by Morris West
IV
Domenico Giuliano Francone, chauffeur and man of confidence to His Eminence, was, in looks and character, an original. He was six feet tall, with an athlete’s body, a grinning goat’s face and a mop of reddish hair kept sedulously dyed. He claimed to be forty-two years old, but was probably on the wrong side of fifty. He spoke a German he had learned from the Swiss Guards, an atrocious Genovese French, English with an American accent and Italian with a Sorrentine singsong lilt.
His personal history was a litany of variables. He had been an amateur wrestler, a champion cyclist, a sergeant in the Carabinieri, a mechanic of the Alfa racing team, a notable boozer and wencher until, after the untimely death of his wife, he had found religion and taken a job as sexton in the titular church of His Eminence.
His Eminence, impressed by Francone’s industry and devotion—and possibly by his raffish good humour—had promoted him into his personal household. Because of his police training, his skill as a driver, his knowledge of weapons and his experience in hand-to-hand combat, he had assumed, almost by natural right, the duties of bodyguard. In these rough and godless times, even a prince of the Church was not safe from the sacrilegious threats of the terrorists. While a religious man dared not show himself afraid, the Italian government made no secret of its fears and demanded commonsense precautions.
All this and more Domenico Francone elaborated eloquently, as he drove the Mendelius’ and the Franks on a Saturday afternoon excursion to the Etruscan tombs of Tarquinia. His authority established, he then laid down the rules:
“… I am responsible to His Eminence for your safety. So you will please do as I say, and do it without question. If I tell you to duck, you get your heads down fast! If I drive madly, you hang on tight and don’t ask why. In a restaurant you let me pick the table. If you, Professor, go on foot in Rome, you wait until I have parked the car and am ready to follow you.… That way you keep your mind on your own affairs and let me do the worrying. I know the way these mascalzoni work.…”
“We have every confidence in you,” said Mendelius amiably, “but is there anyone following us now?”
“No, Professor.”
“Then perhaps you’d take it a little more slowly. The ladies would like to look at the countryside.”
“Of course! My apologies!… This is a very historic zone, many Etruscan tombs. There is, as you know, a ban on excavation without permission, but still there is looting of hidden sites. When I was in the Carabinieri…”
The torrent of his eloquence poured over them again. They shrugged and smiled at each other, and drowsed the rest of the way to Tarquinia. It was a relief to leave him standing sentinel by the car while they followed a soft-voiced custodian through the wheatfields, to visit the people of the painted tombs.
It was a tranquil place, filled with lark song and the low whisper of the wind through the ripening wheat. The prospect was magical: the fall of the green land to the brown villages, with the blue sea beyond, and the scattered yachts, spinnakers filled with the land breeze, heading westward to Sardinia. Lotte was entranced, and Mendelius tried to re-create for her the life of a long-vanished people.
“… They were great traders, great seafarers. They gave their name, the Tyrrhenian, to this part of the Mediterranean. They mined copper and iron and smelted bronze. They farmed the rich lands from here to the Po valley and as far south as Capua. They loved music and dancing and made great feasts; and when they died, they were buried with food and wine and their best clothes, and pictures of their life painted on the walls of their tombs.…”
“And now they’re all gone,” said Lotte quietly. “What happened to them?”
“They got rich and lazy. They hid behind their rituals and trusted to gods who were already out of fashion. Their slaves and commoners revolted. The rich fled with their wealth to buy the protection of the Romans. The Greeks and the Phoenicians took over their trade routes. Even their language died out.” He quoted softly the epitaph: “‘O ancient Veii! Once you were a kingdom and there was a golden throne in your forum. Now the idle shepherd plays his pipes within your walls; and, above your tombs, they reap the harvest of the fields… !’”
“That’s pretty. Who wrote it?”
“A Latin poet, Propertius.”
“I wonder what they’ll write about our civilization?”
“There may not be anyone left to write a line…” said Mendelius moodily, “and there certainly won’t be pastorals painted on the side of our sepulchers. At least these people expected continuity. We look forward to a holocaust.… It took a Christian to write the ‘Dies Irae.’”
