Eminence

by Morris West

  The Secretary of State toyed with the paper-knife on his desk. Rossini made a flat statement.

  “If you want to emphasise the theft, you need more evidence against Stagni. If you want to salvage any of the policies of His late Holiness, you won’t do it by polarising the electors. The whole Church is in stasis at the moment. The See is vacant. We’re all sitting under that symbolic umbrella, waiting for a new sun to rise upon us.”

  “Something has to be done.” Angel-Novalis was a man secure in his own convictions. “I shall be asked for comment. I cannot refuse to give it.”

  “Then you work within the conventions of your office,” said the Secretary of State. “You are already on record with a personal and public statement at the Press Club. Repeat it, by all means, but remember, you’re playing entr’acte music here until the curtain goes up on the big act, the election of a new Pope. That act hasn’t been written yet. It would be a great mistake if you, in your zeal for an impossible justice, tried to meddle with the script.”

  “Let me be sure I understand, Eminence. You are instructing me to work within the discretions of my office?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Then I had best be about my business. By your leave, Eminences.”

  When the door had closed behind him, Rossini offered a mild protest.

  “You gave him a rough ride, Turi.”

  “He has a good seat on a horse,” the Secretary of State allowed himself a grim smile, “but he was trained in the Spanish riding school: it’s a wonderful style for dressage, but it’s not best for a long cross-country steeplechase.”

  It was late in the afternoon when Rossini left his office, walked out of Vatican City by the Porta Angelica, and headed down the Borgo Sant’ Angelo towards the river. It had been a long day. Now, a black depression had settled over him. He was haunted by the childhood fairy-tale of the boy who lost his shadow. He had no point of reference any more. He was an empty man going nowhere.

  It seemed an age, though it was only six hours, since he had said his farewells to Isabel and Luisa. They were still in the hotel. They would be there until the morning. He was consumed with desire to see them again, but it was better not to revisit so soon the scene of their mutual grief. Their farewells had been said. There was nothing to add to the last halting words of tenderness. The embraces that were meant for solace had now become painful for Isabel. He cherished the hope, however faint, that he might visit her in New York after the conclave. For the moment, he would walk silent and alone in his own darkness and wait for sunrise, if indeed sunrise would ever come again.

  Then he remembered, he had at least to contact Luisa and give the instructions, which the Secretary of State had provided, for contact with him during the conclave. He had proposed to fax them to her at the hotel, but the Secretary had demurred. Security was involved. Hotel message desks were places of notorious risk.

  So, when finally he reached the river and stepped on to the Ponte Sant’Angelo, he dialled the number of the hotel and asked to be put through to Luisa’s room. He was relieved but embarrassed when she answered. He hurried to explain:

  “I’ve managed to set up a communication link which you can use while we’re in conclave. It’s quite official, but it depends on accurate use of the time difference and direct access to the named person. So I want you to copy it carefully as I dictate, then read it back to me, then make sure you have it always with you. The Vatican’s a big place; soon it’s going to be a very crowded place. Until the conclave is over, this is the only link I’ll have with you. Understood?”

  “Understood. I’m sitting here with pen and paper ready.”

  He dictated the information slowly, spelling out each word, repeating each number. Then he had her call it back to him, making sure her spelling and pronunciation were accurate. It was only when it was all done that he felt free to ask her:

  “How is your mother?”

  “She had a bad hour after you left, but she’s better now. I’ve just been in to see her. She’s sleeping. Later I’ll take her up to the restaurant for dinner. All the packing’s done. We won’t have to scramble in the morning.”

  “Would you like me to come and see her this evening?”

  “Better not, I think. Why put yourselves through it again.”

  “You’re right, of course. Just tell her I called and give her all my love.”

  “I’d like a small share of it for myself.”

  “You have it. You will have it always.”

  “And how are you holding up, Luca?”

  “I’m marching forward – even though I’m not sure where I am going.”

  “I’m not either. It is just beginning to dawn on me what losing a mother means.”

  Instantly he was filled with tenderness for her plight. The loss of a parent was like the cutting of a tap root. The flow of nourishment from the past ceased abruptly. The future became an uncertainty.

  “My dear girl, nobody is ever ready for anything. The moment comes, you deal with it. That’s the tax we all pay for being human. And let me tell you something else, which your mother has learned and I am still trying to learn. There are moments for all of us from which God seems absent and we are left in darkness and terribly alone. We work our way forward like the blind, tapping the way before us with a stick, hoping the ground remains firm, and that whatever creatures we encounter will be friendly. There are no guarantees, ever. We keep ourselves open to love, because, without it, we become feral beasts.”

  There was silence on the line, so that he thought he had lost her. Then, in an odd strained voice, she asked:

  “Do you pray, Luca?”

  “I say the words. I do not know who hears.”

  “Will you say them for us – for me and for Mother?”

  “Of course.”

  “And we’ll pray for you. I’ll be in touch from New York.” There was another brief silence before she demanded: “Tell me you love me, please!”

  “I love you, my daughter.”

