Fatima

When the twenty-four-year-old Paulo Mendes was first moved from the sports department to the hard news department at the O Sol newspaper, he did not expect that his first assignment would be to interview three illiterate shepherd children or that the subject of their discussion would be the alleged apparition of the Virgin Mary. On June 13, 1917, the three youngsters – Lucia dos Santos, aged ten, Francisco Marto, aged nine, and Jacinta Marto, aged seven – had reportedly seen a lovely lady dressed in white, resplendent as the sun, appear in the sky above the hollow of Cova da Iria to give them a message. It was the second time she visited them, and she had not yet told them that she was the Mother of God incarnate. Based on what she had said to them during her first appearance, however, many people were sure that she was the Virgin Mary and eagerly followed the three children to the site where she had promised to meet them. Paulo Mendes was skeptical from the get-go since none of the seventy people with the children actually saw the apparition and figured he would debunk the story before the whole of Portugal went to Fatima in hopes of seeking blessings from the Holy Lady. Paulo Mendes was an atheist and something of an anticlerical zealot, so he was sure the appearance of the Virgin Mother was a fiction manufactured by the three kids in order to gain attention or a product of their childish imaginations and the influence of their parents.

When Paulo Mendes found them, the three children were tending to a flock of sheep as they were traversing a pasture in the mountain village of Fatima. The three young shepherds seemed surprised when they encountered him, and Lucia looked at him with diffidence, even a hint of fear.

“Who are you?” she probed as she looked at him inquisitively. “I have never seen you in all of Fatima. What are you doing in these fields?”

“I went to your home and your mother told me where to find you.”

“What do you want? Why were you searching for us?”

Lucia was only ten but her stern visage had a marked seriousness which made her look much older than her years.

“I come from Lisbon,” smiled Paulo Mendes. “I’m a reporter for O Sol and wanted to ask you for information about your encounters with the Virgin Mary.”

Lucia’s face softened a bit.

“That’s what people are saying,” she replied. “But the lovely lady has not told us who she is and has promised to tell us in the near future.”

“So, you’re not telling people you saw the Virgin Mary?”

“Nor am I denying it,” replied Lucia.

“Tell me what you saw.”

“’Before that,” responded Lucia, “you must know about the Angel of Peace. He was the one who prepared us for the visit by the Lady.”

“The Angel of Peace?” echoed Paulo Mendes.

“Yes, he appeared to us three times about a year ago. He also said he was the Angel of Portugal.”

“Did the three of you all see him?”

All three children nodded.

“The first time we saw him,” explained Lucia, “he looked like a brilliant flash of light coming toward us from the heavens. As he approached, the light was transformed into a young man dressed in white, no older than fifteen or sixteen years, with eyes of blue and hair of gold. He told us, ‘Do not be afraid! I come to you from God. I want you to say a prayer.’”

“What was the prayer?” asked Paulo Mendes as he began to scribble down some words on a notebook he had brought from Lisbon in a satchel.

Lucia shut her eyes and began to pray.

“My God, I believe, I adore, I trust, and I love you. I ask pardon for those who do not believe, do not adore, do not trust and do not love you.”

Paulo Mendes suddenly became somewhat uneasy. It had been years since he had stopped believing, adoring, trusting or loving God. But he remembered doing so as a child along with his pious mother who directed him to pray the Rosary every night and never missed leading him to Mass on Sundays.

“So, the Angel asked you to pray for unbelievers?” asked Paulo Mendes.

“For all poor sinners,” replied Lucia. “The second time he asked us to pray for sinners without cease. He implored that we offer our prayers and sacrifices constantly to the Most High for the sins of unbelieving men. He also told us that we would suffer much, but that our sacrifice would rescue many men destined for hell due to their ingratitude towards God.”

Although Paulo Mendes had attended Jesuit schools throughout his life, he had not attended Mass or confessed his sins since he was sixteen. He felt an unexpected pang of shame and a hot sweat as he continued to probe the ten-year-old visionary although his intention to prove the falsehood of her story had not changed.

“How did the Angel of Peace prepare you for the apparition of the Virgin?” asked Paulo Mendes as he tried to collect himself.

“He appeared to us a third time, holding a holy Host dripping blood into a chalice. Then, while the Host floated in midair, he asked us to say a prayer to the Immaculate Heart of Mary. He asked us to entrust the souls of poor sinners to the Virgin Mother and beg for their conversion. I had the sense the Host was bleeding for the sinners as the Angel told us, ‘Make reparations for their crimes and console your God.’ Then the angel gave me the Host and the blood to Francisco and Jacinta, telling us, ‘Take the body and blood of Jesus Christ, horribly outraged by the crimes of ungrateful men.’”

“I find that hard to believe,” said Paulo Mendes as if talking to himself. “Come now, young lady, was that a story told to you by your parents?”

“If anything, my parents doubted the apparitions just as you do, especially when we told them about having seen the Lady. My mother accused us of telling falsehoods. She wanted us to tell everyone who had heard of the great miracle that we had invented it. She even demanded that I go to the village priest, get on my knees and ask his pardon for my great lie. I offered the humiliation to which my mother subjected me for the souls of all poor sinners as required by the Lady. After all, the Lady promised that we would have to suffer much if we followed her requests, but that we would be comforted by God’s grace. Nothing made me suffer as much as my mother’s fury. I would have preferred the most scathing torments of purgatory rather than to hear her fierce complaints.”

“Well, yours is quite a story. What most intrigues me is your claim that your two cousins actually drank the blood of Christ.”

“Yes, we did!” exclaimed the nine-year-old Francisco. He was swarthy, with jet black hair and vivacious eyes and spoke in an excited voice unlike Lucia who was calm.

“Why do you find that hard to believe?” inquired the surprised Lucia. “Don’t you take the Eucharist every Sunday? It is the body and blood of Christ.”