“I refuse to think any more gloomy thoughts,” said Lotte firmly. “It’s beautiful here. I want to enjoy my day.”
“My apologies.” Mendelius smiled and kissed her. “Get ready to hide your blushes. The Etruscans enjoyed sex, too, and they painted some very pretty reminders of it.”
“Good!” said Lotte. “Show me the naughty ones first. And make sure it’s my hand you’re holding, not Hilde’s!”
“For a virtuous woman, liebchen, you have a very dirty mind!”
“Be glad of it, my love.” Lotte giggled happily. “But for God’s sake don’t tell the children!”
She took his hand and trotted him up the slope towards the beckoning custodian. He was a young fellow with agreeable manners, a recent laureate in archaeology and full of enthusiasm for his subject. Awed by the presence of two distinguished scholars, he devoted his attention to the women, while Mendelius and Herman Frank chatted quietly in the background. Herman was in the mood for confidences.
“I’ve talked things out with Hilde. We’ve decided to take your advice. We’ll shift ourselves out to the farm—gradually of course—and I’ll work out a program of writing. If I could get a contract for a series of volumes, it would give me a continuity of work and some sense of financial security.”
“That’s what my agent recommends.” Mendelius encouraged him. “He says publishers like that sort of project because it gives them time to build a readership. When we get back to Rome, I’ll call him and see what progress he’s made. He always spends weekends at home.”
“There’s only one thing that worries me, Carl…”
“What’s that?”
“Well, it’s slightly embarrassing…”
“Come on! We’re old friends. What’s the problem?”
“It’s Hilde. I’m a lot older than she is. I’m not as good in bed as I used to be. She says it doesn’t worry her and I believe it—probably because I want to, anyway. We do have a good life in Rome: lots of friends, many interesting visitors. It… well, it seems to balance things out. Once we leave, I’ll have my work; but she’ll be stuck in a cottage in the hills like a farmer’s wife. I’m not sure how that will work out. It would be easier if we had children or grandchildren; but as things are… it would kill me to lose her, Carl!”
“What makes you think you will?”
“That!” He pointed ahead to the two women and the custodian, who was just unlocking the next sepulcher. Hilde was joking with him and her high bubbling laugh echoed across the quiet hills. “I’m an old fool, I know; but I get jealous—and scared!”
“Swallow it, man!” Mendelius was curt with him. “Swallow it and keep your mouth shut. You have a good life together. Hilde loves you. Enjoy it, day by day! Nobody gets eternal reassurance. Nobody has a right to it! Besides, the more scared you get, the worse you’ll be in bed. Any physician will tell you that.”
“I know, Carl. But it’s rough sometimes to…”
“It’s always rough.” Mendelius refused to bend to him. “It’s rough when your wife seems to pay more attention to the children than she does to you. It’s rough when the kids fight you for the right to grow up in a different way from yours. It’s rough when a man like Malagordo walks out to lunch and a pretty girl puts a bullet in his balls! Come on, Herman! How much sugar do you need in a cup of coffee?”
“I’m sorry.”
As they stood inside the ancient chamber, listening to the custodian expound the meaning of the fresco, Mendelius pondered another random thought. Jean Marie Barette, lately a Pope, was driven to proclaim the Parousia; but did people really want to know about it? Did they really want to listen to the gaunt prophet shouting from the mountaintop? Human nature had not changed much since 500 B.C., when the old Etruscans buried their dead to the sound of lutes and pipes, and locked them in a perpetual present, with food and wine and a tame leopard for company, under the painted cypresses.
That night Mendelius and Lotte dined out in a trattoria on the old Appian Way. The garrulous Francone drove them there, and when they protested his long hours he silenced them with the now familiar phrase: “I am responsible to His Eminence.” He ordered them to sit with their backs to the wall, then retired to eat in the kitchen, whence he could survey the yard and make sure no one planted a bomb under the Cardinal’s limousine.
Their host for the evening was Enrico Salamone, who published Mendelius’ works in Italy; a middle-aged bachelor with a taste for exotic and preferably intelligent women. His escort for this time was one Mme. Barakat, the divorced wife of an Indonesian diplomat. Salamone was a shrewd and successful editor who admired scholarship but never disdained a topical and sensational subject.
