‘Acetone, too,’ Morgan said hastily. ‘I just wondered if you had something special.’
Hugo smiled at him.
‘What do you actually do in theatre?’
Oh God, he was too tired to act. He looked at Hugo wearily.
‘Look, I’m sorry. I’m not really in theatre. That was just a ploy, to get to talk to you.’ Hugo stared at him. ‘You see, I’m doing some detective work. I need to be in disguise.’ He looked at him squarely. ‘Would you make me up, for a fee? Wig, moustache, et cetera?’
‘Detective work, huh?’
Morgan sighed. ‘Look, I can go to a hairdresser and get a wig. I can go to a novelty shop and buy a moustache. But I want it to stand up to close scrutiny.’
‘What are you detecting?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Yes, it does matter. Are you a legitimate private detective? Show me your identification.’
Morgan shook his head wearily. ‘No, I’m not a certificated detective. But that’s what I’m doing. It concerns my wife.’
‘Your wife?’
‘Okay my girlfriend. She’s the same as a wife.’
‘And what’s she up to?’
‘What do you think? I want to follow her and find out. She’s on holiday in Rome. She thinks I’m back home.’
Hugo turned away. A long pause.
‘You assure me this is legal?’
‘Absolutely legal.’
‘You’re not going to rob a bank, or something?’
Morgan smiled, despite himself. ‘No.’
Pause. ‘Do I get my wig and moustache back afterwards?’
‘If you want. But I would prefer to buy them off you.’
Another pause. Then:
‘If I get my wig back it’s one hundred pounds. If you keep the wig, three hundred pounds. And that’s cheap.’
Relief. ‘Fine,’ Morgan said. ‘But I’ll have to pay you in dollars.’
‘Okay. What size head are you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘About fifty-eight. Have you got the money?’
Morgan pulled out a wad of notes. He counted out four hundred and fifty dollars.
‘Okay,’ Hugo said. ‘You bring the wig back, you get back three hundred dollars.’ He was all business suddenly. ‘Sit.’
Morgan hesitated, then decided to try it.
‘Something else you may be able to help me with? Do you have any way of developing pornographic pictures? With complete confidentiality.’
Hugo blinked. ‘Pornographic? Of whom?’
‘My girlfriend, I think. I’ve only got the negatives.’
‘You think? Who took them?’
‘I don’t know. I found them amongst her things, after she left. That’s why I followed her here.’
Hugo leant on the chair. ‘No I don’t. And I’m liking this less and less. You assure me what you’re doing is legal?’
‘I do. Okay, forget it.’ He sat down before the man changed his mind.
Hugo stood behind him, and put his hands on his shoulders with some misgiving. He looked at him in the mirror.
‘If I make you an Italian, I’ll have to do a lot of cosmetic work. But your complexion is easy for a brunette. What do you want?’
‘Not Italian. I don’t want to worry about cosmetics.’
‘How about a wavy chestnut hairstyle?’
‘Good.’
‘Ten years older? A touch of grey?’
‘Good.’
‘Okay …’ Hugo said.
He set to work.
40
It was a strange feeling, and a comforting one. He felt incognito.
He walked into a department store. He bought an umbrella and a raincoat. He watched the salesman closely, and the man did not appear to look at the wig or moustache.
He left the store, and walked until he saw a taxi.
‘Vaticano, prego.’
It was almost two o’clock. He settled into the back seat, and closed his eyes.
It was raining. The taxi crossed the Ponte Umberto and turned left along the Tiber. And then there, to the right, was the Via della Conciliazione, sweeping up to the crescent of colonnades, the open arms of Saint Peter’s Square. And Morgan felt his primitive Catholic heart turn over.
He looked up at the statues of the saints looming up against the rainy skyline, the mighty dome arching up above the crypt of Saint Peter himself, and he felt the age-old Catholic awe of coming to the holy of holies, the very heart of the Roman Church; and he loved it, and feared it, and he knew that he was a Catholic in his marrow. And he knew with absolute certainty that he was doing the right thing, and more than anything he wanted the right thing to happen for the Church.
