonated in the empty hall. The voice was acquainted with her, yet she was not expecting to hear it at this moment. Tearing her gaze away from the painting of an angel who was looking up at heaven, to face the possessor of the voice. She found camerlengo McKenna standing at the end of the corridor, his white surplus neatly hanging over his right arm. A surprised look clouded his face as he briskly walked towards Maya, who reciprocated his startlement. "I didn't know you were here." He added.

"I came to attend the mass." Answered the writer, who could see, two guards dressed in customary Swiss soldier's uniforms following the Priest obediently. Their faces were devoid of expression, but it did not help the writer feel any better. The young woman did not mind meeting him in the privacy of her home, but the judgmental stares of the people disturbed her.

"I was not aware of the fact that you attended the masses. Sorry for I failed to see you back there." Patrick registered his wonder as he halted near Maya, who was cladded in a sky-blue sheath dress.

Why would you, the thought echoed in Maya's mind.

"Well, my parents might be atheist but my grandparents made sure I was not unaware of God while growing up." She spoke softly.

"It must be an intriguing tale how they made their granddaughter religious but failed to raise spiritual children themselves." The camerlengo said, the curiousness echoing in his voice. But his tone was deferent, never disdaining Maya's grandparents.

"It is not that fascinating actually. Both my parents were born in strictly religious families and they did not have any problem with it either until they met each other." Maya spoke, her whispering tone resonating in the large hallway. "The problem was they both do not share the same religion. My mother is a Christian while my papa belonged to a Hindu family. Their parents were not very fond of the union, so my parents decided to renounce their religion for love. That is why I was baptized and a hawan was organized by my grandparents when I arrived home for the first time." She recounted the story to the Priest, who leaned in to hear as his appeal thrived. Even the Swiss Guards' faces hinted at emotions when the young woman spoke. A smile grew on Father Patrick's face as he listed to Maya with undivided attention. There was never a conflict of belief in his life.

"They renounced their faith for love, and and you were saying it was not intriguing," Patrick admitted. His tone was laced with wonder, but a warm smile masked it, which melted Maya's heart in an instant. He parted his lips to speak again but was interrupted by the abrupt ringing of a phone. The shrill sound of the ringtone broke the calming tranquillity. It was the writer's phone that was ringing. The name Lorenzo Moretti flashed on the screen of her Galaxy S. The call ended before she could have picked it up. It was the cue from her neighbours that they were waiting for her.

"I am so sorry I need to leave, Father," Said Maya. "I was here with my neighbours and they are waiting for me." Added the writer apologetically as she placed the cell in her dress pocket and took a small step back. She did not want to leave this conversation, but it was the only prudent thing to be done. Maya did not wanted any gossip to spread around about the camerlengo.

"Then allow me to escort you back," Patrick proposed.

"That is very sweet of you but there is no need to bother yourself with it, Father. I'll manage it." Maya courteously dismissed the proposal.

"I insist, Maya." The Priest wanted to endure her company for just a little longer.

The young woman was about to revolt against the idea when the Priest stepped toward her, and placed his hand on the small of her back, thhen started walking. Maya's mouth fell open, and her eyes widened at the action of the camerlengo. She could feel his soft hand that was cautiously placed on her back. The writer couldn't help but narrowly eye Father Patrick, who towered over her. His handsome face was devoid of any emotion. The guards followed them wordlessly, but even they appeared surprised at the act of their camerlengo. Maya wanted to glance back at them but decided not to, for she had an intuition that they might have a mirthful smile dancing on their lips. The pair walked in complete silence, and their pace was much slower than necessary, as if they wanted this moment to stay a little longer. But unfortunately, soon came an end to their journey as they reached the end of the maze of the Basilica. Maya felt it prudent to take a step away from him as they walked towards the crowd of people, among which stood her neighbours. The people bowed low on seeing the camerlengo approach them. No one dared to make eye contact with him. But Maya wasn't graced with such courtesy as she found some older people gaping at her. She could feel the weight of their judgmental stares on her shoulder. The people in the Vatican deeply respected their holy men, and they were not amused that the young woman was walking beside Father Patrick. They thought it was impudence towards their hero. Maya eagerly waited for them to reach the Moretti couple who stood by the wooden door. They, too, had their head bowed low at the sight of the young Priest walking towards them. Maya spoke as soon as they reached the old couple, refraining then a chance to question-

"This would be Mr Lorenzo Moretti and his lovely wife - Luna Moretti." She declared for Father Patrick, who passed the old couple a sweet smile. The couple was speechless, as if they did not know what was to be said to the hero.

"And this is Camerlengo Patrick McKenna, as you might know." The writer addressed the Italian couple.

Patrick extended a hand towards the old man. Mr Moretti shook the young man's hand with exorbitant zeal. The old man's cheeky smile never left his lips.

