by Morris West
“How do you feel about Isabel and me?”
“She was good for you. You, in a strange way, were good for her. I was happy to see you enjoy each other. You’re much better value than the clown she married.”
“Why did she marry him?”
“He was a beautiful piece of merchandise: old family, well-educated, good manners, rich, all the girls wanted him; so, Isabel had to have him. Well, she got him. An empty man who rattles like a gourd, but still looks like sound fruit in the bowl.”
“Why doesn’t she leave him?”
“She’s thought about it more than once. Now she can’t – at least not for a while.”
“Why not?”
“Use your brains, man! You don’t know what it cost to bargain ourselves out of this mess. Isabel has to keep her head down. Her husband’s not powerful in the junta but his father is, and he’d make a bad enemy … That’s one very good reason why I want you gone and out of her life.”
“Are there other reasons?”
“Several.”
“Let me hear them!”
“You’re a priest. She has no future in you.”
“There’s not much of the priest left.”
“Something of the man may be lost, too. It takes a long time to recover from the experience of torture and the degradation that goes with it. That’s why it’s such a powerful tool in politics. It’s too soon to know how you’ll come out. If you want it plain, I’ll give it to you. I don’t want Isabel playing nurse-maid to an emotional cripple. One of those is more than enough for any woman.”
“What will happen to her now?”
“Nothing will happen. She’s my daughter. She’ll cut her life to her own pattern. Your folk came from Italy, didn’t they?”
“Yes, why do you ask?”
“Because you’ll understand what I mean when I tell you Isabel’s a made woman now. I hope one day you’ll be a made man.”
“Does that mean I have to kill someone?”
“Someone, something. You’ll know when the time comes …”
Now it seemed the time was very near, the time against which good Christian folk prayed every day. “Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.” Luca, Cardinal Rossini could not pray. The gift of belief was gone from him. He could only wait, alone in his desert, for the day of trial.
Three
Suddenly, the Cardinal Camerlengo was a very busy man. The Pontiff was now officially declared – and prayed for – among the dying. The Curia had agreed that it was not indecent – indeed that it was necessary and appropriate – to prepare one set of ceremonies to usher him out of the world and another to elect and install a successor.
In each case, the presumptions of canon law were different. The Pope was still alive, therefore his wishes and intentions still prevailed – in so far as they were known or could be guessed. He was being cared for in his own house, with privacy and dignity; but now the embalmers were put on notice to come swiftly when he died. The three coffins – of cypress, lead and oak – were already being made. The Master of Ceremonies was setting out the order of events that would take place at his lying-in-state, at his funeral mass and his interment in the crypt of Saint Peter’s Basilica.
The Council of State of Vatican City was already preparing the new currency and the new stamps which would be used during the vacancy of the See. The security force was making ready for a large influx of secular and clerical dignitaries who would attend the obsequies.
Vatican bureaucracy moved often slowly and cumbrously on creaking wheels, but in matters of life, death and public image, it ran with wonderful smoothness. It performed most spectacularly in ceremonies, which also contributed to the ageing and death of the most vigorous of Pontiffs.
At this mid-morning hour, however, the Camerlengo was engaged, not in ceremony, but in a dialogue with Monsignor Victor Kovacs, private secretary to His Holiness.
“You understand, Victor, what happens when His Holiness dies?”
“More or less, Eminence. You have to verify the event, sign the death certificate with the physician, summon the embalmers and consign the body into their hands.”
“All that and a little more. I have to deface his personal seals and take possession of everything in his chambers, even down to his underwear. What I need from you now is a guided tour. I have to know where everything is kept: his will, his correspondence, both personal and official, his diaries. After the body has been removed, the rooms will be locked and sealed. It would help me a great deal if you could prepare an inventory as quickly as possible.”
“I’ve already begun it, Eminence. Let me walk you around so that you see for yourself how everything is arranged. As I think you know, his Holiness was not – forgive me, is not! – the most systematic of men. I’ve had to beg him not to rummage through files but ask me to find whatever he wants and let me put it back afterwards. He always told me I was fussy as an old woman. Even so, I confess I’ll miss him … Let’s do the desk drawers first and then the filing cabinets.”
“Does His Holiness have a private repository of any sort?”
“There’s a wall-safe behind that picture.”
“Who has the combination?”
“Only His Holiness and myself.”
“You should give it to me also.”
“Of course.”
“And if you would, please demonstrate the opening and closing of the safe.”
Monsignor Kovacs wrote out the combination on a card and handed it to the Camerlengo. Then he showed him how the framed sepia sketch by Raffaello was hinged to the wall. When it swung back it revealed the wall-safe. The secretary opened the safe, locked it immediately and asked the Camerlengo to repeat the routine. When he had done that successfully, the Secretary swung the picture back into place. Neither man had attempted to take anything from the safe. This was the protocol. The Pontiff was still alive. His writ still ran. The Camerlengo and the secretary completed their circuit. The Camerlengo asked:
“Is there anything of importance in his bedroom?”