There were tourists huddled under umbrellas around guides. Morgan told the taxi-driver to turn into the sidestreets on the edge of the Vatican City. He told him to stop when he saw a bookstore.
There were hardly any people on the streets, because of the rain. He hurried into the store.
He examined all the guide books on the Vatican City. He chose the one with the longest text, and he bought a large pictorial map.
Down a sidestreet he found a bar. It was a cosy place, chianti bottles hanging from the ceiling. He sat at a table in the corner and ordered spaghetti and a bottle of red wine. He opened his map and the guide book.
It was an excellent pictorial map, like an aerial photograph.
It was clear that the Pope’s palace was connected by a series of rooftops to the southern wall of Saint Peter’s cathedral. From the map, it seemed possible to lower oneself by rope from the rooftop of the cathedral, onto a rooftop below, and make one’s way by connecting roofs to the papal palace.
Sure, a good burglar could do it. And Morgan had been trained for this sort of thing. But doubtless this possibility had not escaped the attention of the bright boys responsible for Vatican security. That palace rooftop was surely bristling with alarm devices. Sure, a nutter had managed to get into Buckingham Palace, sit on Her Majesty’s bed and have a midnight chat with her. But he bet nobody could pull off the same trick now.
Another possibility: the Gate of Saint Anne was the business entrance into the Vatican City itself. Every day hundreds of cars and thousands of people who worked in the Vatican City passed through those gates. There were sentries and one had to have a pass. But surely it would be possible to get a pass somehow, get through the gate, and thence to the papal front door. Disguised as a priest, for example. Better still, disguised as a monsignor – purple bib and purple socks. Most people don’t challenge monsignors.
All right … Doubtless it could be done. But, a lot of homework. A monsignor visiting Rome from where? He would have to have a perfect story. What’s his reason for needing an audience with His Holiness? How would such a priest go about it? Write a letter? Telephone for an appointment? How many officials would he have to bluff his way through? If he said it was a matter of life and death, for the Pope’s ears only? …
By the time he had finished the wine he had learned one important fact from the guide book: the Pope himself sometimes heard confession from the public. This was only at Easter on a regular basis, but there were other times. One could enquire at the Vatican Information Bureau, about what other functions he officiated at. One applied at the Prefecture for permits to attend a mass audience the Pope gave to visitors.
When the Pope heard confession he would have an opportunity to speak to him …
And say what? ‘I’ve got to see you in private, to tell you something very important. To save the Church …’?
Morgan lit a cigarette, and blew out smoke.
It was a very long shot. He would have a very short time to convince the man, before he was politely told to go away. Dismissed as a nutter.
But it, was worth thinking about. Though it meant waiting until Easter. Almost six months hence.
And then he thought of something else: Does the Secretary of State, Cardinal Pieter Gunter, also hear confession
from the public? …
If Cardinal Gunter heard confession, he would get a very different reception. Because all he would have to say were the passwords …
Morgan pulled out the list he had made that morning. ‘The elk is not only a Siberian creature.’ Those were Pieter Gunter’s passwords.
He sat back, thinking.
Go into the confessional, say those words, tell the man you want to see him privately. He would not dare refuse. Even if he had found God since being planted in the Church he would not dare refuse for fear I blow the whistle on him. He would have to find out what I want …
Suddenly somebody was standing at the table. Morgan jerked. It was the waiter. Asking him if he wanted anything before the kitchen closed.
Morgan folded his map, and paid his bill.
He hunched into his raincoat. Okay, this was what he had come to Rome for. He would soon find out if his disguise was effective.
He tried to look like a tourist, his guide book in hand. He walked under the curving colonnades. Then, on the right, was the flight of stone steps leading up into the Prefecture. Two Swiss guards, in their medieval uniforms, stood at the top, armed with lances. Morgan ascended the wide steps.
