by Morris West
We do, Holiness.’
‘You have our leave to go.’ He pressed the buzzer to summon Malachy O’Rahilly. ‘Anton, you will wait. We have other matters to discuss.’
The moment Clemens had left the room, the demeanour of the Pontiff changed. The tense muscles in his face relaxed. He folded the newspaper slowly and laid it aside. Then he turned to Drexel and asked a blunt question.
‘Do you think I was too hard on him?’
Drexel shrugged. ‘He knew the risk. He took it …’
‘I can forgive him. I can’t trust him again.’
‘That is for Your Holiness to decide.’
A slow smile dawned in the eyes of the Pontiff. He asked: ‘How does it feel to be just a farmer, Anton?’
‘Less interesting than I had hoped.’
‘And the children?’
‘There, too, I have problems which I had not foreseen.’ He told of his conversations with Tove Lundberg, and the question which loomed for her and for all the other parents: what future could be offered to these brilliant but terribly handicapped children? ‘I confess I have no answer to it – nor, I fear, are we equipped in this country to deliver one. We may have to look outside for models and answers …’
‘Then why not do it, Anton? Why not propose that to Tove Lundberg? I would be willing to find some funds from my private purse … But now to other matters. You are retired. You will remain retired. You will, however, remain as a member – in petto as it were, private and unobserved – of the pontifical family … Today is the beginning of change. Clemens did a foolish thing and I am very angry with him. Yet, the more I think about it, the more clearly I see that he has done us all a great favour. He has put into my hands exactly what I need: the instruments of change, the lever and the fulcrum to get the Church moving again. I lay awake for hours last night thinking about it. I got up early this morning to say the Mass of the Holy Spirit to beg for guidance on it. I’m sure I’ve made the right decision.’
‘I hope Your Holiness will permit me to reserve judgement until I’ve heard it.’
‘Let me reason it through with you.’ He pushed himself out of his chair and began to pace the room as he talked. Drexel was amazed to see how much weight he had lost and how vigorously he moved so early in his convalescence. His voice was strong and clear and, best of all, his exposition did not falter. ‘Clemens goes. He has to go. His argument was casuistry and unacceptable. He defied authority more blatantly than the Tübingen signatories who complained publicly about the alleged misuse of it … So now we need a new prefect for the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith
‘Do you have anyone in mind?’
‘Not yet. But you and I know that that Congregation is the most important and the most powerful instrument in the Church. All of us bend to its demands, because its purpose is to defend that upon which the existence of the Church depends – the purity of the teaching given to us by Christ and handed down from apostolic times … Clemens thought I would bend too, because I am still not wholly recovered and I dare not alienate the heritage of the ancient faith. But he was wrong – as the Congregation has been wrong, grievously wrong so many times down the centuries. I am going to reform it, root and branch. I am going to abrogate the dark deeds of its history, the tyrannies of the Inquisition, the secrecy and the inequities of its procedures. It is and always has been an instrument of repression. I am going to turn it into an instrument of witness, against which not only our doctrine, but our charity as a Christian Assembly, may be judged by all.’
He broke off, flushed and excited, then sat down, mopping his hands and his brow. Drexel passed him a glass of water and then asked quietly: ‘How do you propose to do all this, Holiness?’
‘By motu proprio. I need your help in drafting it.’
‘You need more than that, Holiness.’ Drexel gave a little rueful laugh. ‘There are fourteen cardinals and eight bishops running the Congregation. You can’t dismiss them all. And what will you do with Clemens? He is known as your man. You can hardly stick his head on a pike outside the Porta Angelica!’
‘On the contrary. I shall draw him very close to me. I shall give him your place as Cardinal Camerlengo and make him, in addition, prefect of my household. How does that sound?’
‘Very much in character,’ said Drexel with wry humour. ‘Your Holiness is obviously much recovered.’’
