Magnificat

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Meaning you aren’t going to tell me any more,” said Willie, cutting himself a slice of melon. “Doesn’t make my job easier if you take that tack with me, Eminence.”

  “I apologize,” said Mendosa, frowning at the use of his title.

  Willie went on as if he had not noticed Mendosa’s displeasure. “If it were possible to use public means, I’d call Dame Leonie Purcell, just to see what she might be able to arrange. She’s officially British Ambassador to Hong Kong now; she’s in a good place to help out. Unofficially, if that’s your preference,” he added as an afterthought.

  “I’m not certain we want to be so…visible,” said Mendosa. He devoured the rest of his cheese-spread roll.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” said Willie, and had another sip of wine. “How very mysterious you are.”

  “I’m sorry it has to be this way,” said Mendosa with an expression of distaste. “Despite the reputation of the Church, I dislike having to use these methods.”

  Willie shrugged. “Well, if you’re convinced that it does need to be this way, then what am I to do?” He cocked his head to the side, taking stock of the Cardinal from Houston. “I respect you, Eminence. I assume that your problem is not trivial and that you are under pressure. Am I correct thus far?”

  “Pretty much,” said Mendosa, his drawl on full.

  “Fine.” He leaned back in his chair and glanced around the restaurant, noting that the party three tables away was dawdling over cordials. “Locate a Zhuang Renxin near Hongya in the middle of China. Right you are. Is that all, or do you want something more.”

  Mendosa caught a sliver of melon on the tines of his fork. “Finding Zhuang Renxin is more than enough, Willie. If you can succeed in locating him and making it possible for someone from the Vatican to…contact him, I will remember you in my prayers from now until the day I die, and always with gratitude.”

  “Gracious,” said Willie in mock astonishment. “I’ll get right on it, Eminence. I can probably use all the prayers I can get.” He helped himself to wine and refilled the Cardinal’s glass. “When do you want this information?”

  “Immediately,” said Mendosa. “But I’ll call you tomorrow evening, and every evening thereafter until you have some news for me.”

  Willie nodded. “And if one of the other Cardinals turns up this fellow for you, what then?”

  “Then I will give you the interview as promised and remember you in my prayers no matter what.” He signaled the waiter and ordered a double espresso, indicating that Willie would order for himself. “I’m counting on your discretion, Willie. I don’t want this leaking to half the press in Europe by tomorrow night. Or next week. Or any time before we authorize it.”

  “I can’t guarantee what any of the rest will do. You say I’m not the only one being contacted about this Chinese guy; well, who’s to say if they’ll keep their mouths shut? A secret is something only one man knows. Otherwise.…” He was not enjoying himself as much as he thought he would, for the prospect of trying to locate an unknown person in central China weighed on him.

  “They may not. But you're the only newsman, and if the others leak the story we’ll be able to trace them.” He took another bit of wine but did not finish the glass. “Prudence, Willie. Prudence.”

  “Sounds worse and worse,” said Willie, then nodded twice. “I’ll keep it quiet as long as possible, but once the story breaks, I’ve got to get on top of it.”

  “I’m not asking you to compromise your professionalism, only to recognize mine,” said Mendosa.

  “Aren’t you?” Willie countered. “Well, you might not be at that, not by your lights, old son.”

  “Thank you,” said Mendosa gravely.

  Willie saw the waiter approaching. “Here comes your coffee.”

  * * *

  Cardinal van Hooven strolled beside the formidable bulk of the Metropolitan Pavel Gosteshenko, pointing out Castel’ Sant’ Angelo on the far side of the bridge. It was warm though the sun was hanging low in the west, and the two men did not press their pace, for heat as much as fatigue and age. Cardinal van Hooven had met the Metropolitan’s plane three hours earlier and had promised his guest a lavish Italian dinner in an hour or so; they were killing time.

  “A fine statue,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko in Russian.

