by Morris West
Suddenly he saw the funny side of it and laughed, a great bellow of mirth that subsided finally into a helpless giggle. Anneliese Meissner splashed more wine into the glasses and lifted her own in salute.
“That’s better! For a while I thought I’d lost a good colleague.”
“Thank you, Frau Beisitzer.” Mendelius took a long swallow of wine and set down his glass. “Now let’s get back to business. I’m going to Rome in a couple of weeks.”
“The hell you are!” She stared at him in disbelief. “And what good do you expect to do there?”
“Have a holiday, give a couple of lectures at the Germany Academy, talk to Jean Marie Barette and people who were close to him. I’ll make tapes during or after each interview and send them back to you. Afterwards, I’ll decide whether to drop the affair or not. At least I’ll have discharged my duty as a friend—and I’ll have kept my assessor honest, too!”
“I hope you realize, my friend, that even when you’ve done all that, your evidence will still be incomplete.”
“I don’t see why it need be.”
“Think about it.” Anneliese Meissner speared another gherkin and waved it under his nose. “How are you going to talk to God? Will you put him on tape, too?”
He was a tidy man by nature and he prepared for his visit to Rome with finical care. He made telephone calls to friends, wrote letters to acquaintances, armed himself with introductions to Vatican officials, made dates far in advance for lunches, dinners and formal interviews. He was careful to stress the overt purpose of his visit: a search in the Vatican Library and the Biblical Institute for fragments of Ebionite literature and a short series of discourses at the Academy on the apocalyptic tradition.
He had chosen the subject not only because it provided a cue on which to begin his enquiries about Jean Marie, but because it might elicit from his Evangelical audience some emotional response to the millennial theme. In his younger days he had been deeply stirred by the Jungian idea of the “great dreaming,” the persistence of tribal experience in the subconscious, and its perennial influence on the individual and on the group. There was a striking similarity between this notion and that which the theologians called the “Infusion” and the “Indwelling of the Spirit.” It raised also the question of Anneliese Meissner, his Beisitzer, and her obdurate rejection of any transcendental experience whatsoever. Her gibe about talking to God still rankled—the more because he had found no adequate answer to it.
He spent a long time over a letter to the Abbot of Monte Cassino, who was now Jean Marie’s religious superior. This was a most necessary courtesy. Jean Marie had placed himself under obedience, and the exactions of authority could extend to his physical movements and even to his private correspondence. Mendelius, a onetime subject of the system, had a nice perception of religious protocol. His letter told of his long friendship with Jean Marie Barette, his diffidence about intruding upon his present privacy. However, if the Abbot had no objection and the former Pontiff were willing to receive him, Professor Carl Mendelius would like to pay a visit to the monastery at a mutually convenient date.
He enclosed a note which he begged the Abbot to deliver into the hands of Jean Marie Barette. This, too, he had composed with studious discretion.
My dear friend,
Please forgive the informality, but I am ignorant of the protocol for correspondence with a retired Pope, who has made himself a humble son of St. Benedict.
I have always regretted that it was not possible for me to share the burdens of your final days in the Vatican; but German professors are two marks a dozen and their sphere of influence seldom extends beyond the lecture hall.
However, I shall soon be in Rome—still researching the Ebionites and giving some lectures on the doctrine of the Parousia at the German Academy—and it would give me a great pleasure to see you again, if only for a little while.
I have written to the Father Abbot asking his permission to visit you, provided always that you are in the mood to receive me. If we can meet I shall be grateful and happy. If the time is not opportune, please do not hesitate to say so.
I trust you are well. With the world in such a mess I think you were wise to retire from it. Lotte sends you her most affectionate greetings and my children their respectful salutations. As for myself, I remain always.
Yours in the Fellowship of the Lord,
Carl Mendelius
The answer came back in ten days, delivered by a clerical messenger from the Cardinal Archbishop of Munich: the Very Reverend Abbot Andrew would be happy to receive him at Monte Cassino, and, if his health permitted, the Very Reverend Jean Marie Barette, O.S.B., would be delighted to see his old friend. He should telephone the Abbott immediately upon his arrival in Rome, and an appointment would be arranged.
There was no response at all from Jean Marie.
The evening before he left for Rome with Lotte he asked his son, Johann, to have coffee with him in his study. They had been uneasy together for a long time now. The boy, a brilliant student in economics, was uncomfortable in the shadow of a father who was also a senior member of the faculty. The father was often clumsy in his eagerness to foster so obvious a talent. The result was secrecy on the one side, resentment on the other, with only a rare display of the affection that still existed between them. This time Mendelius was determined to be tactful. As usual he managed only to be heavy-handed. He asked:
“When do you leave on your trip, son?”
