Koesler lifted himself partially out of his seat. He could see into the first class compartment. Archbishop Boyle was standing, putting on his suit coat. Boyle, his close relatives and some of the more important diocesan personages had enjoyed the precious extra space provided in first class. Koesler envied them their unrumpled clothing and limber limbs.
Everyone passed through the passport check and customs uneventfully.
“By the way, Father, speaking of the ‘dangerous’ drive ahead, would you care to accompany Wanda and me? We are going to take a taxi to the hotel.”
Koesler gave the invitation a few moments’ thought. “Thanks just the same, Inspector, but I’d better take the chartered bus. I told Father Brandon I’d ride into Rome with him and I think he’s already aboard. I’ll see you later at the hotel.”
Brandon, head of the Archdiocesan Department of Education, was, indeed, on the bus. His short fuse was already burning. His furrowed brow resembled lowering clouds.
“Hey, why so glum?” Koesler lowered himself into the seat next to Brandon. “Look at all this sunshine! It’s just a beautiful spring day in sunny Italy.”
Brandon did not reply. He merely and significantly tapped his watch, making sure Koesler could see the dial. It read 3:25. Apparently, Brandon figured it should be self-evident that 3:25 in the morning was no time for banter, no matter how brightly the sun was shining.
Actually, Koesler felt no better about his compressed night than Brandon. Neither had slept well or long. Both wanted nothing more than to reach their hotel and relieve their jet lag with at least a nap.
After the luggage had been stowed aboard, the driver swung into his seat and the bus chugged off reluctantly. The driver said nothing, so it remained unclear whether he spoke English.
Koesler felt Brandon’s body began to slump in the next seat. He glanced over. Brandon’s chin neared his chest. He was falling asleep.
The bus came to a fork in the road. One signboard, pointing left, read Roma. The other, pointing right, read Castel Gondolfo. The bus turned right.
Koesler nudged Brandon.
“Huh?” Brandon mumbled, head slowly coming erect.
“Hey, Stew, this is interesting. We just turned down the road to Castel Gondolfo, the Pope’s summer residence. Isn’t that interesting?”
“Mmmmpf . . .”
Brandon had returned to sleep. Koesler, interest aroused, rubbernecked from his bus seat.
There it was: The entrance to Castel Gondolfo loomed just ahead.
“Hey, Stew, we’re here. It’s Castel Gondolfo!”
“Huh?” Brandon shook his head and peered through the window. If it was important enough to be awakened twice, he might just as well look at it.
“Hey, look at all those armed guards!” Koesler reached across Brandon, pointing.
“Security.”
“Security?”
“Yeah,” Brandon explained. “You know, it was after those attempts on the Pope’s life last year. They beefed up security. You must have heard about it.”
“Well, of course I did. But I had no idea the security was so intense. He must be in residence now. That’s a small army outside the gate. And armed to the teeth! Nobody could get through that.”
“That’s the idea.” Brandon slumped again and tugged the brim of his hat down, trying to shut out the sun.
Because he was napping, Brandon missed the next questionable turn. The bus circled Lake Albano and began transversing the paved layers of roadbed slowly ascending Monte Cavo on the opposite shore from Castel Gondolfo.
Koesler watched mesmerized as the bus drove back and forth, even higher up the mountain. He was convinced he was viewing Castel Gondolfo from every possible vantage. He was also convinced that he was seeing more of the palace than he cared to see. Especially since with each passing moment he longed more and more for a toothbrush, a shower, and a bed.
The bus finally left the mountain and the Castel and drove off. Despite his exhaustion, Koesler was enjoying the beautiful rural scenery and the tree-shaded roads.
Another fork in the road. Another signboard pointing left to Roma; another signboard pointing right to Marino. The bus turned right.
Koesler looked around the bus. No one else seemed to have noticed that while they were theoretically headed for Rome, they were consistently turning away from it. He decided, for the common good, that action was called for.
