by Sam Nash
It may be that my hackles were up and my level of paranoia piqued, but the smile he gave me as the door swung closed seemed sinister. As if he already knew my fate. It did little to allay my fears. How could I be rid of this all-pervading terror?
As the study door closed, I turned face to chest with the hulk, Carmine. “You are early.” I said in an attempt to lighten the tone of our meeting.
He grunted, then said, “Follow me,” and began walking towards the rear exit to the courtyard.
“I’ll just collect my bag.”
“Leave it. You’ll be staying here for a while.”
After the night of neurosis, I transferred my journal, wallet and passport to the bulging pockets of my jacket at three in the morning. I demurred to Carmine’s instruction in the knowledge that little of value remained in the bag, and followed him.
A different car and driver conveyed us through the busy weekend streets of Rome, to the Chiesa del Gesù. The Baroque styling and terracotta tiles gave the area a brittle feel, as though they had been baked in the sun for too many years. The imposing white stone frontage of the church took a perfectly symmetrical line, and then added a curlicue of wings. If it was intended to mimic the silhouette of an angel, it failed.
The hulk hurried around to my side of the vehicle, making sure that I could not make a run for it. The all-pervasive drone of mopeds echoed from the walls, bringing with them a two-stroke petrol pong. Carmine clamped a hand on my shoulder, pushing me through the crowds of tourists, viewing life through their cameras. The blast of engine noise was an assault on the senses, added to the weaving bicycles and shouting Italian mamas. We rushed through the entrance, by-passing the meandering locals and visitors queuing to pay homage.
The interior was a very different experience. An abundance of gilt pillars, arches and a domed ceiling of extraordinary magnificence. Every inch was clad in carved sinners, painted cherubs and angels, and golden sunbursts supporting the IHS emblem of the Jesuits. At the heart of the auric chancel, the entombed remains of their founder, Saint Ignatius of Loyola. I wondered how such lavish wealth was accrued, while remaining faithful to the Jesuit vow of poverty.
A throne perched at the side of the altar. The plain block that attracted the advances of priests and sinners alike, each kissing the surface in turn, before sauntering away to bill and coo over the ornate carvings. Carmine the hulk, nodded our arrival to a serious looking cleric standing tall by the throne. He bent low to whisper into the ear of the righteous man in the black cassock. The Father General listened with a pained expression, and then looked directly at me.
With all the pomp and circumstance surrounding this saintly figure, I at least expected to burst into flames. Instead, I thought he looked especially frail, like cotton lace passed down through the generations, stained and ragged with wear. The fine strands of white hair combed across the pate of blotchy melanin patches, the parchment tone of thin skin, drawn over old bones. His power lie the illusion of faith. The vows mocked in every illustrious display of idolatry surrounding him. The frailer his flesh and blood became, the closer he was to God.
He regarded me for a while, and I him, his contemplation of my presence a device to subjugate me. A lifetime of agnosticism and a long-held worship at the feet of Darwin protects me from false veneration.
“I thought he would be younger.” The Father General croaked, and cleared his throat, peering up at his serious aide. My thoughts at the time strayed to whether that was another Jesuit condition of service. Start the intimidation and indoctrination when they are young and least able to defend themselves. I waited for an introduction, all the time analysing his white wrinkled fingertips and bluish tinge to his lips. I skipped through the medical knowledge stored inside my brain, calculating a possible diagnosis for the symptoms of his poor circulation, but said nothing.
“My Superior General, this is Dr Phillip Lawrence. His invitation to your private audience has since lapsed. This was the only time that could be made available.” The tall cleric took two paces back, behind the level of the throne. Still I waited. Uncomfortable pauses have never fazed me.
“You make claims of a sensitive hereditary nature.” Despite clearing his throat, the delicate lining of his trachea was clearly inflamed. A muccal fizz and an auditory wheeze preceded his speech.
“I make no such claims.” I said, stopping myself from tagging on the title of Father General. He seemed to regard my lack of respect as a challenge. A tiny glint ignited in the old man’s eye. He gestured for the aide to assist him to his feet.
