The Debt

by Glenn Cooper

  His phone rang.

  ‘So the news just hit,’ Julian said.

  ‘I’m watching it. What do you think?’

  ‘I think it’s a big fucking deal.’

  ‘That it is. Your life isn’t going to be the same.’

  ‘That’s OK. I’m ready.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I guess we’ll see.’

  ‘Who’s handling media for the bank?’

  ‘I got a text from Gail. She’s back and possibly sober – at least the text made sense. She’s going to be doing interviews in New York today. I’m making myself available at the hotel for a press conference tomorrow morning. I made nice with Scotto and he’s handling the prep. I’ll be tied up for the rest of the day working on a mission statement and interviewing search firms to flesh out the IFH. What about you?’

  ‘Celestine is going to be disclosing my involvement this afternoon in his interview with an Italian paper. The Vatican press office is going to sort through requests from journalists and send a minder over to the hotel to monitor my interviews. In the meantime I’ll be finalizing the papal bull. It could be released as early as tomorrow.’

  ‘Rocking and rolling,’ Julian said.

  ‘That’s one way to put it.’

  They were back in the Palace of the Governorate in the same drab conference room across the hall from the parking office. At their last meeting, while awaiting the pope, they had been quizzical and a bit restless. This time they were tense, coiled like tight springs, a few of them monitoring Twitter feeds on their phones.

  ‘The pope is definitely coming?’ Boni, the director of the Vatican Museums, asked Cardinal Portolano, the president of the Pontifical Council for Culture.

  ‘That’s what I was told.’

  ‘The last time I saw Monsignor Moller was in this room,’ Archbishop Thorn, the Vatican archivist and librarian, said to no one in particular. ‘Such a tragedy. Do you think it had something to do with all of this?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Portolano said. ‘May his soul rest in peace.’

  Monsignor Joseph, the real-estate supervisor from APSA, whispered to Elisabetta Celestino, ‘I had no idea the valuation exercise was meant for this purpose, did you?’

  ‘I didn’t know what to think,’ she replied enigmatically.

  His bodyguards came in first to check on the room, then Celestine entered, accompanied by a young Vietnamese monsignor, who held a notebook remarkably similar to the one Moller used to carry. The pope sat beside Portolano, smiled at Elisabetta, then turned serious.

  ‘So, gentlemen and lady, here we are once again,’ the pope said. ‘I must apologize for my inability to have been fully candid with you at our first meeting. It would have been premature to do so. Following the announcement this morning you will understand the reasons for the exercise you have undertaken. We do intend to liquidate some assets to satisfy this debt of ours to fund this new foundation. Today I am keen to hear about your progress. My second private secretary, Monsignor Dinh, will be taking notes.’

  The young priest shyly nodded and opened his book.

  Celestine took stock of the many glum stares around the table and perhaps for this reason he began with something of a homily about world poverty and strife and the need for the Church to do more to help alleviate suffering. He spoke fluidly and passionately about the Vatican setting an example for other Catholic dioceses, international non-government organizations, and nation states by committing meaningful sums to combat the great injustices affecting peoples of all faiths.

  ‘We can be a beacon, illuminating the darkest corners, showing unfortunate men, women, and children the bright light of our love,’ he said. ‘Even if others don’t follow our lead, perhaps Catholics will be proud of the actions of their Church and elevate further the traditions of charity within their own communities.’

  The museums’ director was becoming visibly agitated, his tension building until it found its release in the form of an outburst.

  ‘But Holy Father,’ Boni said, ‘to me, our cultural heritage is the Church! Well, at least its material embodiment. Our predecessors began commissioning and procuring Christian art centuries ago, not for the sake of being collectors but to create a tangible representation of our faith and our values. Our art is a statement of the ideals of Christian humanism, of the harmonious development of the faculties of the human mind on natural and spiritual planes, all for the greater glory of God.’ He began to sob. ‘I simply cannot bear the thought of cleaving off the beloved heritage of the Church, my Church.’

