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astonished foreigner.
    The old man looked at him seriously.
    “Since when have Christians prayed with Muslims?”
    “No one said he was a Muslim. The stories mention a true Christian who sees the Virgin.” The foreigner couldn’t accept what he had heard. “Are you sure?”
    “Absolutely. He’s not a believing Christian. But he sees the Virgin Mary.” The old man got up, approached the other, and extended his hand. “Abu Rashid. Allah be with you.”
    This man watching the city in the light of dawn through his window was very worried.

Chapter 4
    T he church Dei Quattro Capi is called that because it is next to the bridge of the same name, formerly called the Fabricio Bridge and still known by that name if one decides to ask for it. It was named in honor of the master builder who laid the first stone in the year 62 before the birth of Our Lord Jesus Christ. This makes it the most ancient bridge in Rome. Before it was given the name Four Heads—derived from two busts with the sculptured heads of Mercury situated at one of the ends—the bridge was called the Pons Judaeorum for its proximity to the Jewish ghetto.
    In the travertine of the arches that have supported the bridge for more than twenty-one centuries inscriptions are engraved on both sides that recall the builder, Fabricius, who wished to leave his mark on posterity. But the truth is, nobody remembers him; no historian is able to verify his first name with any certainty, except that it begins with L, as the inscriptions attest. People cross the Fabricio Bridge, forgetful or ignorant that it was once more than a footbridge and tourist site, a bridge for the passage of provisions, goods, valuables, and vehicles into the sublime capital of the great Roman Empire . . . but that was in the beginning.
    Today people only cross it to go to the church, like this priest, uninterested in bridge engineering. Like all the houses of the Lord spread around the world, the small church of Saint Gregory of Divine Mercy, its official name, in the parish of Sant’Angelo, welcomes all the faithful who wish to hear and feel His Word, lay down the burden of life for the interval of the Eucharist, and unite themselves in faith.
    This Tuesday morning was no exception. Several people were entering the small church, most hardly bothering to admire the facade, perhaps accustomed to it, as if it were only one more familiar fortification, like the city itself where they live. Perhaps the Mass, which had already started, made them hurry. The few who looked at the facade were undoubtedly tourists, admiring the painting of Christ Crucified, wept over by Mary and Mary Magdalene, the common scene reproduced from diverse angles and artistic and subjective interpretations of the mother and spouse who weep for their dead son and husband who will rise again on the third day. Above the portico is a plaque that reads: Indulgencia plenaria quotidiana perpetua pro vivis et defunctis —a priestly and papal pronouncement of daily privilege for the living and dead within this sacred temple. The priest, who had just crossed the bridge, entered the church. Its interior reflected something of its exterior simplicity, though it possessed priceless relics, although fewer in number compared with those in other Roman churches.
    This is not the first time Father Rafael Santini has celebrated Mass here, although it’s not the parish assigned to him. That lies to the north of Rome in a small village he barely knows—for reasons that don’t concern us.
    This cool morning they were celebrating the silver anniversary of Father Carrara’s appointment as parish priest. He was Rafael’s friend of many years and colleague in service as priest and in other matters we won’t mention now. Rafael, though a priest, liked people, especially women, as has been common since the High Middle Ages. Men like Rafael look as old as they wish. We could be specific and say thirty-eight years, completed on the sixteenth day of