God's Favorite

by Lawrence Wright

  Tony pulled his cap down over his eyes and said not another word.

  I’M AFRAID OUR QUARTERS are quite spartan,” said the Nuncio as he led Tony upstairs. “We’ve made a little dormitory in the parlor. Your bodyguard can sleep there. Meanwhile, we’ve made the best room available for you. Father Jorge and I are at either end of the hall. Yours is right here. Voilà!”

  He opened the door to a cubicle containing a cot, a crucifix, a window air conditioner, and a black-and-white Philco television set with a taped-together antenna. “It’s small but it’s clean. I’m afraid the appliances don’t work very well, the air conditioner not at all, the television set only occasionally. In any case, dinner is at seven and there is a Christmas mass at midnight.”

  “Thank you,” Tony said numbly. The room already looked like prison to him.

  The Nuncio went down to the kitchen, where the staff was assembled. There were four nuns, including Sister Sarita, who acted as their mother superior; the driver, Manuelito; and a young Chinese gardener from Uruguay. The Nuncio looked them over carefully. Any one of them could be the Vatican’s spy.

  “Under no circumstances is the General to use the phone or receive outside messages,” the Nuncio told them. “We don’t want him setting up office here. We also need to maintain control over the information he receives. In the end, this is a Panamanian matter and we must treat it that way. We will offer General Noriega respect and try at all times to ensure his safety, but remember that our ultimate goal is to spare the Holy Father any further embarrassment. Sister Sarita, will you hide the fax machine?”

  That evening the Basque terrorists prepared a large turkey with sausage stuffing and candied yams for Christmas dinner. The dining room was festooned with plastic ivy and garlands of immortelles. The remaining refugees made a touching effort to dress for the occasion, given that most of them had arrived with nothing more than the clothes on their back.

  “Isn’t the General going to join us?” the Nuncio asked Scar, who was enthusiastically helping himself to a second portion of turkey.

  “Oh, he would never eat this,” said Scar.

  “I didn’t realize the General had dietary restrictions.”

  “He’s a vegetarian,” said Scar. “Two things you never do around General Noriega: eat meat and smoke. He’s a fanatic on these subjects.”

  The Nuncio absorbed this information without comment.

  The radio was playing Christmas songs and the guests were chatting so volubly that the Nuncio did not hear the commotion outside. Suddenly he noticed that the silverware was chattering and the candelabra began to shimmy as if there were a small earthquake. Conversation died and the guests looked at each other in confusion.

  “Monseñor! The building is surrounded by gringos!” Sister Sarita reported.

  “Now they come!” the Nuncio exclaimed.

  As he came out of the front door, the Nuncio shielded his eyes against the glare of the headlights from a dozen tanks. The rumble was deafening. Past the glare he could see the dark forms of the war machines and the toadstool helmets of thousands of American soldiers. The muzzle of a tank cannon pushed against the gate of the nunciature, which was straining and about to burst open.

  “Monseñor, I understand that you are harboring an international criminal,” the American general shouted through the bars.

  “Apparently we have been chosen for this purpose.”

  “I want you to get your people out of there. Either you hand him over to us or we’re coming in.”

  “Do as you wish,” said the Nuncio. “I’m delighted that you’re taking this problem off my hands. But this is not the way to go about it.”

  “We’ve got thirty thousand troops who’ve been hunting night and day for this turkey. I don’t see how you’re going to stop us.”

  “Obviously, I can’t. If you choose to enter against my will, I cannot prevent it.”

  “I’m glad you see my point.”

  “However, you should consider the fact that once you pass through this gate, you will be standing on the soil of the Vatican. As far as international law is concerned, that would be equivalent to invading Saint Peter’s Square. Certainly it would be a brilliant moment in your career, General. Thirty thousand American troops assaulting the Catholic Church—this could be the most memorable public-relations disaster since the Huns entered Rome.”

  General Honeycutt rocked thoughtfully on his heels while his mighty machines gurgled and thrummed like hungry animals.

