Lazarus

by Morris West

  ‘In that case, Holiness, permit me to offer you the advice my father gave me. He was a colonel in the Carabinieri. He used to say: never point a gun at a man, unless you’re prepared to fire it. If you fire, don’t miss, because one shot is all you get.’

  It was the warning which Abbot Alexis had given him, expressed in other terms: ‘It is the passion for action that destroys us all!’ Yet he could see no other way of breaking out of the blockade which he himself had imposed. Expedient and not expedient, opportune, inopportune – these were the most potent words in the lexicon of Church government. They opened the floodgates of eternal debate; they could retard any decision until judgement day, on the pretext that its ultimate consequence had not yet been explored.

  And yet he understood very well what Agostini was telling him: the more questions you could leave open, the less danger there was of having your mistakes cast in bronze to endure for centuries. Which reminded him of another proposition of Abbot Alexis: ‘You are interpreted by rhetors and officials and translated by journalists. Your authentic voice is never heard!’ He put the same proposition to the Secretary of State, who gave it only a qualified answer …

  ‘It’s true; but how can it be otherwise? How can you guarantee the accuracy of a translation from your Italian into all the languages under heaven? Impossible. And with every new Pontiff we get the same old comedy in the press: “The Holy Father is a great linguist. He can say ‘God bless you’ in twenty languages.” And then he gets ambitious and starts stumbling through his public discourses like Linguaphone lessons! Your Holiness has been wise enough to know his own limitations!’

  Leo the Pontiff laughed. It was an old Vatican horror story. Eight, ten different language versions of the same six-minute discorso used to be given to polyglot pilgrim groups in St Peter’s Square, just to prove that the Holy Father had the gift of tongues! Then there was the other cautionary tale about himself. Suggestions had been made, very sane and sensible suggestions, that he might make a series of sub-titled cassette programmes for worldwide television. However, the final impediment was his own incurable ugliness and the habitual severity of his expression. He could still chuckle over everyone’s embarrassment as they tried to tell him. Agostini profited by his good humour to add an extra caution: ‘Your Holiness is aware of another lesson we have learned: the debasement of currency, the over-exposure of the Pontiff just to demonstrate his concern and involvement. Even in your dealings with the Curia, nice judgements have to be made; and your first policy statement will be crucial. That’s the one shot which will win or lose the war.’

  ‘So tell me, Matteo; do you really believe I can win my war?’

  ‘If it is your war, no. You will lose it. If it is God’s, you will win it – though not, perhaps, in the way you hope.’

  The which, as the Pontiff mused on it, cast new light on the character of Matteo Agostini, Cardinal Secretary of State, a man dedicated to the art of the possible.

  In the VIP lounge at Fiumicino, Matt Neylan took custody of his temporary family. He tried to be casual and good-humoured about it, but the spectacle of Britte, with her shambling body and her angelic face and the piercing intelligence that could not assemble the words to express itself, moved him strangely. She was both scared and excited in the unfamiliar surroundings and was making frantic efforts to communicate verbally with her mother, who had her own preoccupations and was unable to concentrate enough attention on the girl. Matt Neylan himself was walking on eggs. He dared not risk an untimely gesture towards mother or daughter and he was wondering how they would rub along together in a farmhouse in County Cork, with an old-fashioned Catholic housekeeper as chaperone – and she already in grief for a spoiled priest! Then Britte’s small, clawlike hand stroked his cheek and her spindly body snuggled close to him. The words sprang unbidden to his lips: ‘You’re not scared now, are you? This place we’re going to is very friendly: green meadows and old stone walls and a path that runs down to a white beach. There are cattle and horses and an apple orchard, and the house is painted white and it has a big attic where you can paint to your heart’s content … The place is large enough so you can be private and small enough to be cosy when the winter comes. Your bedroom, and your mother’s, look towards the sea. My bedroom and study are on the opposite side, There’s a living-room and a dining-room and a big, old-fashioned farmhouse kitchen. Mrs Murtagh and her husband live next-door in the cottage. He manages the farm, she’s my housekeeper, and I gather they’re both much scandalised because I’ve left the Church. Still, they’ll get used to it … I’ve ordered a new car to be delivered to me at the airport and there’s a Range Rover at the house, so you won’t be anchored or isolated … I hope I’m getting through to you, young lady, because I’m talking my silly head off …’

  ‘You’re getting through, Mr Neylan. And you don’t have to try so hard. We’re both grateful; we both trust you.’

