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practically all ties with his own country. Paul Marcinkus belonged to no side. He was a citizen of the world and at the same time estranged from it. For Paul Casimir Marcinkus, only his own world mattered; other people were no more than marionettes to be manipulated at his whim until no longer useful.
    Sent back to the diocese of Chicago in 1989, he was obliged to forget all the opulence and power that had surrounded him for so long. The only thing left for him was solitude and, more seriously, the realization that he had no friends, only acquaintances. Friendships based on power crumble away almost instantly when that power is lost. Returning to Chicago, after sixteen years, he realized for the first time he’d always been alone, always an orphan. Even today, having turned eighty-four in the last month, living in Sun City, Arizona, a city of around forty thousand inhabitants, he was alone.
    Now he practically never left his bedroom. No more celebrating the Eucharist in the parish of San Clemente in Rome. He spent the day with memories, ever more vivid in his mind, or looking at papers and photographs. The popes Peter, Calvi, and Gelli in the good times, the scoundrels Villot, Casaroli, Poletti, the bastards Luciani and Wojtyla . . . Emanuela . . . the beautiful Emanuela. How sad not to have a photograph of Emanuela. How could he? He, an archbishop of the Roman Catholic Church, married to God, Whoever He might be, administrator, for many years, of the accounts bequeathed by Him on earth, he’d managed to triple his investments, some claimed in a risky, harmful way, but that was malicious gossip. A picture of the sweet Emanuela? How could he justify it? How marvelous to have a photo of the beautiful Emanuela. How many years had passed since she . . . twenty-two? Twenty-three? To think he had become the king of numbers, calculations, financial operations. But nonsense, eighty-four years is a lifetime. The dead make better company than the living.
    Two knocks at the door took him out of his dreamy state of thinking about the distant but vivid image of Emanuela . . . of God, if you will permit the correction. He took his time getting up from the desk and getting to the door. He didn’t hear another knock. Either it was someone very patient or old Marcinkus was now hearing things. But as soon as he opened the door, he was relieved to see someone on the other side.
    “Good afternoon, Your Eminence,” a young visitor greeted him. Since the term “young” has a wide range, one should reduce it to between twenty-eight and thirty-three years. The young man was somewhere in that range.
    “Who are you?” Marcinkus asked rudely. Congeniality was never his strong suit.
    The young man didn’t seem the least impressed with the importance of the man or his lack of manners.
    “I’m Brother Herbert. I called at the parish to say I was coming,” the young cleric informed him. Black pants, black shirt and jacket, and a collar identical to what priests wear. Marcinkus deliberated. The young man was carrying a writing case with papers and a bottle.
    “No one’s told me anything. Why are you here?” Marcinkus shot back. He hated visits, especially from people he didn’t know.
    “I’m coming from Rome. I’m doing my doctorate. Excuse me for bothering you, but my thesis is about the financial world and the Church. And who better than Your Eminence to inform me about that?” the young man continued, submissive and well mannered.
    “I can’t help you. Good afternoon,” Marcinkus replied, starting to close the door.
    “I’m not going to take much of your time, Your Eminence. I promise you,” the young man hastened to argue. “I brought you a present from Italy.” He raised his hand with the bottle of Brunello di Montalcino, a marvelous red nectar from Tuscany, full-bodied with an intense flavor, which should not be confused with the more common Rosso di Montalcino from the same region.
    Marcinkus thought for a few