Codename: Mascara

WHAT YOU ARE ABOUT TO READ IS:

IRRELIGIOUS, IRREVERENT, AND IRRELEVANT.

THE PEOPLE, PLACES, AND EVENTS CONTAINED IN ST MUCKYMUCK ARE COMPLETELY FICTIONAL.  ANY AND ALL RESEMBLANCES TO REAL PEOPLE, REAL PLACES, AND/OR REAL EVENTS PAST, PRESENT, OR FUTURE IS ONLY PURELY COINCIDENTAL.  

IN FACT, ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ANYTHING AT ALL WILL BE REMARKABLY COINCIDENTAL.

Sunday, 2:15 pm

Bishop of Teithmen's Office

The sunlight filtered through the stained glass window in the office of Stefano di Tartuffo, Bishop of Teithmen.   The color splashed across his desk and onto the rich, blue Persian carpet opposite the window.  The light revealed a rather interesting woman seated in a high backed, winged blue leather chair.  She was petite and rather elderly – but this did not hide a sleek, graceful, catlike elegance about her highlighted by black slacks and a matching turtleneck she was wearing.

“I have a special assignment for you, Emma,” said the Bishop, the tips of his fingers pressed together on the desk.

“Indeed, sir,” came Emma’s response.  She straightened a rather unusual pair of sunglasses and gazed back up at the Bishop.

“You know, I’m never quite certain where you’re looking with those bloody specs.  Can you take them off?”

“Certainly, sir,” she replied.  “But I’ll have trouble seeing you, Your Grace.  You know I’m legally blind.”  She removed the glasses revealing two blue eyes that were once as sparkly blue as the sea.  Age had taken its toll, however.

“What precisely is the trouble?” asked His Grace.

“Well, the result of a botched cataract operation, sir…”

“Oh,” said the Bishop, sounding rather disinterested.

“Yes, Your Grace,” she plowed on.  “An ophthalmologist in Edinburgh, near the U.S. Consulate.  I knew him during my work for the Americans during the war. He’s from Amsterdam – a lovely young man and ever so handsome.  I found his Jewishness to be extremely attractive…”

“I’m sure,” replied the Bishop, examining his nails.  He produced a pair of nail clippers from inside his pocket in order to avoid looking directly into Emma’s eyes.  The left pupil was quite normal, though even from a distance it was slightly cloudy from a cataract.  The right pupil, however, was misshapen, the blue of the iris faded and surrounded by a yellowish-black ring.

“He’s the same doctor who also designed the prototype for these glasses.  You see, they magnify everything so that I can see properly.  They have since been updated and upgraded.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, looking up from his nail grooming, suddenly intrigued.

“Well, they were originally also a high resolution camera.  Now they have many more features.”

“Features?”  asked the Bishop, his eyebrows raised.

“Oh yes, now they also function as a digital camera, a digital recorder, a microphone and have access to the Internet.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, so I can upload files onto my Facebook page.  They plug right into my computer via this USB port.”  She pointed to a port on the side of the glasses covered by a very tiny door.

“Hmm…ingenious,” he responded.

“But you didn’t ask me here to inspect my specs, I gather,” she said.

“No, I did not,” the Bishop said, gathering his fingertips under his chin.  “I have some work for you, Emma?”

“Oh, yes?” she asked, her eyebrows raised.

“Indeed,” he said, rising from the desk and coming around to the front of it, directly in front of Emma.   

“Operation Codename: Mascara.”  He turned toward the desk, producing a dossier from under a pile of files and papers.

“Mascara?” inquired Emma.  “Sounds intriguing.”

“Your mission, should you choose to accept it is to extract and gather information from Biscotti?”

“As in Archbishop?”she asked.

“Precisely,” said the Bishop, handing her the dossier.

“I won’t be able to read this here,” she responded.  “I didn’t bring my reading specs.”

“You mean those don’t function as readers?” he said, pointing at Emma’s glasses.

“No, Your Grace,” Emma replied.  “They do not.  I have to change to a different pair for reading books, newspapers, or dossiers.”  She opened the file and began thumbing through the papers.   “I can make out large print and photographs but I can’t read small print…” She trailed off as a photograph appeared on one of the file pages.  “Goodness!”  She turned the dossier several different ways as she examined the photograph from different angles.

“Indeed,” he answered.

“What is the ultimate goal, if I may so inquire?”asked Emma¸ as she took in the photograph.

The Bishop moved toward her.  “The Lord has made known to me that I am to be the Archbishop of the Kilcathclyde Archdiocese by Advent of this year.”

“Really?” said Emma, a single thin eyebrow rising above her high-tech specs.

“Yes,” said the Bishop hungrily as the antique Ingraham clock on the mantel showing 2:30 struck loudly.

©2010 Steven Gorman.  All rights reserved.