  ‘In which case, would you mind if we used Christian names?’

  ‘We’d both like that.’

  Britte made her own sound of approval and turned to kiss him. Neylan caught the swift shadow of concern on Tove’s face. He stood up, drew her with him out of earshot of the girl and told her curtly: ‘The girl’s scared. She needs assurance. What do you think I am – an abuser of children?’

  ‘Of course not! I didn’t mean …’

  ‘Listen! Until I get you two settled, we’re going to be living like a family in the same house. I don’t have much practice at that, but I do have a lot of practice at self-control. I drink only in moderation and the men of my family have the reputation of being good to their women. So why the hell don’t you relax, madam, and pay me the compliment of simple trust … If your daughter wants to spend a little of the warmth she’s got piling up inside her, I’m probably the safest man around to spend it on. Which, by the way, is not an assurance I’m giving to you or any other woman … If we can be clear on that, we should all have a pleasant holiday!’

  Tove Lundberg gave him a small uncertain smile and then held out her hand.

  ‘Message received and understood. I’m relieved. For a moment I thought you were going to blame me for the burning of Dublin!’

  ‘That’s for the winter. Every night I’ll recite you a litany of the wrongs of Ireland.’

  ‘I’d rather you sang to me.’

  ‘Why not? There’s a piano in the house – though it probably needs tuning. We’ll have a come-all-ye.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘An Irish party. An open house: all your friends, and all your neighbours, and any wandering folk who happen by. It’d be interesting to see who turns up and what they think of the infidel priest and his two women!’

  Nicol Peters was sitting on his terrace watching the swifts circling the cupolas of the old city and making the last adjustments to the latest edition of ‘A View From My Terrace’. This time it was a somewhat eccentric piece, since he had agreed, in deference to a joint request from the Italians and from Mossad, to feed into it certain factual but provocative material:

  ‘Miriam Latif, the young laboratory technician who disappeared under mysterious circumstances from the International Clinic, has now appeared, in equally mysterious circumstances, in Lebanon. According to reports, she simply walked into her parents’ house in Byblos and announced that a man and a woman had brought her there. She could give no coherent account of her previous movements. She appears to have suffered no physical ill-treatment or sexual invasion and her parents have placed her in psychiatric care for observation and treatment. They have refused to disclose her whereabouts to the press.

  ‘Meantime, reliable intelligence sources and the Vatican Secretariat of State confirm that terrorist threats against the Pope are being taken very seriously. Special security measures are in force. His Holiness has returned by Army helicopter from Castel Gandolfo. The Pontiff is said to be untroubled by the threat, but irked by the restrictions imposed on his public appearances and even his movements with
in Vatican City itself.

  ‘However, his health continues to improve. He has lost a great deal of weight and he exercises for an hour every day under the supervision of a therapist. Although His Holiness is still on a restricted schedule of work, there are strong rumours that winds of change may soon be blowing through Vatican City. Usually reliable sources suggest that the Pontiff has been deeply affected by his recent experiences and, indeed, has taken a revisionist view of certain important current issues. A well-known Vatican prelate made a pun about it: “They told us he was having a bypass. Now it seems he has had a complete change of heart.”

  ‘Hard evidence is, as usual, difficult to get, but already there have been two important changes. Anton Cardinal Drexel, the Camerlengo or Papal Chamberlain, has retired to his country estate. A new appointment must be made. Monsignor Malachy O’Rahilly, Senior Private Secretary to the Pontiff, is leaving Rome. His place will be taken by an Englishman, Monsignor Gerard Hopgood.

