Father Elijah

by Michael D. O'Brien

  “Are you saying that I should respond to his invitations?”

  “Only in a sense. Answer his invitations as far as is morally possible. You will discern the limits.”

  “I cannot pretend to be another Cardinal Vettore.”

  “But you are capable of a few mental reservations, in the interests of a higher charity.”

  “I can’t lie.”

  “I have not asked you to lie.”

  “What are you asking?”

  “To go into his camp as David went into Saul’s camp, when Saul sought to take his life. You will be surrounded by enemies; you may even meet those who are responsible for William’s death. We ask you to be a word of truth in the sea of falsehood with which the President surrounds himself. But you must be as clever as a serpent and as gentle as a dove, as the Lord cautions us to be. You must choose the moment wisely. Until then, you will learn much and you will increase your importance to the President, in preparation for the time when he must hear the words of Christ from your lips.”

  “Can this not be accomplished by a letter? Or by a meeting with the Pope himself?”

  “A letter is print on a page. The world is awash in printed words on pages. As for the Holy Father, as I told you before, the President would merely use a face-to-face encounter for propaganda purposes. He wouldn’t listen. Your task is to penetrate his defenses, to go deep into the levels of human intercommunion—those mysterious regions of the soul where one man listens to another.”

  “Is he capable of such receptivity?”

  “We don’t know. There is a possibility that he is not yet entirely captive, and thus we must try to reach him.”

  “It is spiritually dangerous.”

  “Yes. Very dangerous. But we know of none other whom we could send. You are free to refuse. Neither the Pope nor I would blame you for it.”

  “What would our friend Severa say to me?”

  The cardinal looked wistfully at the tomb and touched the slab with his forefinger. He traced the word—P A L V M B A—dove.

  “This child faced the lion and overcame it”, said the cardinal.

  “Can I do less?”

  “Only you can answer that question.”

  Elijah looked at the cross, anchor, and dove etched into the marble.

  “I will do it.”

  “Thank you”, said the cardinal. “In the name of Christ, I thank you.”

  * * *

  Despite everything, an air of unreality clung to the card sitting in the palm of his hand.

  It was a printed invitation to a private banquet to be held at the Palazzo Giancarlo Galéone, on the Piazza Navona.

  A celebration for the successful conclusion of the meeting of The Club of Rome.

  It was signed by the President.

  On the evening of the banquet, Elijah removed his Carmelite habit, stroking the cloth, wondering how many times he would wear it again, if ever. He stored it in the wardrobe of his cell. The Cardinal Secretary of State had told him he must begin to cultivate a new image if he was to move farther into mission territory.

  “A new image? But they know what I am!”

  “They know you are a priest, and that on one occasion you have acted as an envoy from the Vatican. They will assume you were chosen because of your interest in archeology, an avocation you share with the President. They know also that you were impressed by him. Regarding your motivation, it is probable that they consider you a monastic who has come in from the desert, hankering for the stimulations of a more cultured, urban life, even for more involvement in the world—hence the transfer to Rome. They understand that you teach a course of philosophy and another on pre-theology. They will presume that you are like so many others, an academic infected with just the right amount of subtle ambition and a mild disaffection with orthodoxy—without falling outright into heresy. A heretic, you see, is merely a stupid tool in their hands, and they know it. You are a better catch—in fact a prize.”

  “But they also realize that I know about the connection between Cardinal Vettore and the President.”

  “Whoever stole the cassette knows about it. But the Vettore connection may have nothing to do with what William learned in Helsinki. Do you read the newspapers, Father?”

  “Seldom. Why?”

  “A well-known Italian diplomat hanged himself in Helsinki on the day of William’s accident.”

  “I see.”

  “I wish we did see”, the cardinal sighed. “Daily it grows more obscure. These people may have nothing to do with the President and his circle. There are many demons in Rome. We should be careful about jumping to conclusions.”

  “We should consider the worst, at least as a possibility.”

  “Of course. But there could be a dozen scenarios, with hundreds of characters, some of them spilling over from one cesspool into another.”

  “Your Eminence, if someone in the President’s party is responsible for Billy’s death, and if they know that I know about the connection, why wouldn’t they eliminate me as well?”

  “I don’t know. If this scenario is the true one, then we are presented with new puzzles. They could easily have arranged an accident for you, with fewer repercussions than the death of a curial monsignor.”

  “I am still alive, which means that as far as they know Billy was unable to tell anyone what he knew.”

  “Yes, they must believe that you know nothing about their long-range plans. The ICU was closely guarded, and the hospital staff would ensure that, for medical reasons, Billy communicated with no one.”

  “But why the invitation?”

  “They are probably counting on the power of the President to woo you to his side. They have assessed you as a valuable player on the field, and they want you badly, for some reason which presently eludes us.”

  “It makes no sense. There are hundreds of teachers of theology, many of them more influential than I am.”

  “How many of them have connections to Israel and to Eastern Europe and to a number of figures in the West?”

  “If that is their motive, they are mistaken. They overestimate my tactical value. Almost all of my contacts fell away when I became a Catholic, a quarter-century ago.”