“The blood which He shed on the Cross as He was crucified by wicked men,” chimed in Francisco with a tone of satisfaction in his voice.

“The blood which He sheds today,” added Lucia, “as He is still crucified by the sins of men.”

Paulo Mendes had not been fortified by the Eucharist in years.

“Tell me what you saw last month,” he requested as he continued to write on his notebook.

“That time the heavenly maiden showed us her Immaculate Heart, surrounded with prickly thorns which signify the sins of men which cause her a great pain. She told us we would have to wait till the month of October for her to tell us who she is. But I inflamed my mother’s wrath when I said to her, ‘Who else could she be, other than Mary?’ I know that since that day all three of us have been filled by a great devotion to her Immaculate Heart pierced by seven arrows.”

“So even your mother didn’t believe?” asked Paulo Mendes.

“I should tell you that on that day,” replied Lucia, “a great group appeared at my house to join with us at the site where the Virgin had promised to make her visit. They asked me myriad questions showing they had no doubt that the Virgin Mary would be appearing to us the thirteenth of every month as she had promised. My mother was incensed and once again ordered me to say the apparitions were a lie of great proportions. She told me that unless I admitted to all the pilgrims that my story was a lie, she would lock me up in a dark room where I would not see the light of day. But the Lady surely appeared to us and showed us her Immaculate Heart. My mother’s conviction that we were being deceitful softened a bit the following afternoon when she saw the joy on the faces of our visitors as they were preparing to depart.”

“Are you saying you literally saw her heart beset by thorns?” inquired the incredulous Paulo Mendes. “Or are you saying it figuratively?  How could you see her heart unless her body was transparent? Surely that proves you’re imagining things.”

“That’s exactly what we saw,” responded Lucia trenchantly. “You’re trying to split hairs, mister reporter. Don’t you realize the Immaculate Heart of Mary, tortured as it is by the sins of men, is the last refuge of sinners and the only hope for their salvation? She alone can make amends for the dark unfaithfulness of men through her endless prayers and the power of her intercession.”

“If what you say is true, then why didn’t the other seventy persons with you see or hear the Lady?”

“That I do not know. Perhaps the Lady didn’t want the others to hear the message, at least not yet. You should know that she promised she would make her presence known to all on the thirteenth of October.”

“What if I was to give you a little something so that you will admit you’re making up the story?” inquired Paulo Mendes. “If you admit your tale is invented, I shall give you a dozen golden coins.”

Lucia took the initiative in responding to the reporter.

“Get behind me, Satan! Depart, oh sinful man, who wants to buy a lie offensive to our God and the Holy Virgin Mary. You don’t offer things of God but things of men! Know that if you offered us all the treasures of this earth, we wouldn’t cease to tell our truth. Our Holy Mother desires nothing less than our complete faith. Come to Fatima on October 13 so you can see for yourself and stop badgering us with your silly questions. The Lady has told us her Immaculate Heart is our refuge and the path that would lead us to our God.”

Paulo Mendes left the children with more doubts than when he had first arrived in Fatima. There were no inconsistencies in Lucia’s narration of events, and he found it hard to believe the whole story was a product of rank mendacity. How could three small children come up with such an elaborate fabrication? How could they never stumble in the telling? There was only one other possibility: that they spoke the truth!

But Paulo Mendes was not ready to abandon the certainties of his entire adult life and resolved, come what may, to unravel their deception.

***

Fatima Fernandes was that rare type of beautiful woman who doesn’t play up her beauty but tries to play it down instead. She wore no lipstick or mascara, was never adorned by jewels, and kept her jet-black hair in a simple bun. But it was impossible for her to conceal her full red lips, the glitter of her smile, the special light in her deep green eyes, her magnificent skin or her shapely legs. She was frank and spontaneous, optimistic and witty like nobody else at the newspaper, ebullient with laughter although at times she seemed beset by an inscrutable melancholy, like a little girl whose doll had broken or who had been forbidden to join the choir at church. Paulo Mendes was attracted to her from the very first time he had any interaction with her, soon after he was told she would be his secretary, and that attraction only grew with time as he became aware of her great intelligence. But he never made a pass at her for he believed office romances always end in disaster, and he tried not to bother her as she was sitting at her typewriter. He struggled to maintain a strictly professional relationship with her although with the passage of time he found it harder and harder to do so, especially as she sat at a desk to his right and he could not avoid dealing with her constantly.

Poor Fatima! At some point Paulo Mendes realized (or thought he realized) that she was also attracted to him, but she didn’t know he would never, ever make romantic overtures to a woman working under him at the newspaper. If she loved him, hers would be an unrequited love. For his part, Paulo Mendes didn’t know if he loved her or not, but he could admit that he drew more pleasure from her presence than that of any other woman. Even the transient touch of her fingers – the fleeting sense of proximity – as she handed him his typewritten articles filled him with delight.

Paulo Mendes had returned from Fatima the previous night and had written an article in longhand which he handed to his secretary the following morning. It was not the article he had expected to write when he made the 130-kilometer trip to visit the three child visionaries, since it did nothing to debunk their claims. Instead, it was merely a recitation of what they said. Truth be told, he was dissatisfied with the article, but it was the best he could do given the circumstances and the stubborn and obstinate insistence of the three children he had interviewed. In vain, he went over his notes to see if he saw any evidence of gaps in the telling. In vain, he tried to remember whether they had said anything which was an obvious falsehood. Since he couldn’t, he produced an exact recitation of what they had told him, without any authorial pronouncement of the truth of falsehood of what they said. When Fatima handed him the typewritten text, she told him sweetly that it was “edifying” and thanked him for it.

“What do you mean?” he inquired, somewhat taken aback.

“It’s such a beautiful story,” responded Fatima. “You faithfully conveyed the essence of the miracle. It should do a lot to dispel the objections of so many doubting Thomases, all those contemptuous people who refuse to believe and call the children liars in the face of all the evidence.”