“Come. We shall discuss this somewhere more private.” He said, his foot shaking to connect with a lower step. The cleric dashed to the Black Pope’s side. “Not you. I doubt that Dr Lawrence means to murder me. Time will oblige us of that in short order.” That was when I detected a notable inflection in his voice, a hint of the Netherlands in the delivery of his commands. I followed the shuffling pace, through a lordly archway, along a pew lined nave, to an anteroom away from public eyes.
“So, you are the one that has the faith in turmoil.” He began, resting his hind quarters against a solid table.
“Unintentional, I assure you. I have no ambition to destabilise the status quo.” I folded my arms across my chest, then remembering a conference I once attended regarding non-verbal cues; I lowered them to my sides in an open, defenceless manner.
“Nevertheless, should your lineage become public knowledge, it could cause irreparable damage. There is a simple solution, and one I suggest you take.” His voice, now limber with use, took on an assertive tone.
I was curious as to how he viewed me, if indeed I was a direct descendent of the son of his God, would I be placed higher in rank to him? Perhaps this is why both he and the Grand Master of the Order of Malta were finding it so difficult to preside over me. The dichotomy of having a faithless descendant of Christ would rock the foundations of their comfortable existence.
“You will reject the title and honours offered to you through legal channels, leaving the family line in abeyance. The Order of Malta has a number of suitable positions for you which make use of your medical background. You will, of course, have to go through a speedy ordination, but the Grand Master tells me that you are a quick-witted sort of person, so that should not present much of a problem for you.”
At this point, I made use of his brief pause in directing my life to heave air into his lungs. It was obvious that they knew nothing of me signing the transfer of assets document for the Earldom. I kept that nugget of information to myself.
“You want me to join the Knights of Malta? And how do you suppose I continue working at my thriving medical practice in Brighton?”
“I don’t. You will require significant training. The Grand Master is securing permanent rooms for you at the Palazzo di Malta. After a number of years, if you do well, you will be permitted to apply for other roles abroad. I think it wise to avoid the United Kingdom for the time being. We don’t want any unpleasantness with the British Aristocracy, do we?”
I must have given him such a defiant glare, for his face slackened into a scowl and he snapped, “Choose your options carefully, Dr Lawrence. The alternatives are much less desirable, particularly for your family.”
And so, there it was again. Do as you are told and your family will live. How could I join the Order of Malta while maintaining a presence as Anthony Knight’s puppet in the House of Lords? At least, Knight was not demanding that I eschew my heritage. I wonder if his spies have discovered my whereabouts yet. I hoped to God, that Lily had successfully squirrelled Mary safely away in Wales.
What was I saying? Hoping to God, thank God, Oh, dear God – So much of our language is tainted with religious overtures, even us agnostics struggle without his reference. I had never thought of it as an affirmation of his divine existence until now. It was just a figure of speech. I must attempt to curb its use.
The Black Pope coughed, pulling a handkerchief from his cuff to cover his mouth.
A gasp of breath followed by a gagging noise, gave me more symptoms to confirm a suspicion regarding his health. His willowy aide, who was loitering by the door to the vestibule, came running to the Father General, rubbing his back ineffectually and fussing. I waited, and presently, he regained a degree of control, pushing the assistant aside.
“This is an important time in the Jesuit calendar, Dr Lawrence. Our annual celebration for our founder is almost upon us. As a consequence, there are many important people who have gathered in Rome to pay their respects. Our Knights of Malta brothers have arranged a reception tonight at The Grand Priory. You must come along. A life in service of the Order is not a punishment, it is an honour. You can give me your answer then.”
The Father General began shuffling out into the nave, propped up on the arm of his aide. They expected me to accompany them. Instead I hung back, peeking behind long curtains and cupboard doors for an alternative exit. The second door I tried yielded nothing more than the hulk, Carmine, waiting for me – expecting me to run. Thwarted once again, he led me through the glinting pillars to the car at the roadside, and an hour later, back into the care of the Order of Malta.
