The Shoes of the Fisherman

by Morris West

  ‘I still don’t understand what made him do it,’ said George Faber.

  They were sitting together in the same restaurant where they had made their first conspiracy. Campeggio was drawing the same pattern on the tablecloth, and George Faber, grim and perplexed, was trying to fit the jigsaw together.

  Campeggio stopped his tracing and looked up. He said evenly, ‘I hear you’ve been out of circulation for a while.’

  ‘I went on a bender.’

  ‘Then you’ve missed the beginning of a good story. Calitri is being groomed to lead the country after the next election. The Princess Maria Poliziano is handling the campaign below stairs.’

  ‘My God!’ said George Faber. ‘As simple as that.’

  ‘As simple and as complicated. Calitri needs the favour of the Church. His return to the confessional has been discreetly publicized. The next and most obvious step is to regularize his marriage.’

  ‘And you think he’ll bring it off?’

  ‘I’m sure he will. The Rota, like any other court, can only deal with the evidence presented to it. It can make no judgements in the internal forum of conscience.’

  ‘The clever bastard,’ said George Faber with feeling.

  ‘As you say, a clever bastard. He’s been clever with me too. My son has been promoted. He thinks the sun, moon, and stars shine out of Calitri’s backside.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Campeggio shrugged. ‘You have your own problem.’

  ‘I’ll survive it – I hope! I’m expecting Calitri to move against me at any moment. I’m trying to figure out what he may do.’

  ‘At worst,’ said Campeggio thoughtfully, ‘he could have you tried on a criminal charge and then expelled from the country. Personally I don’t think he’ll do it. He has too much to lose if there is a public scandal over his marriage case. At best – and it’s not a very good best, I admit – he could make things so uncomfortable for you that you would have to go anyway. You can’t function as a correspondent if you are not on reasonable terms with the men who make the news. Also he could embarrass you with a whole lot of minor legalities.’

  ‘Those are my thoughts too. But there is a chance that Calitri hasn’t heard of my activities. Our drunken friend in Positano may have been bluffing.’

  ‘That’s true. You won’t know, of course, until the verdict has been handed down from the Holy Roman Rota. Whether Calitri knows or not, he won’t make any move until after the case is over.’

  ‘So I sit pat.’

  ‘May I ask you a question, Faber?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Have you ever mentioned my connexion with you to anybody else?’

  ‘Well, yes. To Chiara and to another friend. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because in that case I’m afraid I can’t sit pat. I have to make a move.’

  ‘For God’s sake! What sort of move?’

  ‘I have to resign from the Osservatore. I told you I was a man of confidence at the Vatican. I could not compromise myself or my employers by continuing to work under a constant threat of exposure.’

  ‘But there may be no exposure.’

  Campeggio smiled and shook his head. ‘Even so, I find that I cannot come to terms with an uneasy conscience. I am no longer a man of confidence because I can no longer trust myself. I must resign. The only question is how I shall do it . . . On the basis of full disclosure to the Pontiff, or on a plea of age and infirmity.’

  ‘If you make a disclosure,’ said George Faber, ‘you ruin me more quickly than Calitri can do it. The Vatican is my beat as much as the Quirinale.’

  ‘I know that. You have problems enough without me. So this is what I propose to do. I shall wait until after a decision on the Calitri case is handed down from the Rota. If Calitri does not move against you, then I shall go to the Holy Father and offer my resignation, telling him simply that I am acting under doctor’s orders. If, on the other hand, Calitri moves against you, then I shall make a full disclosure. That way we may both salvage a little from the wreckage.’ He was silent a moment and then in a more friendly tone he added, ‘I’m sorry, Faber, more sorry than I can say. You’ve lost your Chiara, I’ve lost my son. We have both lost something more important.’

  ‘I know,’ said Faber moodily. ‘I should do what you’re doing. Pack up quietly and head back home. But I’ve been here fifteen years. I hate the thought of being uprooted by a son-of-a-bitch like Calitri.’