“That was not my intention,” objected Paulo Mendes. “If you read the article closely, you’ll see that I don’t state one way or another whether I believe or disbelieve what the three children told me. I intend to continue researching the story and establish the falsehood I believe their tale to be. The children told me they expected another apparition on July 13 at noon. I plan to be there to see for myself. And I can assure you I don’t expect to see the Virgin Mary.”

“Why don’t you believe?” asked the surprised Fatima.

“I just think the kids are coached. Why would the Virgin Mary convey her messages about the conversion of souls to three children barely past the age of reason? You would think she would have an army of bishops and theologians at her beck and call. No, I don’t believe it. Their parents must have convinced them that they saw the vision.”

“Their age matters little. The Virgin Mary appeared to Bernadette Soubirous eighteen times at Lourdes when she was just fourteen, and those apparitions have been recognized by the papacy. She revealed a hidden spring that’s been known for healings ever since.”

“I don’t believe in the miracle at Lourdes either. Bernadette’s visions were a product of self-delusion. As far as I know, no one else saw the Marian apparition that time either. Why do these Marian apparitions only happen when the visionaries are alone and always children?”

“How can you say that?” exclaimed Fatima. “Thousands of miracles have been reported by those who visited the grotto at Lourdes. And the message imparted by the Virgin Mary to Bernadette was very similar to the one given to the three young shepherds at the slope of Cova da Iria, at least according to your article. Do you think the three little Portuguese children studied the life of Bernadette in order to make up their story?”

The flummoxed Paulo Mendes, at a loss of words, just waved his right hand in the air dismissively.  Then he spoke, pronouncing each syllable slowly and distinctly.

“Those are all wild tales – fictions, Fatima, do you understand me? – spread by obscurantist priests and by the besotted men and women who follow them.”

“Those are meaningless words, parroted from some atheist tract,” replied Fatima witheringly. “How could a ten-year-old maintain a lie in the face of what I’m sure was your relentless cross-examination, your efforts to trip her up?  If you didn’t make her lapse into contradictions after your litany of questions, if her message remained consistent, that is indicative of her veracity.”

“It’s just that I don’t believe in miracles,” Paulo Mendes responded in a scornful voice. “At least not in recent years,” he added rather sheepishly. “I used to have a yearning for God but I’m not sure I feel it any longer. I envy you for your belief that God exists. It would make life so much simpler to believe.”

“Everything is a miracle, Paulo Mendes, because everything comes from God: the sun, the stars, the breeze, your family, a well-seasoned churrasco. Some of the great works of art should also attract you violently to the faith: Michelangelo’s Pieta, the Cathedral at Chartres, the Sistine Chapel. Read the words of the Catholic mystics so you can understand the presence of God in your life. Go to church and witness the Blessed Sacrament on its monstrance. Would you only believe in miracles if you saw the moon reverse its orbit?”

“That would do it,” replied Paulo Mendes, “but I don’t believe the orbs in the cosmos will change their course anytime soon.”

Little did he understand that the Virgin Mary was preparing Portugal for just such a miracle.

***

When Fatima appeared at the train station, she was wearing a dark-green jacket over a white blouse and held her long black hair in a barrette. Paulo Mendes had the sense she was coiffed up just for the occasion. Since she usually wore a bun, he was surprised by the cascading dark curls which framed her face and fell beneath her neck, curved surfaces which caught and reflected the light, making her hair appear richer and more vibrant, as if it was shining. At that moment, he said something he was sure he would later regret given that she was his secretary, but he couldn’t control himself.

“Fatima, Fatima,” he said abruptly. “I think I love you.”

“I already knew,” she responded nonchalantly. “That’s why I desire to convert you.”

“What does one thing have to do with the other?” inquired Paulo Mendes.

“I can allow myself to have a relationship with you despite the fact that you’re my boss. But I can’t if you’re not a Catholic. Our love simply wouldn’t have a future. I have certain beliefs which prevent me from having relations with a man unless I’m married. Given the fact that you’re an atheist, marriage between us is impossible.”

“Well, talk of marriage is premature. I’m not quite sure what kind of relationship is in the cards for us. There is room for love outside of marriage. But I’m thinking of a serious courtship with a permanent commitment at the end. So, in principle I’m not opposed to the idea of a civil ceremony.”

“That would be as nothing. In my mind, if a marriage isn’t sanctified by God, it’s not a marriage at all. It would be mere concubinage, not a holy matrimony. But as you say, all this talk is premature. Today we’re going to witness a miracle and – who knows – you might be more easily converted than you think.”

“I’ve already told you that I lend no credence to what the children say. For me to believe, I’d have to see the miracle myself.”

“I love you too,” Fatima said out of the blue.

The train taking them from Lisbon to Fatima was filled by more than two-hundred people as the Marian apparitions had become vox populi throughout Portugal and all wanted to share in the wonder. Paulo Mendes and Fatima arrived at the Cova da Iria around eleven o’clock and there was already a mass of pilgrims surrounding the holm oak above which the Virgin Mary had reportedly appeared. When the three child shepherds made their arrival, everyone began to check their watches to see if the noon hour had arrived, for that was the time when the apparition had supposedly been promised. And in fact – at noon on the dot – the three children seemed to lapse into an ecstasy or rapture, what some would call a catatonic state. The only one who spoke was the formidable Lucia, who seemingly asked questions of a being that remained unseen by all.

“What do you want of us?” inquired Lucia.

The crowds heard no audible response. Lucia seemed satisfied by whatever answer she was given.

“Do you want to tell us who you are?”

Again, no one heard a thing but Lucia pressed on. She had already told the crowds after the prior apparition that the Lady promised to reveal her identity to all on the thirteenth of October.

“Why don’t you make your presence known to all at this very moment?”

Silence once again.

“So, you’ll produce a miracle in the skies?”

The crowds heard a clap of thunder.

