by Morris West
From the dawn of history it had been a sacred place, dedicated to Diana the Huntress, whose shrine in the dark woodland was served by a strange custodian called the King of the Woods. The king was a runaway slave, who was guaranteed his freedom provided he slew the custodian and took possession of the shrine. Each year, another assassin came, to attempt the ritual murder. Even Caligula, the crazed emperor, took part in the grisly game and sent one of his own young bondsmen to despatch the reigning king.
Later, much later, the Colonna family took over the place and turned it into a farm and a summer refuge from the foetid heat of Rome. Later they sold it to the Gaetani, who gave it the name it still bore, Villa Diana. During the Second World War the Germans used it as a command post and afterwards the Archbishop of Westminster bought it as a holiday house for the students and faculty of the English College. However, as vocations languished and maintenance costs climbed, it was sold again, this time to a consortium of Milanese and Torinese businessmen who were financing the foundation of a modern cardiology clinic under the direction of Sergio Salviati.
This place was ideal for the purpose. The sixteenth-century villa was refurbished as a residence for senior staff and professional visitors from abroad. The clinic itself, with its outbuildings and its auxiliary generating plant, was sited on the flat space of the original farm, where there was still enough land left to grow vegetables and fruit and provide pleasances and gardens where convalescent patients could take their exercise.
Backed by the biggest corporations in the Republic – Fiat, Pirelli, Montecatini, Italcimento, Snia Viscosa – Sergio Salviati was able to realise his life’s ambition: a modern clinic with full training facilities, staffed by international talent, whose graduates were beginning to rejuvenate the archaic and cumbersome Italian hospital system.
At forty-three, Sergio Salviati was already the wonder child of Italian medicine and a peer to the best names in England, Europe and America. As a surgeon, he was passionless, precise and, in a crisis, steady as a rock. As a team leader and administrator, he was open and good-humoured, always ready to listen to a contrary opinion or an imaginative proposal. However, once the protocols were set he would accept neither slackness nor compromise. The International Clinic was run with the precision of an airliner and woe betide any staff member who fumbled an essential routine or failed to deliver smiling support and comfort to a patient.
When the Pontiff arrived, the motorcycle escort provided by the Republic peeled off at the gates of the Villa Diana, where a combined group of Italian Secret Service men and Vatican Vigilanza was already in place. Accompanied only by his valet and a domestic prelate, the Pontiff was greeted in the foyer by the administrator of the clinic and escorted immediately to his room, a bright, airy chamber that looked southward over the undulation of parklands and vineyards and hilltop towns that once had been fortified strongholds.
The valet unpacked his hospital clothing and laid out his breviary and the small Mass kit he had carried since his first day as a curate. The Pontiff signed the admission papers and the permission for the surgical procedures. The prelate handed over an envelope sealed with the papal arms, containing the personal instructions of the patient in the event of an unforeseen collapse or brain death. Then, prelate and valet were dismissed and His Holiness Leo XIV was left alone; a fat, ageing, eagle-beaked fellow in dressing-gown and slippers, waiting nervously for medical staff to attend him.
His first visitor was a woman dressed in hospital style: white coat over a tailored skirt and blouse, with a clipboard and set of notes to round out the image. He judged her to be in her early forties, married – if the wedding band were not a protective device – and, from her precise but academic Italian, probably Scandinavian. She greeted him with a smile and a handshake.
‘Welcome to the Villa Diana, Your Holiness. I am Tove Lundberg, director of our counselling group.’
The Pontiff flinched at the familiar greeting, then smiled at the conceit of a young matron counselling the Vicar of Christ about anything. He ventured a small irony.
‘And on what do you offer counsel, Signora Lundberg?’
She laughed, openly and happily, then sat down facing him.
‘First, on how to adapt yourself to this new ambience. Second, how to cope with the aftermath of the surgery. Each patient has special needs. Each develops a special set of problems. When the problems reveal themselves, my staff and I are here to help.’
