Up In The Air – One Last Time

"There's a pretty decent place for gelato nearby, if memory serves..."

"Paul, you're the only human being on this planet who could possibly want ice cream on a day like this."

"This coming from a gal who's never had gelato in Italy? Bah!"

"What could possibly be..."

"Look, I just wanna keep you from making a fool of yourself. See that place right over there? The one with the line out the door?"

"Jesus, Paul! I had no idea there were so many crazy people in the world..."

"Well, we meet here, like once a year."

"Well, we better go, then. I'm sure the meeting won't begin until you get there." She shook her head, not quite believing what she was seeing. "Do they have coffee flavored ice cream over here?"

"They probably invented it, kid. Last time I was here they had about ten different kinds, and the chocolates are incredible. But, that was a few years ago. I bet they got more now." He grinned as he took her hand, as they walked over to get in the line.

The sky shook, and the air around the piazza rumbled as thunder echoed across the city, then there was the sharp 'crack-boom' of lightning as it split the evening sky.

"Sheesh, we better get inside now," she said, and they stepped into the gelateria -- just as little pellets of freezing rain began falling.

"Damn, look like tiny balls of styrofoam," he said, and within a minute the piazza was covered with the little frozen droplets -- soon it was an inch deep and the stuff was falling harder than ever. They made there way to the counter in the gelateria, decided against ice cream so late in the afternoon, then walked outside again, found a little covered area in the entrance to a shop and huddled there for a minute while they watched the storm.

"The Raphaël is just around the corner..."

"The who?"

"Good hotel, interesting restaurant. Vegetarian grub. You might like it."

"Okay..."

Lightning cracked nearby, and the hair on their necks stood out.

"Let's make a run for it!" he said, and they dashed across the Largo Febo and into the lobby. It was early and the restaurant had just opened, so they were in luck.

"This place is, I don't know, how do I say it? Really elegant?" Evans said as she looked around. They were the only ones there, save for a solitary old man sitting with his back to them across the little dining room.

"Rome and Florence are kind of world's unto themselves when it comes to style, Denise, but even so, there are places in Rome that put anything else in the rest of the world to shame. This is one of those places. I hear the upper crust rooms are insane."

After a quiet dinner of roasted artichokes, mushroom risotto and a spaghetti carbonara made with vegetables, eggs and truffles, they walked back out into the night -- only to find a very heavy snow was falling.

"Whoa! Too far to walk in this stuff," he said while looking at knee-deep drifts. "Hope we can find a taxi?

"I doubt you'll find one tonight," the older man from the restaurant said as he walked out the door behind them.

"I figured about as much," Paul said. "Damn."

"Where are you staying?" the old man asked.

"Hmm, oh, the Flora, on the Via Veneto."

"Do you know the way? I have a car, but I really don't know my way around town very well, and my eyes aren't what they used to be."

"I, well, yes, I think I remember the way, but I don't want to put you to any trouble."

"It's no trouble at all. In fact, I would like some company, and maybe a good coffee, too!"

"Well then, you're on, sir! Oh, my name's Paul, and this is Denise."

"I'm Jorge," the old man said as he led the way to his car. "What are you two doing in Rome? Business, or did you come to see St Peter's, perhaps?"

"Oh, we're pilots, for United Airlines, sir. We were flying into London this morning when the weather turned bad, and we diverted to Rome."

"Yes, very unusual weather, very bad in Paris tonight. Twenty inches of snow already, I saw on the news. Incredible."

Evans saw the license plates as they approached the man's car -- a brand new S-Class Mercedes -- and noted they were Vatican Diplomatic plates, and she shrugged her shoulders, wondered just who this character was.

"I'm sorry Paul, but I think you really ought to drive," the old man said, handing the car's keys over. "I've never driven in anything like this, and I'd hate to damage such a beautiful automobile."

Overton unlocked the doors, helped Denise into the back seat and then the old man into the passenger's seat up front, then he walked around to the driver's door.

When the driver's door opened and the overhead light came on, Evans got a good look at the old man's face -- and she froze.

"Excuse me," she said after a moment, "but you're not, uh, Pope Francis, are you?"

The old man turned to her, brought a finger to his mouth, went "Sh-h-h."

Overton looked at the old man. "You're kidding, right?"

"No, Paul, not really. It does me good to get out from time to time, and the Swiss Guard won't be too far away, but really, let's go and get some coffee. Talk for a while, perhaps."

