Lazarus

by Morris West

  ‘I should, yes.’

  She pulled a new form towards her and wrote swiftly.

  ‘Dear Sergio. Britte died peacefully this morning. I am sad, confused and happy for her all at once. It is too early to say what will happen now, or where I shall go. Meantime, Matt Neylan is looking after me. He’s a good man and we are comfortable together. Love, Tove.’

  If Matt Neylan was disappointed at such passionless praise, he gave no sign of it. The girl who accepted the telegrams pointed out that, because of the difference in time zones, they would not be delivered in Italy until the following day, which would be the Feast of All Souls, the Day of the Dead.

  The Basilica was packed to the doors. The diplomats and their wives were all seated. The clergy were assembled, row on row, in their appointed places. The security men were at their posts. The camera teams were perched on their platforms, aiming and focusing on the Altar of the Confession, under the great baldacchino where the Pontiff and his senior cardinals would concelebrate the Mass of All Saints.

  The air vibrated with the murmur of thousands, against which the organ tones reverberated in a thunderous counterpoint. In the sacristy the celebrants were vesting, while the Master of Ceremonies moved discreetly in the background, murmuring his last directions to the acolytes. The Pontiff himself was already clothed. They had brought him a chair and he sat, eyes closed in meditation, waiting for the ceremonies to begin.

  Now, truly, he was afraid. There was no comfort against a violent death, no merciful anaesthesia, no solace of human kinship, no dignity at all. He was being stalked now, as in olden times his rivals had stalked the King of the Woods, to kill him and take possession of the shrine. The fear was not in the dying, but in the manner of it, the unknown ‘how’, the unguessable ‘when’, the nameless ‘who’. He had a sudden, heart-stopping vision of his assassin standing, veiled like Lazarus, against one of the pillars of the baldacchino, waiting to offer a final greeting.

  He tried to dispose himself for the encounter, and the only way he could do it was by an act of abasement to the will of the unseen Creator in whose cosmos both killer and victim had their place and purpose. He forced himself to frame the words, silently, with his lips: ‘Fiat voluntas tua … Let thy will be done. No matter how randomly, no matter with what seeming horror and inequity, let it be done. I surrender, because I have no other recourse.’

  Then, by some trick of association – or by some small mercy of distraction – he thought of Tove Lundberg, keeping the deathwatch over her child in that far, misty land which the Romans called Hibernia. Hers was another kind of agony and there were refinements to it at which he could only guess. Neylan would probably understand them better. He had found the universe so irrational a place that he had abandoned all belief in an intelligent creator. Yet he of all people was behaving with courage and dignity and compassion.

  What he could not ask for himself, he could beg for them. He prayed for Drexel, too, caught in the last sad irony of age. He had opened his heart to love and now, in the twilight years, he was to be robbed of it.

  There was a touch on his shoulder and the voice of the Master of Ceremonies whispered: ‘It is time to begin, Holiness.’

  From his post near the Diplomatic Corps, the Chief of Security watched every move of the Pontiff and his concelebrants at the altar and listened to the laconic reports that were radioed every minute from the strategic watch points round the Basilica. From the dome, everything looked normal; down the nave, normal; the transept, normal …

  They were at the Preface now, the prayer that introduced the central Eucharistic acts. The choir, in full voice, chanted the doxology: ‘Holy, holy, holy Lord God of Hosts, heaven and earth are full of Your glory …’

  The radio reports continued: baldacchino, normal. Transept normal … But the big danger points in the ceremony were yet to come: the Elevation, when the Pontiff stood in the centre of the altar and raised the consecrated elements high above his head for the adoration of the faithful, and the moment just before the Communion when he raised the host again and pronounced the final words of praise.

  The Master of Ceremonies was following his orders precisely, isolating the Pontiff whenever possible so that, even if he were stricken, casualties would be minimal. It was a terrible irony. Just as the ritual victim was being offered on the altar, the living, breathing target was offering himself to the assassin.

  Installed among the members of the Papal Household, Sergio Salviati and Menachem Avriel managed to carry on a whispered conversation under the sound of the chanting. The Secretary of State had made contact with them both and given a hurried version of the news from Ireland. Avriel wanted to know: ‘What will you do about Tove now?’

  ‘Write to her, call her.’

