by Morris West
‘I do.’
‘Then you have to admit that this report will be your first and last chance to make good on the promise. You can’t, you daren’t, try to study it while your mind is skewed by anaesthetics or clouded by depressions. Salviati gave you clear warning. You must heed him. Don’t forget either that you promised to call a Special Synod to consider the report. Before you confront your brother bishops you’ll have to be figure-perfect and fact-perfect on the document.’
‘What do you suggest I do with it meanwhile?’
‘Receive it. Keep it in petto. Lock it in your private safe. Gag all discussion. Let it be known that it’s any man’s career if he breaks silence before you speak. If you don’t, the Curia will pre-empt you, and when you come to make your statement there’ll be mantraps and spring-guns at every corner.’
‘Then answer me this, Malachy. Suppose that I don’t survive the surgery. What will happen then?’
Monsignor O’Rahilly had the answer on the tip of his fluent tongue.
‘It’s elementary. The Camerlengo will take possession of it, as he’ll take possession of the Ring, the Seal, your will and all your personal chattels. If past history is any guide – and if my mother’s second sight is still working – sometime between burying you and installing your successor, they’ll lose the document, shove it in the archive, drown it deeper than the Titanic.’
‘And why would they do that?’
‘Because they’re convinced you made a mistake in ordering the study in the first place. I thought so myself – though it wasn’t my place to say it. Look! The most profound mystery in this Holy, Roman and Universal Church isn’t the Trinity, or the Incarnation, or the Immaculate Conception. It’s the fact that we’re mired up to our necks in money. We’re the biggest banking house in the world. We take in money, we lend it out, we invest it in stocks and bonds. We’re part of the world community of money-folk. But money makes its own rules, as it makes its own geniuses and its own rogues – of whom we have our fair share, in the cloth or out of it. The Curia expected you to understand that because they saw you swallowing a whole lot of other indigestible facts about the place and the office. But in this matter, you didn’t. For some reason you gagged on it; but they still make the valid point that if you want to have your budget balanced and your staff maintained and the whole huge fabric of the Church kept in running order, then you have to stay in the banking business. If you’re in it, you play by the rules and try to embarrass your colleagues as little as possible! There’s much sense in that – if not a whole lot of religion … And now that I’ve recited my little piece, how would Your Holiness like my head – on a silver dish or impaled on a pike by the Swiss Guard?’
For the first time, Leo the Pontiff smiled, and the smile turned into his strange barking laugh.
‘It’s a shrewd head, Malachy. I can ill afford to lose it at this time. As to your future, I’m sure you’ve realised that I may not be the one who determines it.’
‘I’ve thought about that, too,’ said Malachy O’Rahilly. ‘I’m not sure I’d want to stay in the Vatican – presuming I were even asked. They do say that service with one pontiff is as much as the human frame can stand.’
‘And with Ludovico Gadda it’s already too much! Is that what you’re telling me, Malachy?’
Malachy O’Rahilly gave him a small, sidelong grin and a shrug of deprecation.
‘It hasn’t always been easy; but for a big country boy like me there’d have been no fun sparring with a lightweight – no fun at all. I was told I mustn’t stay too long. So if there’s nothing else I can do for Your Holiness, I’ll be on my way.’
‘You have our leave, Malachy. And you won’t forget that other matter, will you?’
‘I’ll be on to it this very day. God smile on Your Holiness. I’ll be offering my Mass for you in the morning …’
‘Go with God, Malachy.’
Leo the Pontiff closed his eyes and lay back on the pillows. He felt strangely bereft, a piece of human flotsam bobbing helplessly in a vast and empty ocean.
On his way out of the clinic, Malachy O’Rahilly stopped at the reception desk, gave the girl his most winning Irish smile and asked: ‘The young lady who died here last night …’
‘The Signora de Rosa?’
‘The same. I’m most anxious to get in touch with her husband. Do you have an address for him?’
