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“I’m worried about Slash,” I blurted out. So much for my plan to ease into my questions.

“I’m worried about him, too,” the father said. “Right now he is deeply confused, conflicted and hurt.”

“Why? What’s happening?” It pained me to have to ask someone else, since I was supposed to be the person closest to him. My cheeks burned, but either Father Armando didn’t notice or was too nice to point it out.

“There are people who are trying to hurt me through him. Unfortunately, in the process, I’ve hurt him, too. I’ve made mistakes I can’t undo.”

“Oh.” I fell quiet a moment. “I suppose you can’t tell me any more than that.”

“I’m sorry. I cannot.”

I fiddled with my sunglasses, summoning the courage I needed. “Father, maybe you can help me with something else. I have a couple of important questions. I understand the confidentiality thing, so you can always decline to answer. But will you at least entertain my questions?”

“Of course.”

We stopped beneath the shade of a tree, facing each other. Sweat trickled down the back of my neck from the humidity. “I want to go back to when you found Slash. He told me he was abandoned at your church when he was a few days old. Is that correct?”

“It is.”

“Is it common in Italy to leave babies at churches?”

“It’s not commonplace, but it’s not rare either. In rural areas it happens more often than you might think.”

“Where was the church located?”

“San Mauro Cilento, a small hamlet with less than a thousand residents.”

“You never saw who left the baby?”

The priest fell silent. I waited, but he didn’t answer. In a way, that was an answer in itself. I had to think about that later, but for now I continued. “How long was it before child services showed up?”

“We had terrible weather that night. It was the worst storms and flooding Italy had seen in decades. Until the representatives from Salerno were able to reach us, I took care of him. We spent almost every moment together. He was a good baby. Angelic. I could always soothe him with music, especially music from a particular pianist—a favorite of mine.”

“Hai Tsang.”

“Yes. He told you.” The father smiled, his face softening. “I’m glad.”

“He did. We saw Tsang perform in New York City several months ago. He was amazing. Slash still listens to his music, and now, so do I.”

“I used to play Tsang’s music for him on the organ. He was remarkably soothed by the melodies.” He cleared his throat. “I will tell you a heartfelt truth. I fell in love with that baby. It was an instant bonding orchestrated by God. I have no other explanation for it. I can’t tell you how much it broke my heart to give him up.”

“What happened to him?”

“Child services took him to Salerno, and he was taken in by a foster family. To this day, that remains my greatest regret.”

“Is fostering the normal route, as opposed to an orphanage or something?”

“It’s quite normal. Some people believe giving the baby to the church is their only way to save them. They don’t always understand, or have the luxury of caring, that the church has to turn the children over to the state.”

“What happened after the foster family took charge of Slash?”

“They vanished for seven years.”

“Vanished? How could that happen?”

“Somehow, the information on the forms had been falsified, and it went undiscovered until after they disappeared. By the time it was discovered, they were long gone with Nicolo.”

“Did you ever meet this foster family?”