Overton shook his head, started the car and saw there was a GPS NAV system in the dash so turned it on, then entered their hotel's information on the screen. In a moment turn-by-turn directions popped up and he slipped the car into drive and took off. Moments later a black S-500 slipped in behind them, then another. Overton looked in the rearview mirror, then at the old man -- who just shrugged his slight shoulders a little and grinned a knowing look at Paul. A few minutes later Overton pulled up to the hotel and stopped the car; two guards from the first Mercedes behind them ran up and opened the car's doors and helped the old man out -- as Overton helped Evans out, then one of the men jumped in and drove the Mercedes away.

"Shall we," the old man said, indicating the lobby doors, and Overton led them into the hotel. He asked the woman behind the counter where they could sit and get coffee, and she looked up, started to talk -- then saw Francis and her eyes went round as saucers. She picked up a telephone, spoke in hushed tones, and a moment later the maitre'd arrived and walked them to a small room off the bar and helped them get seated, then disappeared. A few minutes later he wheeled a cart into the little room and began preparing cappuccinos, for around town this Pope was getting a reputation for his late night wanderings, and his love of good coffee.

"So," Francis began, "you are accidental tourists? Is that it?"

"I'm afraid so, sir," Overton said. "No real agenda this trip."

"Please, call me Jorge, or George if that suits you. And may I know your name," he said to the maitre'd.

"Pietro, Your Holiness."

"Ah. Here I am, with Paul and Peter! Well Pietro, this is marvelous coffee. Would you be able to join us?"

"Me? Of course, if you wish."

"Yes, please. So, Paul, you are a pilot? You are in a position to observe the weather almost daily. Is it really changing, so much as they say?"

Overton looked at Denise, shrugged as if to say 'what the heck...here goes' then spoke slowly: "We see much less snow cover over Canada and Greenland in winter, a lot more volatility in the jet-stream. And storms like today's seem to be occurring with a little more frequency. I remember flying into Paris in 1999, around Christmas, and trees were flattened by violent storms all around Chartres and Versailles. There was talk then about how freakish, uh, do you know that word?"

"Yes, I studied English in Dublin, Paul. You may rest assured that I know what 'freakish' means!"

"Point taken, sir, uh, Jorge. Anyway, I've heard that these kinds of events are happening with more regularity. And then there are the droughts out west, in California."

The Pontiff asked more questions about the weather and he seemed well versed in both sides of the climate change debate, then he wanted to talk about violence in American cities and all the civil unrest after events in Missouri and New York City. Overton was unsure of himself talking about these matters, but Evans less so, and their talk turned to rising income inequality and other matters of social justice, and the old man warmed to Denise, seemed to take heart from her knowledge of these issues.

"We live in complex times, don't we," he said once, with a slight frown building.

"Troubled, I think, is a better word," she said, and he nodded his head a bit, then took some coffee.

"And have you been to Rome before, Miss Evans?"

"Never, Your Holiness."

"Please, please, not tonight. Call me..."

"I can't, Father, I'm sorry."

"Oh? You are Catholic?"

"Yes, Father."

"And you, Paul?"

"I was, I went to a Jesuit school, Jorge. And a Jesuit college?"

"Oh? Where?"

"Boston College, sir."

"You said 'was'. What happened, Paul?"

"I'm not sure I can put that into words, Father. I'm not really sure I know the reason why, but after my wife passed away... Well, I..."

"Oh yes, I think anyone can understand that, Paul, but perhaps you have simply lost your way. Or perhaps something else calls to you now."

"It's funny, Father, but Paul said this morning he wanted to find a little chapel, out in the country perhaps, and just ask a village priest to marry us..."

"Oh? You are not simply associates at work?"

"Well, yes, we have been," Overton replied, "but all that changed a few months ago."

"I see. Well, anyway, it's not so simple to get married here in Italy, I'm afraid. There are rules and papers to be signed, and for an American I'm sure there must be a million forms from the consulate to fill out..."

"Oh, all I wanted to do, well, it would be just a simple thing, to be, as I told Denise this morning, married before God. Not before all the rules and regulations men toss in the way of such things..."

The old man leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers and looked at Paul. "Yes, I understand," he said, then leaned over to Pietro and asked where the bathroom was.

Pietro stood rapidly. "Please, Eminence, I will take you."

"This is probably the most surreal evening I've ever had in my life," Overton said when the old man walked away with the maitre'd.

Evans seemed a little pale. "You know, I've read about him, this Pope. He's different, isn't he? I mean, I can feel the holiness in his soul, but he doesn't feel isolated...from us, from people. Know what I mean?"