“The Secret?” asked Lucia haltingly. “Whatever do you mean?”

The curious throngs did not understand.

Then, after a pause, Lucia began to loudly shriek.

“Take that vision away from me!” she cried out in pain. “I don’t want to believe that humans bear such torture even for a day. Please make those ugly and repellent creatures disappear.”

Francisco began to softly weep. Jacinta began to bawl. What they had seen  must have been terrifying to make them react in such a manner.

“I promise you, I promise you,” said Lucia. “I shall do everything possible for the conversion of such men so they won’t be cast into the flames.  Yes, I shall work tirelessly, ceaselessly, my Lady, to spread the devotion to your Immaculate Heart since that is your desire and the only hope of men. I shall say the prayer you requested. ‘Oh, my Jesus, forgive us, save us from the fires of hell, lead all souls to Heaven, especially those in most need of Your Mercy.’”

The crowds were having a hard time trying to figure out the meaning of the colloquy between Lucia and her invisible interlocutor. Paulo Mendes looked at Fatima with an inquisitive expression on his face. The people all got on their knees and prayed, clutching Rosaries and believing they were witnessing a great miracle. Although they could not understand Lucia’s conversation with the Lady, they had no doubt that it was happening. Not for a moment did they believe that Lucia was simply talking to herself. And they were also certain, based on Lucia’s few words, that the Virgin Mary was lamenting the sins of men and talking of eternal chastisement. But they weren’t sure. After the Lady left, many asked Lucia what the Lady had said that had brought Lucia to copious tears.

“It’s a Secret,” said Lucia, and did nothing to explain it. “There are three parts of the Secret which will only be disclosed when the Lady wills it. All I can say is that at the end the Immaculate Heart of Mary will triumph.”

Perhaps alone among the crowds Paulo Mendes did not believe he was witnessing a great miracle. In his mind, Lucia was obviously delusional. How else to interpret her loud shrieks? Whatever terror her parents had instilled in her as a child – the terrible threat of a possible damnation – was causing her to have frightful visions now that she was older. As far as Francisco and Jacinta, they were nine and seven years old. Of course, they would erupt in tears upon hearing the loud screams of their manifestly distressed cousin. And what was this business with the Secret anyway? If the Virgin Mary wanted to impart a divine message to the multitudes, why would she make it known only to three small kids?  No, Paulo Mendes would have none of it. He resolved to write an article for O Sol expressing that his visit to Fatima waiting for the unseen apparition had led him to doubt its authenticity.

“How can you say that?” Fatima asked Paulo Mendes incredulously when he told her of his plans. “Did you think that child was feigning her tears?”

“I don’t mean to say the girl was consciously lying. It’s quite obvious that she believes what she is saying. All I’m arguing is that I suspect that she suffers from a psychiatric malady. Don’t you know that in history many supposed mystics were found to be the prey of mental illness by the Church itself? Didn’t you notice she was catatonic during her entire conversation with the Lady?”

“It is going to be harder to convert you than I thought,” expressed Fatima in exasperation as she put the Rosary with which she had been praying in a pocket of her blouse. She seemed sad and angry all at once and she used a pink handkerchief to wipe her runny nose with a deft movement of the hand.

***

Fatima seemed more enticing every day, more desirable, more feminine and more charming every time Paulo Mendes saw her. He knew she was within the realm of possibilities, especially after she candidly confessed that she loved him too, but he also knew that an affair was out of the question and that she expected a chaste courtship, a betrothal inexorably leading to matrimony in a Roman Catholic church. Perhaps that is why she trembled one day when he suggested that they go out for drinks together after work. To Paulo Mendes’ great surprise, she began weeping then and there, in the middle of the office, not caring a whit whether anyone else saw her cry, making it clear to one and all that she was darkly miserable and sad beyond repair. He immediately hid with her in an empty office and inanely asked her what was wrong.

 “Don’t you know?” she asked defiantly. “You think the three shepherd children are lying.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Paulo Mendes queried, flabbergasted. “Is that why you’re crying?”

“You’re an atheist so you would never understand.”

Fatima stopped crying and looked at Paulo Mendes bitterly.

“So, you’re crying because I don’t believe in God?” asked Paulo Mendes. “Why would you react in such a manner?”

“Don’t you know?” she repeated.

“I don’t,” he replied.

“It’s because I love you.”

Paulo Mendes made a strenuous effort to comfort her, but the truth is he couldn’t quite understand the reason for her desperation.

“What does my inability to believe the shepherd children have to do with your love for me? You should know that I think I love you too, although I’m not entirely sure what the word means. I’m sure it doesn’t mean what it means to self-righteous priests and their miserable flock.”

“Don’t you see?” she insisted. “If you don’t believe the miracle at Fatima, it’s because you don’t believe in God. And if you don’t believe in God, we couldn’t have a Catholic marriage.  While I’m longing for a profound spiritual union, a sacred covenant, you’re offering me a base fornication instead, a clandestine situation.”

“There is nothing base about my feelings for you. Quite the contrary, Fatima, there’s nothing nobler in my life. I don’t think we need the blessing of a priest or the ritual formality of a Catholic wedding to enter a deep and abiding relationship. And there would be nothing hidden about it. What unites us is more powerful and more enduring than the commands of any Church. Still, I respect the dictates of your conscience. All I can promise you is that I shall always deal with you with complete sincerity, that I won’t lie to seduce you, even if you eventually respond to me with the utmost indifference.”

Fatima threw herself against his chest and let him put his arms about her shoulders.

“You’re a temptation, Paulo Mendes, don’t you know? You’re a temptation. I refuse to succumb to temptation.”

There was a wild expression on her face.

