The Power of Five Oblivion

it, the more suspicious they will become.”
    “Take care, Pedro.” Carla hugged him again. “Maybe one day in happier times we will meet again.”
    She opened the door for them and they left together. For a moment, Silvio stood next to his mother and he gently kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t wait for me,” he said, in Italian.
    “Of course I will wait for you. I won’t be able to sleep until you’re home. Look after Pedro.”
    The priest was wearing a dark coat over his suit and as he hurried through the garden he was suddenly shrouded in night. He and Pedro reached the gate on the other side of the fountain and passed through into the street. This part of the city had been quiet when Pedro first reached it, and it was practically deserted now. A single man, wearing too many clothes, limped down the pavement, looking hopefully in the dustbins. A family lay curled up together in the doorway of a block of flats. Otherwise there was nobody to see them as they hurried away from the house, turning down one of the many streets that led them to St Peter’s Square.
    Their destination was not the church, even though it was part of the Vatican City state which surrounded it. Vatican City itself was a huge walled area inside Rome with its own police and government. It contained churches, museums, offices and official residences set within a beautifully landscaped garden. Silvio Rivera could have chosen to live inside the walls but had preferred to share a house with his mother and sister – even so, he was no more than ten minutes away from the entrance that he used every day. This was an archway with a small sentry box. It was guarded by two men wearing the most bizarre costumes Pedro had ever seen: orange and blue striped tunics with trousers that were tight at the ankles but ballooned out around the legs, black berets, slashes of red in their sleeves and around their cuffs.
    “They are the Swiss Guard,” Silvio explained. “It is their job to guard the Holy Father. Do not say anything, even if they try to talk to you. I will explain to them that I am looking after you and hopefully they will let us through.”
    As he approached them, Silvio took out a badge with his photograph and identification number. It was almost half past twelve at night but he walked confidently, as if he was simply on his way to work. Even so, the Swiss Guards were suspicious. Despite the fanciful costumes, they were hard-edged, well-disciplined men. One of them examined the badge carefully, while the other snapped out a series of questions, which Silvio answered quietly and with complete confidence. Now the guard was examining Pedro. He asked something but Pedro didn’t speak, as he had been instructed. Silvio continued with a torrent of words in Italian, waving one hand at Pedro while resting the other on his shoulder. Eventually, the guards seemed to be satisfied. The badge was handed back. They were allowed through.
    Pedro waited until they were out of earshot. “What did you tell them?” he asked.
    “I said that you were a chorister and that you were singing a solo at tomorrow’s mass but that you had forgotten your words. I said I was giving you a lesson.”
    “After midnight?”
    “It is not so unusual for the choirmasters to come here with boys at strange times of the day and night. The mass has to be perfect.”
    It was too dark to see very much. Pedro was aware of the lawns and shrubbery opening up around them. He heard the tinkle of water and smelled recently mown grass. It occurred to him that even if the rest of Rome was overcrowded and grimy, this garden must be a beautiful place – if only he could see it. A building loomed up ahead of them, handsome and solid. It did look like somewhere a choir might have practised, something between a school and a small museum. A flight of about ten white marble steps led up to the front door but Silvio took them another way, using a key to open a door at the back.
    A long corridor stretched out in front of them, with low-voltage electric bulbs hanging above. Pedro could tell at once that the building was empty. Everything was silent apart from their own footsteps on the tiled floor. The walls were lined with black-and-white photographs of people – all of them men, many of them in clerical dress. They passed a series of doors, marked with numbers but not names. They could have led into classrooms, but when Silvio finally opened the door at the very end, Pedro found himself