“You’d drive a new wife out of her mind.”
“I thought that too. Then I realized that no new wife would love me as much as you do.”
There was a pause while she digested this comment.
“That’s very sweet, Chucky.”
She turned on the light, grabbed for her reading glasses and the notebook which was always on the nightstand, and scribbled in it. Then she glanced over what she had written, nodded in approval, put the book back on the nightstand, and turned off the light.
“More dialogue for the punk.”
“Maybe. I’ll ruin him if he’s too sweet all the time.”
“I try to do my part.”
Forest fire stuff. How do you sustain that when you’re over fifty?
The following Friday about 4 A.M. the phone rang.
“I know it’s early morning there, Carlo. This is Rae Adolfo. I thought you ought to know, the Pope is dead. I just offered Mass for him on Vatican Radio. He died in his sleep early in the morning.”
I struggled in the darkness for understanding.
“The Pope died in August,” I sputtered.
“The new Pope, Carlo, John Paul. He is dead.”
“Really?”
This was all a tasteless dream.
“I’m afraid so.”
“What happened?”
“The nun who brought him his coffee in the morning found him dead in bed. Some kind of stroke apparently.”
“They will be saying he was killed.”
“They’re saying it already.”
“We’ll be right over.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to wrench myself out of a deep sleep. Had I really talked to Adolfo? Was our smiling Pope really dead? I shook my head in an effort to clear it. It couldn’t be true. It was only a nightmare.
Rosemarie stirred on the bed.
“Who was on the phone, Chucky?”
“You heard it?”
“Certainly I heard it … One of your girlfriends?”
“Rae Adolfo. He says the Pope is dead.”
“He died in August, Chuck.”
“That’s what I said. He meant the new Pope—John Paul.”
“Oh my God, Chuck! Our smiling Pope!”
She threw her arms around me and sobbed.
“We have to go over for the wake,” she said, an Irishwoman’s immemorial cry.
Of course we had to go to the wake.
We flew out of O’Hare to Rome on Alitalia later in the day, first-class because Rosemarie made the reservations. Siobhan Marie was not happy about being translated to Gram’s house again.
“Why do you have to go away?”
“Remember that nice man whose picture Daddy took when we were in Rome?’
“The Pop?”
“The Pope. He died, Siobhan Marie, and we have to go over there to pray for him.”
“I’ll pray for him too.”
“Next time,” she said to me, “we have to take that one with us.”
I was too tired to argue. I dreaded the jet lag and the dreariness of Rome.
As soon as the plane took off, my wife kissed me good night.
“See you in Rome, Chucky.”
She kicked off her shoes, pushed the recliner back, fluffed up a pillow, covered herself with a blanket and promptly went to sleep.
You can’t beat willpower.
I tossed and turned, fretted and stewed, and woke up every time we hit a bump. I gave up and ate the spicy supper for which I knew I would later pay. A couple of lifetimes later the plane picked its way through clouds and rain and landed at Fiumicino.
Rosemarie opened her eyes.
“Are we there yet, Daddy? … Where’s the bathroom?”
She had to wait until we got inside the terminal. Despite her long nap, she was not in a pleasant mood.
“Tell me again, Chucky, why are we here?”
“We have to go to a wake.”
“I hate wakes.”
“So do I.”
“Why did you make me come?”
I would have lost my temper if I had not seen the corner of her lip turn up in a grin.
“We both knew we had to come.”
“Why do the good ones always die, Chuck?”
“Darned if I know.”
We found our elderly limo driver and directed him to take us to San Pietro.
“They killed him!” he shouted. “He was a good man, a saint. He would have remade the Church. They could not permit that. So they poisoned him. Everyone knows it is true, but no one will punish them.”
“Who are they?” I asked.
“The priests pro certo. Who else? It is all about money. They don’t want to lose their money.”
It was true enough that many of the Italian clergy, impoverished and with heavy demands from their families, grasped for money in a way that would offend Americans. It was also true that the finances of the Vatican were rumored to be highly irregular, like those of Cardinal O’Neill in Chicago. Yet I could not see the priests of the countryside conspiring against one of their own. That some powers in the Curia might be happy to be rid of this unpredictable new Pope, I didn’t doubt. However, they were not the kind of men who would kill a Pope.
Were they?
The rain fell in heavy sheets, the traffic from Fiumicino to the city was bumper to bumper. My stomach was already preparing for a violent protest.
Finally, after noon, Roman time, we arrived at St. Peter’s. The rain continued. A dark and unruly crowd milled around outside the Basilica. Apparently the authorities had blocked entrance to the wake. We were blocked by black-clad carabinieri at the head of the street. I realized that the Press Office was only a few yards away.
“Rosemarie,” I said, “I’m going to duck into the Sala Stampa to be sick. Wait for me here.”
“Poor Chucky.” She touched my hand. “I’ll come with you.”
“I’d sooner be alone,” I said with a martyr’s air.
“Don’t vomit all over S’ter.”
“What a wonderful idea!”
I strode into the Press Office like I belonged there. That’s one of the secrets of Rome and the Vatican. If you’re wearing a trench coat and act like you belong, no one will stop you. Alas, I could not find S’ter.