Paulo Mendes did not know what to say and decided simply to embrace her. He had the fleeting thought of kissing her – he had never held her in his arms – but thought it would be unfairly taking advantage of her vulnerability and leading her down a path she would fiercely regret. While he held the woman in his arms, he felt that never in his life had he felt more happiness than at that moment. Still, he knew he couldn’t possibly give her what she required given his anticlerical views. He could not become a Catholic or go through the charade of a Catholic wedding simply to please her and satisfy his intense animal desires – intense but not base at all he thought as he took her by the hand and led her out of the office into the pouring rain. It was love after all. Indeed, he had just realized he loved the virginal Fatima to folly…

They ended up at the O Lavrador restaurant, completely soaked and disheveled. They chose a table at the far end of the eatery, far from prying eyes. Fatima looked at Paulo Mendes with a kind expression, thankful for his generosity. When they arrived at O Lavrador, she was no longer visibly agitated and had recovered her composure. After the waiter had taken their order, Fatima asked the reporter in an even voice, “Tell me, Paulo Mendes, why don’t you believe in God?”

Paulo Mendes waved his right hand in the air dismissively.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Are you afraid to be persuaded?” asked Fatima in a slightly mocking tone of voice. “I think the existence of God is beyond obvious.”

“As self-evident as the testimony of three terrified children taught to fear the wrath of God,” replied Paulo Mendes in an equally mocking tone.

“That’s an extraordinary event,” replied Fatima, “but even if you don’t believe in outlandish miracles, the presence of God is all around us. Miracles are commonplace if you only allow yourself to see them, if you allow yourself to be open to God’s grace. The deity is in the stars, the sunset, the gurgling child, the feast, the Eucharist, the article you’ve written for O Sol, your tenderness and deep goodness. Everything points to the presence of God because God is present in everything. He is the great “I AM,” existing everywhere. Don’t you doubt it for a minute!”

“I don’t believe, Fatima, I don’t believe. What can I say? You see God everywhere. I don’t see Him anywhere. How I wish I could!”

***

Paulo Mendes had to go to Fatima for the expected apparition of the Virgin Mary on August the thirteenth, for it was big news, both in Portugal and in much of the rest of Europe, that a huge gathering of people were scheduled to attend. The report was that as many as eighteen thousand people planned to be at the hollow of the Cova da Iria with the hope of asking the Holy Lady for sundry favors or simply to be close to her presence. In fact, thousands had been pouring into Fatima and its environs since the preceding week. Fatima had pleaded to accompany Paulo Mendes on the short trek to Fatima since she was among the thousands – nay, millions – who believed something wondrous was happening at the Cova da Iria each and every month on the thirteenth.

When the two arrived at Fatima, the multitudes were so thick that it was difficult to make one’s way among the crowds. There were old men as well as infants, professional men as well as day laborers, young nubile women as well as buxom matrons, priests as well as curious atheists. Soon Paulo Mendes heard the rumors that the three children would not appear at the appointed hour as the local Mayor – an atheist and a Freemason – had taken them as prisoners the previous day and had demanded that they recant or, in an apparent contradiction, to reveal the Secret imparted to them by the Lady in the previous month. Some among the crowds suggested storming the Mayor’s Administration at Vila Nova Ourem in massive numbers to halt the interrogation of the kids, but the consensus was to stay at the Cova da Iria and hope a miracle would happen despite the absence of the children. Sure enough, as the noon hour approached, thousands of people got on their knees and prayed the Rosary, but in the end there was no apparition. A small group of pilgrims decided to find the Mayor and demand the release of the three children. Paulo Mendes went with them. Suddenly, there was big news to report. For her part, Fatima decided to stay. She had a special request to make to the Holy Virgin Mary. Paulo Mendes suspected it had something to do with him.

The Mayor’s County House at Vila Nova Ourem was about nine miles from Fatima. When the large group of pilgrims arrived, some of them bearing torches, they demanded the immediate release of the three children. Faced with such a crowd, the Mayor took their demands seriously and informed them that the three children had not been forcibly arrested but were being held for a voluntary interrogation instead. He said he wanted “to get to the bottom of things” and advised the crowds that he was simply curious about the Secret which Lucia dos Santos had reported. As soon as their questioning ended, the three kids would be allowed to return to their homes. At that point, Paulo Mendes approached the Mayor and told him he was a reporter with O Sol and demanded the opportunity to speak with the three young captives. The Mayor initially balked at his request but feared the omnivorous crowds.

“Sure, sure,” he said. “Just follow me.”

Paulo Mendes accompanied the Mayor to a small, barred cell where the three children were being held. He asked that he be allowed to question the children alone and the Mayor was seemingly taken aback.

“I just want to make sure they tell you the truth,” the Mayor said sheepishly, looking nervous.

“I’ll get to the truth,” replied Paulo Mendes. “That’s my job as a reporter.”

Paulo Mendes entered the prison cell, which was sparsely furnished, just three cots and two chairs. The three children looked at him with fear painted on their faces. Paulo Mendes suspected they thought he was there to continue their interrogation. Only later would he discover that they had feared a brutal continuation of their questioning.

“Don’t be afraid,” Paulo counseled the children. “I am a reporter. I want to know how you’ve been treated so that we can obtain your immediate release.”

“We’ve been treated badly,” Lucia said in a halting voice, trying to stifle tears. “We’ve spent an entire day here and haven’t even been fed. For a while they kept us in the local jail, full of hardened criminals. But the threats are the worst of all. We’re afraid we’ll soon be dead. That’s what the Mayor has promised unless we tell him the Secret or admit that our visions were a lie.”

Paulo Mendes silently nodded, indicating that he understood.

“What was his threat?” he asked as he looked intently into Lucia’s eyes.

“The Mayor interviewed us separately, trying to find inconsistencies in our stories. At the end of each session, he warned us that unless we revealed the Secret, he would simply kill us.”

“And you disclosed nothing to him?”

“No, sir. The Virgin Mary had demanded that we keep her message secret.”

“Were you afraid she would punish you if you revealed the Secret?”

