With the tip of her pen she pointed toward the section of the menu devoted to the café’s selection of wines. They were mainly French and Swiss. Donati chose a Chasselas.
“Something to eat?”
“Just the wine for now, thank you.”
She walked over to the bar and checked her phone while a black-shirted colleague poured the wine. The glass sat atop hertray for a moment or two before she finally delivered it to Donati’s table.
“You’re not from Fribourg,” she observed.
“How could you possibly tell?”
“Italy?”
“Rome.”
Her expression was unchanged. “What brings you to dull Fribourg?”
“Business.”
“What business are you in?”
Donati hesitated. Hehad never found a satisfactory way to admit what he did for his living. “I suppose I’m in the business of salvation.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re a clergyman?”
“A priest,” said Donati.
“You don’t look much like a priest.” Her eyes flashed over him provocatively. “Especially in those clothes.”
He wondered whether she addressed all her customers in so forward a manner. “Actually, I’m an archbishop.”
“Where’s your archdiocese?” She was obviously familiar with the lexicon of Catholicism.
“A remote corner of North Africa that was once part of the Roman Empire. There are very few Christians there any longer, let alone Catholics.”
“A titular see?”
“Exactly.”
“What do you really do?”
“I’m about to begin teaching at the Pontifical Gregorian University in Rome.”
“You’re a Jesuit?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“And before the Gregoriana?”
Donati lowered his voice. “I served as the private secretary to His Holiness Pope Paul the Seventh.”
A shadow seemed to fall across her face. “What are you doing in Fribourg?” she asked again.
“I came to see you.”
“Why?”
“I need to talk to you about Niklaus.”
