by Morris West
“Unless, as you have admitted to be possible, he is pursuing his public role through a post-mortem testament.”
“His role ceases with his death, Mr Colson. His successor is not bound.”
“But the electors may be influenced.”
“Influenced by what?”
“Ambition perhaps. The pressure of their peers, partisan loyalties. It is no secret that there are factions in the Sacred College. I quote from the diaries: ‘I am not blind to the ambitions of certain Cardinals or their capacities for intrigue.’”
Angel-Novalis held up a hand to stay him.
“I think we should stop here, Mr Colson. I am not prepared to offer a commentary on the secret papers of a dead man. I’ll leave that to the historians. I think I’ve given you and your colleagues reasonable value for their lunch-money.”
“You have indeed.”
“May I then ask a small favour in return?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you. I have a short formal statement which I should like you to report verbatim. Will you engage to do that?”
“With pleasure.”
“This is a personal statement: I can say that the Pontiff’s private diaries are admitted as genuine. There is, however, some circumstantial evidence that they were stolen from his dressing-room while he was in a coma, shortly before his death. The letter of donation from the Pontiff is a forgery prepared by one Aldo Carrese, a convicted felon who died two months ago. I make this statement as an open invitation to Claudio Stagni to answer these charges or to sue me for defamation. I am aware that in making it, I am exceeding my brief and exposing myself to censure. None the less, I have a personal duty to protect the reputation of a man whom I admired and respected. What you or your editors choose to do in the circumstances is up to you. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I bid you good day.”
As he strode from the rostrum, the storm of applause, led by Steffi Guillermin, was breaking about him. He deserved every handclap. He had given them a week’s worth of headlines. They understood, too, however dimly, that he had put his career on the line. The Vatican had a long memory and small patience for turbulent priests.
While Angel-Novalis was tasting his sawdust triumph at the Foreign Press Club, the man who had set him up for it was waiting in Conference Room A at the Secretariat of State. His VISitor, Cardinal Matteo Aquino, had telephoned to say that he had been detained at another meeting and would be twenty minutes late.
As a former diplomat – he had served as Nuncio in Buenos Aires and in Washington – Aquino should have known better. On the other hand, Rossini reflected, the man had never known better. He had always been arrogant, proud of his soldier ancestry, his skills as a tennis player, a fencer, and a diplomat who, to use his own words, “had special qualifications to treat with military regimes”.
He was seventy-five years old. He had already tendered his resignation to the deceased Pontiff; but he was still eligible to vote in the conclave and – in theory at least – was still a candidate for election. After a long reign, there was always the chance that the electors might decide on a Pontiff with a short life expectancy.
Now, suddenly, Aquino, that very soldierly fellow, was himself under siege. Those who threatened him were the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo, a group of women who had exposed and ultimately destroyed the dictatorship in Argentina. They were the mothers, widows and sisters and sweethearts of those thousands who had “been disappeared” under the regime of which Rossini himself had been a victim.
They had come to Rome with evidence compiled over twenty years on Aquino’s alleged complicity in the reign of terror, in acts of betrayal, kidnapping, torture and execution which the Government tallied at nine thousand, but the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo declared to be nearer to thirty thousand. The purpose of their visit to Rome was to petition the Pontiff to waive Aquino’s immunity as a citizen of Vatican City State, and thus allow his indictment under the laws of the Republic of Italy. Many of the victims of the terror were migrants from Italy and some, it appeared, had resident status only in Argentina, while remaining still Italian nationals. Now that the Pontiff was dead, the women had announced their intention of waiting to present their formal petition to the new Pontiff.
The substance of their material evidence was familiar to Rossini. The files of the Secretariat of State were also open to him: one slim folder chosen from many lay before him on the table. For a brief span Aquino himself had been a familiar figure in his life: taciturn and withdrawn, unwilling messenger delivering an unsavoury package of damaged goods from Argentina to Rome. As Rossini rose in Papal favour, they had met rarely and their greetings on formal occasions were brief and cold. Now Aquino was a suppliant for Rossini’s public advocacy against the white-veiled furies of the Plaza de Mayo. For Rossini, he was a figure from the nightmare years and his shadow would lie over the meeting that same evening with Isabel.
There was a knock at the door and, in response to Rossini’s summons, a young cleric ushered Aquino into the room. Rossini stood to greet him. He bowed but did not offer a handshake. Aquino also bowed and made a brusque apology. Rossini motioned him to a chair. He sat, straight-backed, unsmiling, until Rossini prompted him.
“You asked to see me, Eminence.”
“Yes. I am, as you know, in a difficult situation.”
“What is this difficult situation?”
“These women, the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo. They have come here to mount a campaign against me. They want to bring me before a civil court in Rome. They want a waiver of my immunity as a citizen of Vatican City State. They propose to wait in Rome until a new Pontiff is elected. It’s all most embarrassing, most distressing.”
“I imagine it must be,” said Rossini mildly. “Of course, what these women suffered, what their sons, brothers, husbands suffered, was also very distressing.”
“I know that.”
“Of course, you had to know – it was your job. Though, on several occasions, you did publicly disclaim that knowledge.”