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘For instance, a young businessman is stricken with heart disease. He is terrified. He has a wife, young children. He has debts which in normal circumstances he could easily have paid off. Now what? He is threatened at every point – in his finances, in his sex-life, in his self-esteem as a husband and father, his efficiency in the workforce … On the other hand, an elderly widow may be obsessed by the fear of becoming a burden to her family, ending up in a refuge for old people. The important thing is that each of these patients be able to talk out the fears and share the problems. That is where my work begins.’
‘And you think I may have problems too?’ He was still not finished with his joke.
‘I am sure you will have. They may take just a little more time to surface but, yes, you will have them. Now, may we begin?’
‘Please!’
‘First item. The card on your door identifies you simply as Signor Ludovico Gadda.’ ‘I confess I had not noticed.’
‘There is a reason, which I shall try to explain. After the operation, you will be taken first to the intensive care unit, where normally you will spend about forty-eight hours. After that, you will be transferred to a two-bedded room with another patient who is one or two days ahead of you in treatment. We have found that, at this critical stage, the elements of company, of mutual care, are vital. Later, as you begin to walk in the corridors, you will be sharing the experiences of recovery with men and women of all ages and conditions. Titles and honorifics are an impediment to this simple communication. So, we dispense with them. Does that trouble you?’
‘Of course not. I was born to common folk. I have not altogether forgotten the language!’
‘Next question. Who are your next of kin?’
‘Both my father’s and my mother’s family are extinct. I was an only child. So my family is an adoptive one the Church, and specifically the Pontifical Family at the Vatican.’
‘Do you have any close friends – what the Italians call friends of the heart?’
‘May I ask the reason for the question?’ He was suddenly wary and withdrawn. She was swift to calm him.
‘Even for so exalted a man as you, there will be moments of deep emotional distress. You will feel, as you have never felt before, the need of companionship, consolation, a hand to hold, a voice of comfort. I should like to know whom to call to your side.’
The simple question underlined how solitary he really was and how much the climb to eminence had cost him. His seminary days had been spent under the old order, when the whole tenor of training was to detach the subject from worldly relationships. His mother’s single-minded ambition had worked to the same end. Finally, it was like killing a nerve in a tooth. What was achieved was a permanent anaesthesia against passion and affection. Since he lacked the heart and the words to explain all that to Tove Lundberg, he told her simply: ‘There is no one like that. No one at all. The nature of my office precludes it.’
‘That’s very sad.’
‘I have never felt it so.’
‘But if you should, I hope you will call me. I am trained in the sharing of grief.’
‘I shall remember it. Thank you.’ He was not joking now. He felt suddenly less a man than he would have wished to be. Tove Lundberg picked up the thread of her exposition.
‘Everything we do here is designed to allay anxieties and help our patients to co-operate as calmly as possible in the healing process. It’s not like the old days, when the Senior Surgeon and the Senior Physician stood next door to Go
d and all the patient could do was bow his head and let them practise their magical skills on him …’
Once again, he might have embellished the commentary. That was the kind of Church he was trying to recreate: one in which the Supreme Pastor was the true Physician of Souls, the Surgeon-General lopping off diseased members. But Tove Lundberg was already ahead of him.
‘Now, everything is explained to you. Your help is sought, because it is a necessary element in the therapy. Look at this …’
She handed him what looked like a comic book in which the process of open-heart surgery was described in a series of vivid little cartoons, each with a caption that a child could understand.
‘You should read this at your leisure. If you have any questions, the surgeon or I will answer them. The notion of the book we have borrowed from the Americans. The title we invented for ourselves: A light-hearted guide to heart surgery. I think you will find it interesting.’
‘I’m sure I shall.’ He was less than convinced, but he had to be polite. ‘What happens to me next?’
‘Today and tomorrow, tests: blood samples, urinalysis, electrocardiogram, chest X-rays. At the end of it all you will be purged and then shaved from head to foot.’ She laughed. ‘You are, I see, a hairy man, so that will be a big job. Finally, you will be sent to sleep with a sedative. Next morning, very early, you will be given premedication and after that you won’t know anything until it’s all over.’