  “I love you, Papa.”

  The connection was broken. He put his mobile back in his pocket, then leaned against the stone balustrade, staring through a mist of tears at the grey water.

  Twelve

  Monsignor Domingo Angel-Novalis was a punctilious man. He was also an angry man. There was no heat in his anger, only a frosty calculation. Things were amiss; they must be set right. Ideas were muddled; they must be made clear. Time was running out: there remained less than a week before the Cardinal electors went into conclave. After that, the words and deeds of a dead Pontiff would be yesterday’s news, fit only for pulping. Therefore the record must be set straight immediately. So, from the moment he left the office of the Secretary of State, Angel-Novalis had been very busy.

  First, he called a colleague in Rio de Janeiro, one of those laymen who, in Opus Dei, were called ‘numeraries’. His name was Eduardo da Souza and he was the editor of a large conservative newspaper. Angel-Novalis asked him to call up from his files every available piece of information on the lately arrived Claudio Stagni. He would like the information in three hours. Possible? Of course. According to the Blessed founder, nothing was impossible if the cause was good and God was on your side.

  His next call was more difficult, because he was a proud man and he hated to be indebted to anyone. The proper order of things was that the media carne to him for news. He never had to beg for space or attention. Today, he was ready, if not to beg, at least to call in some favours. His most likely target was Frank Colson of the Daily Telegraph, who had been his interlocutor at the Foreign Press Club. The Telegraph had missed out on the bidding for the Papal diaries. Colson might well be disposed to file a final story, before the forthcoming election blanked out the immediate past. Colson was open to the idea. They arranged to meet at the Caffè Greco at five-thirty.

  Angel-Novalis spent the next two hours in his office putting together a tersely reasoned story on the suspect provenance of the Papal diaries, and the possibili
ty that the texts would be used to change radically the disciplinary policies of the late Pontiff. It was nearly five o’clock when the e-mail answer came from Rio:

  Claudio Stagni has taken a three year lease on an expensive apartment in a high-security block on the Rua Lisboa. His household staff consists of a cook, a maid and a chauffeur-bodyguard, hired through a bonded agency. Given the moral tolerances of this city, there is nothing to excite comment on Stagni’s lifestyle. He has a fondness for handsome young men, readily available in this city, and is said to be seeking acquaintances in literary and artistic circles. He has begun to frequent local art galleries and has been entertained by a couple of local publishers who are interested in the work in progress dealing with his life in the service of the late Pontiff. He seems acutely aware of the risks of a too public or too dissipated life in this city. He presents the discreetly low profile of a literary gentleman of substantial means. On the other hand, he does not neglect the company of women – provided they are of a certain age and addicted to fashionable gossip. In short, he is a very cool customer who knows exactly what he wants, and is very clever at getting it.

  There are, however, a couple of useful footnotes. Brazil is on the verge of signing extradition treaties with certain countries, like Great Britain. Stagni has consulted a well-known lawyer, with whom we have connections, to advise whether he is at risk in any matter. I do not believe that Italy or Vatican City State are listed as treaty prospects, but I can enquire, and it would do no harm to begin a small campaign of harassment to unsettle him.

  This is a common game in this country, which produced some sinister by-products, like the ‘Squadrons of Death’ and other forms of violent vigilantism. I do not for a moment suggest you could contemplate such methods to achieve your aims. However, there are simpler ways of unsettling an undesirable resident. If I get any good ideas, I’ll let you know. Meantime, I’ll keep digging.

  Fraternally yours, Eduardo da Souza.

  It wasn’t much; but it provided a text for his discussion with Frank Colson. He printed it out, shoved it into his briefcase with his own material, then tapped out a reply to da Souza:

  Many thanks for your time and trouble. Stagni seems to have built himself a solid bunker. One can only hope that one day he may be flushed out. There is no way one could condone violent harassment, but a buzzing of insects can create an unease.

  Fraternally yours, Domingo Angel-Novalis.

  When the message had been transmitted, he switched off the machine and hurried out to his appointment with Colson at the Caffè Greco.

  Colson sipped his coffee and read carefully through the documents. Then he shook his head.

  “There’s nothing new here – certainly nothing to warrant a story of any size.”

  “You’re missing the point, Frank! Stagni has always been suspect, as a thief of the Pontiff’s diaries, as an utterer of forged supporting documents.”

  “Suspect, yes; but never accused, because there’s zero evidence on either count.”

  “But obviously he’s scared of something; why else would he consult a lawyer in Brazil?”

  “And why would that lawyer be ready to breach a client’s confidence?”

  “He’s a friend of friends. He was stretching a point to do us a favour.”

  “God preserve us from such lawyers! And you, Monsignor, should be careful of such friends.”

  “You are still missing the point, Frank: the internal evidence of the text; the Pontiff recanting his policies. I’ve worked for him for a long time. I can’t imagine his colluding with a valet on a project of destruction.”

  “He wrote the text!” Colson was testy. “Why? Surely not to have it buried for centuries in the Secret Archive? We all write to communicate to someone. The valet was the last human being he spoke to at night. He was the most natural mediator between the Pontiff and whatever constituency he wanted to reach!”