  “True, but many contacts could be reactivated. You were greatly admired in your time. If you were now to renounce Catholicism, let us say, or alternatively, to advocate a marriage of Judeo-Christianity and New Age spirituality, you would be welcomed as the Prodigal Son who had seen the light. Ah, what a celebrity they would make of you!”

  “Anyone who knows my views would realize how ridiculous that proposal is!”

  “Without a doubt, but how many people in the world know the views of a certain obscure monk from the desert near Haifa?”

  “By the same token, how many people would be interested in the opinions of a man who was famous for a few days during the 1960s? I am old. My time is past.”

  “Is it? Listen, Father Elijah, they are trying to win to their cause every possible player in the arts, politics, and religion. They are attempting an entire reconfiguration of world culture. Much of their work is already accomplished. Of course you are important to them! Not only your past is significant. Do you not also maintain correspondence with the chief rabbi of France—a personal friend of yours? Also with a former attorney general of the United States? And the new Catholic archbishop of Saint Petersburg—is he not one of your spiritual directees?”

  “Yes.”

  “You see, a most useful man. You must play along with them.”

  “I would find it morally inexcusable to deceive anyone, even an enemy of this magnitude.”

  “As I said before, I’m not asking you to lie, nor even to create the illusion of a lie. I want you to be what you are—a man of God responding to an invitation to enter their camp. It’s entirely within their province to think what they like. You must be like Paul in Athens. Do you remember the passage where he faces the sophists and turns the pagan altar to the Unknown God into a witness to
the one true God?”

  “I remember.”

  “Be like Paul, Father. Go into the territory that has been captured by the enemy, use what you can, and retrieve what you can. God turns everything to the good for those who love Him. You may even discover poor souls in chains who need to be rescued. Is that not reason enough for such a mission?”

  Elijah smiled. “Your Eminence, it is now very clear to me why the Holy Father chose you to be his chief diplomatist.”

  The cardinal chuckled. “Enough! You overestimate my tactical value!”

  The banquet began at eight. Elijah glanced at his wristwatch and dressed with discomfort in the dark blue suit, white shirt, and stylish Italian tie—a swirl of hand-painted fuschia and gold. He forced his feet into expensive burgundy oxfords. He combed his hair. He glanced at himself in the mirror and looked quickly away.

  A silver-haired gentleman had appeared in the glass. A stranger who might have been a distinguished college professor, a bank manager, a wealthy entrepreneur. Only the eyes betrayed the costume. They were sad and dark, burdened with memories or with perceptions that saw too far into the past and the future.

  He looked at himself and tried to appear less dismal. He screwed his eyes into an approximation of cheer. The effect was ghastly. No one would be convinced.

  He tentatively applied a few drops of an expensive cologne the cardinal had passed on to him, plundered from Billy’s effects.

  “Poor William”, said the cardinal. “His mamma sent him this bottle of scent. It smells like a grandmother’s hanky!”

  Poor William.

  His glorious martyrdom had taken a form that he would never have chosen. To be smothered by luxuries and then to die in a hospital bed, without a sword at hand.

  Shortly before seven he went out and caught a city bus to the Piazza Navona. The bus was packed with weary laborers, university students haggling over politics, old women with shopping bags rearranging loads of bread and fruit, children sleeping on young mothers’ bulging bellies, old men cackling and gossiping, and sullen teenagers plugged into headphones. Every voice fell silent when he entered, and every eye followed his passage to the last vacant seat.

  “A prince visits the lower classes!” someone muttered. The passengers erupted in hard laughter, smirking and sneering.

  “Hey, you, Illustrissimo Signore, where you going? Off to find a girlfriend in the slums?”

  More laughter. Elijah gazed out the window.

  An old woman sitting across from him watched the fun without blinking. She stared at him with a piercing look that was far more ferocious than his mockers. She shifted a string shopping bag off her ample lap, swung around, and snapped at them, “Basta! Shut up, you stupids. Can’t you see this is a good man?”

  No more comments were made, and the passengers resumed their ordinary babble.

  She leaned over and patted his arm. “Don’t pay attention to them, Signore. They’re just young and crazy.”

  He thanked her. She shrugged. Without losing her ferocity, she reached down to the garish, costume-jewelry crucifix that hung around her neck and kissed it five times.

  When the bus deposited him at his destination, he did not go directly to the palazzo, but lingered by the Fountain of Neptune. He studied the sheen of copper sunset reflected in it. The old pagan sea god was in flames. The windows of the upper story of the palazzo were burning with the last reflected light of the fleeing sun. The ancient pagan world was returning with the night, and what remained of Christendom was under siege.

  He struggled to overcome a feeling of revulsion against the evening’s proceedings. He desired more than anything to walk away from the web of illusions that lay before him, to return to his monastery, and to spend the remainder of his life in the more fruitful occupation of prayer. He would ask the Lord to send a better foot soldier than himself into the field. He prayed for that now, but the answer was not the one he desired.

