Magnificat

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I hope he isn’t planning to harp on that again,” whispered the producer to his assistant. “We’ll have the IRS down our necks again, sure as shit.”

  “How are we to respond to this?” Reverend Williamson raked his eyes over his congregation as camera four closed in on the blonde girl in row ten. “How are we, as true Christians, to answer these accusations? We stand on Scripture for our authority, but the tools of the Antichrist mock Scripture and deny that the Word of God is present in these holy writings. We are told by experts that the Bible is in error. Only a month ago the Vatican Congress released a first report on early Christian writings, and shocked every right-thinking Christian in the world with the lies and profanities of what they claim to have discovered in the Vatican Library. How can we, as committed believers in Jesus Christ, stand idly by and see the teaching of Jesus emasculated by academic intellectuals bent on perverting the Scriptures?”

  “Make sure we get a good look at the choir, too,” said the producer to the director.

  On the floor the director nodded and muttered something into his headset.

  “To complete this disgraceful travesty, Cardinal Cadini has told the United Nations that the Vatican is planning to release a portion of its financial reserves to a new fund the United Nations shall establish and administer for famine and epidemic relief around the world. The Cardinal said that the funds were given unconditionally so long as they were used for the stated purpose; no preference is to be shown on the basis of religion, race, sex, or political alliance. This blatant ploy to bring the United Nations under the control of the Catholic Church is so obvious that no one can mistake its meaning. Not the most naive schoolboy in the more remote regions of the world can misinterpret the thrust of this offer, or the intention of the Church to infiltrate the world through the United Nations. That body has long shown itself to be one with the forces of disbelief. The United Nations has too often been the tool of Godless nations throughout the world, and now that service is being sanctioned—taken over—by the Catholic Church.” Reverend Williamson regarded camera one in steady, condemning sorrow. “We do not wish to see the innocent of the world suffer. If we could alleviate the suffering of those in need, we would. But we are not prepared to assist the Antichrist in his conquest of souls, and we will turn away from any efforts to add to the might of Satan in the world.”

  “Not bad, not bad,” whispered the producer.

  “Do not be fooled, dear brothers and sisters. Do not let yourselves be taken in by the sweet promises of charity and succor. This is the worst sort of misrepresentation, for it holds out the promise of help, never revealing the damnation that awaits those who seize on its offer. The Church has been a harlot from the first, and now it is prostituting itself to the Chinese Communists. I say to you”—he pointed directly at the lens of camera two, now dollying toward him—“I say to every one of you, strike back. Show the world the true identity of this monster that seeks to bring every Christian soul to perdition before the Second Coming of Jesus Christ!”

  The choir was now humming the Crusaders’ Hymn.

  “It is for us, in these Last Days, to be the safe harbor for all Christian souls seeking protection from the forces of Satan. It is our special cross to bear—the rescue of all those lost in the toils of the Antichrist. Let each of you be a beacon, a steady hand held out against the raging sea. Let each of you be vigilant, and never cease to wait for those repentant souls who turn from the wiles of Satan to the glory of Jesus!”

  “Make sure you get a shot of Lucy before we roll credits,” said the producer, indicating his eight-year-old daughter in the first row of the congregation. “I promised her she’d be on TV.”

  * * *

  Nine of the men in the room were in business suits; two were in cassocks. Pope An was wearing her usual dark silk jacket and trousers. Outside, the Roman sky was bronze with smog.

  “I have asked you to join me this morning,” said Pope An, “in order to read to you a letter I have drafted.”

  There was a distinct, soft moan of protest.

  “It isn’t what you suppose,” she said, and waited until she had the attention of the Cardinals once more. “I want you to listen. This is a private letter, but one I think it would be best if you hear. That way there will be no misunderstanding of my purpose.”

  “Might we know the reason for the letter?” asked Cardinal Pugno.

