by Morris West
To which, as Luisa put it, there was only one sensible answer: pay the man and get the hell back to New York. Isabel protested. Luisa refused to listen.
“I’ve already made the arrangements, Mother!”
“What arrangements?”
“I’ve called Señora Lodano and told her you can’t go to Switzerland. She regrets that you are ill. She thanks you for your help yesterday. She tells you to go with God back to New York. I’ve rearranged our travel. We leave tomorrow midday on a Delta flight to Kennedy. The concierge has done the ticketing. I’ll do your packing. I’ve called Father. He’ll pick us up at JFK.”
Isabel was furious.
“I swore I’d never let this happen. I refuse to surrender control of my own life. You understand what I’m saying, Luca! Tell her!”
Rossini laid a soothing hand on her wrist. She jerked away from his touch. He reasoned with her quietly.
“My love, your own body is telling you that it’s time to surrender. You know that. Doctor Mottola explained to me and to Luisa that even if you did stay on, you’d have to go to Milan for treatment, and it would be no way comparable to the treatment you would get in New York. Please believe me!”
“I was counting on doing so much with Luisa. I made so many plans.”
“Mother, I’ll settle for having you safe and cared for at home.”
Isabel beat on the coverlet with clenched fists.
“You can’t settle for anything! This is my life! Let me spend it the way I want!”
“Please listen, my love.” Rossini was persuasive but firm. “Do you remember what you used to say when you were nursing me at the estancia? ‘Save your angers. Live on the strength others will lend you. Fight from friendly territory.’ To stay here will only deplete your strength. Even among the kindest people, the traveller is always a stranger. If I could be with you, it might be easier, but I have nothing to offer you. I’m in bondage. Even if I break the bonds – which I well may – what am I? A man in his fifties with no prospects. What can I offer you?”
Isabel closed her eyes and lay back exhausted on the pillow. Luisa drew the covers about her, kissed her and moved towards the door of the bedroom. Rossini followed, closing the door behind him. Luisa said:
“That was the saddest thing I have ever heard, Luca.”
“I had to say it.”
“I know. Can you stay a while longer?”
“Of course. I’ll talk to my office from here. You should try to get some sleep. Hang out the ‘Do not disturb’ sign.”
“Promise you’ll wake me before you leave the hotel. We have to talk, too. This is our last chance.”
“I promise. Go!”
When she had left, Rossini called his office; the only urgent message was from the Secretary of State. When he phoned in, the Secretary asked:
“Where are you now?”
“At the Grand Hotel. Señora Ortega was taken ill last night. I called Doctor Mottola to see her. He recommends her immediate return to the United States. She leaves with her daughter in the morning.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. When do you expect to be free?”
“About noon.”
“Let’s have coffee and a sandwich in my office at one o’clock. There are things we need to discuss. Aquino called me this morning. He told me about your meeting yesterday with Señora Lodano. Apparently it came off well.”
“Better than I expected; but, as always, there’s a price-tag.”
“Ah yes, the presence of the press! A pity you didn’t let me know in advance. I should have counselled against that.”
“Then you would still have had the war on your hands, Turi. This way at least you have a truce – and you can always blame me for any backlash.”
“In the circumstances, I wonder why you didn’t ask Angel-Novalis to monitor the meeting.”
“Because their documents – and ours, Turi – cast certain shadows on the conduct of Opus Dei. Angel-Novalis is a good man. I preferred not to embarrass him – or ourselves.”
“You were probably right. I’m told also you made a guest appearance at the Angelicum last night.”
“News travels fast in this town!”
“And there’s a lot of it floating around just now. We have a note from our Nuncio in Brazil. Claudio Stagni has surfaced in Rio. He’s living in a rented apartment in a certain style. He’s accompanied everywhere by a bodyguard.”
“That does argue a certain style.” Rossini laughed. “I wonder who guards the bodyguard. I’m told there are some very rough players in Rio. Is there anything else, Turi?”