‘It sounds very simple.’
‘It is – for us. We’ve seen it all hundreds of times. We know that the failure rate is very, very low. But for you, for any patient, the waiting is the worst experience, the wondering if you’re going to be the one statistical disaster. Of course, for a religious man like yourself it is probably very different. I cannot tell. I am – how do you say it in Italian? – a miscredente. Do you not teach that belief is a gift? Well, I am one of those who missed the prize-giving. Still, what one has never had, one does not regret – yes? In this connection, you should know that there is a chaplain service for all creeds. Roman Catholic, Orthodox, Anglican, Waldensian, Jewish and lately, by courtesy of the Egyptian Government, we have an Imam who will visit Muslim patients … I’ve never understood why we make so many quarrels about the same God! I am told that at one time such a diversity of religious service would have been impossible in Rome because the Vatican forbade it. Is that true?’
‘Yes.’ He himself had grave doubts about religious tolerance in modern society; but he would have blushed to reveal them to this woman.
Fortunately, she did not press the point but simply shrugged.
‘Here at least there are no disputes. At the Villa Diana we try to please everyone. If you want the Catholic chaplain, just call your nurse and she’ll arrange for him to visit you. If you want to meditate, there’s a quiet room near the entrance. It’s open to all faiths – very restful, very calm. If you want to say Mass in the morning, you can do it here or use the quiet room. No one will mind.’
‘You’re very thoughtful, Signora. I shall not bother to call the chaplain – I’ve already received the Last Rites. But that doesn’t mean I’m not afraid. I am. The worst illness I’ve ever had in my life is gout. I was not prepared for this!’
‘Now is the time to count your blessings.’ There was a new note of authority in her tone. ‘You are a very lucky man. You have millions of people to care about you and pray for you. You have no wife, no children, no dependents of any kind. So you have only to worry about yourself.’
‘And the God to whom I must render account of my stewardship.’
‘Are you afraid of Him?’
He searched her face for any hint of mockery, but found none. Yet her question demanded an answer. It took him a few moments to frame it.
‘It’s not God I’m afraid of; it’s what I may have to endure to reach Him.’
She looked at him for a long, silent moment and then admonished him gently.
‘Let me reassure you. First, we are very skilful in the relief of pain. We see no point in unnecessary suffering. Second, your case was discussed in detail at the surgeon’s conference last night. Everyone agrees the prognosis is excellent. As Dr Salviati put it, you’re as tough as an old olive tree. You could last another decade or two!’
‘That’s comforting to know. And you, too, have a gift of comfort, Signora Lundberg. I’m glad that you came to see me.’
‘And you will try to trust us all?’
Once again, he was wary and suspicious.
‘Why should you think I would not?’
‘Because you are a powerful man accustomed to command others and to control his own destiny. Here you cannot do that. You have to give up control and trust the people who are caring for you.’
‘It seems I am already labelled as a difficult patient.’
‘You are a very public man. The popular press has never been kind to you.’
‘I know.’ His smile had little humour in it. ‘I’m the scourge of dissidents, the hammer of sinners. The cartoonists make a whole comic opera out of this ugly beak and this nutcracker jaw!’
‘I’m sure you’re not half as menacing as they make you out to be.’
‘Don’t count on it, Signora! The older I get, the uglier I become. The only time I’ll look into a mirror is when I’m shaving – so most days I let my valet do that for me.’
At that moment his lunch was delivered: a modest meal of broth, pasta primavera and fresh fruit. He studied it with distaste. Tove Lundberg laughed and, to his surprise, quoted scripture.
‘“Some devils are cast out only by prayer and fasting.” Obesity is one of them.’
‘I thought you told me you were an unbeliever.’
‘I am; but my father was a Lutheran pastor in Aalund. So, I have a big repertoire of Bible quotations. Enjoy your meal. I ‘II see you tomorrow.’