  “Certainly,” said Pope An. She spread the two sheets on the table before her. “As you have heard, by rumor if no other way, I have received a number of letters from Zuo Nangkao, the Premier of the People’s Republic of China. I have never denied that these letters have been delivered to me. I have not discussed their contents because the letters were not official.”

  “That doesn’t make it any better that you were getting them,” said Cardinal Durand of Baltimore.

  “You may be right,” said Pope An, conceding nothing. “In the past I have not established my position in regard to the Premier, for I had not yet determined what it was. Now that I have seen the results of my decisions and I am aware of the scope of the task I have undertaken, I believe it is necessary for me to inform the Premier of my thoughts. And I believe it is necessary for you to know them, as well.” She stared at the pages once more. “I have arranged for this to be carried by hand to Premier Zuo through the courier provided by the United Nations.”

  “The press are going to go crazy,” said Cardinal Llanos with a fatalistic nod. “It was bad enough giving them money, but if they include you in their services, what will the rest of the world think?”

  “I’m not concerned about that,” said Pope An. “I have too many other issues demanding my attention to worry about the press.” She looked around the room, wanting to be sure none of the Cardinals had lost interest. “I address Premier Zuo as Worthy Premier, his proper title. I then say to him:

  As one who has served the People’s Republic of China as a Magistrate, I am fulfilling my obligation to you as Premier to notify you of certain decisions I have made. You have done me the honor of providing me with suggestions and recommendations in regard to the post I now fill. I have read all these with care and respect. I am certain that everything you have written to me was the result of meticulous thought. I have accepted all in this spirit. In regard to your generous guidance and concern, I am aware that I am duty-bound to report to you my current assessment of what you have said.

  My assessment is this: I am unable to act in accordance with your wishes because your wishes do not support the task imposed upon me by the Church. I must regretfully state that I require total autonomy if I am to perform the work which has been entrusted to me by the College of Cardinals. You were kind enough to release me from my position as Magistrate in order to undertake this work; I find that the occupation has imposed restrictions and conditions on me that will not allow me to endorse your proposals.

  “How do we know this is accurate?” asked Cardinal Walgren.

  “I can provide you with translations made by Willie Foot and by Father Zirhendakru,” said Pope An. “If that is not satisfactory, I will furnish you with a copy of the letter and you can commission your own translation.”

  Cardinal Walgren glowered at her. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Then I’ll continue,” said Pope An.

  I am grateful for all you have done for me, and I hold you in high personal esteem. You have guided the People’s Republic of China away from the risk of unintentional war and have made many impressive strides in bringing the Center of the World to its rightful preeminence among nations. You have faultlessly maintained the tenets of Communism and brought them into greater meaning for all Chinese people.

  If I could continue to work on behalf of the People’s Republic of China and the Roman Catholic Church, I would do so. However, it has become impossible for me to accomplish this, and so I must place myself at the command of the task you yourself permitted me to accept. I am obliged to make my first duty to the Church a
nd its people, which I fear will place me in opposition to your purposes. When this occurs, I ask that you recall how I came to be where I am, and not condemn me for practicing those principles that have made the People’s Republic of China the true center of Communism for the world.

  “You aren’t going to say that in public!” burst out Cardinal Jung, who had been listening as if to the reading of his own death sentence.

  “No,” said Pope An calmly. “I am saying it in a private letter and permitting you to know of it. If the public learns of it, it will not be my doing.” She let that pointed remark sink in, then leaned back in her chair. “My closing salutations are standard. I have signed it Zhuang Renxin, not Pope An.”

  “Thank God for that,” said Cardinal Walgren.

  Cardinal Gemme shook his head. “Pope, I don’t want to protest, but I feel I must point out that you could be accused of practicing Communism here. We’re all aware that you have been denounced for just that by many of your detractors.”

  Her eyes brightened. “Yes, indeed,” she said. “I can understand why they might think so. But I wasn’t following the dictates of Marx or Lenin or Mao; I have been following the injunction Jesus made, to give the riches of the Church to the poor.” She folded the letter and slipped it into an oversized envelope. “Do any of the rest of you have questions in regard to my actions?”