It took some time for my stomach to be sure that it had rid itself of my dinner. Unsteady on my feet, I stumbled out of the men’s room and right into Msgr. Adolfo, whose harried face and rumpled clothes indicated that his usual polished veneer had fallen apart.
“Carlo! You are here so soon! You look terrible! Where is Rosemarie?”
“The Alitalia supper was too much for my digestive process,” I said. “Rosemarie is outside in our limo. What’s happening?”
He shrugged expressively.
“Everything has gone wrong, Carlo. The Pope is dead. We have lied about it, patently lied. Cardinal Villot, the camarlingo, forbade an autopsy. You may not, he said, subject the sacred body of the Pope to such indignities. The Italian media are saying that there is a conspiracy. So now, after the embalming, we are doing a secret autopsy in San Pietro itself. Only we deny it. Again everyone knows we are lying … Is your car in front? Come, we will get it and go around to the courtyard so that you may enter the wake as soon as they are finished with their ghoulish work.”
“Thank you for coming, Rosemarie,” he said gallantly to my wife. “One needs to see someone with great sense at a time like this.”
“In all probability,” he went on, “Papa Luciani died of a pulmonary embolism, perhaps in the bathroom. He had one before up in Venice. He has had circulatory problems for a long time. He takes, excuse me, he took a medicine called raffin for his circulation. It is very dangerous medicine which can also serve as a rat poison. It must be taken regularly and under a physician’s care. He took it irregularly and there was no physician to supervise him.”
“Why not?” I said, still not certain about whether I might need to run somewhere to be sick once ag
ain.
“For many years to come, Carlo, there will be conspiracy theories about which faction in the Curia wanted to kill him. You know enough about the Vatican to realize that for all its deviousness the present Curia is incapable of organizing an effective conspiracy. Our poor smiling Pope died of medical incompetence, an explanation which fits the Vatican perfectly. Unfortunately, it is easier in this place to believe in conspiracy than in incompetence.”
“I thought the health office was right down the corridor from his apartment. Why weren’t they supervising his health?”
“Papa Luciani’s physicians up in Venezia would not send down his medical records until the Vatican asked for them. The Pope’s doctors here would not ask for the records because that would be beneath their dignity. So they fought back and forth while the poor man died … I do not know. His health was not good. He might have died anyway. Yet if there were doctors who were watching him, he might have survived. We will never know.”
“That’s terrible,” my wife exclaimed.
Our car had slowly eased its way to the entrance of the Belvedere Courtyard. Two dripping Swiss Guards crossed their pikes to stop us. Then they recognized Msgr. Adolfo, snapped to attention, saluted us, of course, and permitted us into the courtyard.
The driver murmured an expression of awe.
“We stay here for a few moments, I think. I will tell you what seems to have happened. Last week, it is said, he felt pains in his chest. He forbade his secretaries to mention the pains to anyone. When they found him dead, late in the evening perhaps, they became fearful that they would be blamed. So they put him to bed, or perhaps back to bed. Sister Vincenza left the morning cup of coffee at the door. When she came back later it was still there. She knocked at the door. He did not answer; she pushed it slightly ajar and peeked in. Then she screamed. They called Cardinal Villot, the camarlingo, and of course he came immediately. They also summoned the doctors, who came reluctantly as you might imagine. They pronounced the Pope dead. He told the Sala Stampa to announce the death and say that the Pope had been reading the Imitation of Christ when he died. Everyone knew that was false. The lies have continued ever since, all for the good of the Church, you understand.”
“Of course,” Rosemarie agreed.
Every time I travel with her I must for some reason rediscover that she is immune to most of the infirmities involved in traveling seven miles high in an aluminum tube. She is unaffected by jet lag, motion sickness, dehydration, claustrophobia, or any of the other ailments from which we mere mortals suffer. She was now wide awake and eager to hear the whole story. I merely wanted to find a bed—anywhere but preferably in our suite at the Hassler—and sleep. Rosemarie, however, firmly believed that you ought to stay awake until the local time said you should be in bed.
Perhaps I could fake collapse. Come to think of it, that might be easy.
“What was he working on?” she demanded.
From the seat in front of us, Rae Adolfo’s quick brown eyes examined both our faces.
“There is no reason not to tell you. The Chicago papers. He had made up his mind to replace Cardinal O’Neill on Monday—and he wanted to review them one last time.”
All three of us were silent. There was no point in trying to understand God’s plans.
“You are not the only one who knows this story, are you, Msgr. Adolfo?”
“No, many of us know it. We will not tell the story now. It would not do any good. The conspiracy theories are too popular. Someday perhaps … Ah, I see that we may now enter the Aula of San Pietro.”
We trudged through many corridors of the Vatican complex, elaborate soulless marble rooms in which the Divine Wind would not be welcome. Dumb place to run a Church which was supposed to specialize in good news and big surprises.
Then we passed through a covered passage and entered St. Peter’s, a great big baroque monstrosity that had cost us Germany. Why did we need a place like this?