  He was answered in the same tongue. “They repaired it a few years ago. There was metal fatigue involved. Some local engineers were afraid it was no longer securely balanced and might fall.” Cardinal van Hooven indicated the scaffolding around the feet of the angel. “As you see, they are not entirely finished yet.”

  “Still, a fine statue. Not a subject we see often in Russia any more, unfortunately.” He stopped. “That statue must have the best view of the city.”

  “One of them, certainly,” said Cardinal van Hooven.

  “A fine place, Rome, but decadent. It is the very heart of the decadence of the West.” He touched the pectoral crucifix that lay just below his beard.

  “And the East has never been decadent? How badly we in the West have been misinformed,” said Cardinal van Hooven quietly.

  “Ah, that is another matter,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko. “The West has never understood luxury, and indulgence instead of excess. A fine line, I admit. Still, the East knows luxury for what it is.” He laughed suddenly, explosively. “And what do I know of it? As a man of God I turned away from such things before I truly knew what they were.”

  “Does that sadden you?” Cardinal van Hooven asked as he resumed walking.

  “Occasionally. I am a man, and at sixty, I cannot help but reflect on my life. I see others who have committed many sins and who have nonetheless prospered. I see others who have tried to live virtuously who have been cast down. My wife used to say that God punished too much virtue just as He punished too much vice.” He indicated the traffic hurtling down the street. “This is not a luxury, but it is certainly an excess.”

  Cardinal van Hooven smiled. He was dressed in a plain cassock, very little differently than any other priest in Rome, though his lapel pin was indication enough of his rank to anyone who recognized it. “In your view, is it wise for the clergy to marry?”

  Metropolitan Gosteshenko hedged expertly. “Your Church does not think so; my Church does not agree.”

  “And you, Pavel, what do you think?” Cardinal van Hooven waited expectantly as they continued along the street where modern glass-and-steel vied with the Baroque for supremacy.

  “I know I have been a better priest and a better Metropolitan because I had a wife for most of my sixty years. But it may be that I was fortunate in my wife—I am very sure I was—and I may be a poor judge because God sent me Marina.” He looked down into the Dutch Cardinal’s face. “Is that a more acceptable answer?”

  “Oh, there is no question about acceptance,” said Cardinal van Hooven, appearing a little baffled by the challenge. “I am curious, that’s all.”

  “Is it?” the massive Russian asked. His beard was brushed to a high shine and his cheeks were rosy. There was sweat along the band of his hat but he did not seem uncomfortable in spite of his engulfing vestments. “Is there somewhere we can purchase gelato? With national borders opening and closing and changing as they have been doing, who knows when I will have such an opportunity again?”

  Cardinal van Hooven smiled once more. “Halfway down the next block. The raspberry is especially good.”

  After they had purchased their cones and found a marble bench to sit on, the Metropolitan finished half his raspberry-and-bittersweet-chocolate gelato before he said, “What is this all about, my friend?”

  “Your embassy—” Cardinal van Hooven began.

  “What do you want?” Metropolitan Gosteshenko cut in, not rudely. “If we keep up this dance it will be the middle of next year before you or I will know what is going on.” He looked at the remainder of his cone. “Perhaps the West has a little understanding of luxury, after all.”

  It was more than tw
o minutes before Cardinal van Hooven said, “Do you have any useful connections in the People’s Republic?”

  Whatever Metropolitan Gosteshenko was expecting, it was not this. “China? What can you want with China?” He shook his head slowly. “That is one border that has remained closed, at least to us. The British might be more helpful, through Hong Kong.”

  While it did not take Cardinal van Hooven as long to reply this time, he still required a short while to formulate his reply. “We are looking for a person there.”

  “We. The Church? One of your missing priests,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko. “It is related to this…this unusual suspension of the conclave, I would guess? The missing priest—”

  “There is a connection between the recessing of the conclave and the person in China,” said Cardinal van Hooven.

