She said, “I told them they could keep their place if they came back right now. I hope that’s alright with you.”
“Sure,” I said.
The girls slid into line without looking at us. They spoke to each other in their language and began to laugh. I felt humiliated. I’d endorsed Dawn’s behavior by doing nothing to stop or soften her.
“Thank goodness we’re almost there,” Dawn whispered.
The Black Madonna lived in a tiny room above and behind the basilica’s chancel. Her origins were unknown, but she was thought to have been carved from poplar wood in the twelfth century and had long served as the patroness of Catalonia. As we approached, my stomach tensed. She wasn’t a statue, housed in a museum as an example of what people from this or that culture worshipped. This Madonna was still putting in a good day’s work. My father had attended a Jesuit high school and, in the months before his death, regaled me with tales of how that sect had shaped his character and principles, though he’d never spoken of this influence before. The Jesuits’ founder, Saint Ignatius, had become an ascetic after a night spent in prayer before this very icon. The Spanish-English brochure said Ignatius had quit his military career and laid down his sword and dagger at the Black Madonna’s feet. What it didn’t mention—and which I Googled—was that he’d already taken a cannonball to the leg and was looking for a new occupation in life.
The pixie-cut girl turned left and ascended the four steep stairs into the Madonna’s chamber. I strained to see into the darkened room, but a sheet of protective Plexiglass reflected the external light too strongly.
“Did you go to Passports last time you were here?” Dawn asked. “Because it closed during the pandemic, but Howie and I got a reservation at his new one, Anagram, if you’d like to join tomorrow night.”
The retreat ended at noon the next day and our flight was at two. I was to have the bags in the lobby and the taxi ready when Matteo came out. But there was another factor to consider, one I couldn’t forget: Dawn was the wife of Matteo’s boss.
“Let me check in,” I said. “And see what we’re doing.”
The pixie-cut girl disappeared down the exit stairs and the girl with the long plait stepped up. She didn’t close her eyes but scanned whatever she saw, sighed, and retreated down the back stairs. Another day, another masterpiece. She was killing time, too.