  ‘I thought …’

  ‘So did I once. But it was over before she left. Nobody’s fault. Too many ghosts in our beds, that’s all.’

  ‘So take my advice. Give yourself a break. Come to Israel.’

  ‘I know the rest of it. “We’ll find you a nice, bright Jewish girl and …” So I’ll try it. My junior surgeons are doing good work. Morrison will come down and hold their hands. Where are we now in the service?’

  Menachem Avriel pointed to the place in the text and explained in a whisper.

  ‘This is their Passover narrative.’

  ‘How do you know?’ ‘I read. I study the native customs, which is what diplomats are trained to do. Be quiet now. This part is very sacred.’

  The Pontiff was reciting the first formula of consecration: ‘While they were at supper, He took bread, blessed it, broke it and gave it to His disciples, saying: “Take this, all of you, and eat it; this is my body which will be given up for you.”’

  In the murmurous hush that followed, the Pontiff raised the white wafer above his head while the vast congregation bowed their heads in homage. The Chief of Security held his breath. With his arms raised high above his head, the Pontiff was a perfect target. When he lowered them, the Chief gave a long exhalation of relief. The first danger point was passed. Then the Pontiff bowed over the altar, took the gold chalice in his hands and recited the words that consecrate the wine:

  ‘In like manner, He took the cup of wine. He gave thanks, offered the cup to His disciples and said: “Take this, all of you, and drink from it. This is the cup of my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant which will be shed for you and for all men, so that sins may be forgiven. Do this in memory of me.”’

  Again he raised his arms, displaying the consecrated element for the adoration of the people.

  It was then the bullet hit him, tearing a hole in his chest, toppling him backwards so that the liquid spilled over his face and vestments, mingling with his life blood.

  Epilogue

  His Eminence, Karl Emil Clemens, Cardinal Camerlengo, was a very busy man. The See of Peter was vacant and until a new pontiff was elected, it was the Camerlengo who administered the office under the trusteeship of the Sacred College. This time there would be no confusions, no mistakes. He ordered a post-mortem examination and requested that it be performed by the Chief Medical Officer of the Roman Comune in the presence of three medical witnesses, among them Professor Sergio Salviati, surgeon to the Pontiff.

  Their findings were unanimous. Death had been caused by a high velocity, hollow-nosed bullet of large calibre, fired from an elevated position. It had ruptured the heart and gone on to shatter itself against the vertebrae, diffusing fragments through the thoracic cavity. Death was instantaneous. This was consonant with the findings of investigators called in to assist the Vatican Corpo di Vigilanza. They found that the sound boom used by the Japanese film team was in fact an elongated rifle barrel which gave extraordinary accuracy to the projectile. However, by the time his equipment had been examined, the boom operator had disappeared. Evidence was given that he was, in fact, a Korean, born in Japan, who had been hired as a freelance. The other members of the team were held for questioning but finally release
d into the custody of the Japanese Ambassador, who arranged for their immediate departure.

  The Pontiff’s body was not exposed during the Lying-in-State. The three coffins – one of lead, which carried his coat of arms and enclosed the certificate of death, one of cypress and one of elm – were already sealed and the obsequies were abridged for fear, the newspapers said, of further episodes of violence. After the first waves of shock-and-horror stories, the memorials that were published about Leo XIV were muted, too. They spoke of him as a stern man, unbending in discipline, a model of rectitude in his private life, of zeal in his care of the pure tradition of the Faith. Even Nicol Peters noted coolly: There were public demonstrations of reverence, but none of affection. This was a kind of Cromwell in papal history – a man of the people who failed to reach their hearts … There were strong rumours that after his illness he was a changed man, preparing a major shift in policy; but since, according to custom, all his papers are taken into the hands of the Camerlengo, we shall probably never know the whole truth.’

  Two medals were struck. One for the Camerlengo and one for the Governor of the forthcoming conclave at which the new pontiff would be elected. New Vatican coinage was minted and new stamps printed, bearing the words ‘sede vacante’. The front page of Osservatore Romano carried the same words and a big black border.