“Two days from now.”
“Have you planned a route yet?”
“More or less. We go by train to Munich, then start hiking—through the Obersalzburg and over the Tauern into Carinthia.”
“It’s beautiful country. I wish I were coming with you. By the way”—he fished in his breast pocket and brought out a sealed envelope—“this is to help with the expenses.”
“But you’ve already given me my holiday money.”
“That’s something extra. You’ve worked very hard this year. Your mother and I wanted to show our appreciation.”
“Well… thanks.” He was obviously embarrassed. “But there was no need. You’ve always been generous with me.”
“There’s something I want to say to you, son.” He saw the boy stiffen immediately. The old mulish look came over his face. “It’s a personal matter. I’d rather you didn’t discuss it with your mother. One of the reasons I’m going to Rome is to investigate what brought about the abdication of Gregory the Seventeenth. As you know he was my dear friend.…” He gave a small wry smile. “Yours, too, I suppose, because without his help your mother and I might never have married and you wouldn’t be here.… However, the enquiries may take a long time and entail a great deal of travel. There may also be certain risks. If anything happens to me, I want you to know my affairs are in order. Dr. Mahler, our lawyer, holds most of the documents. The rest are in the safe over there. You’re a man now. You would have to step into my shoes and take care of your mother and sister.”
“I don’t understand. What sort of risks are you talking about? And why do you have to expose yourself to them?”
“It’s difficult to explain.”
“I’m your son.” His tone was resentful. “At least give me a chance to understand.”
“Please! Try to relax with me. I need you now, very much.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just that…”
“I know. We rub each other the wrong way. But I love you, son. I wish I could tell you how much.” Emotion welled up in him and he wanted to reach out and embrace the young man, but he was afraid of a rebuff. He went on quietly, “To explain, I have to show you something secret and bind you on your honor not to reveal it to anyone.”
“You have my word, Father.”
“Thank you.” Mendelius crossed to the safe, took out the Barette documents and handed them to his son. “Read those. They explain everything. When you’re finished, we’ll talk. I’ve got some notes to write up.”
He settled himself at h
is desk while Johann sat in the armchair, poring over the documents. In the soft glow of the reading lamp he reminded Mendelius of one of Raffaello’s young models, obedient and immobile, while the master made him immortal on canvas. He felt a pang of regret for the wasted years. This was the way it should have been, long ago: father and son, content and companionable, all childish quarrels long forgotten.
Mendelius got up and refilled Johann’s coffee cup and brandy glass. Johann nodded his thanks and went on with his reading. It was nearly forty minutes before he turned the last page, sat for a long moment in silence, then folded the documents deliberately, got up and laid them on his father’s desk. He said quietly:
“I understand now, Father. I think it’s a dangerous nonsense and I hate to see you involved with it; but I do understand.”
“Thank you, son. Would you care to tell me why you think it’s a nonsense?”
“Yes.” He was firm but respectful. He held himself very erect, like a subaltern addressing his commander. “There’s something I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time. Now seems as good a time as any.”
“Perhaps you’d like to pour me a brandy first.” Mendelius smiled at him.
“Of course.” He refilled the glass and set it on the desk. “The fact is, Father, I’m no longer a believer.”
“In God, or specifically in the Roman Catholic Church?”
“In neither.”
“I’m sorry to hear it, son.” Mendelius was studiously calm. “I’ve always felt the world must be a bleak place without some hope of a hereafter. But I’m glad you told me. Does your mother know?”
“Not yet.”
“I’ll tell her, if you like—but later. I’d like her to enjoy this holiday.”
“Are you angry with me?”
“Dear God, no!” Mendelius heaved himself out of his chair and clamped his hands on the young man’s shoulders. “Listen! All my life I’ve taught and written that a man can walk only the path he sees at his own feet. If you cannot honestly assent to a faith then you must not. Rather you should consent to be burned like Bruno in the Field of Flowers. As for your mother and me, we have no more right than anyone else to dictate your conscience.… But remember one thing, son. Keep your mind open, so that the light can always come in. Keep your heart open so that love will never be shut out.”
“I—I never thought you’d take it like this.” For the first time his control cracked and he seemed about to burst into tears. Mendelius drew him close and embraced him.
“I love you, boy! Nothing changes that. Besides… you’re in a new country now. You won’t really know whether you like it until you’ve spent a winter there.… Let’s not fight each other anymore, eh?”
“Right!” Johann disengaged himself from the embrace and reached for his brandy glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
“Prosit,” said Carl Mendelius.
“About the other thing, Father.”
“Yes?”
“I can see the risks. I know what Jean Marie’s friendship means to you. But I think you have to get the priorities right. Mother has to come first; and, well, Katrin and I need you, too.”