My room suddenly felt more like a cell. I paced for a while, concerned for the whereabouts of my loved ones, until the young cleric brought me something resembling tea - a cup of hot water, a small jug of boiled, frothy milk and a teabag resting on the saucer. The combined taste was an insult, but I was grateful for the thought. Feeling wholly isolated, I asked the young man whether the Order had a television I could watch. It took a little while to get my meaning across, but eventually, he escorted me to a small room, little more than an alcove, where the younger staff relaxed after their duties.
The tail end of an old romantic comedy played out to the titles. I sat down and hoped that Italian television stations reported the news in hourly updates, similar to that of Britain. Three adverts for perfume, chocolate and luxury handbags later, and an announcer rattled off the headlines in rapid Italian. The first report was accompanied by video footage of a smiling couple, waving to crowds on St. Peter’s Square. I looked at the youths for help. One rather portly fellow grasped my problem and offered assistance.
“Spanish royals, visiting the Pope for a marriage blessing.” He said.
The relief at finding an English speaking cleric was palpable. The next clip of battleships and aircraft carriers, clustered together within sight of the shoreline.
I looked again to the heavy chap for translation. “Americans are blocking the Persian Gulf.” He said.
“Did they say anything about the talks in Jeddah? Has anything been decided?” I asked my exasperation apparent in my voice.
“Talks have not happened yet. It says that Saddam Hussein has his military lined up to the Kuwait border.”
I thanked him for the update and wandered through the rear corridors of the Palazzo, testing my chances of escape. Only one externally facing door was unlocked and accessible. It led to the courtyard, locked gates and a twenty-four-hour guard. Returning to my cell, I lay on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. Within moments, weariness got the better of me, and I slept.
***
When I awoke, a pristine dinner jacket and pair of trousers hung from the back of the door. Was this to be my life now, to be micro-managed and waited upon by young apostles? I spruced myself up and wriggled into the tight-fitting clothes, secreting my passport and wallet into the jacket. The journal was too large for the outside pockets. It peeped above the seam by a good two inches. There was no way I could leave it behind, not even hidden. At the earliest opportunity, I intended to flee. I had to keep it on my person.
I nipped back down to the room with the television and mimed the action of scissors with my index and middle fingers, to my cleric butler. He frowned at first, and then when I motioned to my finger nails, understanding dawned and he found me a tiny pair of nail scissors. In the privacy of my room, I unpicked the lining stitches inside the jacket pocket, and slid my journal inside. It was a little bulky, but not too noticeable if I left it unbuttoned.
This time, Carmine the hulk did not arrive to accompany me to the reception. I guessed that he and Lady Charity had not received an invitation, since I was to travel with the host, The Grand Master of the Order of Malta. The lengthiest limousine, with the most conspicuous embassy flag on its bonnet, arrived at the gates. Being too long to fit in the confines of the courtyard, we boarded the giant vehicle in the street. The commotion attracted a small flock of paparazzi, pushing and shoving against the human barrier provided by our police escort.
I did my best to hide my face from the fast flashing mob, and hustled into the car as soon as I could. The Grand Master smiled and waved serenely, lapping the devotion as though it was his due. As our short journey began, he seemed to sense my unease and distaste.
“The pageantry is part all part of the job. One has to maintain a prominence in the city, to remind everyone of our important role. You will get used to it.”
I said nothing, but found it impossible to prevent the curl in my upper lip. It did not go unnoticed.
Our arrival was scheduled to a specific order of importance. Only the Father General and finally, the Spanish royal couple were set to follow, making their grand entrance. The Grand Master, in his full ceremonial vestments, eight-pointed star medallion and cape, led the way. Behind him followed an assortment of his Lieutenant, cabinet members and lower ranking clergymen. I was permitted entry alongside my young cleric friend, who had the task of monitoring my every movement.