“… Abdiction, Mendelius! Think about it. A vigorous and intelligent Pope, still only in his mid-sixties, quits in the seventh year of his reign. There has to be a big story behind it.”
“There probably is.” Mendelius was elaborately casual. “But your author would break his back finding it. The best journalists in the world got only stale crumbs.”
“I was thinking of you, Carl.”
“Forget it, Enrico!” Mendelius laughed. “I’ve got too much on my plate already.”
“I tried to tell him,” said Mme. Barakat. “He should be looking outward. The West is a small and incestuous world. Publishers should be opening new windows—to Islam, to the Buddhists, to India. All the new revolutions are religious in character.”
Salamone nodded a reluctant agreement. “I see it. I know it. But where are the writers who can interpret the East to us? Journalism is not enough; propaganda is a whore’s trade. We need poets and storytellers steeped in the old traditions.”
“It seems to me,” said Lotte ruefully, “everyone shouts too loud and too often. You can’t tell stories in a mob. You can’t write poetry with the television blaring.”
“Bravo, liebchen!” Mendelius squeezed her hand.
“It’s true!” She was launched now and ready to engage in combat. “I don’t have many brains, but I know Carl’s always done his best work in a quiet, provincial situation. Haven’t you always told me, Carl, too many people argue their own books out of existence? You, too, Enrico! You said once you’d like to lock your authors up until they were ready to walk out with a finished manuscript.”
“I said it, Lotte. I believe it.” He gave her a swift sidelong grin. “But even your husband here isn’t the hermit he pretends to be.… What are you really doing in Rome, Carl?”
“I told yon: research, a couple of lectures, and having a holiday with Lotte.”
“There’s a rumor,” said Mme. Barakat sweetly, “that you were given some kind of mission by the former Pope.”
“Hence my suggestion for a book,” said Enrico Salamone.
“Where the hell did you pick up that nonsense?” Mendelius was nettled.
“It’s a long story.” Salamone was amused but wary. “But I assure you it is authentic. You know I’m a Jew. It’s natural that I entertain the Israeli ambassador and any visitors he wants to present in Rome. It’s also natural that we talk about matters of mutual concern. So now!… The Vatican has always refused diplomatic recognition to the State of Israel. The refusal is pure politics. They don’t want to quarrel with the Arab world. They would like, if they could, to assert some kind of sovereignty over the Holy Places in Jerusalem. Echoes of the Crusades! There was hope that this position might change under Gregory the Seventeenth. His personal response to diplomatic relations with Israel was believed to be favourable. So, early this spring, a private meeting was arranged between the Israeli ambassador and the Pontiff. The Pope was frank about his problems, inside his own Secretariat of State and outside, with Arab leaders. He wanted to continue exploring the situation. He asked my ambassador whether a personal and unofficial envoy would be welcome in Israel. Their answer was naturally in the affirmative. Yours was one of the names suggested by the Pontiff.…”
“Good God!” Mendelius was genuinely shocked. “You have to believe me, Enrico. I knew absolutely nothing about it.”
“That’s true!” Lotte was instant in support. “I would have known. This thing was never, never mentioned—not even in his last…”
“Lotte, please!”
“I’m sorry, Carl.”
“So there was no mission.” Mme. Barakat was soothing as honey. “But there was communication?”
“Private, madame,” said Mendelius curtly. “A matter of old friendship… And I’d like to change the subject.”
Salamone shrugged and spread his hands in surrender. “Fine! But you mustn’t blame me for trying. That’s what makes me a good publisher. Now tell me, how’s the new book coming?”
“Slowly.”
“When can we expect the manuscript?”
“Six, seven months.”
“Let’s hope we’re still in business by then!”
“Why shouldn’t you be?”
“If you read the papers, my dear Professor, you’ll know the great powers are talking us all into a war.”