  ‘To ordinary folk like you and me these are clerical matters, relevant only to the strange celibate world of those “who have made themselves eunuchs for the sake of the Kingdom of Heaven”. In fact, they may well be portents of greater happenings in the worldwide organisation.

  ‘The most important bodies in the bureaucracy of the Roman Church are the Congregations, which function like the Departments in a normal Civil Service. However, unlike the Civil Services, the Roman Congregations are organised on what is best described as an interlocking grid system. Thus the same names pop up in a variety of appointments. The Cardinal Secretary of State heads up the Council for the Public Affairs of the Church. A senior member of this Council is also a member of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. The same man sits on the Congregation for the Bishops. So to change any key personage is like pulling a thread in a piece of knitting – the whole pattern may unravel before your astonished eyes.

  ‘So the Roman observer has to read, not only what seems to be happening, but what is happening in reality. I find it hard to believe that a man so fixed in his ideas as Leo XIV will commit himself to any relaxation of present disciplines. Yet he cannot fail to see that the Church is bleeding at every pore – people, clerics and even financial revenues.

  ‘Vatican finances are in a parlous state. The place is running on a deficit of at least fifty million dollars a year. It is being constantly hit with rises in the cost of living and currency depreciations in every country of the world. It has never recovered from the sorry scandals of a recent era. Donations from the faithful are notably reduced. A full report by an international firm of auditors, commissioned by the present Pontiff, is to be delivered shortly. It is not expected to offer much hope of immediate improvement.

  ‘Now to lighter, if not happier, matters. Professor Sergio Salviati, surgeon to His Holiness, seems likely to lose the services of his most respected colleague, Ms Tove Lundberg, who acts as counsellor to cardiac patients. Ms Lundberg left Rome with her daughter Britte for an extended holiday in Denmark.

  ‘Matt Neylan, recently Monsignor Matt Neylan of the Vatican Secretariat of State, now very much a man about this town, has just signed a six-figure two-book contract with an American publisher. Subject: personalities and policies at the Vatican Secretariat of State … Since Matt Neylan has severed all ties, not merely with the priesthood but with the Catholic Church, the book could prove an interesting investment for publishers and readers alike.

  ‘One final item – and a caution for autumn tourists in Rome. The Guardia di Finanza have begun a new crackdown on drugs in this city. This week they seem to be concentrating their attention on the more expensive nightclubs. Latest to be gone over with a fine toothcomb was the Alhambra, a plush and pricy resort just near the Veneto. It is much frequented by Arab and Japanese businessmen and its floor shows are as expensive and raunchy as the traffic will allow. Patrons were patted down but not bothered too much; but staff got a real going over and the hat-check-and-cigarette girl was taken into custody. Latest reports say she is still being questioned …’

  ‘They are playing games with us!’ Omar Asnan was furious; but his anger was masked by a glacial calm. ‘The Lundberg woman left Rome on an Aer Lingus flight bound for Dublin. Our airport contacts identified her and her daughter, who was taken aboard in a wheelchair. Miriam Latif has been dumped back in her parents’ lap, brainwashed and full of psychotropic drugs. The raid on the Alhambra was a blind – harassment and intimidation. That cigarette girl never handled anything stronger than tobacco! My servant reports two visits from the electricity company, checking the meter and the fuse-box … Then I have a call from the Vatican. My guided tour was cancelled because Monsignor Tabni was down with influenza. To cap it all, my friend Mr Matt Neylan is suddenly called out of town, but he finds it necessary to telephone me, a man with whom he has passed one evening in a lifetime … That little thing bothered me like a flea-bite until I decided to call the airport again. Then I discovered that Mr Matt Neylan left on the same flight as the Lundberg woman and her daughter.’ He broke off and surveyed the three men seated with him in the back of the limousine, which was parked on a dirt road in the pine woods near Ostia. ‘The conclusion is obvious, my friends. They are trying to drive us into a trap, like one of those tuna traps the fishermen use along the coast. It is constructed like a maze. The fish get in; they can’t get out. They thresh about waiting for the mattanza, the bloody slaughter.’