“No, sir. We weren’t afraid of her. She had warned us that we would suffer much, but in the end, she’d take us in her arms and lead us to Heaven.”

 “So, you’d rather die than disclose the Secret?”

“Yes, sir. The Lady only gave the message to us because she trusted we would never tell anyone about it, not even our parents. God knows my incredulous mother beat me with a broom handle so I would reveal the Secret, but I wouldn’t do so. We were tranquil in the face of the Mayor’s threat of death as we knew that if we died, we would join our Lady in Paradise.”

Paulo Mendes was astonished by Lucia’s deep faith and admired her singular courage. He thought about the saints of the Church, willingly martyred long ago, not willing to recant their belief in Jesus. And the three young visionaries were made of the same stock, he had no doubt about it.

That afternoon, after the children were released, he wrote a trenchant article for O Sol.

“If theirs is a lie,” he concluded, “it is the most valiant of lies. If theirs is a delusion, it is the most noble of delusions.”

***

During the morning, Fatima kept a studied distance from Paulo Mendes, so much so that he was sure she was cross at him. She had dutifully typed the article about the interrogation of the three child visionaries but had said nothing as she handed him the typewritten story. Every time he had attempted to establish a conversation, she had cut him off with monosyllables.  Yes, Paulo Mendes. No, Paulo Mendes. Yes, the weather is bad. No, the soccer game is still not finished. At noon, however, she had appeared at his desk and told him peremptorily, “We have to talk.”

“I’m all ears,” Paulo Mendes responded as he leaned back on his swivel chair with both arms behind his back.

“No, not here,” she replied. “After my outburst of the other day, all the other employees look at me askance. I don’t want them to think there’s a conflict in our professional relationship or, even worse, that we’re a couple in the midst of a lovers’ quarrel.”

“Why would you care what they think? They could think I’m a shameless womanizer or a child molester and I wouldn’t care.”

“Still,” said Fatima, “I think it’s best if we could talk outside the office, in private, say at the Coimbra Café.”

“I have to write an article about the war,” replied Paulo Mendes. “Our messenger from the front has just returned and I need to interview him to write my story.”

“What I have to discuss with you is more pressing than the war,” Fatima said peremptorily.

“If you say so,” replied Paulo Mendes, suddenly curious. “What could be more pressing than the war?”

Once at the Coimbra Café, Fatima cut to the chase.

“I read your article and it couldn’t have been more moving. It seemed to have been written by a man of faith. You made it immediately clear that you didn’t think that the three kids were dissembling or delusional. In other words, you forcefully suggested that their story was the truth. How good God is!”

Paulo Mendes was almost surly when he responded.

“I hate to tell you this, Fatima, but meeting with the children only convinced me of a conviction I have always held, that faith in God is ultimately a choice. And that I don’t find it within me to make that choice. If the mayor had threatened me with death unless I told him the Secret, I would have done so in an instant. I admire those kids in the same way I respect soldiers or acrobats, risking their lives at every turn, which doesn’t diminish the children’s courage but casts it in a different light. They chose to believe to the point of death. I have never trusted anything or anyone to the point of death, certainly not God.”

Fatima pouted like a little girl.

“Don’t you see your article is devoid of all meaning if there is no God? Those three children voluntarily accepting the prospect of death would be the worst of fools if they accepted martyrdom for no good purpose. And if you concede they are neither lying nor demented, isn’t God the only rational possibility? I’m not sure why you haven’t realized it, but your article makes no other reading possible.”

“If my readers choose to read the essay as a religious manifesto, I have no truck with that. If it gives them strength, if it makes life seem a little less absurd, then the article would have achieved some purpose.”

“Your article,” Fatima offered in a frantic voice, “will lure countless men and women to the faith. You even mention that the Virgin Mary will make her presence known to all men on October the thirteenth. Don’t you realize that means a hundred thousand people will visit Cova da Iria on that date, all because they believed your article. No, Paulo Mendes, you are a walking, talking contradiction. You don’t understand even yourself. Grace is looking for you, looking for you hard. All you need to do is let it find you. A joyful exultation is within your reach. I don’t know how to knock some sense into your vacillating heart. Our Lord Jesus Christ is beauty, goodness and truth.”

“All I can do is offer you my sincerity,” responded Paulo Mendes apologetically. “Would you prefer that I lie to you? Would you prefer hypocrisy? Do you want me to tell you I believe in fairy tales?”

Suddenly Fatima was incensed.

“Don’t insult my faith. The Passion and Resurrection of Jesus is no fairy tale. The mystical trances of Saint Teresa of Avila are no fairy tale. The apparition of the Holy Virgin Mary to those three peasant children is no fairy tale. You may not believe what you’ve written, but I do.”

“I apologize for my insensitivity. The last thing I wanted to do was to offend you. I want to believe, I truly do, but I just can’t.”

***

Paulo Mendes became obsessed with the apparitions of the Lady and did not fail to visit Fatima on September the thirteenth. By then, more than thirty thousand people had assembled in the Cova da Iria to witness the expected miracle. The crowds were so thick that it was extremely difficult for Lucia, Francisco and Jacinta to reach the holm oak tree where the Virgin Mary reportedly appeared. Some of the faithful accosted the three children demanding that they seek the intercession of the Virgin Mary vis-à-vis multiple disabilities, and people with all sorts of maladies sought a cure at Fatima. Once again, the pilgrims advised Paulo Mendes of various miraculous events – the falling of white petals from the sky, a globe of light above the holm oak tree, a whisper in response to Lucia’s prayers, a vision of the stars at noon – but Paulo Mendes was unable to see or hear anything extraordinary. The truth is that he desperately wanted to see something, to satisfy the yearning in his heart, but if there was a God, He was silent to the innermost desires of Paulo Mendes’ soul. Perhaps, he sadly concluded, he was doomed to skepticism and unbelief forever.