He rose and approached the driver. It was not an easy jaunt. The bus was swaying like a camel.
“Excuse me.” Koesler tapped the driver’s shoulder. The man gave no indication he was aware of Koesler’s presence. “Excuse me, but aren’t we going the wrong way? I mean, every time we see a road sign pointing toward Rome, we turn in the opposite direction. You see? Aren’t we going the wrong way?”
“No spika.”
“What?”
“No spika.”
“Oh.”
Feeling ineffectual, Koesler returned to his seat. He could not help thinking of the Koznickis’ offer of a taxi into Rome. They probably were comfortably asleep by now. He, too, could have been. But no, he had to accompany Father Brandon—who, like the Koznickis, was off in dreamland.
Up ahead was another fork. Koesler wondered if he dared hope for an end to this odyssey.
The sign pointing left read, Roma. The sign pointing right read, Grottaferrata. The bus turned right.
If he had not known better, Koesler would have sworn they were being shanghaied. Although recent news events made it not inconceivable that the Red Brigade—no, he shook his head; it couldn’t be. In any event, they might just as well be being shanghaied. They were captives on a bus in a foreign land traveling in the opposite direction from their destination, with a driver who could not—or would not—speak English.
The bus rolled slowly into a village so picturesque it almost seemed to be a picture postcard come to life.
They circled the town’s piazza, then slowly jolted to a stop near a curb. The driver turned off the engine, pulled on the emergency brake, opened the doors, stood, walked down the steps, halted outside the door, and lit a cigarette.
“What? What?” Father Brandon adjusted his hat and rubbed his eyes. “Where are we? Are we here?”
“In a manner of speaking, I guess you could say so,” Koesler replied.
“Where are we?” A sense of panic began intruding on Brandon’s consciousness. “This isn’t Rome!”
“No. If I had a free guess, I would say this is the lovely village of Grottaferrata. At least that’s what the latest road sign indicated.”
“Grottawhat? What’s the meaning of this? We’re supposed to be in Rome! What’s going on?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
Brandon rose and started for the front of the bus. “Well, I’ll find out pretty damn soon.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that.”
Brandon had to get in line to interview the driver, who, in response to all questions, passively repeated, “No spika.”
Brandon finally reached the head of the line. “What’s going on here? Why aren’t we in Rome?”
“No spika.”
“Get on this bus immediately and take us to Rome!”
“No spika.”
“Roma!” Brandon said, trying his hand at Italian.
“No spika.”
“It’s no use, Stew,” said Koesler. “For whatever reason, we are on a sightseeing expedition and I don’t think he’s going to take us to Rome till he’s good and ready.”
“I’ll get to the bottom of this! I’m going to call Monsignor Iming!”
“The Archbishop’s secretary? What can he do?”
“For one thing, he can speak Italian. I’ll get the bus driver on that phone and Joe can damn well tell him to get us the hell into Rome!”
Koesler decided to accompany Brandon. There wasn’t likely to be a better show in Grottaferrata.
It was, indeed, Koesler who located the public phones. The entire small storefront
was given over to public phones. There were nine separate booths along one wall, and one control panel behind a counter near the front of the building.
Behind the counter stood one of the most pleasant-appearing women Koesler had ever seen. Pasta had made her round, but pleasantly so. Her face was beautiful and her smile beatific. She was obviously pleased to see two priests in her establishment.
“I want to make a phone call.” Brandon mimed holding a phone and speaking into it. “I want to call Villa Stritch.”
“Si.” She smiled.
“Where do I make the call? Where?” He tried Latin: “Ubi?”
“Numerosette.” She smiled and pointed.
That seemed clear enough. Brandon walked to the seventh booth, stepped in, and disappeared.
A few moments later, his scowling face reappeared. He was holding the receiver to his ear. “There’s no dial tone,” he complained.
“Si.” She smiled.
“No dial tone! There’s no dial tone!” He pointed at the receiver.