‘Be glad I am.’ The Pontiff was suddenly grim again. ‘I am changed, Anton, changed to the core of my being. I am setting out to repair the damage I have done to the Church. But in one thing I have not changed. I am still a country bumpkin, a hard-head. I don’t want a fight; but if I’m forced into it, I have to win or drop.’
At which point Anton Drexel deemed it prudent to change the subject. He asked: ‘Before you return to the Vatican, may I bring Britte and her mother to see you? Your portrait is finished. It’s very good …’
‘Why don’t we do it tomorrow at eleven?’
‘We’ll be here. And, Holiness, Tove Lundberg herself is going through a difficult time. It would help if you could encourage her to talk about it.’
‘By all means. You can take Britte into the garden. Leave Tove to me.’
As he was driven back from Castel Gandolfo to his own villa, Drexel replayed the events of the morning. First and most dramatic was the emergence of the old Leo, the man who knew how the vast machine worked and where to put his finger on the nerve-centres that controlled it. He had shed uncertainty. The fire was alight in his belly. He would thrust forward relentlessly towards the goal he had set himself. How wisely he had decided was another matter; but there was no gainsaying the sense of history that determined his choice.
Before the sixteenth century, the affairs of the Universal Church, including doctrinal matters, were handled by the Apostolic Chancery. In 1542 Paul III, Alessandro Farnese, founded the Sacred Congregation of the Inquisition. It was in the beginning a temporary institution, replaced by secular commissions under Pius IV, Gregory XIII, Paul V. But the first stable one, with an organic plan, was set up by Sixtus V, who had himself served as an inquisitor in Venice and who, as Pope, ruled with Draconian severity; imposing the death penalty for thievery, incest, procuration, adultery and sodomy. It was he who planned with Philip II of Spain to send the Armada against England, and when the Armada was sunk, defaulted on the payments to his ally. Pius X changed the name to the Holy Office, Paul VI changed it again to Doctrine of the Faith.
But the essential character of the institution had not changed. It was still essentially authoritarian, repressive, penal, incurably secretive and, in its procedures, inequitable.
In an institution like the Roman Catholic Church, built solidly on the old imperial model, relentlessly centralised, this inquisitorial institution was not only enormously powerful, it was a symbol of all the scandals of the centuries: the witch-hunts, the persecution of Jews, the burning of books and of heretics, the unholy alliances between the Church and the colonisers.
In the post conciliar world it was identified with reaction, with the concerted attempt to hold back reform and developments which the Council had set in motion. Leo XIV had used it himself precisely for those purposes. He knew its importance. His attempt to reform it was a true measure of the change in him.
The means he had in mind were interesting, too. A motu proprio was a document issued by a Pope on his own initiative over his own signature. It was, therefore, in a special sense a personal directive. It laid him open to challenge from the Sacred Congregations and the senior hierarchy; but it also put his pontifical authority on the line in a matter on which he held strong personal convictions.
By the time the car turned into his own driveway, Drexel was convinced that there was stormy weather ahead but that Ludovico Gadda had a reasonable chance to survive it.
Eleven
Matt Neylan was coasting towards the end of a very satisfactory day: a morning’s work on the book, lunch, tennis and a swim, and a reconciliation dinner at Romo
lo’s with Malachy O’Rahilly. The Papal Secretary was eloquent as always, but obviously bruised from a series of recent encounters in the service of the Lord and his Vicar on earth.
‘I’m still haunted by that security meeting and what happened to poor Lorenzo de Rosa and his family. I must have been pissed out of my mind, holding forth like that with all the Eminences around. I haven’t been allowed to forget it, either. This very evening, when I was coming into town, I got a little lecture from the Man himself … “Malachy,” he says, “I have no personal complaints; but little birds whisper to me what I know is half scandal and you know is half truth. The downfall of the Latins is women and the Celts tend to drown their lusts and their sorrows in alcohol. So you will be careful, won’t you? And you’ll promise me never to drive these mountain roads with more than a glass taken.” They’re on to me, Matt. That was just a warning of things to come, a shot across the bows so to speak. So maybe it’s time I made a change – or a connection with Alcoholics Anonymous. What’s your advice?’