  Meantime, the Cardinal Camerlengo had taken possession of the papal apartments, the keys thereof and all their contents, including the Pontiff’s diary, his will, his personal papers and effects, as well as the contents of his office files. Monsignor Gerard Hopgood assisted the Camerlengo in these mournful duties and, because he seemed a sensible, discreet and scholarly fellow, the Camerlengo suggested that he remain where he was until the new pontiff was elected, when he could help to induct the new staff. Meantime, he should think about another appointment, for which he could count on a very good recommendation. Which was why, on a cold and blustery Sunday in November, he took himself off to Castelli to visit Cardinal Drexel.

  The old man was stooping a little now. The spring had gone out of his walk and when he made his rounds of the garden and the farmlands he carried a walking stick. Yet he still maintained his robust view of men and affairs. When Hopgood mentioned the suggestion made by the late Pontiff that he might work at the villa, Drexel brushed it aside: ‘Don’t waste your life on it. It was a short-term affair anyway – a personal indulgence of mine, going nowhere. We did some good things, helped a single small group, but it is clear to me now that to make this into a viable enterprise one would need huge money, much public support – which is hard to come by in Italy – and a nucleus of trained staff, even harder to find. You want to use your heart and your head and your muscles? Go out to the emerging countries – Africa, South America …Europe is too fat and too prosperous. You will stifle here – or turn into a Vatican mouse, which would be a pity.’

  ‘I’ll think about it, Eminence. Meantime, may I ask some advice?’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘An opinion I have: that small justice is being done to the memory of his late Holiness. Everything that is being published emphasises the reactionary period of his reign. Nobody mentions that he was on the verge of making great and historic changes, as you must have known.’

  ‘I knew it, yes.’ Drexel was giving nothing away.

  ‘I should like to write a tribute to his memory, a portrait of the new man he had become. I should like’ – he approached the subject very gingerly – ‘to publish and, indeed, interpret some of his last papers, including his address to the Consistory.’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ said Drexel with tart humour, ‘you do not have title to them.’

  ‘I believe I do.’ Hopgood was quite firm. ‘Look!’

  He fished in his briefcase and brought out two volumes bound in leather. The first and larger one consisted of handwritten notes and typescripts scrawled with corrections. The second was the text of the Pontiff’s address to the Consistory. Both carried the same inscription:

  To

  my beloved Son in Christ

  Gerard Hopgood

  who lent me these words

  to interpret my hopes and my plans.

  Leo XIV, Pont. Max.

  ‘As I understand it,’ said Hopgood cheerfully, ‘copyright inheres in the author of the words and in the form of the words. And, lest it should be claimed that I wrote them as an employee or donated them as a gift, His Holiness was very careful to use the word lent.’

  Drexel thought for a moment, then laughed with genuine enjoyment.

  ‘I do like a thorough man. Very well! Here is my advice. Get your appointment settled. If you’re prepared to go to Brazil, I can recommend you to my friend Kaltenborn, who is Cardinal Archbishop of Rio. Then when you’re far from Rome and your bishop is pleased with your work, publish your piece – and give the money to your mission, so no one can accuse you of base motives.’

  ‘Thank you, Eminence. I shall do as you say, and I should be most grateful for a recommendation to Cardinal Kaltenborn.’

  ‘Good. I’ll write it before you leave. Strange how God arranges things! His Holiness gained a son. I lost a granddaughter. I’m running out of time. He had years of useful work ahead of him. I’m still here. He’s dead.’

  ‘I keep asking myself’ – Hopgood’s tone was sombre – ‘how much the Church has lost by his death.’

  ‘It has lost nothing!’ Drexel’s voice rang, loud and startling, through the vaulted chamber. ‘On Vatican Hill, pontiffs have come and gone through the centuries, saints and sinners, wise men and fools, ruffians, rogues, reformers, and even an occasional madman! When they are gone, they are added to the list which began with Peter the Fisherman. The good are venerated; the bad are ignored. But the Church goes on, not because of them, but because the Holy Spirit still breathes over the dark waters of human existence as it did on the first days of Creation. That is what sustains us, that is what holds us together in faith and love and hope. Remember St Paul! “No man can say Jesus is Lord unless the Spirit moves him.”’ He broke off as if suddenly embarrassed by his own vehemence. ‘Come now, you must try a glass of my own wine. I call it Fontamore. You’ll stay to supper, I hope? Good friends of mine are coming in on the evening flight from Ireland. They tell me they have a pleasant surprise for me.’