  Metropolitan Gosteshenko ate the rest of his gelato. “Our connections with China are not very good, not even for such benign tasks. We have our adherents there, of course, but they are not many and most are in the north-west. With the political situation so explosive, we must be careful. But I suppose that I might be able to find some assistance if I demanded it. You know how things are for Christians in Russia, though they have improved a little. Christians are worse off in China, Catholic or Orthodox. So.…” He showed the palms of his hands.

  “I feared so,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “Well, I did not suppose it would be possible, but I needed to speak with you, in case. And it was an excellent excuse for a walk through this part of the city…and to have gelato.”

  * * *

  Vitale, Cardinal Cadini was dressed very much as the other professors were: dark slacks, neat polo-style shirt in pale blue, a conservative dark blazer, and dark shoes. He had left his Cardinal’s lapel pins back at the Vatican.

  The man facing him was handsome and fit; he wore an expensive, flashier version of the outfit Cardinal Cadini had on. He was officially on the faculty at Stanford, but he had been in Rome for three years, and before that he had spent two years in China. By birth he was Hungarian, by citizenship, American. He was one of the world’s foremost experts on authenticating European antiquities. His office was crowded with books, and he had to move a stack of them from one of the two visitors’ chairs to give Cardinal Cadini a place to sit.

  “So, Cardinal Cadini,” said the man who now called himself Martin Bell. “This is an—”

  “An unexpected pleasure?” the old Cardinal asked with mischief in his bright little eyes, which he now opened very wide, giving him the look of a sagacious baby.

  “Something like that. With your current debates, I would have thought you’d have no time for academics.” He smiled easily as if he were facing an undergraduate in California instead of a Cardinal in Rome.

  “I do have a doctorate,” said Cardinal Cadini with equal ease. “It’s a trifle rusty, but it looks well on my wall.”

  Bell’s curiosity had risen higher than when the Cardinal’s office had called to ask for this appointment. “In anthropology, if memory serves. You placed high in your class, as I recall reading.”

  “Fourth,” said Cardinal Cadini.

  “Impressive,” said Bell, waiting for the reason for this visit.

  Cardinal Cadini gave him the full weight of his smile: it was a smile that had melted the hearts of Communists and Arab leaders as well as Europeans and American—North and South—politicians. “I was hoping you might be willing to help us out. We’re having a problem locating someone. I thought you would have contacts in the People’s Republic of China—”

  “The PRC?” Bell asked, startled by the question, though he recovered quickly. “I suppose I might have—I can reach faculty in most universities.”

  “And what about…oh, ordinary people?” Cardinal Cadini asked.

  Bell shrugged eloquently. “Possibly, if they are living near one of the sites I have visited, or something along those lines. I have friends in Beijing who are more current in their—”

  “This person lives in Szechwan Province, or so we believe.” Cardinal Cadini said it as if he were asking for nothing more unusual than the address of an associate.

  “Szechwan Province,” Martin Bell repeated, so nonplused that he could think of nothing else to say.

  “The name of the town nearest is Hongya.”

  “A missing priest?” Bell asked, regaining his sense of control. “Why would the conclave adjourn for a missing priest?”

  “This is not a missing priest,” said Cardinal Cadini promptly. “Aside from the location and the name, we know nothing about this man. But it appears that he may have information we need.” It was the most he was willing to reveal, and he spoke hesitantly, his eyes directly on Bell. “I will be pleased to explain it all to you once this person is located and we have learned…what we need to know.”

  “Well.” Martin Bell sat back, his face almost blank. “I don’t know what to say, Eminence.” He pursed his mouth as he considered. “Really, I don’t know.”

  “Can you help us?” Cardinal Cadini asked with another display of his engaging smile.

  Bell pondered, heavier lines settling into his face. “I don’t know. I doubt it. I wish it weren’t the case, but.… If the politics there were more settled, I might be able to find a way, but just at present, with Zuo only now coming into power, no one knows what to expect.”

  “Of course,” said Cardinal Cadini. “Zuo Nangkao must be taken into account.”

  “In six or eight months I’ll have a better idea how things are, and I may be in a position to assist you then.” He did his best to be encouraging but there was something in his eyes that warned Cardinal Cadini that Professor Bell wanted no part of this search. “If you have not located this man by then, come to me and I’ll do whatever I can for you.”