  ‘Professor Boni,’ Cardinal Portolano said sharply. ‘We serve at the Holy Father’s pleasure. We must put aside our personal views. This applies to me, it applies to you, it applies to all of us. The contents of the museums do not belong to you. They belong to the Church and the pontiff may decide what becomes of them. If you cannot assist the Holy Father in this endeavor, however painful it may be, we can find others who can.’

  Boni composed himself and apologized for his outburst. When he was done, Celestine, who had been patiently taking it in, got up to put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Professor, I understand your state of mind and I empathize with your feelings about the artwork under your care. I too appreciate the immense cultural meaning of our paintings and sculptures. Yet imagine, if you will, a giant scale. On one side we have a magnificent Renaissance painting. On the other, a starving child. Which way do you suppose the scale tilts? What is more important to God – a sheet of painted canvas, a piece of marble, or a human life?’ Returning to his seat he said, ‘You are a good man, Professor. You know the answer. And consider this: we are not discussing the destruction of masterpieces, merely the sale and transfer to other museums and galleries where the public may still enjoy them. I also wish to say emphatically that our art is not the heritage of the Church. It is but one of its heritages, the least important in my opinion. The Gospels of Christ are more important. Our liturgical traditions are more important. Our body of canon law is more important. Our people are more important. I say we can and should sacrifice some of our cultural heritage for the sake of humanity.’

  Boni closed his folder containing his notes for the meeting. It was his turn to stand. His lower lip was trembling. ‘I’m sorry, Holy Father, I cannot participate in this. You have my resignation. I won’t be remembered as the curator who oversaw the dismantling of the Vatican Museums.’

  Celestine replied sternly, ‘Very well, Professor, I accept your resignation effective immediately. Be so good as to hand over your folder to Sister Elisabetta. She will be in charge of the tasks ahead on behalf of the museums.’

  Boni left the folder in its place and headed for the door but before he left he turned and spat out, ‘At least you can’t peddle the frescoes and painted ceilings. Or maybe you can. Sell the walls, why don’t you?’

  The slamming of the door was the last sound for many uncomfortable moments. No one but Celestine was going to break the ice.

  ‘I feel for the professor,’ the pope finally said. ‘The artwork is his life. A bear protects its cubs, a mother protects her child. He is following his conscience although I believe he is misguided. Now we must get to work. Archbishop, could you please pass the folder to Sister Elisabetta?’

  Thorn did so and Elisabetta opened it and began thumbing through Boni’s spreadsheets.

  Celestine suggested they start with the least emotive portfolio of assets and called upon Monsignor Joseph to give his report.

  The Canadian crisply delivered his assessment. ‘Following our last meeting I concentrated on the non-ecclesiastical real estate and agricultural land throughout Italy and the rest of Europe under the direct control of the Vatican. Much of it is highly desirable, particularly the commercial retail space in major cities and the apartment blocks. For the purposes of the exercise I assumed that we would liquidate assets in a controlled manner so that we would not be seen as entering into fire sales, as it were. If we were to take a disciplined approach
, I believe the fair market value of our portfolio is approximately five billion euros. Of course, these are rent-bearing properties so there would be a loss of revenues of several million euros per annum.’

  Celestine thanked him and noted that although the loss of revenues was no small issue, there were budget initiatives he was championing for other departments that would alleviate shortfalls. He turned to Archbishop Thorn and asked him to go next.

  Thorn nervously cleared his throat. ‘Thank you, Holy Father. With respect to the materials in our archives and libraries, I thought long and hard about the approach I would take on the valuation exercise. Clearly, with thousands upon thousands of books, manuscripts, letters, ledgers, et cetera, it was not possible to individually assess value. Nor would there be a significant market for the vast proportion of our holdings. Therefore I confined my analysis to certain high-profile documents that would likely attract bids from archives, museums, and wealthy collectors. For example, I put a value of ten million euros on the letter sent to Pope Clement concerning the divorce of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. In aggregate the fifty or so most marketable items in our archives would achieve an auction value of approximately thirty million euros.’