‘I wish to apply to the Prefecture for a permit.’
The officer waved him through, and pointed at another staircase. Morgan passed the guards’ room. He wondered if there was a cell in there, for people like him. The staircase was baronial. Stone balustrade. A coat of arms. Grey stone walls. Two security guards in dark uniforms on the first floor. ‘Permit, please …’
They waved him through another door. A small office, marble floors, a desk. A grey-haired priest was bent over documents. ‘Avanti.’ There was no friendliness in the voice.
‘May I have a permit to visit the tombs, please?’
‘It’ll have to be for tomorrow.’ It was an Australian accent.
‘Thank you.’ Morgan took a breath. ‘Tell me, is it possible to get a permit to visit the Secretariat of State?’
The priest looked at him. ‘No. Why?’
‘You see,’ Morgan said, ‘I’m making a study of the Church, to write a book. This is my first visit to the Vatican, I’m just feeling my way, getting the atmosphere. I’ve come all the way from Australia for this …’
‘Where in Australia?’
‘Sydney.’ He had been there once and stayed with friends in Double Bay. ‘Belleview Road.’
‘You don’t sound Australian.’
‘I’m not yet. Will be in a few years. I’ve immigrated.’
The priest nodded. ‘It would be a great country if they could get rid of the corruption.’
‘Right. How long have you been over here?’ Keep the man talking.
The priest sat back. ‘So you want to write a book on the Church? You a Catholic?’
‘I suppose you would call me a lapsed Catholic. Who is finding his way back to the Church.’
‘What brought this on?’
He said, almost truthfully: ‘It’s something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time. And lacked the courage, maybe.’
‘“Oh Lord, make me good, but not yet”?’
Morgan smiled. ‘Saint Augustine. Yes.’ And it was almost true. He went on, while the iron was warm: ‘I wonder if you would be so kind as to refer me to … anybody who could point me in the right direction on certain aspects.’
‘Of?’
‘I’m after general atmosphere at this stage, while I’m in Rome. How the modern Vatican works. Day-to-day. The protocol, the colour, the ceremony … In particular, I’m interested in the political role of the Church.’
‘Well, we’re an open book. The Procurators of the various religious orders may be prepared to give you some time. There’re two English-speaking seminaries, British and American, where students study for the priesthood – somebody there may think it fun to help you.’ He added: ‘To help bring a sheep back into the fold.’
‘Where are they?’
‘Ask the Information Bureau. Which,’ he added, ‘this office is not.’
‘I see. Thank you. One more thing. When does the Pope next celebrate mass, publicly? When the public can take communion from him.’
‘Christmas week.’
Christmas! That was only six weeks away!
‘Does he also personally hear confession from the public then?’
‘Yes.’
He almost blurted it: ‘How does one know which confessional box he’s in?’
‘You’ll have to keep your eyes open. You and the thousands of other people who think it would be nice to say your confession to the Pope himself. That is hardly the attitude to adopt to confession.’
‘“Nice” is not my attitude,’ Morgan said.
‘Good,’ he said unsmilingly.
‘It would have a special spiritual significance for me.’ He added, ‘Can you tell me, do senior cardinals, like the Secretary of State, hear confession from the public, too?’
‘All priests perform religious duties. But Secretaries of State usually have more pressing things to do.’
‘How can I find out details like that?’
‘Not from this office, I’m afraid. Try the Procurators.’
Morgan knew he was pushing his luck. ‘But would you be so kind … if I telephoned you, would you tell me whether the Pope has scheduled a public mass and confession before Christmas?’
‘I’m afraid not. If you want a friend in court, you’ll have to look elsewhere.’
Morgan put on his most charming smile. ‘Not even to bring an errant sheep back into the fold?’
The Australian almost smiled for the first time.