When she had gone he pushed the food listlessly about the plates, then ate a pear and an apple and abandoned the rest of it. Tove Lundberg had troubled him strangely. All his conditioning – even his mother’s obsessive devotion to his celibate career – had been towards alienation from women. As a priest, he had shielded himself from them behind the protective screen of the confessional and the protocols of clerical life. As bishop, he had become accustomed to their homage and he had been grievously shocked and brutally repressive when any strong-minded Mother Superior with modernist tendencies had challenged his edicts or his policies. As Pontiff he had become even more remote: the Congregation for Religious handled conventual affairs, while the Pontiff sedulously refused to open any discussions about the ordination of women or their right to a voice in the senior councils of the Church.
Yet, in less than an hour, Tove Lundberg – self-styled counsellor – had come closer to him than any other woman. She had brought him to the brink of a revelation which, so far, he had confided only to his most private diary:
‘An ugly man sees an ugly world because his appearance excites derision and hostility. He cannot escape from the world, any more than he can escape from himself. So, he tries to remake it, to chisel angel-shapes out of the crude rock fused by the hand of the Almighty. By the time he understands that this is a presumption so vast that it is almost a blasphemy, it is too late … This is the nightmare which has begun to haunt me. I had been taught, and I had accepted with total conviction, that power – spiritual, temporal and financial – was the necessary instrument to reform the Church, the fulcrum and the lever to set the whole process in motion. I remembered my father’s simple wisdom as he worked in his own smithy on the farm: “If I don’t pump up the fire and swing the hammer, then the horses are never shod, the ploughshares are never made, the sods are never turned for the planting.”
‘I planned for power, I intrigued for it, I was patient for it. Finally, I achieved it. I was vigorous as Tubal Cain in his smithy. I pumped up the fire of zeal, I swung the hammer of discipline with a will. I ploughed the fields and planted the seed of the Gospel … But the harve
sts have been meagre. Year after year they have declined towards failure and famine. The people of God do not listen to me any more. My brother bishops wish me gone. I, too, am changed. The springs of hope and charity are drying up within me. I feel it. I know it. I pray for light, but I see none. I am sixty-eight years old. I am the most absolute monarch in the world. I bind and loose on earth and in heaven. Yet I find myself impotent and very close to despair. Che vita sprecata! What a waste of life …’
Two
The most complete and accurate report of those two days’ proceedings in the Vatican was filed by Nicol Peters of the London Times. His official source was the press office of the Pontifical Commission for Social Communications. His unofficial informants ranged from Curial Cardinals to second and third-grade officials of the Congregations and junior clerks in the Private Archive.
They trusted him because he had never betrayed a confidence, never distorted a fact, nor stepped over the invisible line that divided the honest critic from the captious headline-hunter. His old mentor, George Faber, Dean of the Press Corps under the Ukrainian Pope Kiril I, had hammered the lessons into his skull: ‘It’s all summed up in one word, Nicki: fiducia – trustworthiness. It’s not an Italian virtue, but, by God, they respect it when they see it. Never make a promise you can’t keep, never break a promise you’ve made. This is an old, complicated and sometimes violent society. You don’t want a man’s death or even damage to his career on your conscience … Another thing. Rome is a small town. Scandal spreads like wildfire. The Vatican is a toy kingdom – one square mile of it, that’s all – but its powerlines reach into every city on the planet. The report you file today will travel the world – and if it’s a crappy piece of work, the crap will finally end back on your doorstep. First you have to make sure that your files are always up to date. The Roman Church has a billion adherents all round the world. You never know, but one day a minor bishop in exile may turn up as a cardinal in petto!’
Nicol Peters’s files, stored on computer discs behind oak panelling in his study, were as jealously guarded as the Codices in the Vatican Library. They contained biographies of every senior prelate in the world and an updated analysis of each one’s influence and importance in the affairs of the Roman Church. He had plotted their public journeys and the tortuous private paths they were following towards eminence or oblivion in the global organisation. His information about the financial affairs of the Vatican was uncomfortably accurate.