by Peter Watson
Then began a slow procession from Palermo airport into the city. The cardinal’s car drove slowly across the airfield, Thomas and Ligorio waving and smiling. Everyone leaned forward to be blessed by Thomas. Mothers held out their babies. It made an extraordinary television spectacle, not least because the coverage was so makeshift. The fact that it was not staged, that the cameras did not always have the best vantage point, gave the event an urgency, a presence, an impact beyond anything anyone had seen before. The emotional effect was stunning. Outside the airport other cars, trucks and motor cycles joined the cavalcade, blaring their horns and flashing their lights. Two police cars joined the procession but they were not needed. By now one of the more enterprising Sicilian TV stations had got a camera aboard a helicopter so that the world was able to watch as the amazing cavalcade moved down the coast road between Punta Raisi and Palermo proper. With stony mountains in the background, it made an extraordinary sight: the cardinal’s sober black car followed by forty or fifty others. Trucks, vans, buses even had joined in by now, all making an almighty din.
The procession entered the city by the Via della Liberta and the Piazza Castelnuovo. This was an area that hitherto had been strongly in the grip of the Mafia, and so had felt Thomas’s help all the more keenly. Even in normal circumstances almost every house boasted a picture of Thomas. Now, as the procession arrived, everyone went wild. The limousine was held up and its speed reduced to walking pace as people filled the streets. Makeshift bands formed—guitars, woodwind, drums.
Palermo was choked. The crowds, hearing the news and the commotion, ran up the Via Emerico Amari from the docks. The theatre in the Piazza Verdi was surrounded. Cars were abandoned in the Principe di Scordia. It took Thomas and Ligorio another two hours to get to the cardinal’s residence, next to the cathedral. Shops were closed, newspaper kiosks abandoned, buses immobilized.
The cathedral had a small piazza in front of it and a garden to one side. By the time the procession arrived, both were packed and overflowing. Some technician had had the foresight to install cameras overlooking both the cathedral and the archbishop’s residence so what was rapidly becoming the world’s longest-running unscripted TV show could continue uninterrupted. For half an hour the black limousine, swamped in people, struggled to cross the cathedral square. Thomas couldn’t get out: he would have been crushed.
Eventually the car made it. Thomas and the cardinal stood up, opened the doors and were bundled inside.
But this was Palermo, not some northern city. No one went home. This was a chance for Sicilians to show their dislike of Rome: they weren’t going to pass it up. The chanting began, slowly at first, and quietly. But soon rising in tone and tempo.
‘Papa vero! Papa vero! Papa vero!’ sang the crowd. ‘We want the real Pope, the real Pope, the real Pope!’ Soon the whole square was chanting. The whole city. Car horns blared the new rhythm: ‘One-two, three-four; one-two, three-four’. ‘Pa—pa ve—ro! Pa—pa ve—ro!’
Twenty more minutes and then a great shout went up as first one window of the archbishop’s residence was opened, and then another, to reveal two enormous loudspeakers. Then the great high doors to the balcony were opened and two men, one a priest, manoeuvred out two microphones. The chanting gave way now to singing, songs of the Sicilian mountains, songs from the mysterious south coast, sarcastic anti-Roman tunes. Everyone knew the words. Ten thousand Sicilians cleared their lungs, filling the air with a clear beauty. It was intensely moving.
A few more minutes then, beyond the balcony, the vivid scarlet of the cardinal’s cassock was glimpsed and, maybe, the white too. The singing stopped and the chanting resumed—though this time with a difference.
‘Pa—pa ve—ro! Ma—ssoni ma—le! Pa—pa ve—ro! Ma—ssoni ma—le!’ ‘The real pope!’ ‘Evil Massoni!’ ‘The real pope!’ ‘Evil Massoni!’
The great balcony doors opened further and the white figure of Thomas appeared, the cardinal at his elbow. The two men embraced—to renewed cheers—and then the cardinal held up his hands for silence. He waited as the excitable Sicilians calmed down.