"It is a pleasure meeting you, dear sir." The Priest addressed the old man.

"Per favore, non mettermi in imbarazzo chiamandomi signore, Padre." Lorenzo spoke in Italian. A little chuckle escaped Patrick's lips on hearing the statement.

Luna Moretti had a similar reaction to her husband. The woman was also too awed to speak.

"Mi scuso, devo chiederti di scusarmi. Ma devo dire che hai devvero un vicina molro adorabile." Father Patrick said with a mirthful smile as he turned his gaze towards Maya, who stood beside him with an oblivious look on her face. And then he was gone, the Swiss Guards following him. The expression on the old couple's faces changed as their gaze fiddled between their young neighbour and the retreating figure of the Priest. Maya, whose Italian was the finest, could not understand a single word, but she understood that what Father McKenna said had left the couple startled.

*

"You mean to tell me the chamberlain offered to walk you back." Reiterated Lorenzo. On his face was a look of utter dismay.

"Yes, I was roaming around when I bumped into him, and then he very courteously asked if I was lost and I admitted that I am and then he asked to walk me back. What is so unbelievable about this?" Asked Maya. A slight hint of irritation could be found in her voice as she, for the third time, explained to the old couple how she came across Father Patrick back in the Basilica, but the Moretti's were still in dismay. The lady desired to tell the couple about the passageway and her encounter with the Camerlengo, but she was uncertain of how they might react to it. She wanted to ask what the camerlengo said earlier but she refrained from doing so.

For the rest of the car drive, Lorenzo took it upon himself to educate his seemingly ignorant neighbour about the bravery of Father McKenna and how they are thankful to him. A genuine smile danced on Maya's as she heard the older man. He described the Priest as a knight in shining armour which he wasn't - Patrick McKenna was just a man.

*

The strong smell of beverages was infused in the air of the café where sat Maya, waiting for her order. For the past week, she has been visiting the Basilica every third day. The writer never thought she would enjoy the sanctity of the Church, but then again, she never thought that the Camerlengo would be in her living room every evening enjoying different types of dishes she found at the bakery. The ringing of the bell hung over the door of the café fell in her ears indicating the arrival of yet another customer. Maya, who had her eyes glued to the old copy of The Mysterious Stranger, did not look up at him, but what she did notice was the abrupt change in the air of the café. The casual chitchats halted abruptly, causing the moderately-sized café to fall eerily silent. Still, the lady had her eyes fixed upon the printed words on the light brown paper, not caring about the world as usual. It wasn't until a known soothing voice addressed her -

"Can I sit here?"

A gasp escaped Maya's lips, who had lost her vigilance to the words she was reading. Looking up, she found a handsome man looking down at her, a relieved smile dancing on his thin lips. The oddly familiar stranger was dressed in black trousers and a matching silk shirt with a navy blue pea coat hanging from his shoulder. The stranger's crystal blue eyes were cast with the shadow of the fedora that was crowned on his head. Then the realization struck her like lightning when she looked intently and realized that he is no stranger.

"Father Patrick? What are you doing here?" Asked Maya out of shock. It was apparent she wasn't expecting to see him here - in some small café in Italy.

"Looking for a nice coffee?" Replied Patrick in an uncertain tone. He wasn't sure of how he was to reply to this question of hers.

"I guess I stand corrected now that I see the Vatican does allow you to have some time for yourself." The writer said with a smile. Maya was taken aback by the civilian clothes that he was wearing, and to her astonishment, Father Patrick looked stunning in them. The camerlengo sat on the chair across the table, facing the young woman.

"I never said I didn't have time for myself." Remarked Patrick.

"Don't be so humble, Father. You are His Holiness' advisor. You conduct the masses. You must be taking confessions if I am not wrong. And don't get me started on the article you are writing for the Christian journal. I don't get how you even manage to squeeze time to visit me." Blurted out Maya, who was counting on the duties Father McKenna played. The Priest decided to keep his silence, but he couldn't help but smile on seeing how vividly she remembered their exchanges.

"Here's your red-eye, Maya." A pitchy voice laced with a thick accent made itself heard in their conversation as a young boy approached their table with a cup of steaming hot liquid. Unaware of who was sitting with his regular customer he placed the cup in front of the writer and turned to face the man who had joined her a few moments. The poor boy's jaw dropped to the floor as he saw camerlengo Patrick McKenna sitting in his mother's café.

"W-what would you like to have, camerlengo McKenna?" The boy managed to speak after he conceded that he had been staring at him for a long moment. The sigh was funny to Maya because the boy - Tommaso, was not one of those who stuttered. The young lad carried a flamboyant aura with himself as he flirted with the young female customers. Maya, luckily was not one of them - he loved calling her the Noiosa, which translated to boring, and she did not blame him.