  ‘So what are we going to do about it?’

  ‘Abdicate,’ said Omar Asnan calmly.

  ‘Abandon the project?’

  ‘No. Sub-contract it.’

  To whom?’

  ‘I’m investigating possibilities.’

  ‘We have a right to know.’

  ‘You shall, at an appropriate time, But since I am underwriting the operation, I claim the privilege of arranging it to my own specifications. Besides, if any one of you is picked up as Miriam Latif was, all four of us – and the plan itself – are compromised.’

  ‘Are you saying you would hold out longer than the rest of us?’

  ‘Not at all. Only that I am the last one they will pick up. They know about us all from Miriam; but they know most about me – where I live, where I do business, my bank accounts, and the important fact that I make a lot of money here and I’m not going to walk away from it. So trust me, gentlemen – and have a good flight to Tunis. We’ll drop you in Ostia. You can take a taxi from there to the airport.’

  An hour and a half later, he was back in Rome lunching at Alfredo’s with a Korean businessman who bought and sold container space, financed the cargoes to fill it and guaranteed to provide any service his clients needed, anywhere in the world.

  The homecoming of the Pontiff was an event limited by a protocol which he himself had prescribed a long time ago and which he now regretted, with an almost childish anguish.

  ‘At Drexel’s house there were flowers in my bedroom and in the salone. From the first day of my accession, I forbade them here. I wanted to impress on all my household the notions of austerity and discipline. Now I miss them. I understand, as I never did before, that I have denied the Sisters who look after me the simple pleasure of a welcoming gesture. The youngest of them, a simple country girl, blurted it out: “We wanted to put in flowers, but Mother Superior said you didn’t like them.” Which at least gave me the opportunity to make the first small retreats from my old self. I told her that was an example of how wrong even a Pope could be. I would love to have flowers in my study and on the dining table. Only afterwards did it occur to me to ask myself what pleasure I could offer to them. Their lives are so much more confined, so much more under scrutiny than those of their sisters outside the Vatican. They still wear the old-fashioned habits – my orders again! – and their housekeeping tasks are boring in the extreme. Before I think about the big changes, here is a small but necessary one, right under my pontifical nose! If I feel confined – and tonight, dear God, I feel as though I am locked in a box – how much more mus
t they feel it, in this kingdom of professional bachelors.

  ‘Malachy O’Rahilly has already instructed them on the routines of my convalescence. He has set my desk in order, laid down a list of priorities. He has also presented his successor, a blond, square-jawed Englishman, very reserved, very cool, totally in command of himself. His Italian is more polished than mine. He writes Ciceronian Latin and Plato’s Greek. He has French and Spanish, German and Russian, and a doctorate in Ecclesiastical History.

  ‘To make conversation, I ask him what he presented as a doctoral thesis. He tells me it was a study of Pope Julius II, Giuliano della Rovere. That takes some of the stiffness out of our first talk, because there is a curious connection between this formidable warrior-pope and my home place of Mirandola. In the Palazzo Chigi in Rome there is a strange portrait of Julius in winter armour, painted during his siege of Mirandola in 1511.

  ‘It is a tiny footnote to history, but it helps to soften the bleakness of my homecoming. It also encourages me to believe that in place of my very companionable Malachy O’Rahilly I may have found a tough young disciple with a sense of history.

  ‘No sooner had I sent him off with Malachy O’Rahilly than I began to feel restless, claustrophobic. I wanted desperately to be at work, even though I knew I was not capable of it. Instead, I went into my private chapel and forced myself to sit in meditation for nearly an hour.