Tom and Madga Stone arrived in Rome that evening. When they were ushered into the room in the Vatican where their sons were being held in what amounted to house arrest, Stoner gazed upon them like an pigeon might gaze upon his ostrich offspring.
"Boys," he began. Closed his mouth. Opened it. Closed it again.
"Really weird, man. First time in my life, I'm at a complete loss for words."
Magda, of course, wasn't.
But even Magda was mollified, the next day, as she observed the wedding. True, she was Lutheran and disapproved in principle of Romish idolatry and pageantry. On the other hand, like most people in Thuringia, she'd seen enough of the endless changing of official faiths as a result of the principle of cuius regio, eius religio to have become more than a little cynical on the subject.
Most of all, she was fiercely ambitious for her husband and her family. So she thought it eminently suitable and proper that the oldest of her three stepsons should be married under the most famous ceiling in the world. Besides, who was to say? Perhaps that divine spark of life transmitted from the Creator to Adam might be reflected downward—just a bit of it, but enough—to impart a modicum of common sense into her boys.
If God could create a Ring of Fire, surely He could create a sensible son. Perhaps even—Madga had her doubts, though she'd readily admit the girl was gorgeous—a sensible daughter-in-law.
It was an age of miracles, after all.
Two days later, Antonio Marcoli hobbled his way into Rome, assisted by his cousin Massimo.
By then, the Stone family—along with the four Marcoli boys who were now their in-laws—had moved into a luxurious palazzo not far from the Pantheon. Reluctantly, Tom Stone had yielded to Magda's insistence that he stop playing the pauper and spend some of those vast sums that were beginning to pour into his coffers.
Being rich was still something Stoner was coming to terms with. A settlement made all the more difficult by the fact that he was the attorney arguing the case for the other side.
He'd hoped to assuage Magda by his immediate offer to pay all the fines levied on the boys himself, thereby removing the burden from the somewhat-strained purse of the USE embassy.
"That's pocket change!" Madga snapped. "We will not spend our visit to Rome living in a—what did you call it?"
"Youth hostel. Hey, look, it's the way I bummed across Europe back—"
"Just what we need!" She glared at her stepsons and new daughter-in-law. It was still an impressive glare, if not the solar incandescence of the day of her arrival. "I do not need to be reminded that youth is hostile."
"Hos-tel, dear. And the youth in them are really nice kids. Well, there's the occasional jock, but you don't run across too many of them on account of they usually can't find their way anywhere except to the mall, forget foreign travel. But—"
He shook his shaggy mane. " 'Pocket change'? Is that really true? I mean, I know you keep the books, but—"
Magda sniffed. Madga had a world-class sniff. She marched over to her purse and pulled out her wallet. "Books. Who needs books for this? Will they take scudi?"
Stoner sighed. "Innocence lost. I can remember those glorious days when I'd drive for months on a suspended license 'cause I couldn't afford to pay a traffic ticket."
The three Stone boys looked at each other. "Uh, Dad," said Ron. "Is that the same traffic ticket that got you tossed in jail when you got stopped for speeding again? 'Cause, if so, I can remember those glorious days when me and Frank—even Gerry, and he was only ten—had to bust our ass in order—"
"Details, son, details. It was the freedom that mattered."
"Jail is freedom?"
"Freedom of the soul. Who cares about the prison of the body? Besides—"
He got no further. Antonio Marcoli burst through the door. Somehow he managed it while hobbling on a crutch. Massimo came right behind him.
"Tell me it is not true, faithless daughter!"
Giovanna stared at him, mouth agape. "What's not true, Papa?"
Marcoli marched over to the table where she was sitting next to Frank. Somehow he managed to march while hobbling on a crutch.
"You got married! In the church! The Sistine Chapel, I am told! It is all over the city!"
He flung himself into an empty chair. Yes, somehow managing it while hobbling on a crutch.
Then, placed his head in a despairing hand. With his other hand, he pounded the crutch on the floor. "We are ruined, ruined!"
Giovanna closed her mouth. "You told me to get properly married. Made us promise! And we—ah—kept the promise."
"Well, yes. But that was before. Now we are ruined. Our political principles hopelessly compromised!"
All the Stones and Marcolis were now gaping at him.
"Uh. Before what, Messer Marcoli?" asked Frank.