‘I’m out of the club,’ said Matt Neylan firmly. ‘You and I are reasoning in different categories now. But the old rule still holds: if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the boiler-room. And if you can’t tolerate liquor, don’t drink.’
‘Are you happy where you are, Matt?’
‘Sure. I’m very content.’ ‘When are you going home?’
‘That I’m not sure of – probably early autumn. The manager’s doing a good job with the farm. I’m happy working here – for the moment, at least.’
‘Are you still – you know – living alone?’
‘I don’t have a live-in lady, if that’s what you mean. For the moment I’m doing fine with temporary help … And what’s happening on Vatican Hill?’
‘At this moment, nothing; but all my instinct tells me there’s going to be fun and games when the Old Man comes back into residence. He’s getting stronger every day. He had Clemens on the carpet yesterday. You know what a tough customer he can be. Well, he was only in for five minutes, but he came out like a man on his way to the gallows. Drexel’s retired …It’s like waiting for a thunderstorm. You wish the damn thing would start. Which reminds me. Drexel and the Old Man are very worried about Tove Lundberg and her child. She’s the one who …’
‘I know who she is. I’ve met her.’
‘The security people say she’s on a kidnap list. She goes everywhere under protection. The Old Man offered them refuge in Vatican City. They refused. I don’t blame them. They’d wonder what hit ’em in our celibate metropolis. But I had a way-out thought which I’ve mentioned to no one … You wouldn’t think perhaps of inviting them as paying guests to your house in Ireland? Just until the whole thing blows over, of course!’
Matt Neylan threw back his head and laughed until the tears came.
‘Malachy, my boy, you’re transparent as water! I can just hear the dialogue now … “A wonderful idea, Holiness! It came to me in sleep, like the visions of Joseph. I spoke to my old friend Matt Neylan – he’s a good soul, though he doesn’t believe he’s got a soul any more and he’s offered bed, board and refuge to mother and child!”’
‘So will you do it? Will you now?’
‘The refuge is for you, isn’t it, Malachy? You’re scared they’re going to ship you home to your bishop and make you do a little pastoral work for a change. Admit it now!’
‘I admit it. You don’t have to rub my nose in it.’
‘All right, I’ll do it. Tell Drexel. Tell His Holiness. If I chance to meet the lady again, I’ll make the offer myself.’
‘You’re a prince, Matt!’
‘I’m a footloose infidel with time and money he’s never had before. I’ll wake up to myself one day … You’re paying the check, remember?’
‘How could I forget a simple thing like that?’
When Malachy O’Rahilly had left him, he crossed the river, strolled for a while in the Piazza del Popolo and then took a taxi to the Alhambra Club. This was the hour that bothered him most in his new existence, the hour of the full belly and the empty bed and the craving for a woman, any woman, to share it with him. In the Alhambra he could join all the other males in a public confession of his need and sort through the offerings with offhand bravado. There were a thousand other solutions, of course. The evening papers carried columns of advertisements for masseuses, manicurists, secretary-companions; there were a dozen other clubs like the Alhambra, the tables along the Veneto, outside Doneys and the Cafe de Paris. He had tried them all; but the confession they demanded was too public, the encounters too prone to accident or boredom. At the Alhambra he was known. The girls acknowledged him with a smile, vied for his attention – and Marta had assured him with a certain seriousness that they had to be clean because the management insisted on a weekly medical certification and any girl who passed on something nasty to a regular client would have something very nasty happen to her. It was cobweb insurance at best; but it gave him the sense of security and belonging which his late-flowering emotions demanded.
It was a slack night. There was time for a chat with Marta at her little booth near the entrance. The girls were waiting in little groups, ready to pounce as soon as he sat at a table, so he perched himself on a stool at the bar and started a dialogue with the barman, a cheerful fellow from Tunis, who knew how to protect a quiet drinker and a generous tipper.
Neylan was halfway through his second drink when a man took the stool beside him and asked: ‘May I join you? I can’t cope with all these women at once.’