‘My friends!’ It was a big voice for such a small man and it claimed everyone’s attention. ‘My friends, a prayer. A prayer for the miracle that is Thomas—Papa vero indeed. A prayer of thanks that he has been brought to us now … When we needed him, he did not fail us.’ The cardinal knew when to pause. ‘Now he needs us, we shall not fail him!’ A cheer broke out but he stilled it. ‘A prayer of thanks that we may be worthy of him, that we may help him as much as he has helped us. A moment’s silence, my children, for all of us to be alone with Il Papa Vero.’ And there was silence. For almost a minute there was silence. Not everyone kept their eyes down, or closed. Many looked up at Thomas as he looked down at them. But all were silent. Even the children.
But then, as Thomas moved to the microphone, another cheer swelled in the throats of the ten thousand crammed into the square. Thomas stood on the balcony, waving, acknowledging the cheers. The cameras swept back and forth, from him to the crowd. At length the noise subsided and Thomas could speak. He held his arms high.
‘I give thanks to God for Sicily.’ More cheers. ‘For its people, its church, its independence.’ Cheers again. He smiled down at them. ‘For its airport.’ Everyone laughed.
‘I am told I cannot go to Rome.’ He paused, took hold of the archbishop’s hand, and raised it. He leaned forward, closer to the microphone. ‘But who needs Rome, when one has all of Sicily?’ Rapturous applause and wild cheering.
‘I will not stay here, my friends, not long. Sicily has a great spiritual leader in Cardinal Francesco Ligorio. You are lucky’—again a smile—‘but then so is he.’ Again everyone laughed.
‘I ask you for one night, my children, my brothers and sisters. One night—and then, who knows? The world may be very different. In a moment I want you to go home, peacefully.’ He raised his voice. ‘But be here at this time tomorrow. Your cardinal and I, we may have some news. And pray for me tonight. I will bless you before you go.’
The crowd hushed as Thomas’s soft voice swept in perfect Latin around the square. He turned and moved back to the huge doors. But, before he could disappear entirely, from somewhere in the crowd a woman’s beautiful voice began singing the most beautiful Sicilian song of all. ‘The Almonds of Marsalen’ tells how the island’s famous almond trees failed to bloom after Garibaldi invaded Sicily in the nineteenth century and annexed it to Italy. Its sad story was a metaphor for the way many Sicilians felt about the mainland. She was allowed one verse of the slow, shadowy song, then the other voices in the square joined in. Even Cardinal Ligorio was singing. Like many in the square, he was crying openly. It was an emotional climax to a shattering day. Ten thousand voices, as if as one, sharing the bitterness and pain of many years. Of now.
In the White House Roskill watched the proceedings in Palermo with a mixture of disgust and admiration. ‘Shit!’ he said, turning to Cranham Hope. ‘You can tell Thomas is a goddam American: he refuses to know when he’s beat. The guy oughtta been a politician, goddammit, not Pope.’
In the Vatican, Massoni had no mixed feelings. He didn’t like television, he didn’t much care for Sicily and he hated Thomas. The broadcast over, he paced up and down the study, telling himself he mustn’t panic or exaggerate Thomas’s power. He, Massoni, held the real power. The Italian government would do anything he asked, he held a firm grip on the Vatican finances, its channels of communication, its diplomatic corps, its physical territory. All Thomas had was emotion, emotion that would fade the minute the world realized he could not sustain himself.
In Rome proper, David went back to Bess’s apartment and tried to get through to the archbishop’s residence in Palermo. It was impossible. He’d known it would be impossible but he tried anyway. The whole world would be trying to get through. He was desperate to speak to Bess—lord, what she must have been through in the past few days.
After two hours of dialling Palermo every few minutes, he gave
up. Should he go to Sicily? He thought not. As soon as she could, Bess would call the apartment, or Gina’s. So long as he stayed by the phone in one or other place, she would reach him when she could. He therefore took his dinner at Gina’s where he could also continue to watch the television.
In Italy the regular programmes had been scrapped that evening. What was happening to the Church was too important. The remarkable scenes of the day, beginning with the announcement of the election of a new Pope and the designation of Thomas as Anti-Pope, and proceeding to the events in Palermo, were re-run and re-run. Studio discussions followed in which pundits examined the options Thomas had before him. One Vatican observer voiced a rumour that Thomas was searching for a safe haven, away from Rome and away from America: Rio or Quebec were favoured. Another man, quoting unnamed sources inside the Vatican, said that Thomas was going to resign after all, and would then be allowed to remain in Sicily. David was frantic. If only Bess would call, he’d know the truth.