“That was a necessary diplomatic gambit.”
“I’ve seen your reports.” Rossini’s manner was still mild. He tapped the file on his desk. “They belong to a very painful period of my life, which even now I find difficult to deal with. For that reason, I have been given other assignments in other areas. I am still too vulnerable to the traumas of twenty years ago. Still, in preparation for our meeting today, I did go through several key files. I note that your minutes were always judicious, carefully balanced even on the most controversial subjects.”
“Thank you. That is a diplomat’s duty – never to exaggerate or overemphasise. He must penetrate to the root causes of events.”
“Even when men and women are being tortured with cattle prods and stifled in shit-buckets in the Navy School? Even when they are being flogged and sodomised with broom handles and castrated and blinded then tossed out of aeroplanes over the ocean?”
“I protested these things constantly.”
“To whom? And how publicly?”
“Everything I knew was reported to the Secretariat of State.”
“But you still played tennis with the men who ordered atrocities. You still sought, what did you call it?” He lifted the cover of the manila folder and laid his fingers on a line. “Ah, yes, ‘sound theological advice on the moral limits of torture which may be necessary to extract information from enemies of the State, and in many cases, of the Church as well’. You got your advice and you passed it along at tennis with the generals: ‘Extreme measures may be used provided they do not exceed humane limits, have non-terminal consequences, non-crippling effects, and a duration not exceeding forty-eight hours in all.’ Who wrote that garbage for you?”
“It was written by a reputable moral theologian.”
“Reputable! God Almighty!”
“To provide some basis of reconciliation for men in the armed services who were obliged by force majeure to undertake brutal tasks.”
“An
d how did you propose to reconcile the families of the dead and the disappeared ones?”
“I did not come here to be abused!”
“This is not abuse. This is truth. Why did you come here? What did you expect from me? Silence? A gloss on all that filthy history?”
“Did it never occur to you,” Aquino was still in control of himself, “that I might come to seek understanding and help?”
“If that’s what you want, talk to the women! Plead for their understanding. Confess to them, beg their forgiveness. They will listen, I promise you! They are accustomed to silence. They waited every day, veiled in white, silent accusers outside the presidential palace. Their disappeared ones are silent for ever.”
“You know I can’t confront them.”
“Why not?”
“They would tear me to pieces.”
“That would depend, would it not, on how you presented yourself to them?”
“That too.” A small humourless smile twitched at the corners of Aquino’s lips. “What did you have in mind? A shirt of sackcloth, a halter round my neck?”
“You have another idea, perhaps?”
“I had hoped you might speak for me and with me, since you, too, were a victim.”
Rossini let out a whispered blasphemy.
“Sweet suffering Jesus! What sort of man are you?”
“I’m a survivor,” said Aquino calmly. “I need your help to survive this – this infamy!”
“What infamy?”
“These charges of conspiracy and collaboration.”
“The best way to survive is to answer the charges!” In spite of himself Rossini was drawn into argument. “Look! Our late colleague, Bernardin in Chicago, was accused by a former seminarian of sexual abuse. He didn’t hide behind the Church or his high office, he challenged his accuser to meet him in court. The charge was withdrawn. Bernardin met with the man and treated him with compassion and charity. Unfortunately, Bernardin did not survive, but he died with honour and the people bless his memory.”
“Everyone blesses a good pastor! Nobody blesses diplomats! You’ve seen what the Italian press has done already. Imagine what they’d do with a full court hearing! It’s impossible!”
“Why impossible?”
“I refuse to be arraigned like a criminal. I helped many families of the victims. Now these women pursue me with unproven allegations.”
“Then take them to court. Let the evidence be tabled and examined. If it’s false, you will be vindicated. If it’s true – then may God have mercy on your soul.”
“You’re playing a cruel game, Rossini. I came to you for help as a colleague and a Christian. Remember you owe me a debt. I got you out of Argentina.”
“I know that. Thousands of others were not so fortunate. But I’m not playing a game. I’m trying to assess your situation and decide how and under what conditions I can help you.”
“Conditions?”
“Of course. You’re a diplomat. Conditions, terms, bargains, these are your stock-in-trade.”
“Very well, let’s have the deal on the table. What will you do to help me?”
“First I will contact the women’s delegation. I will engage to present you to them privately. I will ask them to give you, in my presence, a summary of their evidence. I will persuade them, if I can, to hear your rebuttal and at least discuss an arbitrated solution.”
“And if arbitration is unsatisfactory to either party?”
“You will offer to waive your immunity and volunteer an appearance in court. If you do that, I will work with Angel-Novalis to secure the best possible interpretation of your situation by the world press.”
“You ask too much, Rossini. You offer too little.”
“It’s the best I can do.”
Aquino stared at him with cold and hostile eyes, then he stood up.
“You did better for Raul Ortega. You recommended him as Ambassador to the Holy See so that you could bring your own mistress to Rome.”