  “If you’re saying that constituency is the Church at large, you’re mistaken! All his efforts have been to confirm the authority of the hierarchy and reduce the intervention of the laity. Why would he set out to damage his own life-work?”

  “Because, in the end, he didn’t like it! Sculptors destroy their works. Painters slash their canvases. To me, this reads like a warning confession: ‘The structure I have built is faulty. Don’t put too much more stress on it. Extend in other directions. Look to the foundations.’”

  “I don’t read it that way, Frank!”

  “How, then?”

  “A sudden failure of nerve on the part of a very old and over-worked man. In panic, he confessed a private fear. What he wrote fell into the hands of a thief. Now it can be used to subvert the spiritual life of the Church.”

  “Subvert? That’s a strong, positive word. You are saying that the Pontiff, himself, wrote the formula for subversion.”

  “I don’t believe he intended it to be so used.”

  “The text is clear. If that doesn’t hold good, who is to interpret his intention?”

  “The new Pontiff. Nothing changes while the See is vacant.”

  Colson could not restrain a smile.

  “That, my dear Monsignor, is pure myth and fairy-tale. Of course things change! Views, policies, colorations, they all change as we speak, as the prelates gather in religious institutes all over the city. The world doesn’t wait for a new resident in the Papal apartments – it just keeps spinning and we, poor devils, hang on to it by the skin of our teeth.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Frank. I had hoped …”

  “Relax, my friend. You’ll get your story.. I’ll have to rejig it a little, use some of the things we’ve just been talking about; but, yes, we’ll give the subject a good airing.”

  “Thank you. At least I can feel that I have performed a piety for him. I shan’t forget this service, Frank.”

  “I’ve never seen you eager to plant a story.”

  “I am furious. A wrong has been done. I want to see it righted.”

  “The best way to do that is to replay the event in the centre of the stage and let the audience make up its mind. Do you mind if I leave now? I’ve got to get this written and on its way to London.”

  “Will it make tomorrow’s edition?”

  “I hope so. I asked them to reserve space.”

  “But I thought you said there was nothing new in it?”

  “An old trick, Monsignor: make the narrator justify his plot-line. Your text was good. Your performance was much more eloquent.”

  Monsignor Angel-Novalis ordered himself another cup of coffee and a piece of chocolate cake. He was too intelligent a man not to know that he had been jockeyed into an indiscretion. He was no longer relaying official Vatican opinion but adding personal commentary. On the other hand, what did it matter? His time in office was running out. Under a new Pontiff, Opus Dei itself might well be due for a sojourn in the deserts of official disfavour. That was the nature of life in an imperial Church. Religious institutes were the duchies and baronies, and marquisates and corporations of the commons, where property and money, man and woman power were assembled at the disposition of a Pontiff for the people of God. Sometimes they stood high in favour. Sometimes they fell from both grace and favour. It was rare, however, that their official patents were rescinded. It required a big blot on the escutcheon to have it withdrawn altogether.

  So, calm and patience, Domingo! You have tried to protect the honour of a man whom you served with honour. If you stumbled in this final service and spilt wine on the carpet, apologise and mop it up and retire with as much dignity as you can muster. If God grants it, there will be a new day tomorrow.

  Now that his own story was safely bedded down, Angel-Novalis thought he might make a detour to the Foreign Press Club and see what other stories were being floated around the globe, and how the betting list on the new Pontiff was beginning to shape itself. He checked his wallet to see that he had cash enough for a couple of rounds of drinks at the bar. He himself drank only mine
ral water, but he believed that a salaried cleric should pay his score like the rest of humanity. He noted with amusement that Frank Colson had left him to pick up the check for the coffee. He paid it and headed out into the noisy autumn evening.

  At the Press Club, Fritz Ulrich was jubilant over the editorial presentation of his piece on the Janissaries of the Ottoman Empire. An astute editor had spotted the possibilities of the article and had inflated it into a two-page spread with illustrations by a noted satirical cartoonist, Georg Albrecht Kirchner.

  Ulrich’s simple analogy between the Janissaries and the celibate clergy of the Roman Church, diminished in numbers, plagued by sexual scandals and large damage suits arising out of them, had been interpreted into the context of a global confrontation between Christianity and a resurgent fundamentalist Islam. It was a powerful piece, and there was much praise for it. Steffi Guillermin was generous in tribute.

  “I confess, Fritz, I didn’t give it enough attention when you talked about it. But with this display and with the cartoons underlining the allegory, it’s great. There’ll be lots of discussion points: Algeria, Serbia, Indonesia, Pakistan …”

  “I am proud of it.” Ulrich was delighted as a schoolboy. “And Kirchner is so clever. See how simple he makes it look: switch the mitres for turbans, then emphasise the vestments on the one side and the panoply of the Ottoman troops on the other. Presto! The theme is clear, and my text makes the argument! How is your own piece coming – the portrait of Cardinal Rossini?”