It was one of those nights when no one wanted to go to bed, in case they missed some sensational development. Television went on late, reduced to reporting what tomorrow morning’s papers were going to say, the papers themselves based on what had been seen on television. David eventually decided to turn in around a quarter to two. There was still no word from Bess. He was just cleaning his teeth when the phone rang. He ran across the flat and snatched at the receiver. ‘Yes?’
‘David!’
‘Darling. At last! How are you? You must be exhausted. Shall I come to Palermo? If I drive all night I could be there some time tomorrow.’
‘Oh David, it’s so good to hear your voice. How’s the apartment? Did you hang the silks?’
‘How’s the apartment? How can you? A religious storm raging around you, and you want to know about the apartment?’
‘I want normality, darling. I want to know there’s firm ground somewhere. How are you?’
‘I’m fine. I tried to get you on the phone for two hours but the archbishop’s residence was always “occupato”. I figured you’d call me as soon as you could.’
‘Now is the first chance I’ve had to do anything even remotely personal. Thomas sends his blessing, by the way.’
David lowered his voice, as if to slow the pace of their conversation. ‘Tell me, Bess, what’s going on? All these rumours on television. And shall I come to Sicily? You didn’t answer. Don’t you want me—?’
‘Darling! One thing at a time. First, don’t believe any of the rumours. They’re all untrue. Second, I can’t tell you what’s happening, partly because it’s not absolutely certain yet, but partly because there have been so many leaks that I’m under strict instructions to say as little as possible. But third, and this is the main reason I’m calling, apart from a wish to hear your voice, is that the Holy Father would like you to do something for him.’
‘What on earth—?’
‘David! Hear me out. There is no one else in Rome who, in this particular matter, we can trust.’
David held his breath. Then: ‘Go on.’
‘We want you to see Massoni—’
‘—what?’
‘On our behalf. As Thomas’s emissary.’
‘He’ll never see me!’
‘Oh yes, he will. We shall prime him. We shall tell him to expect you and that you’ll be acting on our behalf and with our authority. Only we shan’t tell him in advance what it is we want. For this to stand any chance of working we need to knock him off balance.’
‘And what is it you want?’
‘The St Patrick’s Fund.’
‘You can’t be serious! What if he says no? He’s not just going to hand it over, is he?’
‘I’m coming to that. Remember that exposé in the Naples newspaper, Il Mattino? The one about your report on the way the Fund was made to fail?’
‘You mean the one which disclosed that Massoni’s brother ran the bank which mishandled the funds?’
‘Yes. Well, I guess that was only the tip of the iceberg. With so much fund money being moved around, Aldo Massoni—the brother—started playing what bankers call “night games”.’
‘You mean—?’
‘In between investments, the brother would leave the money on deposit with another bank overnight. Or he would buy foreign currency at, say, six in the evening, and sell it again at eight the next morning. With the millions in his care, he could make several thousands in as many hours. When he did we—the fund—never saw them.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘As I say, your report started it. And before he was killed, John Rich had set inquiries in motion. From his time in New York he had friends in the American Securities and Exchange Commission and they had contacts in Switzerland. Despite his kidnap and murder, or maybe because of it, they dug deep—and came up with what I just told you.’
‘Powerful stuff. It’s a pity it only touches the brother. We’d have a much stronger hand if the cardinal himself was directly involved.’
‘But he is! I haven’t got to the juiciest part yet. Thomas was saving it, in case Massoni refused to resign when we got back from the Far East. Remember, I told you we had something that would force him out. Now, in view of what’s happened, you’re free to make use of it. Massoni—the cardinal, I mean, not his brother Aldo—has his own bank account in Switzerland. At Aldo’s bank, of course. There’s over a million dollars in it but, more important, the dates on the account show that he also received money from his brother’s “night games”. The dates of the deposits all fit. Can you believe it, David? At the very time he was criticizing the fund, Massoni was milking it. I could weep.’
