Donald entered the studio, and all the Bishop's worries were silenced. Here was Christ without the beard, so the Bishop could better perceive the perfection of his face: steady eyes supported by assertive cheekbones, soft lips that seemed always ready to open, like a wave on the brink of foaming, fine red hair, red enough to imply divinity without the redness that is too obvious and gaudy, giving an illusion of redness to his bold brown eyes, bold not in a domineering way, but simply to say, "Here I am."
Donald was thin, highlighting the beauty of the skeleton that delineates the human form, though not skeletal like the crucified Christ. The Bishop stood up to shake his hand, a hand as expressive as a face, one that could tilt back in sorrow or whose fingers could slope suddenly into an attitude of flight. "Have I shaken the hand of Jesus," he thought to himself, "my hand surrounding his while His surrounds mine?" and practically fell back into his seat.
Donald was smiling. The cameras were rolling.
"How are you?" asked Bishop Salacci, unable to decipher the peaceful smile.
"I feel good, Bishop," he said, his smile brightening. "How are you?"
The Bishop dared not lie. "I am very pleasedů and nervous to be talking to you."
His fear reminded him of the envelope on his lap, and he broke the seal.
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