Ahead of the procession into a massive, marble pillared hall, the Grand Master shook the hands of assembled local dignitaries, each bearing a similar Order of Malta medallion. While the cast of rich and famous luminaries were shepherded into their ranked line, I took in the majesty of my surroundings.
The vast space mirrored that of a huge church, separated into chancel and naves, supported by gigantic pillars of the finest marble. The vaulted ceiling gave way above the doors to a flat wall, liberally adorned with plaques of notable names, family crests and the historical family connections to the Order through the years. Flags of every colour and catholic association hung from bosses high above and more alabaster carvings than could be viewed in one sitting.
The excited hub-bub of attendees hushed, and I craned my neck to see beyond the welcoming committee to the doorway. The Black Pope, Superior General of the Society of Jesus, had arrived. With great ceremony, he hobbled, bow-backed and faux penitent along the prestigious row, murmuring blessings and touching hands with those he deemed worthy. Finally, he stopped in front of the host, the Grand Master of the Order of Malta. With an inaudible exchange, they conspired to hold their audience in thrall. The look on the Black Pope’s face was one of smug jubilance. It made me nauseous.
In short order, the newly wed Spanish royal couple arrived, and performed the same ritual, basking in the pomp and ceremony laid on in their honour. The Grand Master recited a short service, making specific reference to their private audience and papal blessing with Pope John Paul II, earlier in the day at the Vatican. He concluded his speech with a general blessing on behalf of all the brethren of the Catholic faith. With the thurible lit and wafting clouds of strong incense over the congregation, the formalities reached a close.
As the honoured guests made the obligatory rounds, the young cleric at my side hopped up and encouraged me to join him at the buffet table. A lavish spread of edible luxury, from foie gras to caviar, lobster topped canapes to vintage champagne. I nibbled on pungent cheese and a delicate cracker that disintegrated inside my mouth in an explosion of savoury taste.
The orchestra played subtle chamber music beneath the Piranesi artwork on the ceiling. Grasping a second flute of bubbly, I meandered closer to the open doors. Daylight receded behind the cypress trees, casting clipped shadows in the hidden garden beyond. As I edged ever closer, planning my route through the visible areas of neatly groomed lawns, The Grand Master appe
ared at my side.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” He said, one brow lifted in suspicion. He knew what was in my mind, but chose a circuitous route around the issue.
“I’m sorry?” My reply a little too forced.
“The gardens. So, beautiful. Have you looked through the famous keyhole yet?” He kept his beady eyes trained on me, anticipating my every move and counter move.
“No, I confess I have not.”
“It is very popular with the tourists, a Piranesi marvel. You can see the golden dome of St. Peter’s Basilica through the topiary. One day in the near future, I’ll show you the sights. After all, you should become familiar with your new home.”
“This will never be my home.” I replied, with too much vitriol in my tenor. As soon as it left my mouth I regretted it, for the Grand Master seemed to comprehend my tenacity to defy them.
“I sincerely hope you reconsider, Dr Lawrence. Our Jesuit brethren do not take kindly to those who resist their will. As you see, the benefits can be substantial, and extends to the entire length of service.”
I wanted to shout at him. Make them all see that the grandeur and wealth, despite their humble vows, did not make them holy. Learning a few lines from a leather-bound book of fables, based loosely on my supposed ancestors, did not elevate them to lofty ideals. Their service, as I see it, is power over the weakest people in society; simple exploitation for their own advantage. Colonise a new area of the third world, indoctrinate the locals, tax them and take over their land. How is that different to the conquering pirates and Elizabethan explorers in their day?
Staring into the darkening shadows of the priory grounds, I lost my train of thought. The Grand Master brought it back into sharp focus.
“If you make a run for it, you will not get far. The Father General has his soldiers posted in some of the highest offices within the Carabinieri and Polizia di Stato. And then you must also consider those who may suffer as a result of your actions…”
I contemplated his words for a minute or two, my mind a soggy mess of emotion masking common sense. I could not acquiesce to the Black Pope’s command. I had already accepted the Earldom. The official paperwork was already in process.