She nodded. She comprehended. She clarified. “Non como a Novo York . . .” then she made a high-pitched, prolonged humming sound.
Even Brandon understood. Unlike New York, there was no dial tone. One simply dialed. On faith.
Brandon disappeared again. After some time he emerged. The call had not removed his scowl. He offered the operator a handful of American coins. She checked the amount of time he’d used, and removed several coins from his outstretched hand.
“Gratia.” She smiled.
“Prego,” Koesler tried.
She smiled even more broadly.
Koesler turned to Brandon. “What happened?”
“Nothing. Not a damn thing. No answer. Probably disconnected the phone and enjoying a nice long nap.”
“Or shower.”
They, as well as their fellow passengers, proceeded to mill about the streets of Grottaferrata for the better part of an hour. It was beginning to feel like home. Finally, their driver called out something that could have been “Andiamo!” and entered the bus, followed quickly by his passengers.
Now, Koesler happily concluded, they were on the right track and following the signs toward Rome. Finally they did indeed enter the Eternal City. They drove, haltingly due to heavy midday traffic, down the Corso Vittorio Emanuele. Just before they crossed the bridge over the Tiber, Koesler looked to his right and, down the wide Via della Conciliazione, he caught his first sight of St. Peter’s Basilica, the world’s largest church. Oddly, he wasn’t as impressed as he had expected to be.
It was nearly noon when they arrived at the Garibaldi. As a group, there were few things in life they had wanted more than to reach this hotel.
As they walked into the hotel, Koesler spotted the Koznickis seated in large upholstered chairs in the lobby, surrounded by their luggage.
He hurried to them. “What happened? Why aren’t you in your room?”
“The rooms were not ready for occupancy until after noon,” Koznicki wearily replied.
The dawn came up like thunder. Koesler clapped a hand to his head. “That explains it!”
“Explains what?”
“Our sightseeing tour of the countryside. We’ve been on the bus or in a small village since we left you.”
Koznicki smiled ruefully. “Perhaps you had the better of it after all. At least you saw some scenery. We have been confined to people-watching. And mostly Americans, at that.”
“And we recognized only one person in this lobby all morning,” added Wanda. “That was Cardinal Gattari.”
“The Secretary of State?” Koesler whistled. “You were involved in Very Important People-watching. I wonder what the next Pope was doing in the lobby of the Garibaldi?”
“I do not know,” said Koznicki, “but he surely is an imposing figure of a man.”
An announcement was made that the rooms were now ready. Everyone converged on the registration desk.
As he stood in line, Koesler could not help but overhear a conversation emanating from behind a nearby pillar.
“I don’t care what they do to me,” the voice was saying, “I’m never going to take on another contract like that. It’s too dangerous. For a while, I didn’t know: It could have been them or me. I mean, toward the end they were getting pretty ugly. I tell you, I’m through with it. Finito. Never again.”
The voice spoke in heavily accented English. Koesler peered around the pillar. The voice belonged to their bus driver.
2.
The technical process of making a Cardinal comprises three steps.
On April 28, Pope Leo XIV presided over a secret consistory involving all the Cardinals then present in Rome. During this consistory, the Pope read off the names of his candidates for the Cardinalate. At each name, each Cardinal raised his biretta and bowed his head, indicating his assent to the nominee. A gesture that is the closest thing there is to a rubber stamp.
On April 29, the candidates assembled at prearranged locations in Rome. The three American candidates gathered at a crowded Roman Chancery building. A monsignor from the Vatican Secretary of State’s office, accompanied by one of the laymen attached to the papal household, presented each candidate with the official biglietto—the letter informing him of his elevation. As Archbishop Boyle accepted his biglietto, he became His Eminence Mark Cardinal Boyle.
Tonight, April 30, the final ceremony in the process of becoming a Cardinal was scheduled. In one of the great halls adjoining the papal residence, the Pope would receive in audience all the new Cardinals. During the ceremony, he would place on each Cardinal’s head a scarlet biretta, the sign of their office, and he would reveal the name of the individual Roman parish each Cardinal would become titular bishop of.