When Rossini did not answer, he added a contemptuous little post-script:
“You seem to have forgotten something. I need permission from the Pontiff before I go to law on any matter. Therefore, I can do nothing until the new Pope is elected. You, however, are free to intervene informally on my behalf. So, if you want to revise your offer of help, call me. There isn’t much time left before the conclave. After that, as the Americans say, it will be a whole new ball-game.”
It was then that the light dawned on Rossini. He let out a long exhalation of surprise, then shook his head in total incredulity.
“You’re right, of course. I was a fool not to see it. You’re not looking for a vindication. All you want is a reprieve – a truce!”
“Precisely. And you’re the best man in Rome to negotiate it!”
“Suppose – just suppose – you were elected Pontiff, what then?”
“Then, as I said, there’s a whole new ball-game. The Pontiff is head of a sovereign State. He is also the leader of a billion believers. He is not answerable to any court on earth. Plenitudo potestatis. The fullness of power. It’s an old concept, but it’s been growing again during this reign. There is much support for it in the electoral college. Think about it, Rossini. But don’t delay. Time’s running out.”
He turned away and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Ten minutes later, a very angry Rossini made his report to the Secretary of State.
“It was a mistake, Turi! I should never have agreed to take the meeting. I can’t stomach the man!”
“No matter.” The Secretary of State shrugged. “He asked for the meeting. We arranged it. You attended! Basta!”
“Do you think he could be elected – with his record?”
“The question’s improper, Luca, but I’ll answer it. His record is clean until he is convicted of misdeeds. He has a small faction of powerful supporters in the Curia. Yes, he could be elected, if only as a stop-gap candidate. There are historic precedents for that. However, don’t ask me to give you betting odds.”
“Another question, Turi. How did Aquino know that I had given you a recommendation on the appointment of Raul Ortega?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t hear it from me. In fact, I haven’t discussed it with anyone. I haven’t shown it to anyone. It’s still locked in my private file. Still, knowing that the Argentinians had made the recommendation, he could easily have guessed that I would refer it to you.”
“So, he still has close ties in Argentina?”
“In Argentina, in Washington, wherever he has served. That’s a merit in a diplomat.”
“There was a threat in his remark about Isabel.”
“And you will be wise to remember it, Luca, now that Señora Ortega is in town. I should tell you that Aquino is aware of her arrival.”
“How the devil would he know that?”
“Again, from the Embassy. He’s been in constant touch with them over the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo. He also suggested to me that there might be a connection between this group and the sudden arrival of Señora Ortega. Is there a connection?”
“I don’t know. I’ll certainly ask Isabel. We’re dining together tonight, with her daughter.”
“I trust you have a pleasant evening.”
“Thank you.”
“I wish you nothing but good, Luca. You know that.”
“I do.”
“So, before you meet, calm down. Get rid of your anger. Enjoy your reunion.”
“Thank you, Turi.”
“Now, I have another job for you. Tomorrow I’d like you to attend a meeting with half-a-dozen elderly members of the College of Cardinals who will not be able to vote because of their age. They want to communicate their views to you and other voting members.”
“I’d like to be excused, Turi. I have reserved tomorrow for private business.”
The Secretary of State was annoyed. He demanded curtly:
“More important than the service you owe here
– at this time?”
“I believe it is, yes.” Suddenly, he was a different man, open and passionate. “Listen to me, Turi, try to understand! What our older colleagues want is what Paul VI denied them – a voice in the conclave, at least a hearing for their own lifetime’s experience. I understand that. I believe they are entitled to it. But for me, Turi, it’s another question altogether. I am in crisis, a desperate darkness. My meeting with Aquino plunged me deeper into it. I’m not sure that I should enter the conclave at all. I am tempted to resign before it begins.”
“Why, Luca? Why?”
“Because I’m not sure I’m a believer anymore. Suddenly, I am bereft. The God I once believed in is a stranger to me. The Church in which I have spent my life – in which I hold, like you, high and honourable office – is a city of strangers. I’m not explaining myself very well, but you understand, I hope, why I need a small space of silence. I am what I was in the beginning – an empty man, a hollow man, with his head full of clear arctic light, and a lump of ice where his heart should be.”
“Both excellent qualifications for a conclavist!” The Secretary of State leaned back in his chair and toyed with a paper-knife. “A clear head and a cold heart. I will not demean you with sympathy. If you decide to resign, I shall regret it, but I beg you to defer your decision until after the conclave. The judgment of an unbeliever, delivered without fear or favour, might help us all.”
“How would that sit with your own conscience, Turi?”
“Perfectly well. I take what you have told me as a confessional confidence. I do not accept your present disposition as in any way final. The dark night of the soul is a familiar phenomenon in spiritual life – indeed it is for some a necessary halting place on the road to Sanctity. In the absence of a formal rejection of faith, I accept you still as a brother in Christ, a colleague in the government of the Church. Does that answer your question?”
“In part, at least. Thank you.”
“Then may I suggest you suspend judgment on our colleague, Aquino. He, like you, has problems of conscience. We should not presume to adjudicate them.”
Rossini bent his head respectfully under the rebuke. Then he grinned. “You’re right, Turi. I’m sorry. Now, please may I have a free day tomorrow?”