  “In the meantime, I hope you’ll excuse me,” the Nuncio said. “We’re at dinner.”

  FROM HIS WINDOW Tony had been watching the massing of troops—more soldiers than he had ever seen anywhere, more than his entire army. Helicopters hovered like a swarm of mutant mosquitoes. He had seen the Nuncio go out and talk to the American general and he wondered what arrangement they had come to. For a few cherished hours, Tony had actually felt safe in this room; now he expected that he would be hurled into the arms of the waiting Americans at any moment, or else that some specially trained squad of men in black would suddenly burst through his window and snatch him. Or murder him. They were capable of anything.

  He missed his beautiful daughters. He missed his birds. He missed Carmen.

  He was sitting in his bed, cradling his pillow, when he heard the knock on his door.

  A potbellied man stood there in his undershorts. It took a fraction of a second for Tony to realize that he was looking at himself.

  “I thought you might need a mirror,” said the Nuncio. “Our own rooms don’t have them, but we realize that our guests have different considerations.”

  “Thank you,” Tony said, mustering up as much dignity as possible.

  The Nuncio propped the mirror against a wall. “I’ll have one of the nuns hang it for you in the morning.”

  “You spoke to the Americans.”

  “Yes, they seemed to require a lesson in international diplomacy. But I think now they at least understand the concept of sanctuary.”

  “They are still here, however.”

  “Of course it would be too much to hope that they would simply leave us alone. I’m afraid we’re in for a long siege.”

  “How long?”

  “That will depend entirely on you. You can stay here as long as you wish,” the Nuncio said reassuringly as he produced a large meerschaum pipe, which he had saved from his college days, and filled it with a particularly sweet tobacco called Three Nuns. It amused him to think of it as Catholic tobacco. He hadn’t smoked in nearly thirty years. “I would never consider forcing you to leave. But perhaps we should discuss your future plans.”

  “I prefer to go to Mexico or Spain,” said Tony as clouds of tobacco smoke began to form in the room.

  “Unfortunately Mexico has refused to respond to our query and Spain has withdrawn its previous offer.”

  “Did they say why?”

  The Nuncio shrugged and puffed.

  “Cuba, then,” said Tony.

  “Yes, but the U.S. will never allow that, and I doubt the Panamanians will, either. Frankly, we haven’t had a good response to our requests for asylum. As I see it, there are three alternatives. Stay here”—puff—“turn yourself over to the Panamanian authorities”—puff—“or trust yourself to the American legal system. Who knows what a good lawyer might do for you?” Puff puff puff.

  Tony coughed. “I think I’d rather stay here,” he managed to say.

  “And you are welcome. Certainly, we will enjoy your company. But do you want to know my real concern? I am afraid the Americans will let the mob break through.”

  Tony stole a look at the river of people dammed behind the loops of razor wire. There seemed to be no end of them. Many were holding candles or flashlights. The line stretched all the way down Avenida Balboa until it disappeared behind the skyscrapers. He could hear the people banging pans and honking horns. They were crying out for the Nuncio to push him out the door.

  “After all, why should they
stop them?” said the Nuncio. “The Americans certainly don’t intend to stay here forever. One day they’ll leave, but the people will still be there. I would hate to see you wind up like Mussolini, hanging by your heels like a butchered hog. It’s so undignified.”

  THE NUNCIO FOUND Sister Gertrude, the youngest of the nuns, puzzling over the copying machine in his library. Occasionally members of the staff came in to make copies without his permission, but it was rare, and she looked startled when he entered. “There’s some problem with this machine,” she said. “The green light won’t come on and I don’t know how to fix it.” Her face was purple with embarrassment.

  The Nuncio saw immediately that there was a paper jam. He was no expert on such things himself, but he knew enough to open the back of the machine and pull out the offending sheet—in this case, a partially copied private letter from President Endara, discussing the new government’s position on Noriega’s extradition. “Is this yours?” he asked the nun.

  She shook her head nervously.

  “May I see what you’re copying?”