“Not to my knowledge. He keeps a breviary and a bible on one bedside table, on the other whatever other book he happens to be reading at the moment. When he’s been ill at various times, he has had me bring him whatever documents he needed. I always made sure that Figaro – excuse me again! – Claudio Stagni returned them to the office. He, of course, would know what else is in the bedroom.”
The Camerlengo gave a small chuckle:
“Claudio Stagni knows everything – but never tells the half of it. Still, he’s an amusing fellow. I’ll talk with him now.”
“It’s strange, Eminence.”
“What’s strange, Victor?”
“His Holiness was always quite jealous of his personal privacy. Stagni was the only one who shared it with him. Now he just lies there with people coming in and out all the time. He would have hated that if he knew. He’s so utterly dependent, like a new-born child, except he has no life at all ahead of him. May I ask you a question, Eminence?”
“Of course, Victor. What’s troubling you?”
“When I said my Mass very early this morning, I offered it as a petition to God to release the Holy Father from this life – which for him is not a life any more. When I was reciting the creed, one phrase hit me like a blow: descendit ad inferos. He descended into the lower regions. I asked myself whether it was just an archaic expression describing the mysterious time between Our Lord’s death and His Resurrection, or whether it might also describe what has happened to the Pontiff. Is he in some other region or state? Is he really with us still? Even you and I are acting as though he’s long gone.”
The man’s distress was so real that the Camerlengo himself was touched to a rare gentleness.
“I tell you truly, Victor. I don’t know. Ask my colleague, Gruber, and I’m sure he’ll read you a fine metaphysical lecture on the subject, but for my part, I confess ignorance and I am content to remain ignorant. For me, the act of faith
is an act of acceptance that we live and die in mystery. Hope is a trust that one day the mystery will be made as plain to us as God chooses to make it. And charity is the gift to love and be joyful in love. I know you’re depressed; but be assured you served his Holiness well. He acknowledged that many times to me and to other members of the Curia. He could be difficult, I know, but he was fond of you.”
“That’s good to hear. Thank you.”
“Now, I’ll go talk to our friend Figaro. I’ll inspect the bedchamber and say a prayer for our patient. You have work to do. I won’t bother you any longer.”
In the presence of the dying Pontiff and the inquisitive Camerlengo, Claudio Stagni gave a splendidly muted performance. He knelt by the bedside with the Cardinal and the attendant Sisters and responded with grave emotion to the verses of the De Profundis: “Out of the depths I have cried to you, O Lord, hear the voice of my pleading.” After the prayer, he had led the Cardinal around the chamber, opening every cupboard and every drawer, exhibiting the items they contained, pointing out, as the secretary had already done, that the Pontiff, especially in his later years, was a hard man to keep tidy. He burrowed, he disarranged things, he put things down and forgot where he had left them.
“Of all the people in the world, His Holiness needed a valet. Monsignor Kovacs and myself worked out a little arrangement. No documents to be left lying around in the bedroom. His Holiness knew that he was being managed. He grumbled about it sometimes, but he was glad of it, really. Secret repositories? Strange you should ask that, Eminence. Here, let me show you something. This bureau drawer has a secret compartment. It is open, as you see, and empty. There is a key inside it, but in all the years I’ve served him, I’ve never known His Holiness to use it.”
“And that’s everything you can show me?”
“Everything, Eminence. But I do have a small confession to make.”
“About what?”
“Last night, on an impulse, I gave each of the Sisters on night-watch one of the handkerchiefs I had bought only a few days ago for His Holiness. They were so deeply touched, I was glad I had done it. Then afterwards I began to think.”
The Camerlengo was not happy. His reproof was sharp and angry.
“That was a foolish and a reckless act, Claudio. That is the very thing I am appointed to prevent – any unauthorised traffic in relics and souvenirs after the Pontiff dies. You’ve been here long enough to know better.”
“I realised that afterwards, Eminence. It was impulse only. If you want, I shall ask the Sisters to return the handkerchiefs.”
“No, no! That would only compound the mistake. But understand, there must be no more of this! It could very easily grow into a scandal – or worse still, an absurdity! People peddling the Pontifical underwear in the flea market at Porta Portese! Use your brains, man!”
“I am truly sorry, Eminence.”
“We’ll say no more of it, then. I’m finished here. You are excused.”
“Thank you, Eminence.”
He walked out, stoop-shouldered and repentant as a schoolboy. The moment he was outside the Papal apartment, he broke into a little jig step to the rhythm of his theme song, “Figaro qua, Figaro là, Figaro su, Figaro giù”.
Steffi Guillermin was a late riser. She liked to sit up in bed with Lucetta, sipping coffee, while she read the morning papers and checked the various Eurovision channels for headline news. This morning’s Vatican bulletin provoked an exclamation of surprise and a reluctant tribute to Angel-Novalis.