  Cardinal Cadini had been serving the Church in diplomatic posts for too long not to recognize what Martin Bell was telling him. He got to his feet and sketched a blessing in Bell’s direction. “Thank you for all you have done already, my son. I will try not to compromise your work by making any more embarrassing requests of you.”

  “Your Eminence,” Bell protested without conviction, “I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Cardinal Cadini, his expression candid as a baby’s. “I am grateful to you for listening to me. I know I can depend on your confidence regarding our…missing person.”

  Martin Bell was more distressed. “Please. As soon as six months have passed, I will be able to do something, I’m certain of it.”

  “I am relieved to hear it,” said Cardinal Cadini as he left Professor Bell alone in his office.

  * * *

  From the window of his Milan office, Cyril Obata could see most of the city. At the moment he was watching the traffic jam building up between the train station and the Cathedral. He glanced at his watch and allowed his visitor five minutes’ leeway for his appointment. Ordinarily he demanded absolute promptness of those who claimed his valuable time—and at sixty he thought he was old enough to watch time closely—but with the mess on the street, he supposed that Dominique, Cardinal Hetre, would be late.

  He was wrong: four minutes later Obata’s appointments secretary announced the arrival of the French-Canadian Prince of the Church, three minutes early.

  Cyril Obata bowed as Cardinal Hetre entered the room. He was disappointed to see that the Cardinal had not worn his scarlet vestments. “Your Eminence.” He held out his hand just as Cardinal Hetre offered a slight bow.

  In a black silk twill cassock piped in red, Cardinal Hetre was not as grand as Obata would have liked him to be, but no one could mistake him for a parish priest. He had been extending his hand so that Obata could kneel and kiss his ring, but turned the gesture so that he shook the Japanese-Canadian industrialist’s hand. “Thank you for seeing me, Mister Obata,” said the Cardinal in English.

  “It is an honor to have you here,” Obata answered, his accent that of his native Ottawa. “What have we two Canadia
ns to do here, Your Eminence?” He indicated the conversation area of his office, and the two matched sofas upholstered in pale leather. “Please. Let us be comfortable while we talk.”

  “Thank you,” said Cardinal Hetre. He chose the sofa with the tall window behind him; he disliked heights, he had the start of a headache, and offices like this one made him queasy.

  Obata saw his choice as a courtesy, a gesture that indicated their conversation was more important than anything going on beyond them. He took the other sofa and signaled for his personal assistant while he waited for Cardinal Hetre to speak.

  “Both of us were born in Canada, and both so far away,” Cardinal Hetre began just as Obata’s personal assistant approached. “Do you miss it?”

  “Canada?” Obata guessed correctly. “Sometimes, yes. But it was not an easy thing to be Japanese in Canada, not while I was a boy. I haven’t much nostalgia. And a man in my position cannot afford nostalgia, so it’s just as well. Italy is a beautiful place, Osaka is a beautiful place, Montevideo is a beautiful place, Amsterdam is a beautiful place, Perth is a beautiful place.…” He shrugged. “What may I do to serve you?”

  Cardinal Hetre did not seem to hear the question. “But not like Canada. There is something remarkable about Canada.” He looked up suddenly, as if he had only just realized where he was. “Pardon me—what did you say?”

  “I said,” Obata responded patiently, “that my assistant will bring you whatever you wish. We have coffees and teas from all over the world, the best wines, whatever you might wish to drink, and if you would like a meal, you may order whatever—”

  “A Cotes Sauvages, eight years old at least, if you will, and strong coffee afterward,” said Cardinal Hetre, as if he were putting an unpleasant necessity behind him. “I thank you for your hospitality.”

  Cyril Obata had been told that Cardinal Hetre could be an abrupt man, but he had not anticipated quite this degree of curtness. He said to his assistant, “A very good notion. I will have the same,” dismissing him with a wave when he was done.