"A doppio would be perfect for me." The Priest replied. The boy left after giving a little nod and almost sprinted towards the counter where his mother was reading the evening copy of Corriere Della Sera while Maya bit her lips, for she still struggled to fight a chuckle back.

Patrick's coffee came in no time. It was obvious they were not going to make the camerlengo wait. The pair enjoyed their drinks in between the conversation about literature that sparked after Father McKenna's eyes fell upon the book that had kept the lady engrossed. When the time came to pay, Mr Rossi refused to accept the payment from Patrick, and Maya was not impressed with the Priest insisting on paying for her too.

"Who said camerlengo McKenna is paying Mr Rossi? I am paying for our coffees." The writer repeated for the fifth time as the pair stood by the counter where the whole Rossi family had gathered. Father McKenna, on the other hand passed his companion a look of disapproval on hearing her words. The pair themselves were not in agreement as to whom would be the one to pay, that is if the old lady would allow them to pay in the first place.

"You are here with the chamberlain, and I simply cannot ask for payment from you, Padre or your friend. È un piccolo regalo da parte nostra." Mrs Rossi addressed the Maya, but her gaze was fixed upon the Priest.

"We appreciate the gesture but I must ask you not to subject me to such partisan behaviour," Patrick said, his tone was stern, yet his words expressed nothing but respect for the middle-aged woman.

The situation ended with the Priest having to sternly ask the middle-aged woman to accept the payment.

"You needn't have paid for me, Father," Maya recounted for the fourth time ever since the pair had left the café and was strolling on the streets of Italy.

"Just accept it as gratitude for your hospitality, Maya," Patrick told the lady. "Where are we going now?" He asked to pivot their topic of discussion.

"Oh, I was going for the groceries, but I guess we should go somewhere interesting," Maya answered as she pulled out the map of the city from her handbag.

"I don't mind the idea." Spoke Patrick. The answer took her by surprise. She failed to see what the Priest found interesting about this domesticated task, yet she did not revolt. If he wanted to go grocery shopping, then he must.

Unlike what Maya had assumed, the trip to the grocery store turned out to be an interesting deal. The grocery store near her house was not extravagant, yet it covered every requirement of the writer. While the Priest was filling the shopping cart with essentialities as he considered its needs with his companion, Maya, on the other hand, filled the card with snacks that Father McKenna liked. The Priest was a surprisingly patient partner to spend time with. If there could be a perfect gentleman in this world, that would be him who even helped her carry the bags to her home. To her shock, the whole journey home, Maya didn't hear a single catcall from the men on the street who loved commenting on her. It enthralled her how deeply the people here respected their beliefs and its followers. But it was not all sunshine for she always felt eyes watching her. An uneasy feeling infused her heart as she felt she was being followed, and it was the company of the Father, which gave her a sense of security.

The two of them stood in front of Maya's home as the dying sun rays tried piercing the sky. Entering the house, the writer went straight for the kitchen, leaving the handsome man standing in her drawing room with bags of groceries in his arms.

"You've got time for some brownies?" The faint voice of Maya reached Patrick's ears, who followed it to the kitchen, where stood the lady. Her pea coat was thrown upon the kitchen island's chair, and the sleeves of her red blouse were rolled up as she pulled out the ingredients from the shelves. She moved fluidly in the kitchen as if she was accustomed to this routine.

"I am not the best cook, but I am a decent baker. I don't know if they would be like your mother's, but I'll try my best." The lady said with a smile as she poured the melted butter, sugar, cocoa powder and the rest of the ingredients into the bowl and started mixing them with a whisker.

"You remember..." The words left Patrick's lips in not more than mere whispers. The small conversation they had days ago was still fresh in Patrick's mind because it was the first time in twenty-two years that he had spoken about his deceased mother to anyone. He never hinted his mother to even to the late Pope - who was also his adoptive father.

"How could I forget it, Father." The writer said, taking a little pride in herself as she passed him a playful smile. A warm smile took over Patrick's lips as he felt a warm feeling infused in his heart- a feeling he was unknown to. Oddly enough, this was the first time since the day she had dropped into his room that the camerlengo had noticed Maya this closely. She was a woman in possession of unique looks. The writer was unlike any woman he had crossed paths with. For some reason, her black eyes twinkled with incomprehensible sorrow all the time. The ebony hair curtained her face as she very carefully mixed her batter, unaware of the Priest's eyes on her. Patrick decided not to break the tranquil moment with his words as he took off his coat, placed it neatly over Maya's, took the butter and started greasing the baking pan. The silence in which they worked was broken only by the little conversations they had.