"Yup, I could feel it when we were still out on the street. There's something about him, that's for sure. As a matter of fact, I can't remember ever wanting to talk with someone so much as I have the past few minutes."

"It was fascinating to watch. His eyes. He seems to drink up knowledge the way some people drink water."

"Exactly! Oh, here they come..."

The old man came to them, stood behind his chair: "I'm sorry Denise, Paul, but I must leave now. It was wonderful to hear of your views, oops, sorry, bad pun! Well, anyway," he smiled, "about the changes you've observed." Overton and Evans stood, took his proffered hand.

"It was so nice to meet you," Evans said, "a miracle, really. Thank you so much, Father."

He bowed his head slightly, smiled, then turned and left with four guards who had somehow appeared out of the woodwork.

Overton looked at his watch, then checked his iPhone for messages. "I'm beat, ya know? Feel like I could sleep a week."

"I feel like I'm going to barf," Evans retorted.

He looked at her, saw 'that expression' in her eyes, on her face, took her by the hand and bolted for the elevator...

+++++

The phone rang a little after seven the next morning; Evans answered as Overton was in the shower. "Paul? It's for you," she called out.

He came out of the steamy bathroom a moment later, wrapped in a towel and with a fair bit of water still beaded on his back and shoulders...

"Overton," he said into the phone. He stood listening for what seemed like an hour, then walked back into the shower. "Denise, would you call room service, see if they got our breakfast order? It's almost 7:30!"

"Someone's knocking on the door now!"

"Bet that's it," he said, jogging over to the door. A man rolled a cart into the room and cheerfully took the Ten Euro note Overton handed him, then disappeared silently.

"What was the call?" Evans asked.

"Hmm, oh nothing. Just some tourist stuff I asked about yesterday. City tours and the like."

"Oh."

He went to the window, looked out and whistled. "Man, must be a foot and half out there. I didn't know they got this kind of snow down here, and in November! Matter of fact, the streets are just about empty."

"Nice eggs, Paul. Better get over here before they're gone!"

"Darlin', you feel like eatin' 'em all, you go right ahead."

"Well, I just might. I haven't felt this hungry in weeks!"

He went over and poured himself a glass of orange juice, tossed it down, then finished getting dressed. He ate a piece of bacon with a few scraps of egg, then looked at his watch.

"Gotta go downstairs for a moment, check tour times; I'll be back up in a few," he said as he slipped out the door.

Evans lashed out at a stack of toast, slathered the bread with butter and orange marmalade, then added some Nutella for good measure. "Oh my God! This is so good..."

+++++

"So, where're we headed first?" Evans asked when they got to the elevator.

"Oh, we'll be the first of millions to hit the Vatican today. Great museum there."

"I've always wanted to see the Sistine Chapel. Michelangelo. All that stuff."

"Reckon they might let us in," he said. "We're not exactly overdressed, anyway!"

They walked through the lobby and out to the street, and Overton waved at the driver of a silver Mercedes. Overton walked to the car and opened the door for Denise -- who gave him an odd little look, like 'what's going on?'

"Hired a car. Tour buses aren't running in this snow. Quicker this way, too."

"And no tour guides to get annoyed with!" Evans said cheerily.

The driver took off through snow covered streets and wound his way along the Tiber towards Vatican City, and then drove up to a gate and flashed a pass. A soldier opened the gate and the Mercedes slipped down into an underground parking garage and stopped near a bank of three elevators, and another soldier opened their door.

Overton slipped out, took Evans' hand and helped her out.

"What's going on, Paul?"

"Denise, for the next few minutes, well, I'm just asking you to go with the flow, okay?"

"Okay?"

They were escorted into the elevator and a man in an impeccable suit met them when they got out on the next floor.

"Mr Overton?" the man asked.

"Yes, and this is Miss Evans."

The man shook their hands, smiled. "Follow me, please."

"Paul?"

"Go with the flow, Evans, remember?"

They wound through hallways and small chambers full of unimaginably gorgeous works of art, then came to a small door. The man took out a small key and opened the door, then ushered Paul and Denise -- into the Sistine Chapel.

A small man in a simple frock stood at the altar, his back to Overton and Evans, and they walked up to him, silently, humbly, their eyes looking at the ceiling and the huge mural behind the altar.

When they got to the man, he turned.

Evans nearly fainted.

There stood the Pope, in the simplest of priestly raiment.