  Except for a kind of low growl from Cardinal Jung, the men gathered in her office were silent.

  Chapter 25

  For most of the night Cardinal Mendosa had been enveloped in glorious light. He had watched as Zhuang had lifted her arms to Heaven and become refulgent; he had been consumed with the joy of it, and the splendor. It had been vexing to awaken, to leave behind that glimpse of celestial bliss. He went about his first prayers with mechanical correctness, all the while longing to be once again surrounded by his vision.

  Willie Foot found him at breakfast and drew up a second chair in order to join him. “I need your advice, Charles.”

  “You look very serious,” said Mendosa as he pulled another pastry apart.

  “I am.” He coughed, but not because it was raining in Rome. “I guess there’s no good way to say it, or to prepare you. It’s fresh from London, like the weather. I’m sorry.” His long face grew longer as he handed over the paper.

  The headline took up a third of the page, creating shock from the size of the typeface alone: POPE LESBIAN!

  Mendosa looked at it, his manner slightly bored; only the angry glint in his eyes showed the depth of his emotion. “I reckon we had to get something like this eventually,” he said evenly as he reached for the quince-and-ginger preserves. “It was that or that she’s really a transvestite he, but that’s a little far-fetched.”

  “Doesn’t this bother you?” asked Willie warily, helping himself to the croissants. “It could compromise everything she’s doing, having people reading trash like this. It can’t be helping her.”

  “No, it can’t,” said Mendosa. “And yes, it bothers me. But it was bound to happen. They were running out of other things to call her. Actually, I’m a little surprised it was so long in coming.” He poured himself more very strong Earl Grey tea. “Have some of this. It’s not a bad change from espresso.”

  “Thanks,” said Willie, his face carefully schooled to reveal nothing. “You thought something like this was going to happen? Do I read you right?”

  “You do,” said Mendosa. He stretched out his legs and brought one heel up to his knee. The shaft of his newest pair of cowboy boots had more decorative stitching, some in black like the leather, some in dark red for his rank. “I won’t say I was holding my breath, but I figured we’d see something like this before too long.”

  “And you’re willing to let it go unchallenged?” said Willie.

  “If I’ve got any smarts, I’ll let it go by.” He drank half his mug of tea. “And so will you.” This addition was spoken in the same easy drawl, but the sharpness in Mendosa’s manner caught Willie’s attention. “Keep in mind, just for a sec, the one woman who spends considerable time with the Pope who isn’t a nun.”

  Willie paled. He stared at the rain-streaked window in order to mask his distress. “Leonie.”

  “Precisely. And if you say anything to rouse public attention any more than that shit does, you can bet who the next target’ll be. You’re a journalist; you know how the game is played. You ridicule this—you have to. It’s the only defense we have.” He had the last of his tea and poured more. “Let them say whatever they want. Who’s going to believe them, if we keep our heads and laugh a lot?”

  “How can you laugh?” demanded Willie with sudden heat.

  Mendosa regarded him levelly. “I didn’t say it was easy, I said it was necessary. Two different things, Mister Foot.”

  Willie spread butter on his croissant but did not eat it. “I have to call Leonie,” he said abruptly.

  “I don’t think that’s real sensible,” Mendosa countered, his drawl stronger than ever. “It might be just what they’re watching for, someone making the association with Dame Leonie. So I think maybe you want to make sure she gets a note this afternoon, something in that crazy code of yours.” He looked down at the page. “I got a feel about this. It’s a British paper, and that bothers me.”

  “Yellow journalism isn’t limited to the colonies, my dear Cardinal,” said Willie with exaggerated hauteur. “We take great pride in our rags.”

  “And bully for you, as T. R. would say,” countered Mendosa, adding, when he noticed the blank look in Willie’s eyes. “Theodore Roosevelt. The one who also said ‘Speak softly and carry a big stick.’”