“He takes first prize, that one. He’s clever and handsome as Lucifer. He’s disarmed most of the landmines in the euthanasia argument and short-circuited his own right-wing theologians in Opus Dei. He makes no argument with them. They can have no quarrel with him, but he still creates a profound impression with a question he leaves unasked: ‘What would you do if your own parent were stricken like this?’”
“So, it’s a clever piece of public relations. What else does it signify?”
“Possibly nothing; but think about this. His Holiness has been packing the hierarchy and the Sacred College itself with men who are, by his standards, safe conservatives. In other words, he has tried to ensure, as far as he can, that his policies for the Church are continued after his death. He’s always been a centralist and an interventionist; but both policies have already begun to backfire. So, there exists an interest group who want to keep the old man alive as long as possible.”
“But why?”
“The longer the election can be deferred, the better chance they have to consolidate their voting block. It’s no secret that there has been much travelling of late by members of the Sacred College – visits to colleagues around the world. In the old days, that wasn’t possible. Now it’s easy and much safer than correspondence.”
“But now, you say, he’s being nursed at home, and the conservatives may be thwarted by his early demise?”
“That’s what I think, but I’ve always believed he was too smart to be outflanked even by death. My thought is that he must have kept notes, dossiers, observations for and against any future candidates for the succession.”
“If such notes exist,” Lucetta was dubious, “where are they now?”
“Probably not in the Vatican.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s commonsense. His Holiness knows that when he dies everything will pass into the hands of the Cardinal Camerlengo. I’m guessing that he would have made provision against that by giving the documents into safe-keeping.”
“Whose for instance?”
“I don’t know.” Steffi pondered the thought for a few moments, then exclaimed: “My God, I’m a fool not to have thought of it before!”
“Thought of what?”
“Three days ago, my people in Paris told me they had been approached by a New York agent who suggested that a document written by the Pontiff might be coming on the market after his death. They were asked whether they’d be interested in picking up French language rights.”
“And were they interested?”
“How could they not be?”
“Who else has been approached?”
“In Germany it has to be Der Spiegel – which might explain why Fritz Ulrich was being so obnoxious to me yesterday. Maybe also that was why Frank Colson was so supportive. The Telegraph would not normally be the first target for a deal like that. The Sunday Times would be a more likely bidder.”
“So, what’s your next move?”
“Nose about. See if I can pick up the smell of money or rumour. Once the documents are demonstrated, then my people will expect me to check on provenance and authenticity before they pay out money. But by then the story won’t be exclusive.”
“Where can you start? You can’t very well wander round Vatican City quizzing this prelate and that about contraband documents.”
“I doubt Rome would be a good place to start anyway. Whoever’s offering this merchandise would be looking to make money far away from Italy – and keep it away.”
“That still points to an original Vatican source for the documents, someone close to the Pontiff with ready access.”
“In other words, a civilian, who has a readier exit than a cleric?”
“But how could you prove it?”
“Why would we want to prove anything? All we need to know is that whatever documents we’re offered are genuine. Any more would be an embarrassment.”
“Why should it be an embarrassment?”
“Because, my love, our prime interest is in the story. So long as its provenance is sound, nobody will care how it came into my hands. That’s for other people to worry about.”
Luca, Cardinal Rossini was bidden to lunch with the Secretary of State in his private apartment in the Apostolic Palace. He knew of old that it would be a spartan repast: soup, pasta, cheese, a small carafe of thin white wine and strong black coffee to banish any thought of sleep during the Roman siesta time. Cardinal Salvatore Pascarelli – Turi to his few
intimates – was tall and thin as a hayrake and he deplored obesity in clerics which, he said, with a certain sardonic wit, brought the Church into disrepute. He was an industrious and subtle man who had climbed the formidable ladder of training and education in the Secretariat from attaché second-class to attaché first-class, to minute-writer, counsellor, office chief for general affairs, substitute secretary, and finally to the award of a Cardinal’s hat and the premier title in the Roman Curia.
He wore his rank lightly; but the cares of his office weighed heavily on his bony shoulders. He claimed, with some reason, that the only way to handle the political interests of a billion professing believers on a very messy planet was to think of them as a huge mosaic and to keep the loose pieces cemented, however small or unimportant they might appear. If too many loosened themselves at once, the whole picture could fall apart. This attitude of mind made him appear often exacting; but his sense of history, of how the past redisposed itself in the future, was sound and sometimes prophetic. So Luca Rossini judged it prudent to have his minute on the Ambassadorial candidate written and delivered before the luncheon. The Secretary of State begged that it be read to him. He apologised for the eccentricity with a disarming smile.
“I was taught in my youth that the test of a good document was that the cadences fell rightly. The truth is, Luca, I like the sound of your accent. Please read it to me.