‘As a matter of fact, Monsignore, he’s here now, talking with the Signora Lundberg. The undertakers have just removed his wife’s body. She’s being buried in Pistoia. If you’d care to wait … I’m sure he won’t be very long.’
O’Rahilly was trapped. He could not leave without making a fool of himself, yet the last thing he needed was a confrontation with a grieving and aggrieved husband. In that same instant, bells rang loudly in his head. De Rosa, Lorenzo, from Pistoia in Tuscany, his own contemporary at the Gregorian University. He’d been a handsome devil, bursting with brains and passion and charm and so much unconscious arrogance that friends and masters alike swore that one day he would turn into a Cardinal or an heresiarch.
Instead, here he was, caught up in a shabby little matrimonial tragedy which did no credit to himself or to the Church – and from which not even the Pope could take him now. Not for the first time, Malachy O’Rahilly thanked his stars for a good Irish Jansenist education which assured that, though the drink might snare him one day, no woman ever would.
Then, like a walking corpse, Lorenzo de Rosa stepped into the foyer. His skin, pale and transparent, was drawn drum-tight over the bones of his classic face. His eyes were dull, his lips bloodless. He moved like a sleepwalker. O’Rahilly would have let him pass without a word, but the receptionist sprang the trap on him.
‘Signor de Rosa, there’s a gentleman to see you.’
Puzzled and disoriented, de Rosa stopped dead in his tracks. O’Rahilly stood up and offered his hand.
‘Lorenzo? Remember me? Malachy O’Rahilly from the Greg. I happened to be visiting someone here and I heard the news of your sad loss. I’m sorry, truly sorry.’
His hand flapped uselessly in front of him like an autumn leaf. He let it fall to his side. There was a long, hostile silence. The dull eyes surveyed him from head to toe like a specimen of noxious matter. The bloodless lips opened and a flat, mechanical voice answered him.
‘Yes, I remember you, O’Rahilly. I wish I had never known you or any other of your kind. You’re cheats and hypocrites, all of you, and the god you peddle is the cruellest cheat of all. As I remember, you became a papal secretary, yes? Then tell your master from me I can’t wait to spit on his grave!’
The next moment he was gone, a dark, spectral figure out of some ancient folk-tale. Malachy O’Rahilly shivered in the sudden winter of the man’s rage and despair. From somewhere in the far distance, he heard the receptionist’s voice, soothing and solicitous.
‘You mustn’t be upset, Monsignore. The poor man’s had a terrible blow; his wife was such a sweet woman. They were devoted to each other and to the children.’
‘I’m sure they were,’ said Malachy O’Rahilly. ‘It’s all very sad.’
He was tempted to go back and tell the Pontiff what had happened. Then he asked himself the classic question: cui bono? What good could possibly come of it? All the harm had been done centuries ago, when the law had been set above simple charity and suffering souls were counted as necessary casualties in the unending crusade again the follies of human flesh.
The rest of the Pontiff’s day was a slow processional towards the merciful darkness they had promised him. He strolled alone in the garden, fragrant with the first blossom trees, the smell of mown grass and fresh-turned earth. He sat on the marble lip of the fountain which the gardener told him was the site of the ancient shrine of Diana, where the new king of the woods cleansed himself after the ritual murder. He climbed the slope to the verge of the estate to peer down into the inky depths of Lake Nemi; but when he got there, he was breathless and dizzy and th
ere was the familiar constriction in his chest. He leaned against a pine-bole until the pain passed and he had wind enough to walk himself back to the safety of his room, where the Secretary of State was waiting for him.
Agostini’s performance was, as always, impeccably rehearsed. He brought only good news: the solicitous good wishes of Royalty and of Heads of State, the prayerful greetings of members of the Sacred College and the senior hierarchy … the replies he had drafted for the Pontiff’s approval. Everything else was working to the norms that His Holiness had approved. He declined absolutely to engage in any discussion of business or statecraft.