“The rest can wait until we meet. I’m sorry to hear about Señora Ortega, but I’m sure it’s wise that she gets home as soon as possible. Rome is fast becoming unlivable. Until later then.”
When Rossini went back into the bedroom, he found Isabel awake and out of bed. She had put on a robe, brushed her hair, and smelt of lemon flowers. She kissed him but winced when he touched her. He withdrew instantly. She explained.
“I’m better now; but my joints ache and my skin is very sensitive. I’m sorry I behaved so badly. Where’s Luisa?”
“Resting in her room. She wants to talk to me before I leave.”
“I’m sorry, Luca!” She led him out to the salone. “This was meant to be a happy time. Now look at us! We’re smothering you with trouble.”
“Please, my love. My problem is that I’m working with one hand tied behind my back. I’m on call at all hours – I have no practice in family life.”
Then, without warning, she cracked. The words came out in a tumbling rush.
“I’m scared, Luca! I can’t face going home! All those hours in an aircraft, all that waiting in line for passport check, all that jostling for luggage. My body hurts most of the time now, somewhere or other. The pain is not intolerable but it never leaves me. When we get home, Raul will be there. He’ll be charming and solicitous. The house will be full of flowers. The staff will be careful of me.” She gave a small shaky laugh. “I tell you, my love, the Ortegas run a very classy hotel! But that’s what it is, a hotel in which we all have separate rooms. Mine will have to be turned into a clinic – until they ship me out for terminal care. And yet, come right down to it, what do I have to complain of? Nothing really! Ever since I was young, I grabbed the tree of life and shook it and gorged myself on the fruits that fell into my hands. Now, very soon, it will be time to go … What was the little Latin verse you taught me ‘Satis something’… ?
“‘Satis bibisti, satis ludisti tempus est abire.’”
“That’s it! The drinking’s over, the playing’s over, it’s time to leave. That frightens me most of all, Luca. Leave for what? And who will be waiting for me on the other side of the river?”
And there it lay, clear and unblinking as the eye of Horus, a question from the loved one in terror of the final parting. He would not lie to her, yet he could not cheat her of the consolation of the Word, of which he, Luca, Cardinal Rossini, was still a professing and accredited servant. She reached for his hands and held them as he talked softly and persuasively.
“Nobody knows what happens after death, my love. We have only symbols and parables to express our desires, our hopes and our beliefs. It is not only the unknown which frightens us, but the loss of the known – the things to which we cling, as though they were given to us in perpetuity instead of as temporary support. When we are born, strange but loving hands receive us into a strange new world. When we die, we believe, though we do not know, that we shall be received with love, into another world altogether. When he was dying, our Lord cried out in agony and despair, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me!’ When he died, it was with relief, commending himself into the hands of his Father!”
“I’m not Jesus Christ.” There was a weary mockery in her voice. “More like Mary Magdalen.”
“To whom many sins were forgiven, because she had loved much.”
“Will you hear my confession, please, Luca?”
&n
bsp; The request surprised him more than the declaration of her fears. It put him to a more stringent test. From the winter of doubt in which he dwelt, he was thrust back into the formalism of which Piers Hallett had accused him. Yet, once again, he could not refuse her.
“If you’re sure that’s what you want, yes. But you should not tax yourself with a long recitation. Say simply what you think you have done wrong. Express your sorrow, your desire to change. Then I’ll give you absolution.”
Isabel frowned and shook her head.
“I know you want to make everything easy for me, Luca, but I have no intention of reciting a list for you: how many lusts, how many rages, how many lies. I want to tell you the real truths: what I am to myself, what I have been to Raul and Luisa – yes, even to you who are dearer to me than anything in the world. Will you listen, please? I don’t want ever to go through this again. I couldn’t …”
“You won’t have to.” Again, the ritual intonation coloured his own voice. “Each absolution is a new beginning.” He disengaged his hands from her grasp, reached for the pectoral cross under his jacket and held it up to her view like a rood-screen between their past and their present relationship. “Tell me what’s troubling you.”