“They need another twelve months,” said Mme. Barakat. “I keep telling you, Enrico. Nothing before twelve months. After that…”
“Nothing ever again,” said Salamone. “Pour me the rest of the wine, Carl! I think we could use another bottle!”
The bloom was already off the evening; but they had to sit it out to the end. As they drove home through the sleeping city, they sat close and talked softly, for fear of rousing Francone to another oration.
Lotte asked, “What was the meaning of all that, Carl?”
“I don’t know, liebchen. Salamone was trying to be smart.”
“And Madame Barakat is a bitch!”
“He does collect some odd ones, doesn’t he?”
“Old friends and new bedmates don’t mix.”
“I agree. Enrico should have known better.”
“Do you think it was true about Jean Marie and the Israelis?”
“Probably. But who knows? Rome’s always been a whispering gallery. The hard thing is to put the right names to the voices.”
“I hate that kind of mystery-making.”
“I, too, liebchen.”
He was too tired to tell her how he truly felt: a man caught in toils of gossamer, the trailing wisps of a nightmare from which he could neither flee nor wake.
“What are we doing tomorrow?” asked Lotte drowsily.
“If you don’t mind I thought we’d go to mass in the Catacombs; then we’ll go out to Frascati for lunch. Just the two of us.”
“Couldn’t we hire a car and drive ourselves?”
Mendelius gave a rueful chuckle and shook his head. “I’m afraid not, liebchen. That’s another lesson you learn in Rome. There’s no escape from the Hounds of God.”
Garrulous he might be, but Domenico Francone was a very good watchdog. He drove twice around the block before dropping them at the Franks’ apartment, then stood watch until the ancient door closed behind them, sealing out the dangers of the night.
In the garden of San Callisto the bougainvillaea was in flame, the rose gardens in first flush and the doves still fluttered in their cote behind the chapel, all just as he remember
ed it from his first visit, long years before. Even the guides still looked the same: old devotees from a dozen countries, who dedicated their services as translators to the pilgrim groups who came to pay homage at the tombs of ancient martyrs.
There were no ghosts in the tiny chapel, only an extraordinary tranquillity. There were no baroque horrors, no mediaeval grotesques. Even the symbols were simple and full of grace: the anchor of faith, the dove carrying the olive twig of deliverance, the fish that bore the loaves of the Eucharist on its back. The inscriptions all spoke of hope and peace: Vivas in Christo. In pace Christi. The word Vale—farewell—was never used. Even the dim labyrinths below held no terrors. The loculi, the wall niches where the dead were laid, held only shards and dusty fragments.
In the Chapel of the Popes, they attended a Mass said by a German priest for a group of Bavarian pilgrims. The chapel was a large, vaulted chamber, where, in 1854, Count de Rossi had discovered the resting place of five of the earliest Pontiffs. One had been deported as a mine slave to Sardinia and died in captivity. His body was brought back and buried in this place. Another had been executed in the persecution of Decius, yet another was put to the sword at the entrance to the burial place. Now, the violence in which they had perished was almost forgotten. They slept here in peace. Their memory was celebrated in a tongue they never knew.
As he knelt with Lotte on the tufa floor, responding to the familiar liturgy, Mendelius remembered his own priesthood and felt a pang of resentment that he should now be debarred from its exercise. It had not been so in the early Church. Even now, the Uniats were permitted a married clergy; while the Romans clung obstinately to their celibate rule, and reinforced it with myth and historic legend and canonical legislation. He had written copious argument about it, still fought it in debate; but, married himself, he was a discredited witness, and the lawmakers paid no need to him.
But what of the future—the near future—when the supply of celibate candidates would dry up, and the flock would cry out for ministry—by man or woman, married or single, it made no matter, just so they heard the Word and shared the Bread of Life in charity? Their Eminences at the Vatican still ducked the issue, hiding behind a carefully edited tradition. Even Drexel ducked it, because he was too old to fight and too well-drilled a soldier to challenge the high command. Jean Marie had faced the question in his encyclical and this was yet another reason for suppressing it. Now the dark days were coming again. The shepherd would be struck down, the flock scattered. Who would bring them together again and hold them in love, while the rooftops of the world toppled about them?