  The nun lifted the lid and showed the Nuncio a handwritten recipe for pâté. “We were using the turkey liver,” she said. “I asked one of the Basques for a recipe. I should have written it out. I’m sorry if I’ve—”

  “No, not at all, Sister. Go ahead, I think the machine will accept it now.”

  When the nun had finished, the Nuncio unlocked his desk and found President Endara’s original letter still there. Obviously someone else had a key.

  At midnight, the refugees crammed into the nunciature’s tiny chapel for Christmas mass. Sister Magdalena and Sister Hortensia played carols on handbells, rather inexpertly, unfortunately.

  “All the loyalties fall away,” the Nuncio preached that evening. “Only God is loyal until the last minute.” When the Nuncio had finished the first part of the liturgy, Father Jorge filled the silver chalice, and they offered Communion. This was one of the ceremonies that the Nuncio had always loved, even as a child, when the mystery and the ritual of the Church had overwhelmed his senses. Whatever tatters remained of his faith, he was still devoted to tradition and to the majesty of certain ceremonies.

  When Sister Sarita received the wine, she crossed herself and left the rail. She was replaced by General Noriega.

  “What are we going to do?” Father Jorge muttered as they moved down the line of communicants. “He can’t possibly receive Communion!”

  “Why not?” the Nuncio whispered back.

  “His soul is not pure!”

  “How do you know it’s not?” the Nuncio said. But he also felt conflicted—after all, it was a mortal sin for a sinner to receive Communion without confession, and the General hadn’t practiced Catholicism for some years. But here he was, in his T-shirt and Bermuda shorts, kneeling at the Communion rail with his mouth open and his tongue outstretched, waiting to receive the host.

  The Nuncio gave it to him.

  The Communion wafer reposed on Tony’s tongue like a frog on a lily pad. Tony looked up expectantly as Father Jorge stood in front of him with the chalice.

  “No,” said Father Jorge. “I refuse.”

  A few minutes later, as they changed clothes in the vestry, the Nuncio chastised Father Jorge.

  “But he must make a confession!” said Father Jorge. “It can’t be right to let a man commit such a sin if a priest can prevent it.”

  “It’s his sin, not yours,” said the Nuncio. “We are not the judges. We are only the servants of God’s will.”

  “Really, Monseñor! Do you truly believe that God loves this man?”

  The Nuncio looked at his protégé in amazement. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  CHAPTER 25

  Good morning, Panama!”

  The disc jockey’s voice broke through the Nuncio’s slumbering consciousness like a sledgehammer. He bolted upright and then clutched his chest. The sun was not yet up. He fell back on his pillow, feeling light-headed and delusional.

  “Hey, in there! Rise and shine! Doot do doodle doodle do! Doot do doodle doodle do!”

  The Nuncio had never heard anything so loud. The sound transcended mere wave patterns and became a physical event, like a sandstorm or a hurricane.

  “Sounds of the great lawbreakers of the past! You’re gonna love it! This goes out to Tony from Uncle Sam!”

  The Nuncio could not believe that the music could actually be louder than the announcer’s voice. All of Panama must be on its feet. He opened the door to the corridor and saw Father Jorge stumbling into the hallway at exactly the same moment, his eyes goggled and his hair electrified. The priest’s mouth moved but all the Nuncio heard was a blast of Linda Ronstadt singing, “You’re no good, you’re no good, baby you’re no good.”

  Downstairs the refugees were running around like rats in a cage. The nuns huddled in their bathrobes, holding their ears. The Nuncio walked past them. Everyone was trying to tell him something but he could only shake his head.

  Outside, the sky was just beginning to lighten. The American general was still standing at the gate, only now he was grinning and wearing enormous earmuffs possibly designed for nuclear explosions.

  “Please, General! You’re only torturing a bunch of poor nuns and priests!”

  The general grinned wider and pointed at his earmuffs. The Nuncio made a pleading gesture to turn down the volume, but the general affected not to know what he meant.