  Campeggio waved an expressive hand and quoted gently, “‘Che l’uomo il suo destin fugge di raro . . .” It’s a rare man who dodges his destiny. And you and I were born for a troubled one. Don’t fight it too long. One should always save a little dignity for the exit.’

  In his office at No. 5 Borgo Santo Spirito, Rudolf Semmering, Father General of the Jesuits, talked with his subject, Jean Télémond. There were letters under his hand which contained the reports of the Vatican physicians. He held them out to Télémond. ‘You know what these say, Father?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Your cardiographs show that you have already suffered one and possibly two heart attacks.’

  ‘That’s right. I had a mild seizure in India the year before last, and another while I was in the Celebes last January. I understand I may expect another at any time.’

  ‘Why didn’t you write and tell me you had been so ill?’

  ‘It seemed of small consequence. There was nothing anyone could do about it.’

  ‘We should have given you an easier way of life.’

  ‘I was happy in my work. I wanted to go on doing it.’

  The Father General frowned and said firmly, ‘It was a matter of rule and obedience, Father. You should have told me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I did not look at it like that. I should have known better.’

  The stern features of the Father General relaxed, and he went on more mildly. ‘You know what this means, Father? You’re a man in the shadow of death. You may be called without warning at any time.’

  ‘I’ve known that for months.’

  ‘Are you ready for it?’

  Jean Télémond said nothing and the Father General went on quietly. ‘You understand, Father, that this is the essential meaning of my office – a care of the souls entrusted to me by the Society and by the Church. Rightly or wrongly I have laid heavy burdens on you. Now I want to be as much help to you as I can.’

  ‘I am very grateful, Father,’ said Jean Télémond. ‘I’m not sure how I should answer your question. Is any man ever truly ready for death? I doubt it. The best I can say is this: I have tried to live a logical life as a man and a priest. I have tried to develop my talents to make them serviceable to the world and to God. I have tried to be a good minister of the Word, and of the Grace of the Sacraments. I have not always succeeded, but I think my failures have been honest ones. I am not afraid to go . . . I do not think God wants any of us to fall out of His hands.

  Semmering’s lined face puckered into a smile of genuine affection. ‘Good. I am very happy for you, Father . . . I hope we shall have you with us a long time yet. I want to tell you that I was deeply impressed by your address at the Gregoriana. I am not sure that I can agree with all of it. There were certain propositions which troubled me and still do. But of you I am sure. Tell me something else. How firmly do you hold to what you propounded then, and in your other works?’

  Télémond considered the question carefully, and then answered. ‘From a scientific point of view, Father, I should explain it this way. Experiment and discovery bring one by a certain line to a certain point of arrival. Up to that point, one is scientifically certain because the discoveries have been documented and the logic has been proven by experiment . . . Beyond the arrival point, the line projects itself infinitely further. One follows it by hypothesis and by strides of speculation . . . One believes that the logic will continue to prove itself as it has done before. One cannot be certain, of course, until the logic of speculation has proved itself against the logic of discover
y . . . So – again as a scientist – one has to preserve an open mind. I think I have done that . . . As a philosopher I am perhaps less well equipped, but I believe that knowledge does not contradict itself. It develops on to successive planes so that what we see first as a symbol may enlarge itself on another plane into a reality which to our unfamiliar eyes is different. Again, one tries to keep the mind open to new modes of thought and knowledge . . . One understands that language is at best a limited instrument to express our expanding concepts. As a theologian I am committed to the validity of reason as an instrument for attaining to a limited knowledge of the Creator. I am committed also by an Act of Faith to the validity of divine revelation, expressed in the Deposit of Faith . . . Of one thing I am sure – as I am sure of my own existence – that there is no possible conflict between any knowledge at any plane, once the knowledge is wholly apprehended . . . I remember the old Spanish proverb, “God writes straight with crooked lines”, but the final vector is an arrow which leads straight to the Almighty. This is the reason why I have tried to live fully in and with the world, and not in separation from it. The redemptive act is barren without the cooperation of man . . . but man as he is, in the world in which he lives . . .’ He broke off and gave a little shrug of deprecation. ‘Forgive me, Father, I didn’t mean to read lectures.’

