The Death of Men

by Allan Massie

  Then Sandro came to see me.

  ‘We are worried about you,’ he said.

  ‘I am the least of your worries,’ I replied.

  He drifted around the apartment; he looked at himself in half-profile in the ormolu-framed glass; he leant over the balcony, his cheek caressed by honeysuckle.

  ‘Do you know the most extraordinary thing, Uncle?’ he said, turning towards me, his eyes wide. ‘It’s that Father seems so much closer to me now. I’ve always been rather in awe of him, you understand, because, to be quite frank, I’ve felt he despised me. I was a disappointment to him. Nico and Bernardo were both more to his taste. And do you know something else? I’ve started to go to Church again. I’ve been to Mass twice, with Mother. I had almost ceased to believe. I mean, nobody I know, none of my set, believes in anything; neither religion nor politics, you understand, but this has shown me that you can’t live like that. So, you see that’s how it is. Of course Bernardo has always found me and my friends trivial. Frivolous. Maybe we are. But what Bernardo has done has really frightened me, you know. I hadn’t realized how deeply he was committed. That’s frightening …’

  He smiled at me, a smile that was still gentle and sweet, but trembling at the corners of his curving lips; Bernardo had taken innocence from his brother.

  I said, ‘There was an English writer called Chesterton – you won’t have heard of him – who said that when a man stops believing in God, he doesn’t believe in Nothing, he believes in Anything. On the other hand Chesterton was a Catholic convert himself, and there are plenty of people whose way of life disproves the truth of this observation. It is after all perfectly possible to believe in nothing, or at least in nothing much. There are in the end, my dear, two categories of men, those who must have a faith and those who get through life without one. Don’t deceive yourself as to which class you belong to … How’s your mother?’

  Sandro’s face grew grave. ‘Her faith is wonderful,’ he said, then smiled again, a younger smile, ‘but I must confess, it’s the devil and all to live with.’

  Sandro might be saved by humour – we would all after this have to find some means of reconciling ourselves to existence. The things which make life and sanity possible are those which stultify reflection or aid mockery. Only very occasionally do you find the exceptional man like Corrado, who, as his letters revealed, could live in Hell with eyes open and acceptant mind.

  I should have said some of this to Sandro, but didn’t. And yet I couldn’t of course recommend to him the incessant activity of my dear Ettore or the blind, nonsensical, life-denying commitment of Bernardo. I could only hope, with a hope as tenuous as a sunbeam, that, when it was finished, he would find his way back to the surface of existence, and float there elegantly; but I could not believe that he would be able ever again to invest a tennis-court with the full meaning of life.

  These next days come back to me in fragments. I renewed effort, consulted with Nico, called on a Cardinal, went, at Nico’s request, again to see Gianni Schicchi. To my surprise he agreed to receive me at once. Was he, I wondered as I put down the telephone, and wondered again, as the official led me out of the lift along a gilded corridor, coming under the sort of pressure that would cause him to seek an excuse to change his line; a change which would only be discernible in retrospect, for to be effective it would require to be clandestine and sudden. One of the great political arts is that which enables its master to turn right about without being seen to move. De Gaulle brought it off over Algeria, and Gianni was a keen admirer of the General.

  The fat bottom was turned towards me, as if he had already made the about-turn which I had been brooding on. He remained a few moments without moving, continuing to gaze out over the piazza which was shrouded by a sudden squall of rain; bare-armed tourists scurried for shelter on the distant pavements.

  I was reminded of Mussolini sitting at his desk apparently absorbed in work until suddenly and belatedly aware of the visitor before him attending on his pleasure; then the Duce would leap to his feet with vociferous apologies.

  How tired one gets of the acts that great men feel obliged to put on.

  ‘Well, Gianni,’ I said.

  (This time I was going to approach him as an old friend, indifferent, as it were, to his authority and influence; in that way I might hope to be able to make the appeal to his humanity … as I had promised Nico …)

  He swivelled, on his heel, like a cavalry officer indignant at receiving some rebuke. The nerve in his cheek twitched.

