by Morris West
‘And that,’ said Nicol Peters, ‘tells me exactly what I wanted to know.’
‘Do you think you could explain it to me?’
‘At the party, Salviati was dancing on eggshells, with “suppose this … suppose that”. It’s all here! We knew the Pope was under threat of assassination. The Sword of Islam obviously had a plant in the clinic – Miriam Latif. Mossad removed her, alive or dead – who knows? Now the Sword of Islam are beginning the “mystery and martyr” process.’
‘And what good does that do them?’
‘It covers their present activities and prepares a climate for whatever reprisals they’re planning. And, believe me, there will be reprisals!’
‘So what are you going to do about it?’
‘The usual. Talk around: to the Italians, the Israelis, Salviati, the Vatican, all the Muslim Ambassadors, including the Iranians. Also I’ll try this Mr Omar Asnan, the grieving lover.’
‘You be careful, lover boy!’
‘Am I not always? Is there any more coffee?’
Katrina Peters poured the coffee and then began her own recital of affairs, which she claimed were much more important than the politics of terror and theology. As he grew older and wiser in the ways of a very old city, Nicol Peters was inclined to agree with her.
‘The Russians ask us to dine at the Embassy on the 25th. She wants me to help her choose an autumn and winter wardrobe for Rome. There’s a nice little profit already! Salviati wrote a very warm note. He enjoyed himself. Tove Lundberg sent a piece of Danish porcelain, which was sweet and unexpected. I like that woman!’
‘That’s a rare compliment from you!’ Nicol Peters grinned at her over his coffee cup.
‘However, I’m not so sure that I like Micheline Mangos-O’Hara!’
‘And who might that be?’
‘Our lady of the mysteries, from the American Academy. I can’t believe the name either. It seems her mother was Greek, her father Irish.’
‘Like Lafcadio Hearn?’
‘And who, pray, is he?’
‘A journalist, like me, but he lived in a more spacious age. He married a Japanese. Forget it. What about Mangos-O’Hara?’
‘She’s giving a lecture on the mystery religions. We’re invited.’
‘Decline!’
‘I have. But she also says that Matt Neylan is the most interesting male she’s met in years. His note says he found her great fun and he might well invite her to move in with him for the rest of her stay in Rome!’
‘That’s rushing the fences, I’d say; but he does have a lot of time to make up.’ Nicol’s thoughts were elsewhere. ‘He also called me. The Russians are wooing him, obviously because of his Vatican background. He’s bidden to lunch at the Embassy and the Ambassador has floated the idea of a trip to Moscow to meet members of the Orthodox hierarchy. Matt is not all that keen. He says he’s had a bellyful of the God-business and wants a good long swallow of the wine of life! Which means he’s likely to get a bellyful of reality. He’s got a lot to learn.’
‘And there’ll be a lot of women dying to teach him.’
‘Why not? He’s intelligent. He’s fun. He really can sing – and even after all those years in the cloth he’s not a tenor castrato.’
‘Lola Martinelli’s got her eye on him.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘She called to ask whether I thought Matt would be interested in a job as her private secretary. I told her to ask the man himself.’
‘And?’
‘And she did and he said in his best and sweetest brogue: “Dear lady, I’m a gentlemen of independent means, so I don’t need the money. I have many talents, but I’d make a lousy secretary. But if there’s anything else on offer I’d be happy to discuss it with you over dinner at a convenient time and place.”’
‘Well, if it’s not true, it’s at least ben trovato. It sounds like Matt. What did Lola say?’
‘She told him to go to hell. Then she rang me and told me he was just another of those ex-priests who get too big for their boots.’
‘Good for her!’
‘That’s what I thought; but let’s keep Matt on the guest list. He can always sing for his supper.’
‘True, my love. True. Now I’d better settle down and work out a line of attack on this Miriam Latif story.’
The first persons to greet the Pontiff in his new lodging were his valet, Pietro, and an apple-cheeked young woman wearing the blue veil of the Little Company of Mary. She had a broad smile and a no-nonsense humour and she introduced herself as Sister Pauline.