‘You have proof of all this?’
‘We don’t have a signed confession from the brother, if that’s what you mean. But we do have the number of Massoni’s bank account, the dates of the deposits, and the balance at the close of business yesterday.’ She read the figures over to him.
‘I’ll do as you ask, Bess. Of course I will. Anything to help Thomas. I just hope I don’t let him down.’
‘Darling, this is just up your street. You’re the only person we can trust. You’ll make it work, I know. You can think on your feet and that’s what we need. Now I’m going to give you another number; it’s the archbishop’s private line here and you can call us tomorrow after you’ve seen Massoni. If you don’t hear from me again, assume your appointment with Massoni is for noon. Then call us immediately after. It’s important we know how you’ve done as soon as possible. Good luck!’
‘I shall need it. I feel nervous already.’
‘Don’t be. You’ll be fine. Remember, Massoni’s the one with the troubled conscience. He’s the one at your meeting tomorrow who’ll have had a rough night, not you. Goodnight, darling. Again, good luck.’
Despite what she said, and despite the fact that it was well after two when he climbed into bed, David was wide awake, and up, by six the next morning. He was immediately on edge, not sure what to expect at his meeting with Massoni, not sure what approach to adopt. Moreover, there wasn’t any research he could do that would make his task easier. The best he could do was to take refuge in the papers.
Most of them showed the same instincts. It had been hundreds of years since two men had claimed to be Pope so the image of two men in white, Thomas on a balcony in Palermo, Massoni leaning out of a window in the Vatican, was simply too good to pass up. But David was more interested in what the morning papers had to say. For example, the Italian government’s response to the crisis. The Prime Minister had thrown his weight firmly behind Massoni, saying disparagingly that Thomas’s antics in Palermo merely showed how unfit he was to rule as Pope. To be on the safe side, Italian troops, with Massoni’s permission, had been drawn up on the perimeter of the Vatican in Rome, to stop any anti-Massoni agitators from getting in. The Mayor of Rome had also weighed in on Massoni’s side, allowing himself to be photographed kneeling in front of the new pontiff. There was no doubt where the political muscle was. Some
of the papers also carried historical articles on the anti-Popes of the past. David knew about the great schism vaguely, when one set of Popes had reigned from Rome and another from Avignon but he hadn’t realized there had been so many.
It was a sunny day but cold, November-cold. Even so, he sat outside Gina’s in the square. He had asked her to warm some croissants for him and she had brought a large pot of coffee.
‘Signorina Bess—you hear from her yet?’ To David Gina’s voice had always been more beautiful than her face.
David told her about their late night conversation. Enough of it to reassure her.
Gina looked down at him. ‘You know why Signorina Bess and me get on?’
David pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘You both like fettucine?’
Gina shook her head, unamused. ‘No. We have something else in common. We talked about it one night.’ She paused. Then, going inside, she said over her shoulder, ‘Each of us, we love two men. It’s hard to decide between them.’
David buttered his croissant. It was the first he’d ever heard of Gina’s love life. And what did she mean about Bess’s two loves? The other man, he supposed, was the pontiff. Ah well, that was a different kind of love. He peered at Gina, now inside the bar. She did mean that, didn’t she? It was a funny thing to say.
He finished his food. He had nearly two hours to kill before his meeting with Massoni—the cardinal would never be the Pope to him. Should he call the office in London? No—Sally would ask questions: he wanted to keep his mind clear for his meeting with the cardinal. On an impulse, he felt like walking. It was a good way to pass the time. He shouted goodbye to Gina and moved off. He walked down the Via Monserrato and past the Palazzo Farnese. He crossed the Via Arenuta and went by the synagogue. Over the Ponte Palatino and into Trastevere. The Via Luciano Manaro, he knew, led to the Janiculum, the wooded hill overlooking central Rome and the Vatican. A perfect place to clear his brain. He walked up the passeggiata to the Piazzale Garibaldi, which overlooked the slopes, and sat on a bench. What would the grand old soldier have made of these latest twists? Garibaldi would rather have had no Pope: now there were two.