  ‘Is that all?’ the pope asked. ‘A drop in the proverbial bucket.’

  ‘I have a confidence in my projections. The market for manuscripts is not of the same magnitude as art. Of course, if we were to sell our entire archive or entire library to one of the great libraries in Britain or America, perhaps we could make considerably more.’

  The archbishop exhaled in relief when Celestine said that a wholesale sale was out of the question. ‘So,’ the pope said, ‘the burden falls upon the museums. Sister, I hate to put you on the spot, but can you make anything out of Boni’s paperwork?’

  Elisabetta had been urgently studying the contents of the museum director’s folder but her time had run out. She closed the leather portfolio and composed herself.

  ‘I have an intimate knowledge of part of our collections since you asked me to work on valuing the antiquities and artifacts. For example, our ancient statue collection is quite magnificent, containing a great number of highly desirable pieces that many great museums would love to own. The Venus of Knidos. Apollo Belvedere. Our Augustus. The Athena Giustiniani. The Deity of the River Nile. I could go on and on. I estimate that we have well over one billion euros of statuary. If one adds in our extensive Etruscan and Egyptian collections, I would put the total antiquities value at two billion.’

  ‘I see, I see,’ Celestine said. ‘What of Boni’s estimates?’

  She smiled. ‘My cursory review, Holy Father, is that Professor Boni did his typically thorough work. It seems he has assigned a low value, a high value and a mid-point value to hundreds of paintings, classical statues, decorative arts, and tapestries. Some of the notable works are indeed famous. Raphael’s Coronation of the Virgin and his Transfiguration. Caravaggio’s Deposition. Leonardo’s St Jerome. Bellini’s Burial of Christ. Titian’s Madonna de San Niccolo dei Frari. Boni values for each of these a low value of three hundred million, a high value of four hundred million. I think he doesn’t even hazard a guess at Michelangelo’s Pietà because there are only question marks next to it. Give me a moment to check the totals.’ She opened the folder again, found the summary page and looked up, blinking, as if a bright light had been shone into her eyes. ‘The grand total, choosing the mid-point valuation, is twenty-four billion euros, Holy Father.’

  Celestine’s barrel chest heaved out a sigh. ‘And there we have it,’ he said.

  Cardinal Portolano cleared his throat to get the pope’s attention. ‘Excuse me, Holy Father, but I would like to point out that we derive approximately one hundred million euros per year in museum admission fees from visiting tourists. Who knows how much of this we would lose if our collections were seriously diminished?’

  ‘An excellent point, Sandro. Perhaps we could restructure our galleries and exhibition halls to show the results of our charitable works. We might also have empty frames for contemplation or perhaps some excellent photographic replicas of the originals. Don’t you think this would interest our tourists?’

  ‘Perhaps not as much,’ the cardinal said as diplomatically as possible. ‘But I could be mistaken.’

  ‘Well, we will have to make up budgetary deficits elsewhere,’ Celestine said impatiently, bringing the meeting to a close. ‘Again, I ask you to keep our discussion private, although I imagine that Professor Boni’s tongue will wag enough for all of you.’

  Boni left the palace and wandered around St Peter’s Square in a daze. There was a generous crowd, far more visitors than usual for the time of day and many were demonstrators. He stopped and watched a group of twenty or so, holding signs lettered by the same hand. SAVE OUR CHURCH. SAVE OUR HERITAGE. SAY NO TO LOOTING. PLEASE CELESTINE – DO NOT DO THIS. He felt like shaking hands, joining the protest, but he kept walking. Should he go to the museum and empty out his desk? Write an open letter to the Holy See? Go home?

  Two middle-aged women caught his eye. They had just entered the square and were walking purposefully toward the Vatican obelisk. Once there they unrolled two signs and held them defiantly over their heads. WE SUPPORT CELESTINE. FOR GOD’S SAKE: HELP THE POOR. Boni was outraged. He considered challenging them, asking whether they had any notion of the importance of culture, but then a curious thing happened – at least curious to him. A few people, then more and more came up to the women and began clapping and before long a spontaneous chant began. ‘Help the poor. Help the poor.’