‘His Eminence brought me up from Rome to look after you. I come from Australia, which explains my bad Italian. The first thing you’re going to do is get into bed and rest for a couple of hours. You’re pale and clammy and your pulse is racing with all this excitement … Pietro here can help you undress. I’ll be back to settle you and give you some medication … His Eminence said you might be difficult; but you won’t be, will you? I’ve got an infallible cure for difficult patients. I just start talking and keep talking
‘I surrender.’ He raised a weak hand in protest. ‘You can stop talking now. I’m ready for bed.’
Ten minutes later he was settled, with the smell of fresh linen about him, listening to the shrilling of the cicadas in the garden outside. The last sound he heard was Sister Pauline explaining to Pietro.
‘Sure I can handle him! He’s a pussycat. Our old parish priest would have eaten him for breakfast. He was a holy terror, that one!’
When he woke it was late afternoon. He felt calm and relaxed, eager to explore this small corner of a world from which he had been excluded for so many years. On the table beside his bed was a small silver bell. When he rang it, Pietro appeared, with towels, dressing-gown, slippers – and orders from on high.
‘Sister says I’m to shave you, help you to shower and dress, then take you for a stroll. They’ve started harvesting the grapes. His Eminence is down in the vineyards. He suggests you might like to walk down and watch.’
‘Let’s do that, Pietro.’ Suddenly he was eager as a schoolboy. ‘And Monsignor O’Rahilly told me you’ve brought civilian clothes for me.’
‘I have, Holiness.’ He looked faintly dubious. ‘I know they fit, because I gave the Monsignore the measurements. The style he chose himself.’ He laid the clothes out on the bed for his master’s inspection – cotton slacks, open-necked shirt, loafers and sporty-looking pullover. The Pontiff hesitated for a moment and then surrendered with a laugh.
‘Who’s to know, Pietro! If there’s any scandal we’ll blame His Eminence.’
‘Wait until you see how he dresses, Holiness. He looks like any old peasant.’
‘Perhaps that’s what we should do, Pietro: turn all our princes into peasants – myself included.’
When he stepped into the open air and stood looking down over the fall of the rich land, he was suddenly aware how much of his life had been spent in cloisters and chapter rooms and corridors that smelt of carbolic and beeswax and chapels that reeked of old incense. Worse still was to think how much precious time he had wasted on paperwork and arguments worn threadbare by centuries of sterile debate. In Vatican City and in Castel Gandolfo he was a prisoner, let out for ceremonial occasions and so-called missionary journeys, where every move was plotted for him and every word written in advance …
Suddenly here he was, on a hillside in Castelli, watching the grape pickers moving up and down the vine-rows, tossing the fruit into baskets, emptying the baskets into the cart hitched to the yellow tractor that would haul them off to the crushing vats. Everyone was out there: the villa staff, the farm hands, teachers, therapists, Sister Pauline. Even the children were busy with whatever task they could perform. Those in wheelchairs trundled them between the vines. Those on crutches leaned against the upright stakes and picked within arm’s stretch. Only Britte was not picking. She sat, perched – or was it laced? – precariously on a stool, with an easel and paintbox, sketching wi
th a brush clamped between her teeth.
The scene was so lively, so full of human detail, that the Pontiff stood for a long while contemplating the simple wonder of it – and the bleak futility of much of his own existence. This was where the people of God were to be found. This was how they were to be found, doing everyday things to the rhythms of a workaday world.
He, Leo XIV, Bishop of Rome, once called Ludovico Gadda, what did he do? Well, he ruled the Church, which meant that most days he sat at his desk and received people, read papers, wrote papers, took part in occasional pageantry, made a speech every Sunday in St Peter’s Square – which everybody heard but nobody understood, because the echo and the feedback across St Peter’s Square made the whole thing ridiculous … As well, therefore, not to waste a moment of this beautiful, this specially vintaged, day …
With Pietro supporting him on the steps of the terraces, he walked slowly down to mingle with the pickers. They saluted him as he passed, but did not pause in their tasks. This was serious business, there was money at the end of it. One of the men offered him a swig of wine. He took the bottle, tilted it to his mouth and drank, gratefully. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and passed back the bottle with a word of thanks. The man grinned and settled back to work.