This time, there was no panic rush of words, but a slow piecemeal recitation, as if the tale tasted bitter on her tongue.
“As long as I can remember, I have always wanted to be a winner. Whatever I did. I had to be the best and the cleverest. If I couldn’t be that, then I lost interest in the game. No, that’s not quite true. If l couldn’t win today, I would wait until tomorrow or the next day, until the moment when everyone else thought I had lost interest. Then I would step up to the mark again and carry off the prize. Looking back, I realise that, like the old brigands and gangsters, I travelled always armed and dangerous. It wasn’t malice, I think. I had nothing to be malicious about. It was the jungle thrill – kill or be killed. That’s why my father and I were so close. He was a daring man. When he tossed me the rifle that day and told me to kill the sergeant, he put his life and the lives of all the villagers in my hands; but he knew I could do it! That’s not a boast. It’s part of the truth. I’ve said a lot of bad things about Raul and all of them are true. The one thing I haven’t said, which is also true, is that he wouldn’t play the game I was playing, so I could never beat him. Because I couldn’t beat him, I could never forgive him. The terrible thing was that there were moments, months even, when I knew that with a little generosity on my part, we could have come closer together. Even when I discovered that I was very ill, I was too proud to plead for a truce, too angry to give one more inch of ground. You asked me the other day, did he know about you and me. He knew about the killing. For the rest, he seemed ready to accept that you were a broken man for whom I had been caring. He said simply, ‘That was the least you could do for a poor devil like that. Let’s talk no more of it!’ And we never did, which was another bitter pill to swallow. You were important to me; but you were not important to him. I was furious when he sauntered off, like a duellist refusing to engage an opponent whom he thought unworthy.”
“If you were so desperate for revenge,” said Luca Rossini, “I wonder why you didn’t tell him about Luisa? You said you always travelled armed and dangerous, why did you surrender that weapon?”
“I knew that if I used it, I could lose both her and you. I couldn’t face that.”
Rossini made no comment. He was still the minister conducting a ritual. The rest of him had retreated into a camouflage. He asked:
“You are telling me, are you not, that you refused any reconciliation with your husband?”
“Yes.”
“How can you, therefore, ask to be reconciled with God?”
“That’s why I need your help.”
“Are you sorry for what you have done?”
“I am sincerely sorry.”
“Do you remember the Act of Contrition.”
“It’s a long time since I said it.”
“Say it now, please.”
She recited the words as formally as he had prompted them. “O my God, I am sorry with all my heart for the offences I have committed …” When the brief prayer was over, Rossini admonished her again.
“You must try now to mend, if you can, the damage you have done. You are required to do penance.”
“I don’t have too much time to do either.”
“One act will suffice for both. When you go home, tell your husband what you have found the words to tell me.”
“And beg him to forgive me?”
“Why not put it another way? Can we at least forgive each other – please?”
“That’s the hardest part, isn’t it? One word: please. Can you explain me to Luisa?”
“No. You must do that, too. My guess is that she already understands most of it.”
“I’ll try. Now, please will you tell me I’m forgiven.”
He raised his hand, made the sign of the cross and pronounced the words of absolution. “I absolve you for your sins, in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
Isabel stood up. Her face was drawn and pale. Her eyes were moist with unshed tears, but her voice was steady.
“Thank you; but haven’t you forgotten something?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Shouldn’t you say, ‘Go in peace’. We both know this is goodbye.”
“There are no goodbyes,” said Luca Rossini softly. “Love is the only thing we carry with us across the river. We’ve done this before. Remember what you said to me: ‘Let’s do it in style, Luca. Heads high, no tears and no looking back.’”
“Hold me gently when you kiss me, my love. I hurt all over.”