There was, however, one important matter. If His Holiness wished to spend part of his convalescence outside Vatican territory, in the Republic of Italy, no objection would be raised, provided that adequate security could be maintained, and the Vatican was prepared to meet the cost of a State security contingent. The only caveats were that the Republic retained its right to approve the location, and that provincial and comune authorities be consulted in advance on problems of traffic and public assembly.
The Secretary of State understood very well that His Holiness would not wish to make a decision until after the operation, but at least the options were open. The Pontiff thanked him. Agostini asked: ‘Are there any personal commissions I can execute for Your Holiness?’
‘None, thank you, Matteo. I am comfortable here. I have accepted that the future is out of my hands. I stand in a quiet place – but a solitary one, too.’
‘One wishes it were possible to share the experience, make the solitude a little more bearable.’
‘It is not, my friend; but one does not come to solitude wholly unprepared. It is almost as if there were a mechanism in the mind, in the body, which prepares us for this moment. May I tell you something? As a young priest, I used to preach very ardently about the consolations of the last sacraments, the confession, the anointing, the viaticum … They seemed to have a special meaning for me because my father, whom I loved very dearly, had died without them. He had simply dropped dead in the furrows behind his plough. In a way, I suppose I resented that. He was a good man, who deserved better. I felt that he had been deprived of something he had truly earned …’
Agostini waited in silence. It was the first time he had seen the Pontiff in this mood of elegy.
‘As you know, before I came in here, I had my chaplain give me the last rites. I don’t know what I expected – a sense of relief, of excitement perhaps, like standing on a railway station with all one’s baggage packed, waiting to board a train for some exotic place … It wasn’t like that at all. It was – how can I explain it? – a propriety only, a thing well done but somehow redundant. Whatever had subsisted between myself and the Almighty was as it had been, complete and final. I was held, as I had always been, in the palm of His hand. I could leap out of it if I chose; but so long as I wanted to stay, I was there. I was, I am. I have to accept that it is enough. Do I embarrass you, Matteo?’
‘No. But you surprise me a little.’
‘Why?’
‘Perhaps because Your Holiness is not usually so eloquent about his own emotions.’
‘Or as sensitive to those of other people?’
Matteo Agostini smiled and shook his head.
‘I’m your Secretary of State, not your confessor.’
‘So, you don’t have to judge me; but you can afford to indulge me a moment longer. Ask yourself how much of what we do in Rome, how much of what we prescribe and legislate, is truly relevant in the secret life of each human soul. We’ve been trying for centuries to persuade ourselves and the faithful that our writ runs right up to the gates of heaven and down to the portcullis of hell. They don’t believe us. At bottom, we don’t believe ourselves. Do I shock you?’
‘Nothing shocks a diplomat, Holiness. You know that. But I would wish you happier thoughts.’
‘So, Matteo! Each man comes, in the end, to his own special agony. This is mine: to know how much I have failed as a man and a pastor; not to know whether I shall survive to repair the damage. Go home now. Write to your premiers and presidents and kings. Send them our thanks and our Apostolic Benediction. And spare a thought for Ludovico Gadda, who must soon begin his night watch in Gethsemane.’
The night watch, however, was preceded by a series of small humiliations.
The anaesthetist came to explain the procedures, to allay his patient’s fears about the pain he might expect, and then to read him a lecture about the regimen he should follow afterwards to reduce his weight, increase his exercise, keep his lungs free of fluid.
Then came the barber, a voluble Neapolitan, who shaved him, clean as an egg, from throat to crotch and laughingly promised him all sorts of exquisite discomforts when the hairs started to grow again. The barber was followed by a nurse who shoved a suppository into his rectum and warned him that he would purge rapidly and frequently for an hour or two, and that afterwards he might ingest fluids only – and nothing at all after midnight.
It was thus that Anton Drexel found him, empty of dignity, empty of belly and sour of temper, when he came to pay him the last permitted visit of the day. Drexel was carrying a leather briefcase and his greeting was brisk and direct as always.