Up in the front, almost tiny beneath the vast gilt baldachino and in front of the massive marble altar, lay a simple catafalque on which rested the small body of our smiling Pope. The sickening smell of embalming chemicals and the hospital room lingered about him. Without his smile and his quick gestures, it was impossible to recognize him. Like most everything else in the Vatican the undertakers were not very good.
A few figures stood around the dead Pope—priests and a couple of laymen in formal clothes, papal nobility doubtless. Rosemarie was the only woman in the place, and herself in black slacks and a black blouse. Oblivious to all the others, she fell on her knees and prayed. I don’t think they even noticed her, or the red-haired retainer who knelt next to her. Nor did they pay any attention to Adolfo, who apparently had enough clout that he could wander around Vatican City unnoticed.
“Take a picture, Chucky,” she reminded me. “You’re a photographer, remember?”
“Picture taker.”
I removed my Nikon from my raincoat pocket.
“Available light?” Rosemarie asked.
“Certo,” I said.
“There’s not much of it.”
“There’s enough. He’s not going to move, poor dear man.”
“You might.”
“No way. I have steady hands.”
“I’ve noticed.”
It was neither the time nor the place for a faintly erotic comment.
Adolfo watched silently as I finished a roll. Grisly pictures.
“Very steady hands,” he said.
“This is all right?” I said, as I slipped the camera back into my pocket before the silent dignitaries noticed.
“They won’t let the people who are about to come in take pictures but they will anyway. It is important to have a good record.”
“We can distribute it?” Rosemarie asked.
“I would not have permitted Carlo to take the pictures unless I intended that. The world should know what death did to the smiling Pope of September.”
“Death and bad embalming,” I muttered.
“The September Pope is with God, Chuck,” my wife reminded me.
Back in the car, Rosemarie, her lips tight and her face pale, said to me, “It’s not like an Irish wake, Chucky.”
“No it is not, cara. The Irish, being a hopeful people, laugh at death. We Italians, being a pessimistic people, rage at it. There have been terrible outcries in the Aula before. There will also be others before the day is over and during the funeral.”
“Can I ask you a question, Rae?” I said, trying to make sure the right words came out of my dry mouth, which still tasted of vomit.
“Certainly, Carlo.”
“What do you know?”
“Scusi?”
“You have tremendous clout around this place. You wander in right after the autopsy with two stranieri, one a beautiful woman. The creeps standing around the Pope’s body don’t notice you or us. How come? You either know someone or something that makes them afraid of you, so that you’re invisible to them.”
“Maybe it is the magic potion as in H. G. Wells, no?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m afraid it is a trade secret, Carlo. However, it suits many people to permit me my invisibility. They feel that I play an important role, though they’re not always sure what it is. So?”
“So,” I said, feeling that I understood.
There were people in Mayor Daley’s City Hall, only a few, who enjoyed the same invisibility. My brother-in-law Vince Antonelli had been one of them, even when he no longer formally worked for the Mayor. When the Mayor died, he withdrew from the game.
“You will have that role, no matter who the next Pope is?”
He laughed lightly.
“Certo. Everyone needs an invisible man or two. I make few demands. I keep important people well informed.”
“Already,” Rosemarie said, “some important cardinals have asked you what really happened?”
“Perhaps.”
“And you have told them enough to
satisfy them but not everything?”
“Perhaps.”
“Why bother with us?”
“Because, cara, your husband is one of the most important people in the Catholic world, even if he doesn’t realize it, no?”
“Yes,” she agreed.
I was still too sick to wonder what that meant.
The car slipped out of the gate which separated Vatican City from the Republic of Italy. The salute of the Swiss Guard as we exited guaranteed us a wave through the traffic from the Italian cops.
Why did we need Swiss Guards? Why did we need Vatican City?
Did the Founder approve of all this stuff that accrued through the centuries? I rather doubted it. No one, however, had asked him.
I heard Rae and my wife agree that he would join us for supper at eight-thirty in the dining room of the Hassler. I knew that I would never eat again, especially not Italian food, so I didn’t care.
I would not have found our suite without Rosemarie’s hand on my arm. I was a wreck, a battered old man who probably needed Librium or something of the sort. Now I needed only sleep.
“You go right to bed, Chucky, and get a good sleep. I’ll see that these pictures are developed and send them out to somebody. Reuters maybe so they’ll go worldwide.”
“We’ll be like that someday, Rosemarie, like our September Pope.”
“And we’ll be with God too, darling. Now go to bed and sleep just as long as you want.”
I managed to take off my clothes and collapse. The beds in the Hassler were very comfortable indeed.
One question tugged at the far edge of my consciousness. Why did our invisible Monsignor want those pictures to go ’round the world?
Several centuries later I awakened to the sound of rain and wind beating against the window and the sight of my wife in black lingerie applying her makeup. Normally that would be a sight which would ignite at least mild sexual desire. Now there were no such movements of the flesh. Indeed, I felt that such movements would probably never return.
“Are you awake, Chuck?” she asked as she inspected her face in the mirror.
“No,” I said firmly.
“Here’s the picture I sold to Reuters. It’s on its way around the world. They’re calling it A Smile Extinguished.”
“Gross,” I murmured.
Second Spring Page 17