  ‘It’s a very good lecture, Father,’ said Rudolf Semmering. ‘But I want you to add something else to it. By your vow you are a child of obedience, an obedience of formal act, of submissive will, and humble intellect. Have you conformed the terms of your vow with the terms of your personal search?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Jean Télémond softly. ‘I am not sure that I can know until I am put to a final test. Cardinal Rinaldi expressed it very clearly when he said that this was the cross I was born to bear. I admit that often its weight oppresses me. Of this, however, I am sure, that there cannot be in the ultimate any conflict between what I seek and what I believe. I wish I could put it more clearly.’

  ‘Is there any way in which I can help you now, Father?’

  Télémond shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. If there were, believe me I should ask it. I think at this moment I am more afraid of this dilemma than I am of dying.’

  ‘You do not think you have been reckless?’

  ‘No, I do not. I have had to dare much because all exploration is a risk. But reckless? No. Confronted with the mystery of an orderly universe one cannot be anything but humble. Confronted by death as I am, one cannot be anything but truthful . . .’ A new thought seemed to strike him. He paused a moment to weigh it and then said bluntly, ‘There is a problem, though, in one’s relations with the Church – not with the faith, you understand, but with the human body of the Church. The problem is this. There are some believers who are as ignorant of the real world as certain unbelievers are ignorant of the world of faith. “God is great and terrible”, they say. But the world also is great and terrible and wonderful, and we are heretics if we ignore or deny it. We are like the old Manichees who affirm that matter is evil and the flesh is corrupt. This is not true. It is not the world which is corrupt or the flesh. It is the will of man, which is torn between God and the self. This is the whole meaning of the Fall.’

  ‘One of the things which bothered me in your address is that you did not mention the Fall. I know it will bother the Holy Office as well.’

  ‘I did not mention it,’ said Jean Télémond stoutly, ‘because I do not believe that it has any place in the phenomenal order, but only in the moral and spiritual one.’

  ‘They will say,’ persisted Rudolf Semmering, ‘that you have confused the two.’

  ‘There has never been any confusion in my mind. There may be some in my expression.’

  ‘It is on your expression that they will judge you.’

  ‘On that ground I am amenable to judgement.’

  ‘You will be judged, and soon. I hope you will find patience to support the verdict.’

  ‘I hope so too,’ said Jean Télémond fervently. ‘I get so very tired sometimes.’

  ‘I am not afraid of you,’ said Rudolf Semmering with a smile. ‘And His Holiness speaks very warmly of you. You know he wants to keep you at the Vatican.’

  ‘I know that. I should like to be with him. He is a great man and a loving one, but until I am tested I should not want to compromise him. Cardinal Rinaldi has invited me to work at his villa while the Holy Office is examining my work. Have I your permission to do that?’

  ‘Of course. I want you to be as free and comfortable as possible. I think you deserve that.’

  Jean Télémond’s eyes were misty. He clasped his hands together to stop their trembling. ‘I am very grateful, Father – to you and to the Society.’

  ‘And we are grateful to you.’ Semmering stood up, walked round his desk, and laid a friendly hand on the shoulder of his subject. ‘It’s a strange brotherhood, this of the faith and of the Society. We are many minds and many tempers. But we walk a common road, and we have much need of a common charity.’

  Jean Télémond seemed suddenly withdrawn into a private world of his own. He said absently, ‘We are living in a new world. But we do not know it. Deep ideas are fermenting in the human mass. Man for all his frailness is being subjected to monstrous tensions, political, economic, mechanical. Knowledge is reaching like a rocket towards the galaxies. I have seen machines that make calculations beyond the mind of Einstein . . . There are those who fear that we are exploding ourselves into a new chaos. I dare not contemplate it. I do not believe it. I think, I know, that this is only a time of preparation of something infinitely wonderful in God’s design for His creatures. I wish – I wish so much – I could stay to see it.’

