Collars and Crimes - Part 15
Diez flashbacks to the reopening of Notre Dame with the Bishop of Maskwacis
When he first got the note, he thought it was a prank. An invitation to Paris as part of the official entourage of the bishop of Maskwacis. He was a reader of Collars and Crimes, the Substack Diez wrote under a pseudonym that caught fire.
“I’ve followed your writings with interest as you investigated the fires of different dioceses across the nation and into the other terrible matters of those wolves. I’ve been invited to the reopening of Notre Dame and can bring guests. It seems fitting–poetic, even–that someone who wrote about the fires that burned our great buildings should be there to see one restored. Would you come with me to Paris?”
2024 seemed like a lifetime ago. But it was only a few years, really. A year feels like a decade. To be among the pilgrims who, from around the world, attended the official ceremonies and celebrations of its official opening was surreal. And it kicked off for Diez what would become the most unexpected chapter of his life.
The sense of awe he felt when he walked into the hallowed space, somehow among the first in the world as he tagged along with the Bishop. His senses had been completely overwhelmed. The sheer height of the flying buttresses of the gothic nave made the heart soar. The simple elegance of the high altar that seemed to float on the marble step. It was human hands and the determination of a nation that restored the cathedral to a glory greater than its former state–artists like Guillaume Bardet who designed the liturgical pieces and Sylvian Dubuisson.
But it was the reliquary featuring the crown of thorns, the most famous and valuable relic almost lost in the fire of 2019, that took Diez by surprise. The glass-encased thorns were encircled by a raised glass halo that was set against a gold background. It all hung on a large cedar iconostasis, the screen on which the relic was set, set with bronze thorns that emphasized the majesty of the multi-millennial artifact making it both a piece of art and underscored its inherent significance, its history.
“I understand,” he’d whispered to the Bishop afterward, as the old man leaned on his arm down the steps as they left the cathedral. The ceremony. The homage. The devotion. All of it.
Everything about the visit inspired awe. The lighting design stood out among them. The rose window, and the stained glass, of course, brought the most inspiration. It was an overcast day, and yet still the coloured windows shone. Diez learned that more than 2,000 points of light and over 1,500 projectors helped to fill the space with light and were adjusted to help facilitate different liturgical moments.
Gothic cathedrals were designed with light in mind, he knew this. The windows placed to accentuate the detail and beauty of the architecture. The combination of ancient architecture and modern craftsmanship was transcendent. Diez felt a deep, almost physical pain, as he remembered the space and that it was all lost in the blast. What a tragedy.
Five years of such meticulous care, craftsmanship, statesmanship invested to restore a building that had been restored four times before. Built over centuries. Attended by the masses not only to seek spiritual guidance and comforts, but to admire its beauty. Snuffed out like a candle in a moment. And millions of people with it.
The heavens are the LORD's heavens,
But the earth he has given to human beings.
The words from the Psalm reverberated through Diez like a vibrating bronze bell from the ancient bell tower. The verse gave him the chills. And look what we do with it.
It was on the flight back, that the Bishop had taken the crucifix off his neck and, like a grandparent sneaking a mint in a church pew when the parents aren’t looking, placed it in Diez’s hand.
“The famous crucifix of the Bishop of Maskwacis,” Diez said, as much to himself as to the famous man. “It's much lighter than I expected.”
“That sounds almost biblical,” the old man laughed. “The Lord's burdens are. It's hollow, though.”
Diez looked up, startled. “The promise?”
The holy man's eyes twinkled. “The wood. Press it here,” he said, touching the bottom of the cross with his index finger, “and—” there was an audible, subtle click, “voila.” The chamber opened. A small piece of paper fell out, rolled up like a cigarette. “Careful with that,” the Bishop said, “Read it later.”
Diez had looked over his shoulder. They were alone in the quartet of seats at the back of the private plane. The Vatican had sent him like royalty. He placed the note in his pocket.
“I’m surprised your curiosity hasn't brought you to Maskwacis again.”
Diez’s heart quickened.
“Many of the people I expected to come have not. And those I expected least, well, they came to stay.” He laughed at this, no bitterness or irony.
“I’ve wanted to.” Diez stopped himself and looked over his shoulder again. They were still alone. “I want to.”
“But how are you to come, is that it?”
“Something like that.”
“Come as you are. You can investigate. Report. Revive.” The Bishop held out his hand, palm open. They were not soft or weak as one might expect form an old priest. Diez gave him back the cross. “Come as yourself.”
“I’d like to see it,” Diez admitted. “I’d like to write about it. Do I have permission?”
“I just invited you,” the Bishop said, confused. “It’s not under my control. I don’t own it or wield it. No one can. If you come, come knowing that.”
“Does anyone believe you, when you say that?” Diez looked over his shoulder toward the back of the plane, then in the opposite direction toward the front cabin. The two members of the Gendarmerie Corps the Vatican sent to track the bishop’s every move had almost become like furniture. They sat motionless in their nicely cut Italian suits.
“I’ve given up,” the Bishop said. He seemed weary at the thought. “The simplest explanations don’t satisfy men with power to gain or to lose. But there is something for you to see, to receive at Maskwacis.” He placed the cross back around his neck. “Something truly wonderful is happening there. It’s connected to what you’ve written about before.”
“To the fires?” Diez asked, surprised. He’d never thought of this.
“Something being remade. Something being returned. Those who have ears to hear it will hear. But I hope they’ll get a little help. You can cut through the conspiracy and the fear and the fantasy and come at it honestly.” He nodded toward the cluster of other bishops sitting ahead of them near the wing, who were speaking in hushed tones in Latin. “Perhaps even the complicated theology to realize what no one else wants to realize.”
“And what is that?”
“That it’s really nothing new.”
Diez looked out the window over the ocean, over cloud, as he thought about the words while the Bishop peacefully slept. Nothing new. The words hit him like a slap. His mind stung with it. Of course he didn’t really mean it.
They had flown out of a private airport late at night and flew over the ocean, pulling the memory of the Paris celebrations with them in the jet stream. He had a deadline for a story about the re-opening of Notre Dame, a piece that he knew would be read by his readers around the world as a guest column in The FP. In which he’d describe the sounds of the thunderous reawakening of the grand organ. The sound of Yo-Yo Ma’s cello reverberating off the stone and glass, the spread at the fraternal buffet served to the needy, after the mass attended by bishops and priests across France who rededicated the altar. Which world leaders were there. Which weren’t. What that meant.
It was a front-row seat to a story so many reporters would kill to tell. But all he could think about was how he’d make his way to Maskwacis and what he’d find there.
Diez sipped his coffee and slowly returned to the present, his feet touching back down to earth, to Corridor West. He looked at the objects lying on top of the glass coffee table. The crucifix he inherited from the Bishop. The crucifix that was in Jonas’ belongings unexpectedly in his possession. And the SIM card he found in the hidden chamber of the cross.
It felt like he was on the flight back from Paris again. Like the Bishop had just handed him another secret message.
How can this be?
Read the story that launched the world of The 49.
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