"You said you wanted to married," the Pope said, "by a village priest, and in a small chapel, did you not?"

Overton looked at the old man, tears running down his face. "Yes, Father, I did."

The old man leaned over, said in a conspiratorially low voice: "I haven't done this in a while, so if I mess it up..." he said with a shrug and a smile, "don't hold it against me!"

+++++

Two hours later they left the small, impromptu reception the Pope had laid on for them and their driver took them back to the hotel.

"You should have seen his face," Overton said, still awash in the afterglow of the event, "when he turned around, and you saw him."

"Oh, what'd he..."

"I've never seen a smile like that. Never."

"I think he did again," Denise added, "when you gave him that hug!"

"Yeah. I don't know what came over me!"

"I do," Evans said with a little smile.

"So, I've been thinking. There's no way they're going to let both of us continue flying. One of us is going to have to quit, so one of use will have to try and get on with another carrier..."

"I can do..."

"Yeah, anyway, I'm guessing I could move over into training and not step on any toes. That'd probably keep 'em off our backs for a while, at least until I can talk you into tossing the dock lines over the side and taking off for a while."

"A while?"

"Well, like, for the rest of our lives?"

"I like the sound of that. A lot."

They arrived at the hotel and got out, thanked the driver -- who handed Overton an envelope before saying 'Ciao' and driving off. Overton opened it, looked over the paperwork inside.

"What is it?"

"Well, we weren't in Italy, darlin'. We were married in the Vatican, and these are all the official documents we need." He pulled out the certificate, looked at it.

It was signed by the Pope.

He looked across the snowy cityscape, could just make out the dome of St Peter's in the distance and he crossed himself, then for the first time in months said a little prayer. He thanked his wife for loving him, his first wife, then he turned to Denise and thanked her, too.

"For what, Paul?"

"For this. For showing me the way back, to life. For loving me, for letting me love you."

She had tears welling in her eyes, and she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him, took him by the hand. "I think it's time I got you upstairs," she said, "and got you out of these wet clothes."

"You don't want to take a tour? I mean, we haven't seen..."

"Paul?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Shut up, Paul."

"Oh, right," he said. "I don't suppose you want to carry me over the threshold, do you?"

"Don't push it, Mr Overton."

"Right, Mrs Overton."

He turned when he saw sunlight pour through a break in the clouds, and just then he saw a 747 up there, cutting through the sky, climbing toward the sun on it's journey homeward. Then he felt Peggy Sue by his side for a moment, felt her hand in his, felt her love, and then he knew he couldn't wait to get back up there again. Up in the air, again.

Denise looked at him, followed his gaze. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" she asked.

"For a moment -- I felt Peggy Sue."

"Oh? What did you feel?"

"Love, I think."

She looked at him, at the certainty in his eyes. "I can't imagine anything more wonderful, Paul."

"God, I love you."

"Ditto, Paul."

He looked skyward as the jet disappeared, then he turned back to Denise.

"Remember that time?" she said. "When we did it in the cockpit?"

"Yup."

"You wanna try that again?"

"This next flight is probably going to be our last together, you know?"

"Better go out with a bang then, don't you think?"

He sighed, shook his head. "What am I going to with you?"

"I have a few ideas," she said, squeezing his hand. "At least, if you're feeling adventurous."

"I'll bet you do," he smiled as he looked into her eyes. "You know what?"

"Hmm, what?"

"We're married. Has that sunk in yet?"

"Come on, let's go," she said, smiling, pulling him towards the hotel, towards this new thing they'd found that was beginning to feel a lot like life after death.

*

(C)2015 ABW|adrianleverkühn

[note: the original version(s) of this story appeared here on Lit in April, 2008, as Up In The Air (Pt 1), and Up In The Air Again (Pt 2). I was never happy with the unfinished arc of the storyline in those two, especially the dangling conclusion of Part II, as the whole Denise/Miriam thing just didn't ring true to me. The original idea (the comedic and totally improbable device of sex in cockpit, more than anything else) was more a lark than an attempt to write a 'serious' romance. Still, I enjoyed the characters, and where the story 'might have gone' wore on me until I just had to go back and visit them one more time. Another new element found in this 'Part 3' was to incorporate Parts 1 & 2 with the new material, to make a more unified, cohesive story (hopefully), yet the more I read and reread 1&2 the more dissatisfied I grew, so both earlier parts have been significantly reworked. Even so, I've decided to leave the original stories posted and unmodified, for comparison's sake more than anything else. Hope you enjoy. A]