‘I can see you’ve had a bad day, Holiness.’
‘I’ve had better. I’m told they put me to sleep with a pill tonight. I’ll be glad of it.’
‘If you like, I’ll give you communion and read compline with you before I go.’
‘Thank you. You’re a thoughtful man, Anton. I wonder why it’s taken me so long to appreciate you.’
Anton Drexel laughed.
‘We’re a pair of hard-heads. It takes time to beat sense into us … Let me move this bed-lamp a little. I have something to show you.’ He opened his briefcase and brought out a large photographic album, bound in tooled leather, which he laid in the Pontiff’s lap.
‘What is this?’
‘Look at it first. I’ll explain later.’
Drexel busied himself laying out on the bed-table a linen cloth, a pyx, a small silver flask and a cup. Beside them, he laid his breviary. By the time he had finished the Pontiff was halfway through the volume of photographs. He was obviously intrigued.
‘What is this place? Where is it?’
‘It’s a villa, fifteen minutes away from here. It used to belong to Valerio Rinaldi. You must have known him. He served under your predecessor, Pope Kiril. His family were old nobility, quite wealthy I believe.’
‘I knew him, but never well. The place looks charming.’
‘It’s more than that. It’s prosperous and profitable – farmland, vineyards and vegetable gardens.’
‘Who owns it now?’
‘I do.’ Drexel could not resist a small theatrical flourish. ‘And I have the honour to invite Your Holiness to spend his convalescence there. That’s the guest villa you’re looking at now. There’s room for a resident servant if you choose to use your own valet. Otherwise my staff will be delighted to serve you. We have a resident therapist and dietician. The big building is occupied by my family and the people who look after them …’
‘I can see it’s a very large family.’ The Pontiff’s tone was dry. ‘I’m sure Your Eminence will explain it to me in due course. I hope he will also explain how a member of my Curia can afford an establishment like this.’
‘That part is easy.’ Drexel was obviously enjoying himself. ‘Rinaldi sold me the place on a low deposit and a long mortgage which was financed by the Institute for Religious Works at standard rates. There was also a proviso, that on my death the title should pass from me to a recognised work of charity. With a little good luck and good management I was able to meet the mortgage payments out of the farm revenues and my own stipend as a prelate … I knew it was a luxury – but I knew I could not endure to live in Rome without a place to which I could retreat, be myself. Besides,’ he made a small joke, ‘as Your Holiness knows, we Germans have a long tradition of Prince Bishops! I
liked the way Rinaldi lived. I admired his old-fashioned style. I was self-indulgent enough to want to emulate it. And I did, with no spiritual merit but great human satisfaction – until I decided to found this family of mine.’
‘Which so far you have managed to keep secret from us all! Explain, Eminence! Explain!’
Drexel explained, eloquently and at length, and Leo the Pontiff was jealous of the joy in his voice, his eyes, his every gesture, as he told the history of his encounter in Frascati with the child Britte and how she had adopted him as her grandfather. She was sixteen years old now, he announced proudly, a talented artist who painted with a brush held between her teeth, and whose pictures were sold by a very prestigious gallery in Via Margutta.
The others? Tove Lundberg had introduced some parents of diplegic children. They had recommended others. Anton Drexel had begged money from richer colleagues in the United States and Latin America and Europe. He had improved the quality of his wine and his farm produce and doubled the income of his land. Salviati had introduced him to specialists in cerebral dysfunction and to a small cadre of money-men who helped to pay his teaching and nursing staff …
‘So, although we’ve lived pretty much hand to mouth for ten years, we’re educating artists and mathematicians and designers of computer programmes – but most of all we’ve given these children a chance to be truly human, to show forth the Divine image in which, despite their grievous afflictions, they were truly made … It is their invitation as much as mine, Holiness, that you should come and begin to mend yourself with us. You don’t have to decide now. Just think about it. One thing I can promise you: it’s a very happy family.’