  ‘What your brother is doing is unforgivable,’ he said.

  ‘Would you repeat that to Elena?’

  ‘I wish,’ he said, ‘I could believe that they had drugged him. The doctors tell me there is no drug could make him behave as he is doing, blind to honour. They find no evidence, but, I assure you, when the time comes, there will be evidence enough. Our honour unites with expediency to demand it.’

  He sat down, motioning me to do the same, and leant forward, placing his forearms on the desk that divided us. He dropped his voice.

  ‘Raimundo,’ he said, his tone now warm and confiding, ‘how do you feel about it yourself? Aren’t you just a little ashamed of these letters? As for me, I was astounded when they began to appear. Listen to me, Raimundo. I speak from my heart also. How should I not? My feelings for Corrado have always been warm. We have been colleagues for forty years. We have had our disagreements – of course we have – they have only added to the respect we have always felt for each other. Do you know how I feel? I feel betrayed. Betrayed and soiled.’

  There was no reply possible, except ‘liar, comedian, ham …’ I said nothing.

  ‘Listen,’ he said again, ‘we knew, all of us Party chiefs, that this sort of thing might happen. We had considered the matter with the greatest care, and we had concluded that, in no circumstances would we negotiate with the brigands. In no circumstances. There is a document to that effect. I’ll show it to you. Your brother’s signature stands at the head of the list. I assure you, had they taken me, Corrado would not lift a finger to release me; not a finger; and nor would I expect it. That is, nothing would be done beyond what we are already doing – prosecuting police enquiries to the utmost. That is the first and particular point on which Corrado has reneged. Under horrible pressure I admit, but nevertheless, reneged, you understand. But that is not all. It is very far from being all. Raimundo, listen to my next question. Why was that document signed? Why? It was signed, as you know, as a moment’s reflection will assure you, because terrorist activity strikes at the very roots of the tree which is the State. If we surrender to it, and negotiation is surrender, for it legitimizes the activity, where are we? Where do we find ourselves? We are in anarchy. That’s right, anarchy. Everything we in this Party have devoted our lives to establishing, a stable, orderly and just society, is in the melting pot. You cannot confute that. Furthermore, Raimundo, at this precise moment, we are engaged in what are, equally undeniably, the most delicate and perilous transactions in the history of the Christian Democratic State. We are drawing the fangs of the Communist snake. To do that – and I confess that I originally opposed it when your brother advocated this Compromise, aptly named Historic, I opposed it not merely ideologically (for I am aware that ideology must be flexible) but because I thought it too delicate an operation – so, to do this, to carry it into effect, what is required? I shall tell you. Absolute mutual confidence, absolute good-will. And what is the purpose of Corrado’s capture at this very juncture? Simply to upset that confidence and good-will, there can be no doubt. Therefore, what must we do? We must refuse to be moved. We must display true solidarity, not only with our new partners, but with our own past. For what are Politics but a Concordat between past, present and future …’

  Perhaps I exaggerate in memory. Perhaps he was not quite so rhetorical. But I think he was, I think my rendering is authentic enough. What could I say in return? My intention to appeal to humanity had never seemed more frail and ridiculous. It wou
ld shrivel up in that atmosphere like a little country rose exposed to the desert’s heat. To hope that a still, small voice might be heard amidst the clash of World-Historical Forces – as well ask for sympathy from an anaconda.

  I said, ‘What you say, Gianni, is very impressive, and up to a point convincing. But there are other aspects from which the case may be viewed …’ I paused to light a Toscano, and he broke out again …

  ‘Also, and I implore you to bear this in mind, there is the appalling matter of Corrado’s treachery. He threatens to reveal hideous secrets that he asserts we have. Threatens us, his companions. Yet of course he has stopped at threats. For such secrets exist nowhere but in the lurid imaginings of gutter journalists. In their mouths I laugh at the idea. But in Corrado’s? In his they are granted authority, credibility. That to me is black treachery. To give his authority to a lie. He can reveal nothing, for there is nothing to reveal; but the threat to do so is enough. From such a quarter and at such a time …’

  I said, ‘And yet, his letters could denote loyalty too. There is after all nothing to stop him from inventing such secrets as he chooses. And there is one point that you seem to have overlooked, and that is Corrado’s success in moderating his captors’ demands. Look how high they started and see what they have come down to. In his last letter the figure for exchanges is reduced to one, one solitary prisoner in exchange for Corrado. That doesn’t seem much to ask.’