He found Luisa sitting at the desk in her bedroom writing postcards. There were suitcases open on the bed. He had to clear a space so that he could perch himself on a corner of the mattress. Luisa shifted her chair so that she could face him; but she made no move to come closer. She asked:
“How’s Mother?”
“She’s calm now. She’s ready to go home. She just needed some help and reassurance.”
“Thank you for giving it to her.”
“She needs help from you, too. She wants desperately to be reconciled with Raul before she dies.”
“Reconciled?” Luisa seemed shocked. “What exactly does she expect?”
“She wants to say she’s sorry. Her problem will be to find the moment and the words.”
“That’s my problem, too, Luca. I can’t find the words I need to say to you.”
“Perhaps I can help.” This was not ritual anymore. There was no formula to recite. He continued with a grin. “You don’t know how to cope with me. I’m the pebble in your shoe that hurts when you walk. Am I right?”
“Yes.”
“And you love Raul, who is more of a father to you than I can ever be, and soon there will be grief in the house when your mother goes. So there’s no time now to build anything between you and me.”
“All of that, yes! But it seems such a waste. I like you, Luca. I think I could begin to love you. I suppose I should read some history and find out how Renaissance prelates got along with their sons and daughters.”
Rossini laughed. “They enriched their sons and made important marriages for their daughters. It doesn’t work like that anymore. Times have changed.”
“But I don’t have any time. There’s not enough me! And you’re owned by that, that great big sprawling monster of a Church.”
“It commands my services.” There was an edge to his reply. “It doesn’t own me.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“I know what you mean. I’m like the centurion in the Gospel. They say to me, ‘Come’, and I come, ‘Go,’ and I go. But there’s something else, more important. You have your own life to make. If you want to be a good artist, you’ll need to travel, meet the old masters and the new ones. You’ll need to travel light. A Cardinal for a father is too mu
ch baggage to carry – but here or some other place, you may find him useful.”
“Please, Luca! I don’t want you to write me out of your life altogether.”
“How could I possibly do that? You are my daughter. I am written into you forever. When you have children, I’ll be written into them, too. There’ll always be a genetic inscription that reads ‘Luca Rossini – his mark!’ Quite awesome when you come to think of it! Now, may I kiss my daughter goodbye?”
“You’ve had a rough morning, Luca.” It was an observation, not a question from the Secretary of State.
“You might call it that, Turi. I had hoped Isabel and I would have some time together after the conclave; but we shan’t have it. We’ve said our goodbyes. I have a favour to ask you.”
“Ask it, please.”
“I know we’re held incommunicado during the conclave. I know also that there’s an open channel of communication from the Sacred Penitentiary and the Vicar-General of Saint Peter’s. I’d like to be able to receive news of Isabel. Her daughter has agreed to keep me informed. Can you arrange a reliable intermediary to pass messages. Doctor Mottola warned me that the final collapse could occur quite soon. I’d like to give Luisa the contact details before she leaves in the morning.”
“Leave it with me, Luca. I’ll make arrangements and call you this evening.”
“You’re a good friend, Turi.”
“Is this likely to be a painful exit for her?”
“It can be – even with the best of palliative care. We’re back to the old questions, aren’t we? When does palliation become positive intervention, and does the Almighty demand death by crucifixion?”
“We all have a lot of questions to face during the conclave, Luca. That’s why I’ve asked you here.” Swiftly, as he had acknowledged the subject, he was off it again. “Coffee or tea? And I’ve finally taught them in the kitchen to make English sandwiches. They’re very good.”
“I’ll take tea, Turi. But you won’t play parlour games with me, will you? I’m not in the mood.”
The Secretary of State moved briskly to the text of his agenda.
“You’ve already begun to see the electoral factions defining themselves, Luca. They’ll shift, of course, during the conclave, and they may shift quite dramatically, because no one is accountable, except to God or his own self-interest, for any change of allegiance during the voting processes.”