You have to put ten lire in the elevator to make it work. Grumbling, it heaves you up six floors to the top of a nineteenth-century palazzo on the Vatican side of the Tiber. A door is opened by a smiling, fresh-faced girl with a lot of fair hair, who looks as if she should be selling butter and eggs in Holland, and you step, slightly startled, into a clean and sparkling set of rooms that also seems to have been imported from the North. White curtains, blowing in the breeze, white walls and paintwork, clinical modern furniture, and behind a desk buried in papers, a big man in abundant, dazzling white robes.
The Re-Christianizers
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