  The Palazzo Giancarlo Galéone was not the most opulent mansion on the plaza, but it was the most distinguished. During its four centuries of existence, it had been the home of counts and concubines, doges, cardinals, and corporate magnates. It was now owned by Globaltek, the international corporation that produced computer imaging technology, the primary shareholder of which was the current President of the Europarliament. It was decorated in the style of the late Italian Baroque period, replete with thick rose-colored carpets, mint green walls, and paintings by Caravaggio and Guido Reni.

  A footman bowed to him at the entrance, asked his name, and bowed again. He conducted him into a marble-tiled grand entrance hall, and then through a set of gilded doors into a ballroom that struck Elijah as being both spacious and intimate. There were approximately twenty people there, gathered around an orchestra that was playing a medley of romantic pieces for strings, derived mostly from operas of the previous century. People left and entered the room at random, some obviously preferring conversation in quieter spots of the palazzo.

  The footman introduced Elijah to the official welcomer of guests who turned out to be—Roberto!

  “Signore Schäfer, a great delight! The President asked me to convey his greetings to you, and to tell you of his pleasure that you are able to attend tonight’s festivities.”

  “Thank you so much. I look forward to seeing him again.”

  Roberto raised his eyes to the ceiling in a gesture of affectionate disgust. “My employer is presently ensconced upstairs with the delegates from the World Bank. Poor man, he is never finished with these meetings! But I have strict orders to interrupt them shortly before dinner.”

  “So we will see him at dinner.”

  “Yes. He expresses a hope that there will be time during this evening’s festivities to speak with you.”

  “Yes, I hope for that also.”

  “Please, allow me to obtain for you a glass of something to warm the spirits. Yes? Red? White? No? Champagne? Oh, but I am embarrassed, I should say positively mortified, to admit that our wine provisioner has been remiss. He has given us a champagne that is inferior to the beaujolais. Please, may I press this dry red upon you? You will not be sorry.”

  “You are always so gracious, Roberto. Monsignor Stangsby and I were so grateful for your kindness when we were detained on the night of the storm.”

  “Yes”, said Roberto, his face falling. “I have heard about the demise of poor Signore Stangsby. My sympathies for the loss of your friend. Such a funny man.”

  “He was.”

  “Now, you will excuse me, please, for I must greet a few latecomers, and after that I must go to ensure that il boss is not detained by the tortures of world economics. So boring!”

  He deposited a theatrical grimace and went away. Elijah wandered into a large banqueting hall, its walls hung with Renaissance tapestries, its floor shining parquet, and its long, damask-covered dining table set for forty guests. The tableware was silver. Candles were lit, crystal sparkled, bunches of roses sent their fragrance throughout the room. Footmen bustled around making last-minute arrangements.

  He wandered back to the hall and crossed over to a small library where eight people were standing, scattered about the room, some sipping from their drinks, and others warming their hands by a blazing log fire in the hearth.

  The vivacious mood of the guests did not release Elijah from a tension caused, in part, by the realization that most of the faces he saw were identifiable only because they appeared regularly on the front pages of international journals. He noted three heads of state, the publisher of the largest daily newspaper in France, the American ambassador to Italy, a world-class Israeli violinist, and a much-published English economist. There was continuous traffic in and out of the room. No one made an attempt to welcome him into the circle of discussion, nor did they exclude him. Elijah did not recognize the eighth person present, a woman in her late forties. She was talking to the violinist, who was attempting to convince her of some point by using his face and hands with considerable animation.


  When the violinist caught his eye, he stopped in mid-sentence, and beckoned to Elijah.

  “Hello there. Why don’t you join us! Shalom! You’re Schäfer the archeologist, aren’t you?”

  “I am.”

  “A fellow Israeli”, he explained to the woman.

  “How do you do”, she said in a quiet voice.

  “Look, Schäfer, we need an intervention here. You’ve got to rescue me from this woman. She’s getting the better of me on a very difficult topic. It’s completely unfair of her. After all, Anna, I am an artist, dominated by the right brain. You are a creature of the left brain! Did I say creature? Ha! I should say a monster of logic.”

  The woman smiled and turned to Elijah. She put out her right hand and said, “I am Anna Benedetti. You are. . .”

  “Elijah Schäfer.”

  “An archeologist, Uri informs us.”

  “Well, he’s a bit more than that!” the violinist said dryly. “Aren’t you, Father?” He took a long sip of his drink.

  “I am a Roman Catholic priest”, Elijah said evenly. The woman looked at him curiously, but there was no hint of the hostility he had come to expect when moving in the regions of the intelligentsia.

  “An interesting combination”, she said in a friendly tone.

  “Not an uncommon one.”

  The violinist, a high-strung man in his early thirties, wandered off into another room, waving at guests as he passed, shaking hands here, embracing there.

  “You mustn’t mind Uri. He is young and very famous. A genius, but a little boy inside. He likes to make himself look wicked.”

  “He didn’t seem wicked to me.”

  “He’s not. He plays at being a cosmopolitan who says witty and devastating things to innocent victims of distressing social situations.”

  “Such as myself?”

  “Yes. Do you mind so much being here?”

  He looked at her thoughtfully. A kind person, with honest eyes and intelligence. She was probably the wife of one of the dignitaries. But there was no wedding ring on her hand, he noted, and he wondered if she was involved in some kind of modern arrangement.