  So this is war, the Nuncio thought as he returned to the nunciature. He was angry, but it did occur to him that he and the American general had the same object in mind: to get Noriega out of the embassy as quickly as possible. Their method might be crude, but he had to admit it might be effective. Certainly it was working on him.

  Already a certain degree of order had asserted itself inside. The refugees had crammed toilet tissue in their ears. The nuns had the coffee ready and were beginning to roll out pastry dough for croissants.

  These boots are made for walkin’,

  And that’s just what they’ll do.

  The Nuncio wrote on a piece of paper, “I’m going mad.”

  Father Jorge nodded and responded with his own note: “Nancy Sinatra = psych. warfare.”

  “& Gen. Noriega???”

  Father Jorge put his hands together under his chin and closed his eyes, imitating sound sleep. The Nuncio looked at him in disbelief.

  “Narcotics?”

  Father Jorge shrugged.

  IN FACT, TONY had awakened several moments before, surprisingly rested despite several vivid sexual dreams. Strangely enough, his libido had returned here in this monkish room, surrounded by the American troops and a Panamanian lynch mob. Who could account for the promptings of desire?

  Also, he had never minded American popular music.

  Tony discerned another beat that didn’t quite accompany the music. He opened the door to find the old nun holding his clothes. They must have done his laundry in the middle of the night. Oddly enough, she was smoking a cigarette and seemed to make a point of blowing smoke in his face before he quickly closed the door.

  On television there was a report from Romania. The dictator, Ceauşescu, had been murdered. A mob paraded his bullet-ridden body before a CNN camera crew. It struck an ominous note.

  Tony raised the mirror to the window and studied his situation. In the reflection he could see troops everywhere, in the streets and on the rooftops. APCs and reinforced gun emplacements barricaded the streets. A thoroughly professional encirclement. Tony canted the mirror toward the front gate, where he saw the Nuncio engaged in another conversation with the American general. Both men were nodding as they conversed—another worrisome sign.

  Several degrees to the east, however, Tony spotted dozens of television cameras on the balconies of the Holiday Inn across the street and a thousand reporters with binoculars trained on his window. Some of them were waving at his reflection. The whole world peered back at him on the other side of those cameras. To be so universally watched,
so widely hated, so intensely sought, was perversely sublime. It was almost like salvation, Tony thought.

  Then the music died.

  THROUGH THEIR restaurant contacts, the Basques had managed to smuggle a whole young pig into the nunciature, which they spent the morning preparing. At noon the pig went into the oven, slathered with oil and garnished with thyme, basil, sage, and juniper berries. All afternoon the smell of roasting pork wafted through the embassy. It was a dish designed to drive a vegetarian to delirium.

  When the Nuncio had finished his letter to Cardinal Falthauser, he placed it in the diplomatic pouch and summoned Manuelito. The old man came into his office without his teeth. He seemed to get smaller every time the Nuncio saw him.

  “Manuelito, take the pouch to the airport straightaway. If the Americans try to stop you, remind them that this is traveling under diplomatic cover and they have no legal right to restrain you. Do you understand me?”

  Manuelito said something incomprehensible and took the locked bag. The Nuncio waited a few moments, then walked out the back door of the nunciature where the elderly driver was warming up the Toyota.

  “I left something out,” the Nuncio explained.

  Manuelito gave him an alarmed look. The Nuncio unlocked the bag and looked inside. He was not surprised to find a separate envelope there, addressed to Cardinal Falthauser, and containing, among other things, a copy of President Endara’s letter.

  “Hand me your keys, Manuelito.”

  Manuelito actually seemed proud of himself and rather happy to be exposed. He handed the Nuncio a set of keys that duplicated every one of his own—including the desk, the safe, and the diplomatic bag.

  “You are discharged as of this very moment,” the Nuncio said sternly. “Take your teeth and get out of here.”

  FATHER JORGE LAY on the couch, staring at the water marks on the ceiling as if he were trying to divine some message therein. “You don’t really think God loved Hitler, do you?” he finally asked.

  “Of course he did, although Hitler failed to express God’s love in his own life. It was his failure, not God’s.”