Finally, at the end of the third row, they came upon Drexel, sitting at the wheel of a tractor waiting to move as soon as the cart was filled with grapes. He – stepped down to greet the Pontiff.
‘You’re looking better, Holiness.’
‘I should be, Anton. I had a wonderful rest this afternoon. And thank you for providing me with a nurse.’
Drexel laughed.
‘I’ve known Sister Pauline since she came to Rome. She’s a real character. She’s even tamed me! When I first visited the community she asked me what a Cardinal Protector was supposed to do. I told her: to protect the interests of the Congregation. She looked me straight in the eye and told me in that horrible Italian of hers: “Well, for a start, here’s a whole list of things in which we’re not getting protection – and here’s another list where the protection we’re getting is quite inadequate!” She was right, too. We’ve been good friends ever since.’
‘What can I do to help here?’
‘For the moment, nothing. Just look around and relax. You could ride with me on the tractor, but it might shake you up too much. Pietro, why don’t you take His Holiness into the orchard and pick some fruit for dinner. We eat country-style tonight – and another thing! You have to meet Rosa. She’s got a pocketful of medals she wants you to bless – and our dinner depends on how well you do it!’
On the way back he faltered a little and Pietro scolded him.
‘Please, Holiness! This is not an Olympic race. You do not have to prove you are an athlete. You never were. You never will be. So take it easy. Piano, piano! One step at a time.’
They halted for a while to watch Britte at work on her canvas. She was totally absorbed, as if the contorted physics of the operation permitted no break in her concentration. Yet the picture that was growing under the brush was one of quite extraordinary vigour and colour. With the brush clamped between her teeth and her head bobbing between the palette and the canvas, she looked like some grotesque bird, suddenly invaded by the spirit of a master painter. Pietro, only half aware of what he was saying, uttered the poignant plea.
‘Why? Why does this have to happen? Sometimes I wonder if God gets overworked and goes crazy for a while. How else could he commit such cruelty?’
At another time in another place, Leo the Pontiff would have felt obliged to reprove him for blasphemy, or at least to read him a homily on the mysterious ways of the Almighty. This time he simply shook his head sadly.
‘I don’t know, Pietro. Why is an old donkey like myself allowed to survive and this one condemned to imprisonment and early death?’
‘Is that what you will say to them on Sunday?’
Leo the Pontiff turned swiftly to face him.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing, Holiness – except that on Sunday the folk here are expecting you to say a short Mass for them and give them a little sermon. A few words only, of course – His Eminence was very clear about that.’
And there it was, neatly dressed up as the courtesy of the house – the first test of the new man, Lazarus redivivus. It was the simplest and most traditional of Christian customs: the visiting bishop presided at the Eucharistic table, spoke the homily, affirmed the unity of all the scattered brethren in the bond of common faith. As a custom he could not evade it; as a courtesy he could not refuse it.
But Pietro’s question pinned him more tightly yet. All his audience, women, therapists and children alike, were faced with the same paradox. All looked to him – the infallible interpreter of revealed truth! – to explain the paradox and make it acceptable and fruitful in their lives.
Why, Holiness? Why, why, why? We live in faith and hope, we are the givers of love. Why is this torment visited upon us and upon our children? And how dare you and your celibate presbyters ask us to breed again at random or live lonely and unsolaced in the name of this God who does indeed play a cruel dice game with his creatures?
‘So tell me, Pietro,’ the Pontiff asked the question with rare humility. ‘What do you think I should say to them?’
‘Tell them the truth, Holiness, just as you have told it to me. Tell them you don’t know, you can’t know. Tell them that sometimes God gives them more light and understanding than he gives to you, and they must follow the light in peaceful conscience.’
