"You see, every saint's got his symbols. And the Virgin Mary's got symbols, too, like she's always wearing that thing over her head. Sometimes it's red, but usually, it's blue. Blue is Mary's color. It's for peace, the peace that you see in her eyes."
"That guy was painted blue, that Santa Claus," said Dahlia, who was remembering the smallest things so distinctly.
"Right, but Santa Claus is supposed to be red. We arranged that a long time ago."
"You arranged that? Rota Fracta?"
"Yeah. It was a real problem, the elevation of this saint, Saint Nicholas. You see, there's like a balance among the saints. Different saints represent different things. Some are more important, they have festivals, and some festivals are more important than others. And a lot of funny stuff happens in different parts of the world, too. Saints come to represent the local deities. Hell, that's how a lot of them got started in the first place, pagan gods across Europe assimilated into our Church. The gods of the whole world, incorporated into our saints. But the Vatican tries to keep things from getting out of hand."
"Like Santa Claus?" asked Dahlia.
"Yeah, he was a big problem, like I said. He had all this importance for people who knew nothing about him, people who weren't even Catholic. And he was spreading around the world. So the first thing they did was make him red. You know, get certain important artists to depict him that way. Worked well here in this country, anyway. So, red represents the blood of Christ. It takes the shine off Saint Nicholas, 'cause really it's about Christ anyway. You know, Christmas…"
She just looked at him.
"Right… well, blue's no color for Santa Claus. That's the Virgin's color."
"And you made Santa Claus red?"
"We influenced certain influential artists, like I said. People see what you tell them to see."
"How big an organization are you?"
"Hey, we've got a lot of friends, that's all."
"You work for the Vatican," she said.
"We're just friends."
"Oh my God. So the Pope is like the Godfather?"
"He's a powerful man."
"And it was so threatening? This deejay dressed like a blue Santa Claus?"
"It's our time, Dahlia," said Johnny almost as if he was talking about just the two of them. "The troops for the final battle are lining up. We have to represent."
"And what side are you on?"
"God's."
"God is on every side. I don't care how complicated the shape of the Universe is, or the maze of your mind, He's on every side of it. God isn't fighting any war. He doesn't need to win anything. Everything is already His. Any wars that happen in the end time will just be to clear the way for Him. And when He does come, you will be naked before Him, no Pope, no Rota Fracta, no motorcycle, and your actions will be laid out plain."
"But I'll have the blood of Christ."
"Do not hide behind the cross!" chastised Dahlia. "You must be repentant to be cleaned of sin."
"But I'm telling you, Dahlia. I'm doing God's work."
"I tell you now beyond the shadow of a doubt that the murder of that deejay, regardless of God's plans, is a sin upon your soul."
Dahlia looked around the apartment as her heavy words sunk in. The multitude of huge old books seemed to absorb most of the light, leaving them in an underexposed fog. She felt like she wasn't in a room at all. She felt like she was inside the rain. All those times she had stood in a doorway when the sun went dim and water blurred the world, when she looked toward the places she could have gone, but couldn't reach, not even with her eyes - so that the places seemed to be gone, replaced by a dark new place she could never quite focus on - and now she was there, in that place. The inside of rain, where, of course, it was perfectly dry, like the eye of a hurricane, which never sheds a tear.
"Dahlia, Darling, maybe you're right. Maybe we are too close to the ritual and the study and we forget the most basic principles. But tradition is our channel to God. He reveals Himself to us in our study. His hands guide our study."
It was so strange hearing the word "darling" from this man. Did he mean it? How much did he mean it? Could it be that she could fall in love with him? But as she asked herself these questions, the argument still continued in her head, as if she were two people, or two minds.
"Who was it," asked Catherine, "that killed Christ in the first place? High Priests locked into their traditions."
"That's the key then, isn't it? Are we locked in? Have we stayed attuned to God or are all our efforts spent denying Him, blocking ourselves from His message?"
He kissed her then Dahlia's first thought was "I'm kissing a murderer" and as they continued kissing her second thought was "I am not a saint."
But Catherine was thinking, too. She was figuring out how he had argued her to a standstill. He won by losing, by conceding to her points and then invoking the argument that it is a matter of motivation, a personal matter. She was learning. She did not want simply to win an argument. She wanted to win souls.
Object: Johnny's soul