  ‘Why wait?’ said Rudolf Semmering with rare gentleness. ‘When you go you will go to God. In Him and through Him you will see the fulfilment. Wait in peace, Father.’

  ‘On the judgement?’ asked Jean Télémond wryly.

  ‘On God,’ said Rudolf Semmering. ‘You will not fall out of His hands.’

  Immediately after his return from Castel Gandolfo, Kiril the Pontiff was caught in a press of new and varied business.

  The Institute for Works of Religion had prepared its annual survey of the financial resources of the Papacy. It was a long and complex document, and Kiril had to study it with care and concentration. His reactions were mixed. On the one hand he had to commend the industry and acumen of those who had built the Papal State and the Vatican Bank into stable and solvent institutions, with operations stretching all over the world. This was the nature of their stewardship. Five Cardinals and a staff of highly competent financiers administered the temporal goods of the Church. They bought and sold in the stock markets of the world. They invested in real estate and hotels and public utilities, and on their efforts depended the stability of the Holy See as a temporal institution, whose members had to be fed, clothed, housed, and hospitalized, so that they might be free to work with reference to eternity.

  But Kiril was too much an ironist not to see the disparity between the efficiency of a financial operation and the doubt that hung over so many works for the salvation of human souls. It cost money to train a priest and maintain a nursing sister. It cost money to build schools and orphanages and homes for the aged. But all the money in the world could not buy a willing spirit or fill a slothful one with the love of God.

  By the time he had finished the document and the financial conferences, he had come to a resolution. His stewards had done well. He would leave them be, but he himself must concentrate all his time and all his energy on the prime function of the Church: the leading of men to a knowledge of their relationship with their Creator. A God-centred man could sit barefoot under a tree and set the world afire. A huckster with a million in gold, and scrip stacked up to the roof, would leave the planet unmourned and unremembered.

  There was trouble in Spain. The younger clergy were in revolt against what they considered the archaic and obscurantist attitudes of cert
ain senior prelates. There were two sides to the question. Pastoral authority had to be maintained, and at the same time the vivid and apostolic spirit of the younger Spaniards had to be preserved. Some of the older men had become too closely identified with the dictatorial system. The new ones, identified with the people and their hopes of reform, found themselves repressed and inhibited in their work. A violent reaction was beginning to make itself felt against the semi-secret work of Opus Dei, which was on the face of it an institute for lay action within the Spanish Church, but which many claimed was being controlled by reactionary elements in Church and State. This was the climate in which schism and rebellion were born, yet the climate could not be reversed overnight.

  After a week of discussions with his advisers, he decided on a double step: a secret letter to the Primate and the bishops of Spain, urging them to accommodate themselves with more liberality and more charity to the changing times, and an open letter to the clergy and the laity approving the good work done, but urging upon them the duty of obedience to local ordinaries. It was at best a compromise, and he knew it. But the Church was a human society as well as a divine one, and its development was the result of checks and balances, of conflicts and retreats, of disagreements and slow enlightenment.

  In England there was the question of naming a new cardinal to succeed Brandon. The appointment posed a neat alternative! A politician or a missionary? A man of stature and reputation who would uphold the dignity of the Church – and the place it had regained in the established order? Or a rugged evangelist who understood the ferment of a crowded industrial country, and the disillusion of a once imperial society, and its fading confidence in a social and humanitarian religion?

  At first blush the choice was simple. Yet given the temper of the English, their historic mistrust of Rome, their odd reaction towards revivalism, it was not half as simple as it looked.

  Cardinal Leone summed it up for him neatly. ‘Parker in Liverpool is the true missionary bishop. His work among the labouring classes and the Irish immigrants has been quite spectacular. On the other hand he is often very outspoken, and he has been accused of being a political firebrand. I do not believe that. He is an urgent man. Perhaps too urgent for the phlegmatic English. Ellison, in Wales, is in a very good standing with the establishment. He’s urbane, intelligent, and understands the art of the possible. His advantage to us is that he can prepare a situation in which more apostolic men can work with some freedom.’