‘Ah, you think you’ve got me there. Yes, saving souls is still my business even if I’m a pen-pusher. But if you’re serious about your soul, there’re better people for the job than me.’ He sloughed over that one. ‘All right, I’ll say goodbye now.’ He lowered his head over his papers.
It had stopped raining, but it was freezing after the warm Prefecture. He pulled up his collar and walked briskly up the wide stone steps into the portico of the basilica.
There were many tourists, wet and discommoded, huddled around guides. He walked through the great bronze doors, into Saint Peter’s.
He intended going straight to the southern side of the great cathedral, to the elevator which takes tourists up onto the rooftop. But he just had to stop for a moment, and look at the majesty of the holy place.
The majesty of it. He stood, taking it in, feeling. And, oh yes, he knew he was a Catholic, in his bones, that this was the very heart of Christianity, the supreme temple. And with all his heart he wanted to do the right thing by this place and all it stood for. And, oh God, he wanted to pray for that.
But he did not have time. He turned, and strode through the vast cathedral, to the elevator.
He paid, and rode up to the top with half a dozen tourists. He walked out, onto the red-tile rooftop.
The dome rising up; and all around lay Rome, misty in the grey afternoon.
He walked to the front, to the statues of Christ and the apostles: and looked down onto Saint Peter’s Square. The tiny people down there. He wondered which of them were looking for him. He looked to the left. The papal palace …
He studied it. Five storeys high, built around a courtyard. Brown stucco in colour, a red-tile roof. He knew from his map which were the windows of the Pope’s apartment – the top right-hand corner. The second-last window was the one he appeared at to give his blessing to the masses. Three floors below was the apartment of the Secretary of State, Cardinal Pieter Gunter.
The rooftop. Part of it, the northern side, was flat.
Morgan walked slowly past the row of saints. To the corner, closest to the palace. He ran his eye slowly along the connecting rooftop. Then looked at his map.
Yes, the roof of the palace was connected to the rooftops of the Loggias, from there to the Court of the Pappagalli, and from there, by other roofs, to the very wall of Saint Peter�
�s, where he now stood. He could lower himself by rope down onto the rooftop below. And with a bit of courage, make it all the way to the Pope’s rooftop.
All right. It could be done. That’s all he wanted to know.
He rode down in the elevator. Back into the mighty cathedral.
He went to the holy-water stoup. It was held by two marble cherubims bigger than himself. He dipped his finger in the water, and crossed himself. Then he walked down the vast, marble-floored nave, towards the Confessio. The very heart of the temple, the sunken tomb of Saint Peter himself.
Morgan walked slowly towards it, feeling the majesty of the holy place. Between the great twisted pillars of the baldachin canopy he could see the throne of Saint Peter at the very apex of the apse. The light of the stained-glass windows glowing down upon it, like the Holy Spirit. Morgan stood beside the tomb, in the flickering lamplights, and he looked up at the mighty dome above him, reaching up, up, the mosaics depicting Paradise aglow in the light coming in from the windows up there: and inscribed around the base the holy words, in Latin: ‘Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I build my church, and the gates of Hades shall not prevail against it.’
He turned away. He walked into the southern pier of the nave. He began to count the confessional boxes.
They were heavy, elaborately carved kiosks. On one side, behind a stable door, sat the priest-confessor: on the other side the penitent knelt and whispered his confession. There were eight such boxes in the first pier of the apse, and each had a notice over the door indicating the language which the priest spoke: Italian, English, French, Dutch, German.
Morgan walked down the side of the nave, counting all the way back to the entrance; then down the other side of the nave, back to the northern pier.
He counted over twenty-four confessional boxes in all.
He walked away, towards the black, bronze statue of Saint Peter. He looked at it. The toe of the statue’s foot was worn away, from people kissing it. He reached out and touched the toe, and then crossed himself again. But he was not thinking about Saint Peter.
In which confessional would Pope John Paul sit on that day in Christmas week?
He walked slowly back up the centre of the nave.
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