  “Relative of Franklin’s, was he?” said Willie, grateful for the distraction. “We know about him in England. Lend/lease and World War II and all that.”

  He shook his head. “This one was a naturalist and big game hunter. He established the National Parks. He and Franklin were related—cousins of some degree or other,” said Mendosa, bringing the conversation back to Leonie. “What about this husband of hers? He isn’t still in Rome, is he?”

  Willie gave Mendosa a long, thoughtful stare. “Sir Arthur left last week. And well you know it.”

  “Ah, yes; I recall you mentioned it,” said Mendosa, his urbanity almost as practiced as Willie’s. “Odd timing, I thought.”

  “How do you mean?” Willie asked, sincerely curious.

  Mendosa hitched his shoulders. “It’s the smell of the thing. Probably it’s because I’m Texan, where we’ve got a fine tradition of political scoundrels and con-men; we know the breed—admire it, sometimes. I can’t get it out of my head that Sir Arthur’s about to try to hornswoggle Dame Leonie.”

  “Hornswoggle? Do people really say that?” Willie asked, though he expected no answer.

  Mendosa continued without comment. “This article here, it looks like a setup to me, a way to short circuit anything you might want to say about him, now that it’s okay for Catholics to get a divorce. That’s what I mean about his leaving town; that was just a day after the latest…reform Pope An introduced.” He rubbed his hands together. “I predict that for all the howling and wailing we’re hearing now, we’re going to hear church bells for weddings this time next year, when the divorces are final.” He filled Willie’s mug. “It’s truly quite good,” he said in an apologetic tone.

  “You’re not opposed to the change?” asked Willie.

  “Hell, no,” said Mendosa. “In fact, I’m grateful, and I think most of the priests will be, too, in time. Asking a couple to go through that travesty of annulment—to say that the marriage never existed after two or five or fifteen years, that’s absurd. And think what it does to the people. It’s not reasonable to ask people already in pain to go through that humiliation. There’s no excuse for it, not in this day and age. Most of the opposition is medieval, supposing that wives and children are more property than people. Divorce does not undo the work of God, not to my way of thinking. It gives people a chance to fix things. I go
along with Pope An. She’s right that to force people to remain in a bad match isn’t in the spirit of the teachings of Christ. And the others can’t find a real argument against that. You can tell because of their retreat into obfuscation. To say that the intentions of God were not clearly understood—as if any of us can truly understand the intentions of God—makes about as much sense as debating how many angels dance on the head of a pin, or whether the violin is a celestial or diabolical instrument.” He tapped the paper. “By saying that it is unnecessary and unwise and un-Catholic to remain in a marriage that is no longer viable, that could hit Sir Arthur where he lives.” He added, “Or one that never could be viable, no matter what the Church said.”

  Willie thought his breakfast tasted like old paper. “But they’ve been living apart for years and years. It would only make fact something everyone already knows—they don’t live as husband and wife.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Mendosa said. “But he might not want the reason spread all over the headlines.”

  “But how does this—”

  “His…choice of company is all the more reason for him to implicate Leonie before she says something about him. If he accuses her, then anything she might use in response will just sound like childish one-upsmanship.” Mendosa stirred his tea as he went on. “If she asks for a divorce now, with all the publicity about the Pope, well, the newsmedia will feast on her innards and you’ll wear yourself to tatters trying to defend her. That is what you had in mind, isn’t it? coming to her rescue, making it real clear that you know she’s straight, and by damn! you’ll make horse-puckey flapjacks out of anyone who claims different.”

  Willie was at once on guard. “I didn’t say that—”

  Mendosa’s voice was very gentle, very Texas-southern. “Willie, chil’, you do a real good stiff upper lip; but you do a real good stiff something else, too, and it shows.” He waited while Willie recovered his composure a little. “This ain’t the time for heroics, old bean. Leave that to Worthy Magistrate Zhuang: she’s hero enough for a regiment.”