‘I know how you feel. Be my guest. What will you take?’
‘Coffee please, and mineral water.’ He introduced himself formally. ‘I have seen you often. We have never spoken. I am Omar Asnan.’
‘Matt Neylan.’
‘English?’
‘No. Irish.’
‘I myself am from Iran. You live here in Rome?’
‘I have for many years. I’m a writer.’
‘I am something much more prosaic. I’m a merchant, import and export. And what sort of books do you write, Mr Neylan?’
‘At this moment I’m working on a study of religious and political diplomacy, with special reference to the Vatican.’
‘You are familiar with the Vatican, Mr Neylan?’
‘Reasonably, yes. I do a certain amount of my work in the Archive.’
‘How interesting. I am, of course, Muslim; but I should be fascinated to visit some time.’
‘There are daily tours: St Peter’s, the Museum, the usual things. You can also get permission to visit the Library and other places …’
‘I must certainly think about it. You have contacts there. You must have of course.’
‘Some, yes …’
‘I am fascinated by this idea of the totally religious society. It has, of course, taken hold again in Islamic countries, most notably in my own.’
‘I find I need to get away from it for a while.’ Matt Neylan wanted to get off the subject as quickly as possible. ‘That’s why I come here. But it looks like a dull evening that could get expensive. I think I’ll be pushing along.’
‘No, wait!’ Asnan laid a detaining hand on his sleeve. ‘You are bored, so am I. We can easily remedy that. Do you know a place called Il Mandolino?’
‘No.’
‘It’s in an old house in a tiny square just behind the Piazzo Navona. Lots of people go there. Two young men and a girl make music there every night, folk songs from all over the country. You buy drinks, sit in armchairs or on a cushion, and listen. It’s very simple, very restful …If you’re looking for a woman, of course, that’s not the place to be; but to relax at the tail-end of an evening … Would you like to try it?’
After a good dinner and a brace of brandies, Neylan was relaxed enough to welcome the idea. It was made more attractive when Omar Asnan told him that his chauffeur was waiting and would drive him home afterwards. On the way out he stopped by Marta Kuhn’s booth to buy cigarettes. Neylan bade her a dis
creet goodnight and managed a hurried whisper to confirm their lunch date.
When they had gone she went to the public phone in the foyer and made a call to the contact number of Aharon ben Shaul.
One of the less pleasant phenomena of the Pontiff’s convalescence was broken sleep. He would go to bed utterly fatigued. Three hours later he would be wide awake and lie reading for another hour until sleep claimed him for another two hours. Salviati had warned him that the syndrome was common after cardiac interventions, but had warned him also against becoming dependent on opiates. It would be much better if he could do without them until a normal and natural rest pattern re-established itself. Now he kept a book and a diary by his bedside. If his mind began to spin, as it often did, with preoccupations about his future role, he would force himself to write through them, as if the act of definition would exorcise their latent terror:
‘I was not proud of myself today. I knew, and Drexel knew, that I had slipped back into the old tactics of the power game. There was an element of fear in my handling of Clemens. He had done wrong. I felt threatened and vulnerable. I struck out hard and brutally, knowing that I might not have strength for a long combat. I regret the hurt I inflicted on him less than my own failure to behave with Christian restraint and charity. I am far from recovered, it seems. I am far from ready to pick up the full burden of office.
‘On the other hand, I am still firm in my conviction that I have found the starting point for reform. I am dealing with an organism within the Church whose methods and functions have been a matter of dispute and discontent for a very long time. I am setting out to remodel it. If I succeed in doing so, I shall have done what Salviati has done for me: bypassed a block in the vital blood-flow of the body of the Church.
‘I shall not be attacking any person. I shall not be clouding an essential doctrine of the faith. I shall not be creating confusion by seeming to reverse the decrees of earlier pontiffs – or even my own rigorous policies. I believe that I can begin the process of decentralisation in a fashion which Drexel has not foreseen.