  Disgusted, he turned away and faced the Apostolic Palace.

  A monsignor knocked on Cardinal Lauriat’s door and saw that Cardinal Leoncino was in with Lauriat.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, Eminences, but Professor Boni wished to see you. He says it’s urgent.’

  ‘The museum director? Do you know what he wants?’ Lauriat asked.

  ‘Shall I inquire?’

  ‘We should see him, Pascal,’ Leoncino said. ‘It could be interesting.’

  Boni was given a chair and a glass of water. The cardinals could see his obvious state of distress.

  He told them about the meeting he had fled, about his horror, about his resignation.

  ‘Perhaps Your Eminences support this, this initiative,’ Boni said. ‘If so, I will leave.’

  ‘Stay,’ Leoncino said. ‘You are among friends.’

  At that, Boni calmed down. He realized his tie was too tight and he eased it.

  ‘How did this happen?’ Boni asked despondently.

  ‘How indeed? Lauriat said. ‘The Church confers ultimate authority upon the pope. The Curia shapes that authority. Usually there is a satisfactory balance. For the moment, that balance is off. For the moment.’

  ‘But doesn’t Celestine understand what will happen?’ Boni said. ‘This money, all these billions. Look at the problems in the world. I’m not blind to them. I have empathy. But these billions are only a drop in the bucket. They’ll disappear like water poured into sand until there won’t be any money left and still there will be poverty and suffering. But our museum walls will be bare and the Vatican will be diminished, less spiritual.’

  While he spoke, both cardinals nodded vigorously and when he was done, Lauriat said, ‘Professor, do something for me and your Church. Send the Holy Father a letter rescinding your resignation. Tell him you were upset but now you are more serene. Tell him you will faithfully serve at his pleasure. Once this storm passes, our paintings and statues will still be there and your job will remain as important as it always has.’

  They met in one of the reception rooms at the official papal apartments. There were ten identical wing chairs in a large circle around a small decorative table. It was a space intended for larger gatherings but there were just the two of them. Their first order of business was figuring out where to sit.

  ‘If we don’t sit next to each other, we’re going to have to shout,’ Cal said.

  Elisabetta smiled
and selected a chair. Cal took an adjoining one. She smoothed her habit so that it flowed nicely to her ankles.

  ‘The Holy Father suggested we meet – more formally,’ she said.

  Cal couldn’t get over her perfect face, framed like a portrait by her starched veil. He considered himself a feminist – not exactly a shocker for a liberal professor from the university dubbed Kremlin-on-the-Charles – but he had a decidedly sexist thought: what had brought a woman that beautiful and that academically accomplished to become a nun? He reproached himself; he would probably never have a similar thought about a handsome, accomplished priest. He searched for something neutral to say.

  ‘Thanks for making the time today. I imagine you’re busy.’

  That prompted a musical laugh. ‘An understatement,’ she said.

  He noticed something then that accompanied her smile, a rather deep look into his eyes that lasted a second or two longer than needed. He knew what it meant – he’d gotten that look from countless women. She found him attractive too.

  ‘Well, I won’t keep you long,’ he said, shaking off the distraction. ‘I wanted to talk to you about my interviews this afternoon. Celestine outed me this morning in his interview. I don’t know if you know my role in this.’

  ‘The Holy Father told me. I congratulate you.’

  ‘It doesn’t feel like a celebration just yet. It feels like all hell’s breaking loose. I had to turn off my phone.’

  ‘Mercifully, I am still anonymous,’ she said. ‘I hope it stays so but here in Italy the journalists are very persistent. I think I’ll also be outed for what I’ve been asked to do.’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to talk about. It’s inevitable that I’m going to be asked this afternoon about the art. I understand that’s partially your department.’

  She scrunched her mouth which dimpled her cheeks. ‘More than partially, I’m afraid. I was working on the antiquities but as of this morning, all of it has landed in my lap.’