"I hope they are good, or it will be really embarrassing." Maya joked as she poured the batter into the baking pan that the camerlengo was holding. The proximity between them was vast. The writer's arms were almost brushing Father Patrick's chest as he stood just next to her. But the pair was so indulged in baking that it barely crossed their minds.

"I can promise they would be delicious." Reassured Patrick with a smile.

When the brownies were pulled out from the oven, a tempting smell filled their nostrils. Maya found Father Patrick already holding the knife, his excitement mirroring that of a child.

"Someone seemed excited." Remarked Maya as she placed the pan on the kitchen island. The otherwise calm and patient Father McKenna could barely wait for the brownies to cool down, and the young woman did not have the courage to refuse his pleading eyes any further.

*

"You mean to tell me that Cardinal what-ever-his-name was created the whole mess just to become the Pope?" Maya uttered in disbelief as she gulped down the remaining wine in her glass. The last two hours passed as the writer and Father Patrick conversed on various topics. And this chain of conversation led Patrick to tell her about the reality of last year's incident that was kept hidden from the masses to protect the integrity of the Church.

"Yes, Cardinal Strauss was not convinced by the idea of embracing modernity. He felt the people were losing their faith in the Church. And this was the only way of replenishing it," Patrick said. He was standing by the window. The dying rays of the sun fell upon him, radiating the soft brown colour of his hair. The pair had consumed a considerable amount of brownie that Maya baked, and now they were treating themselves to some Nederburg.

"I refuse to believe a selfish man, such as himself, was willing to die in the explosion just to prove a point." Rebutted Maya, still not convinced by what the Father proposed.

"It was either dying or becoming the Pope for him. In either case, he wouldn't have lost anything. The one at loss would have been the one who believed in him and what he pretended to stand for."

"With due respect, Father, common people like us call that being a psychopath." Commented Maya as she sunk her head against the couch, trying to take in the information that the Priest had just told her.

"You know it would have made for a very intriguing novel," Said Maya. "But it's a pity the whole world will never know the truth."

"Some sweet lies are better than bitter truths sometimes." Father Patrick added with a whisper.

"But lie always have a short life span, Father McKenna." The writer shrugged.

Out of the blue, the landline rang, which broke the calmness of their conversation. Maya went to pick up the ringing phone, but what he heard left him surprised. Patrick saw the young woman standing by the coffee table talking to someone in broken Italiana. It was evident that her Italian was not the most polished, but it was heartwarming to see how hard it tried to converse in a language foreign to her. Her accent was off, and the pronunciation was a mess, yet it was evident her attempt was earnest. Despite the flaws, the camerlengo could not help but look at her intently, for she looked adorable while speaking Italian that even he could not understand.

"Cosa vuoi dire che Internet non tornerà prima di domani?" Maya cried. The call ended sooner than expected. She let out a sigh, as she placed the handset back on the receiver. Looking up at Father Patrick, she found him looking down at her with a look of awe, which was soon replaced with a look of confusion as he realized Maya was looking back at him. Seeing the confused look of on his face, the writer spoke -

"The internet is down, and they won't be able to fix it until tomorrow."

"If you need internet, then, you can use the desktop in my office." Patrick offered without a second thought.

"That's very kind of you, Father, but I don't want to bother you. I'll wait till tomorrow. I just need to send a few mails and nothing much." Maya politely refused the offer.

"Maya, please do stop feeling that you bother me. I am the one who comes to your house every evening, and most people categorize it as bothering. Do you feel bothered by my presence, Maya?" Patrick asked the writer in a stern voice. He hated it when Maya considered herself a burden, for she was everything but a burden to him. She was the only person after his father whose company he liked. She was the only one he looked forward to seeing every morning.

"No - no, never, Father. I never felt bothered by you."

"And so do I, Maya." The camerlengo replied with a smile. The writer parted her mouth to speak but found herself at the loss of words, so she gave him a silent nod.

The pair walked down the surprisingly clean passageway in silence. Maya had cleaned the tunnel after the Priest made it clear had intentions of using it frequently. Reaching the other end, Patrick pushed open the heavy gate. Welcoming the lady, the Priest went to his desk to log into his desktop. While the lady sat there writing a mail to her parents, Father McKenna brought some tea and biscuit for them.

Maya had to start her email with an explanation of why the Deol - a family of atheists were receiving mail from the camerlengo of the Vatican. Although she had no plans of informing her parents about Father Patrick, she can not keep that a secret for long, could she? With dreary anticipation of receiving a scolding from her parents, Maya pressed the send icon. Her eyes fiddled between the screen and the camerlengo, who was right across the room on his armchair. Why was her life giving her so many false hopes? Maya knew she wasn't supposed to feel anything for anyone, especially not a handsome Priest, yet she felt captivated by him. There was no place for any man in her lie - not after what happened three years ago, yet life had thrown such an irresistible gentleman in her way.