For tonight’s ceremony, Father Koesler had been given a blue ticket. A quick study of others’ tickets revealed there were also gold and red tickets to this event. He was unable to determine the exact import of a blue ticket. Apparently, there was no way of knowing where one’s ticket would lead until one got there.
As Koesler began climbing the seemingly endless staircase, he realized Detroit reporters Joe Cox and Pat Lennon were only a step behind him. He dropped back to join them.
“Evening, Father.” Lennon greeted him brightly. “We haven’t seen much of you since we got to Rome.”
“Are you kidding?” said Cox. “The good Father wouldn’t be traveling in the same low-life circles we move in.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Koesler winced. Among many appellations applied to him, he most despised “the good Father.” Like most epithets, the user gave little thought to it. “By the way,” Koesler continued, “may I inquire as to the color of your tickets for this event?”
Cox searched his pockets.
“Blue,” said Lennon.
“Yeah,” Cox located his ticket, “blue.”
“Mine too,” said Koesler. “Would you happen to know what that entitles us to?”
“Haven’t a clue, Father,” Lennon replied. “We won’t know till we get there.”
Somehow, Koesler now felt more confident of a good seat. He knew he personally was relatively unimportant in the scheme of things. But he was sure reporters for major American newspapers would not receive short shrift.
Cox and Lennon were just ahead of Koesler as they reached the tuxedoed master of ceremonies at the top of the stairs. He waved them behind two sawhorses to the left. Koesler was thus surprised when, after displaying his blue ticket, he was directed behind the sawhorses on the right.
Koesler looked about, trying to comprehend what was going on.
He was in a huge vaulted chamber. The only furnishings were sets of sawhorses arranged to create an aisle down the middle of the room and across the back. Behind these sawhorses milled a growing throng. One thing was certain: This was a way station; whatever was going to happen was not going to happen in this anteroom.
Koesler was not alone in reaching this conclusion. After a brief conference, Cox and L
ennon agreed they had no chance of covering the ceremony from this room. But where was the room, and how could they get to it?
The desired direction was soon made evident. An ecclesial procession was filing through the door at the left rear of the room, proceeding along the rear wall, and heading through the door at the right rear.
Koesler angled as close as he could to the path of the procession. There were several rows of people in front of him. However, his height made it possible for him to see at least the upper half of the procession. The crossbearer was followed by acolytes, then bishops, then Cardinals, then the new Cardinals—among them Cardinal Boyle—and finally, the Pope.
Applause rang out along the length of the procession, swelling when segments of the crowd recognized a favorite son. For the Pope, the applause was near-deafening.
Koesler was surprised. And a little disappointed. He was surprised that up this close the Pope lost much of his mystique. He was merely a wizened little old man. Koesler was disappointed that the Pope was so surrounded by Swiss Guards that it was difficult to catch sight of him. It must be the increased security.
It was incredible. Where else would one be given a special ticket just to stand in an unfurnished hall and look at other ticket holders for two to three hours while the ceremony you had come to see was going on somewhere else?
The only extraordinary item in the hall worth studying was the tall, imposing Swiss Guard securing the entrance to what was presumably the ceremonial room. Interesting history. Their uniform was said to have been designed by no less than Michelangelo, who was said to have modified it from a 1496 battle uniform. And, if memory served, during the sack of Rome in the sixteenth century, all but twelve of the Swiss Guard had died defending the Vatican Palace. One wondered what had been wrong with those twelve.
The present stance of this particular guardsman seemed to be what passed for “at ease.” Koesler recalled the ritual which demanded that each guardsman snap to attention each time a bishop or similar high ecclesiastic passed before him. What would happen, he wondered, if a bishop were to walk back and forth repeatedly in front of a guardsman, just to get him to salute. How long would the guardman’s patience last? But then, one probably wouldn’t be able to find a bishop with that peculiar a sense of humor.
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