Marcoli pointed the crutch at Massimo. "Before he explained to me that our political principles do not allow us to recognize the Church's authority in such matters. How can Church and State be separated if the Church—just another set of plunderers of the poor, that's all—is allowed the right to determine such matters?"
Giovanna was almost cross-eyed. "But . . . where else could I get married?"
She drew away from her father, sliding a firm arm around Frank's shoulder. "And he is my husband. So don't think you can tell me not to get married to him. I already did!"
From the look on Frank's face, Tom Stone understood that his son was about to blow up. Would have blown up already, in fact, had he not been basking in the sudden knowledge that Giovanna's ultimate loyalties had just undergone a sea-change.
On one level, of course, Stoner approved of his son's anger. If he didn't stand up to Marcoli he'd be hopeless. He approved even more of that instinctive motion of his new daughter-in-law. Still, he was a man of peace.
"Hey, folks, ease up. Let's all ease up here. Mister Marcoli—"
He rose from the table and leaned over, extending his hand. "We've never met. I'm Tom Stone, Frank's father. We're in-laws. Please to meetcha."
Out of reflex, Marcoli shook his hand. That done, Stoner pressed on with his mission of peace.
"Look, Mr. Marcoli, this is an old problem and one I had to solve, oh, years ago now."
Both Marcoli and Massimo perked up. "There is an American solution?" demanded Massimo.
How to answer that?
"Uh, yeah. Well. One of many. You understand—ah—freedom and liberty also means what you might call variety. So to speak."
"Please. Go on!"
"Right. Well, in our old commune we, ah, had a similar sort of problem. Our own principles clashing, you know, with the uptight notions—well, never mind. The point is, we founded our own church. Except it wasn't really a church. Certainly had no connection to the state. Heh. And whenever one of our couples wanted to get away from the usual—"
Best to skip over that. Communal sex would probably not play well with a man who could burst through a door on a crutch.
"Anyway, wanted to get married, let's say, we'd have our own ceremony."
Massimo pounded his fist softly on the table. "Yes," he said, almost hissing the word. "Of course! Hurl our defiance in the face of the oppressor."
"Uh, yeah. Sorta like that. In our case, it was more like smoke our defiance—"
"Dad!"
"Hey, Frank, take it easy, I'm just—never mind. Anyway, Mister Marcoli, with your approval, we could just do it again right now. Give Frank and your daughter a real wedding." He waved his hand. "They just did that other, in that Sistine Chapel place, to slide one over on the enemy."
He hoped they could also just slide over the issue of consummating the wedding. Seeing as how that had already happened. Many, many, many, many times, judging from the fact that no one had seen Frank and Giovanna outside of their bedroom for more than an hour at a stretch these past couple of days.
Marcoli eyed him. "Si? You can do this?"
"Oh, sure. I was the ordained minister. Still got my card." He began reaching for his wallet. "Universal Church of Life in . . . can't remember the rest of it, that's odd."
"Dad!"
"Ease up, willya? You get my age, your memory starts to go a little. Oh, well. Never mind the card. Just take my word for it, Mister Marcoli. I can marry the kids right here and now and we thumb our nose at the establishment. To do it full bore, of course, we'd need a hookah and some—"
"Dad!"
"Jeez, are you anal today, or what? Okay, forget the hookah. We're not people to get fixated on the trappings, are we?"
"Certainly not," said Massimo firmly. "Superb! The contradiction resolved."
"Yes!" agreed Marcoli, lunging to his feet. Somehow he managed it even without the crutch. A one-legged lunge. "Where do we stand?"
"Uh, well. You don't. Everybody sits in a circle. Cross-legged."
That got two very cross-eyed looks.
"Hey, relax. It won't take long. Since we're passing on the hookah. Most of it is just taken up by saying om."
Really cross-eyed looks.
"It's an acronym." Now he was getting cross-eyed looks from his kids. "I swear, it is. Stands for Omnipersonal Munificence."
"A superb slogan," proclaimed Massimo.
As everyone moved around to take their places, Frank took the occasion to murmur into his father's ear. "Smooth move, Dad. Thanks."
Tom Stone basked in filial approval. "Your old man's no dummy. Besides, this is a piece of cake. I made LSD in the sixties, remember?"