But he had one last hope. The children had told him that the Virgin Mary had promised a spectacular miracle for October the thirteenth that would be visible to all and move even the most hardened heart. She also vowed that the Lord Jesus Christ would make His presence felt on that selfsame day. So, Paulo Mendes anxiously awaited the day when his questions would be resolved, one way or another. He firmly wanted to believe. He fervently desired to love the Virgin Mother as the children did. He dutifully checked his calendar every day to see how many days were left before the thirteenth. And yet his doubts persisted! What if everybody saw the miracle but not him?

By the twelfth day of October, the multitudes had already arrived at the Cova da Iria, and Paulo Mendes estimated there were already about seventy thousand people waiting for the promised miracle. By the next day, the crowds were even greater, and Paulo Mendes feared being trampled to death as he walked among the people moving to engulf him. By eleven o’clock, the three shepherd children arrived, and the number of people was so dense that they could not make their way among the throngs. Soon they were being transported above the crowds, carried by a thousand arms, toward the holm oak tree where the Virgin was expected to appear and deliver her grand miracle. Paulo Mendes was amazed not only by the number of the crowds but also by the fervor of their faces. It was certain that unlike him, all those thousands of people had been given the gift of faith. He looked forward to the day with a feeling of foreboding and expectation all at once. What if the pilgrims’ hope was entirely misplaced?

By noon, Lucia was in the middle of a conversation with her invisible interlocutors and Paulo Mendes divined that she was talking not only to the Virgin Mary, but also to Saint Joseph and the Christ Himself. The people had taken out their Rosaries and were counting beads, all the while listening to every word that came from Lucia’s mouth. Even if nothing else had happened, all the pilgrims would have been satisfied that they had witnessed a great miracle, for it was possible based on Lucia’s responses to figure out exactly what she was being told by the saintly figures.

“Yes, I shall pray the Rosary every day to seek the conversion of all poor sinners lest they fall into the arms of Satan.”

“Yes, I will see to it that a chapel in your honor will be built in this selfsame spot so you can be venerated here now and forever.”

“Yes, I will learn to read so that I’m able to promote the devotion to the Immaculate Heart of Mary to all those thirsty for your love.”

The Lucia suddenly cried out, “the Sun!” and everyone was still as they looked up at the Heavens.

Paulo Mendes was perplexed. All he could see was the ordinary noonday sun, but the crowds seemed mesmerized by what they saw. Even Fatima was staring directly at the burning-hot sun without seeming to be blinded by its rays. When he asked her what was going on, she put her hand on his arm and said, “Hush! The miracle is happening!”

Then all the crowd dropped on their knees and began to cry in terror. Paulo Mendes could not see what they had seen but thought that they had seen a terrible vision, not a vision of Mary advocate for sinners but a vision of the wrath of God. But he was mistaken. Soon the crowds, still kneeling, erupted in cheers and wept in each other’s arms, not because of pain but because of joy. They had seen the miracle they had expected. Father John de Marchi, who studied the events of the day, eventually concluded that it was the “most colossal miracle in history.”

“Why were they all crying?” he asked Fatima. “Why are they cheering now?”

 “Didn’t you see it?” Fatima queried. “Didn’t you see the dancing sun?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Paulo Mendes murmured in shocked surprise.

 “What all have seen is a marvelous and disconcerting prodigy – the sun emitting multi-colored rays, surrounded by a scarlet flame, zigzagging in the sky and careening toward the earth as the astonished multitudes fell on their knees and prayed before the sun boomeranged back to its original position and allayed all their fears.”

“I saw nothing of the kind,” Paulo Mendes miserably responded, his mouth gaping, his face fallen, his eyes full of panic.

“Well, you can ask everyone around you. They cried because they thought the sun was coming to incinerate the earth as punishment for the manifold sins of unrepentant sinners. They cheered when they realized the movement of the sun was the great miracle which Our Lady had pledged to make everyone believe.”

Paulo Mendes was entirely dejected, confused, unnerved, disconcerted, not knowing what to do. He had been awaiting a miracle for so long, without admitting it even to himself, a marvelous message to dispel all of his doubts. He had been counting the days before his expected deliverance, his anticipated metanoia, but having seen nothing while the gleeful crowds saw an outlandish miracle, his doubts only increased. Perhaps the Good Lord didn’t want him in His flock. Perhaps everyone about him was mad and he alone was sane. Or perhaps everyone was sane and he was mad. Perhaps the universe was absurd. At all events, he wrote an article for his newspaper with the heading “O Milagro do Sol” – the “Miracle of the Sun” – recounting what everyone had seen without admitting that he alone had not.

***

After Paulo Mendes handed his article on the Miracle of the Sun to Fatima, he abruptly left the newspaper office and failed to appear during the following four days. Fatima grew increasingly alarmed, to such an extent that on a Friday she made her way to his apartment and asked the concierge to allow her into his room. What she saw left her completely unnerved. He was lying in his bed, wearing only pajamas, sweating as if he had an exceedingly high fever. She put her hand on his forehead, and the fever was burning hot. Worse than that, Paulo was barely conscious, as though hallucinated. He struggled to sit up with difficulty and uttered seven simple words.

“I’m on my way to the Void.”

“No, you’re not,” remonstrated Fatima. “You wouldn’t be dying a holy death unless you receive the last rites first.”

“At least it keeps me from taking my own life.”

“I’m going to call a doctor. Let me go talk to the concierge.”

“What’s the use?” Paulo Mendes responded groggily. “Life is quite meaningless, don’t you know?”

“I find it difficult to believe that someone who wrote such a beautiful article about the Miracle of the Sun could say that life is without meaning. You’re always the last person to understand what you have written. Know that your article has moved countless atheists to contrition.”

“I saw no miracle. I am but chaff in the eyes of God, assuming against all evidence that He exists. I alone didn’t see Him. Doesn’t that tell you something about the state of my soul?”