  Gianni threw his hands up, brought them down to his desk and gripped a pencil between them. His knuckles whitened; he stared at me a long time.

  ‘I am surprised at you, Raimundo, I had thought better of you. Your diplomatic brain must be rusting, I fear. The modesty of the demand matters nothing. The true demand remains immodest. For the true demand is this: that the sovereign State treats these brigands as diplomatic equals and parleys with them. So numbers are irrelevant. Any negotiation impugns the true authority of the State. It cannot be done …’

  ‘Very well,’ I said, ‘I accept your point. For the moment. Nevertheless, you in your turn, Gianni, have overlooked something. You have overlooked the fact that you are acting predictably. And what is predictable has probably been predicted; I imagine their political intelligence is sufficiently acute to have anticipated that you would act in this way. Accordingly your refusal to negotiate must be what they expect, part therefore of their plan. It may even be what they desire. Negotiations by way of contrast would take them by surprise, even confound them. As it is, let me suggest that you have been outwitted. You are playing the game their way, according to their rules. It may therefore be that the State – and believe me, I too respect the authority of the State that I served for so many years – may well be more threatened by your refusal to negotiate than it could be by any conceivable negotiations. For you are assuming that they truly wish to negotiate, whereas they may rather desire to show you to be at the same time inhuman and ineffective. Corrado’s kidnapping has certainly been a blow aimed at the foundations of the State. What will be the effect of his assassination, which among other things will reveal that the State will not protect those who have consecrated their lives to it?’

  I have never been so eloquent. All I got in response was a shrug of Gianni’s shoulders, and a curt, ‘We shall see …’

  As I left the room, he raised his head from his desk and said, ‘We must pray.’

  ‘My sister-in-law does so continually. His Holiness assures her that he shares in her every prayer …’

  ‘Ah yes, commend me to her. His Holiness, we all know, is a saint. The rest of us, alas, are merely human …’

  I came away feeling hollow and perplexed. There was no hope of DC action; there never had been, but illusion, even the faintest most iridescent illusion is sustaining. And I could not believe, as of course I had never believed, in the possible success of police investigation. On the contrary, the closer the police came to Corrado’s capture, the closer he came to death. Hadn’t that thought been in my mind when I had denied all knowledge of the Caravaggio Christ? It hadn’t merely been a feeling that I should protect Bernardo, which had caused me to deny him? I was sure of that, wasn’t I? Though how, I wondered, did Elena and the rest of the family stand on that point? Would they willingly save Corrado at the expense of Bernardo? Corrado would not himself accept life at that price.

  Possibly it was my memory of the Caravaggio Christ, fanned by a ridiculous hope of seeing him again, but rather I think, a desire to wash the taste of Gianni Schicchi away, that made me now direct my steps towards the little wine-shop in the back-room in Piazza del Pasquino, where I hadn’t found myself since before the tragedy; I was accustoming myself to think of it as ‘the tragedy’ now, preparing myself to accept my brother’s death. And had there been some fatal classical flaw in him which had contributed to the course of events; or were we all simply at the blind mercy of the Fates?

  Before, I had too easily accepted the comfortable delusion that tragedy was dead.

  Fr Ambrose was there, huge and brown-gowned and sweating.

  He gave me a warm and firm handshake, an English action of silent consolation rather than the perfunctory greeting of the caffè table. He called for wine, and said nothing more till our hostess placed the half-litre of white on the table.