The which, Leo the Pontiff was forced to agree, was a very polite way of saying that not even a Pope is a hero to his valet. Mr Omar Asnan received his guest in the garden of his villa on the Appia Antica. He offered coffee and sweetmeats and free access to all the information at his disposal.
‘You must understand first, Mr Peters, that Miriam Latif is a friend, a very dear friend. I am deeply troubled by what has happened. I have consented to speak with you because I believe the matter must be made known as quickly and widely as possible.’
‘You do not, I take it, question Dr Salviati’s account of her disappearance.’
‘No, I do not. As far as it goes, his account is accurate.’
‘Do you suggest he knows more than he is telling?’
‘Of course! He was – and is – in a very difficult position. He is a Jew, treating the Pope who, like every public man, is deemed to be constantly under threat. Salviati has mixed staff: Christians, Muslims, Jews, from all round the Mediterranean basin. I admire his policy. Let me say that plainly. I think it is enlightened and useful. However, in an atmosphere of threat and crisis such as we had while the Pontiff was in residence, staff members themselves were under a certain threat – at least to their privacy.’
‘How so, Mr Asnan?’
‘Well, it is a fact, is it not, that the clinic was heavily guarded by Vatican, Italian – and, I believe, Israeli – security men!’
‘Do you know that, Mr Asnan? Israeli agents are not officially permitted to work in Italy. Even the Vatican Vigilanza works under very restrictive protocols.’
‘Nevertheless, Mr Peters, you and I know, as a matter of pure logic, that Israeli agents were involved.’
‘Are you saying they were involved in the abduction of Miriam Latif?’
‘Without a doubt.’
‘But why? Professor Salviati speaks of her in the highest terms. So far as he knows, she has no political connections.’
‘So far as I know also, she has none; but she has been on occasion extremely indiscreet in speech. Her brother was killed in an Israeli raid on Sidon. She has never forgotten or forgiven that.’
‘And yet she accepted a subsidy to work and be trained at a Jewish hospital.’
‘I urged her to do it. I told her she could look at it in two ways – as a healing act or as part payment of a blood-debt. She chose to regard it as the latter.’
‘So it’s possible she could
have been identified – rightly or wrongly – by the Israelis as an agent for the Sword of Islam?’
‘That is what I am saying, yes.’
‘Where do you think she is now?’
‘I hope she is still in this country. If she is not, the position may become very complicated, very dangerous.’
‘Can you explain that, Mr Asnan?’
‘It is, I fear, quite simple. If Miriam Latif is not returned, violence will follow. None of us wants to see it happen – I least of all, because I live a quiet life here. I enjoy good business and personal relations with Italians. I do not want those relations spoiled. But, my dear Mr Peters, I do not control events.’
‘I don’t either,’ said Nicol Peters.
‘But you can and do influence them, by what you publish, even by the information you transmit between your sources. I know that you will go from here and then use what I have said to elicit a comment from someone else. I don’t object to that. I have nothing to hide. You may do some good … But remember the most important thing I have said – trouble is brewing!’
‘I’ll remember,’ said Nicol Peters. ‘One final question, Mr Asnan. What is your own connection with the Sword of Islam? Obviously you know it exists.’
Omar Asnan shrugged off the question with a smile.
‘I know it exists. I have no connection with it at all, Mr Peters. Like Miriam Latif, like so many of my countrymen, I am expatriate. I try to live comfortably under the laws of the country which has received me. I do not believe in terrorism – and may I remind you the only act of terror that has been committed is the abduction of Miriam Latif. It is not impossible that the whole Sword of Islam story was a fiction cooked up by the Israelis. Have you thought of that?’
‘I’m sure someone has,’ said Nicol Peters cheerfully. ‘I’m still the neutral observer, like yourself.’
‘Don’t mistake me, Mr Peters. I have only said that I try to live within the law. In fact, I am outraged by what has happened to Miriam Latif and I care not who knows it.’