Then Paulo Mendes started coughing convulsively. Fatima rushed to the kitchen and got him a glass of water. She didn’t need to wait for the doctor to figure out he was entirely dehydrated.

“I think you’re entirely mistaken about the meaning of God’s actions,” Fatima told Paulo Mendes in a plaintive voice. “If He didn’t allow you to see the Miracle of the Sun, it’s because He doesn’t want to force you to believe. Don’t you remember what He said to Saint Thomas? ‘Blessed are those who do not see and yet believe.’ He wants you to make a choice to love Him against all the evidence as you say. It would be too easy to convert you by displaying His great powers before your eyes. It would be tantamount to depriving you of your free will.”

“I want so much to believe.”

“Well, take the leap, Paulinho, take the leap.  I’ve already explained to you that the love of God is all about you.”

Fatima had never before used a diminutive to address him. Paulo Mendes was sure she wanted to show him her affection, to show him that she loved him not only as one loves a husband but as one loves a child.

Paulo Mendes replied miserably.

 “Do you think I’m dying?”

“I don’t know, Paulinho, I don’t know. Only God knows the answer to that question. But you still have time to make your amends with God.”

“Call a priest,” Paulo Mendes responded peremptorily. “I’ve been thinking of talking to a priest for months.”

It was a decision made in an instant, gestated over a lifetime, as inevitable as the sunset.

“Is it possible,” added Paulo Mendes, “that the Lord can heal me even now, that He’ll give me a second chance at life?”

“Quit asking me impossible questions,” Fatima gently scolded him. “Of course, Jesus can cure you with the snap of His fingers. But God gives when, how and to whom He chooses. Consider it enough of a miracle that at the most important moment, in the nick of time, you’ve found faith.”

Doctor Almeida arrived before the priest and had bad news. Paulo Mendes had a core temperature over forty degrees centigrade and it was a response to sepsis, meaning that multiple organs were being affected and in danger. Among other things, the doctor feared he was suffering from irreversible kidney injury and damage to the lungs. Had Paulo Mendes sought out a physician as soon as he developed the infection, an intervention would have been possible, but after four days of fever, his condition had gotten steadily worse, and there was little the physician could do about it. It was unusual that he could still maintain a conversation after being ravaged by sepsis, but Doctor Almeida said sometimes the brain is the last organ to be affected by an extremely high fever.

“At this point, there is little I can do for you,” said the doctor dejectedly. “You’re on the brink of multiple organ failure. I suppose it’s time to call a priest.”

“I’ve already called Father Peres,” replied Fatima as her eyes began to well.

“I guess this means,” said Paulo Mendes, “that we’ll never get married.”

“No, it doesn’t,” announced Fatima. “After you receive the last rites, I’ll ask Father Peres to join us in holy matrimony.”

The priest thought it was an odd request, had seen many deathbed conversions, but never a deathbed marriage. And yet there was nothing in the rules of the Church to prohibit such a wedding. But first he administered Confession to Paulo Mendes.

“When was the time you last confessed your sins?” the priest began.

“I last went to Confession around eight years ago, when I was barely sixteen years old.”

“And what sins do you have to confess?”

“As far as sins of the flesh, I have few. Mostly coveting women from afar… I suppose I was occasionally given to thoughts of lust, but I never acted upon them. Is that a sin?”

“Temptation itself is not a sin, but it all depends on how you respond to it.”

“I had visions while asleep, but only after I met Fatima. But I never thought there was anything impure about them, as I wanted to consecrate myself to her in marriage, albeit not in the Catholic Church since I didn’t believe.”

“What about sins of pride? Do you have any of them to report?”

“Yes, sir, quite a few. That’s why I became an atheist, because I thought I was too smart to believe in God. I had heard of the scandals affecting certain priests and thought that was evidence of all priests’ rank hypocrisy. I felt superior to all the other journalists at the newspaper where I worked and chafed when I was assigned to the sports department despite my university degree in political science. I guess in a strange sense I’ve always felt superior to all other human beings, especially the believers whom I thought were a bunch of superstitious dolts. And if despair is a sin, then I’m guilty of that as well.”

“Yes, it’s the worst of sins,” confided Father Peres. “When did you feel despair?”

“Most recently, when I was at Fatima on October the thirteenth, and I was unable to see the Miracle of the Sun.”

“Yes, I was there as well,” admitted the priest. “It was a wondrous sight to see! There is a wonderful description of it in last Monday’s O Sol newspaper.”

“Yes,” I wrote it, Paulo Mendes sheepishly admitted.

Having listened to the sick man’s Confession, the priest proceeded to give him the sacrament of Extreme Unction. He anointed Paulo Mendes’ forehead with oil and said a prayer over him: "In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, may there be extinguished in thee all power of the devil, through the imposition of our hands, and through the invocation of the glorious and holy Virgin Mary Mother of God."

“Amen,” responded Paulo Mendes in a whisper. He could now die in peace, having sought the intercession of the Virgin Mary, who he now realized had been accompanying him in every step of his stop-and-go journey towards God.

Then Father Peres continued with the sacrament of marriage.

“Do you, Fatima Fernandes, accept Paulo Mendes as your lawfully wedded husband until death do you part?”

“I do,” responded Fatima with the slightest glimmer of a smile as she clutched her future husband’s hand. For once in her life, she didn’t look at him squarely in the eye as she didn’t want him to see that she was broken into a thousand shards of pain.

Then the priest turned to Paulo Mendes.

“Do you, Paulo Mendes, accept Fatima Fernandes as your lawfully wedded wife until death do you part?”

“Until death tears us apart,” replied Paulo Mendes with sadness and a hint of anger in his voice.

“In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, you are now lawfully wedded to each other. You may kiss the bride.”

It was the first and last time that they ever kissed.

And then Paulo Mendes succumbed to multiple organ failure and died in Fatima’s arms.