  ‘It’s rather a sour barrel,’ he said. ‘You know that young lawyer, Eustachio, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, certainly.’

  ‘He’s been in, much excited.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Do you remember one day two young men here talking revolutionary stuff?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but you can find such all over Rome.’

  ‘Oh quite. Eustachio got excited because he saw them again. He had convinced himself that they were involved in your brother’s abduction. It doesn’t seem likely to me. Obvious reasons. Still,’ Fr Ambrose stretched out his huge bear’s-paw and curled it round the flask and poured us each a half-glass, ‘Eustachio who is a bit of a rat perhaps, with all the persistence of the rat tribe, went round to police HQ, had, through connections, no problem in getting himself shunted to the right department and made his report.’

  ‘Just that? That he had overheard subversive language?’

  Fr Ambrose shook his head, huge, ursine also, avuncular …

  ‘No, no, I’ve been telling the story badly. I never had any gift for narrative. Eustachio has seen them again, possibly followed them, at any rate convinced himself that he knows where to lay hands on them. That’s what he went to report. And what do you think happened?’

  ‘They weren’t interested?’

  ‘No, exactly like that. At first, apparently, they were extremely interested. Eustachio was ushered through various echelons, his excitement mounting. But when he reached a level, which he has convinced himself was near enough to the top, he found polite lack of interest. Very good of you to take the trouble, dottore, the matter is in hand. Of course his conclusion is the exact opposite. The matter has been sat on, there is a cover-up. So … mind you, he wasn’t exactly offering firm evidence, you know. Just a hunch when you come down to it …’

  Fr Ambrose, secure in his Faith, is infinitely sceptical beyond it. There is no action of which he can believe men incapable. He places no faith in any institution outside the Church, and even where that is concerned, he knows how the human capacity for mischief can corrupt even the most worthy and noble. He believes firmly in God, and also in Man’s innate tendency to disregard, deny, twist, and foil divine intentions. Accordingly, in his view, Eustachio might be deceived by himself as easily as by others; the matter was equal; nothing could astonish Fr Ambrose.

  As for me, I had no difficulty in believing that there were those in power who would willingly, and from a diversity of motives, aid the terrorists. Terror is never without friends in police circles. Nothing after all works so surely towards the power of the police as a good terror; terror spawns counter-terror. Any secret service worth its salt must encourage conspiracy, its raison d’être. The
Inquisition cannot do without heresy. So it follows that those organs of State whose duty it is to protect the State’s security are also those which have a vested interest in promoting insecurity. The young man in the dark suit, Caravaggio Christ’s companion, could be a police spy; a police agent could have master-minded Corrado’s capture; Caravaggio himself might be a dupe.

  I said to Fr Ambrose, ‘It’s certain of course that, after the Revolution, the Police and Secret Service will be staffed by the idealists of today; if, that is, they can elbow out the careerists who will change their opinions to protect their positions.’

  And thinking of Gianni Schicchi, I said, ‘The same ambiguity exists at the political level too: what if the PDP and Gianni Schicchi are in unacknowledged agreement; both bent on a course of action that will make the Historic Compromise first impossible, and then unthinkable?’

  The next morning I telephoned Elena. She replied with the bleak courtesy of a widow. I promised to go and see her in the late afternoon. Why?

  I sat at my desk. A long time. Outside (I thought) the sun rose to make the city its gridiron, but, in fact, when I looked outside, the air trembled. There was even a little puddle in the courtyard. The swifts flew gleaming in and out of the chimney-stacks and television aerials. Sasha rubbed himself against me, calling for milk. A simple Horatian desire, a cat’s life. The telephone rang. Ed Mangan in great excitement. Apparently Mastagni was due to make a speech in Venice. It was expected that he would urge negotiations. Ed was flying to Venice to hear him. Why didn’t I come too? My presence would have enormous effect. I told him Mastagni was a vieux con; perhaps he didn’t understand, for he replied that ‘Foster had thought a hell of a lot of Mastagni.’ An Americanism leapt to my lips: ‘so what?’