“I’m trying to keep things in their right order, son.” Mendelius gave a small, rueful chuckle. “You may not believe in the Second Coming, but if it happens, it will change the priorities somewhat… no?”
From the air the Italian countryside was a pastoral paradise, the orchards in full bloom, the meadows bright with wild flowers, the farmland flush with new green, the old fortress towns placid as pictures from a fairy tale.
By contrast, Fiumicino Airport looked like a rehearsal for final chaos. The traffic controllers were working to rule; the baggage handlers were on strike. There were long queues at every passport barrier. The air was filled with a babel of voices shouting in a dozen languages. Police with sniffer dogs moved among the harassed crowd looking for drug carriers; while young conscripts, armed with machine guns, stood guard at every exit, watchful and uneasy.
Lotte was near tears and Mendelius was sweating with anger and frustration. It took them an hour and a half to barge their way through to the customs room and out into the reception area, where Herman Frank was waiting, dapper and solicitous as always. He had a limousine, a vast Mercedes borrowed from the German Embassy. He had flowers for Lotte, an effusive welcome for the Herr Professor, and champagne to drink during the long ride back to town. The traffic would be hell as always; but he wanted to offer them a small foretaste of heavenly peace.
The peace was granted to them at last in the Franks’ apartment, the top floor of a seventeenth-century palazzo with high frescoed ceilings, marble floors, bathrooms large enough to float a navy and a stunning view over the rooftops of old Rome. Two hours later, bathed, changed and restored to sanity, they were drinking cocktails on the terrace, listening to the last bells and watching the swifts wheeling around the cupolas and attics, russet in the sunset glow.
“Down there it’s murder.…” Hilde Frank pointed at the cluttered thoroughfares jammed with automobiles and pedestrians. “Sometimes real murder, because the terrorists are very bold now and the crust of law and order has worn thin. Kidnapping is the biggest private industry. We don’t go out at night as we used, because there’s always danger from purse-snatchers and motorcycle gangs. But up here”—her gesture embraced the whole ancient skyline—“it’s still the same as it’s been for centuries: the washing on the lines, the birds, the music that comes and goes, and the calls of the women to their neighbours. Without it I don’t think we could bear to stay any longer.”
She was a small dark woman, bubbly with talk, elegant as a mannequin, twenty years younger than the white-haired husband who followed her every movement with adoration. She was affectionate, too, cuddlesome as a kitten. Mendelius caught the flash of jealousy in Lotte’s eyes, when Hilde took his hand and led him to the corner of the terrace to point out the distant dome of St. Peter’s and the Castle of Sant’ Angelo. She told him in a loud stage whisper:
“Herman’s so happy you’ve agreed to lecture for him. He’s getting near to retirement and he hates the idea. His whole life has been wrapped up in the Academy—both our lives really, because we’ve never had any children.… Lotte looks very well. I hope she likes shopping. I thought I’d take her to the Condotti tomorrow while you and Herman are at the Academy. The seminar people haven’t arrived yet but he’s dying to show you the place”
“… And we’ve got fine things to show this year!” Herman Frank, with Lotte on his arm, walked into their talk. “We’re giving the first comprehensive exhibition of Van Wittel ever held in this country, and Piero Falcone has lent us his collection of antique Florentine jewellery. That’s an expensive venture because we need armed guards all the time.… Now let me tell you who’s coming to dinner tonight. There’s Bill Utley and his wife, Sonia. He’s the British envoy to the Holy See. Bill’s a dry old stick but he really knows what’s going on. Also he speaks good German, which helps things along. Sonia’s a cheerful gossip with no inhibitions. You’ll enjoy her, Lotte. Then there’s Georg Rainer, who’s the Rome correspondent for Die Welt. He’s a relaxed fellow who talks well. It was Hilde’s idea to invite him because he’s got a new girlfriend whom nobody’s seen yet. A Mexican, I believe, and reputed to be rich!… We’ll sit down about nine-thirty.… By the way, Carl, there’s a pile of mail for you. I asked the maid to leave it in your room.…”
It was the warmest of the welcomes and a reminder of happier times before the oil war began, and the Italian miracle turned sour, and all the bright hopes of European unity were tarnished beyond repair. By the time the dinner guests arrived, Lotte was completely relaxed and chatting happily with Hilde about a trip to Florence and another to Ischia, while Carl Mendelius outlined, to an enthusiastic Herman, the schema of his discourses to the Evangelicals.
Dinner was a comfortable meal. Utley’s wife was a scandalously entertaining talker. Georg Rainer’s girl, Pia Menendez, was an instant success—a stunning b
eauty who knew how to defer graciously to the matrons. Georg Rainer wanted news; Utley liked to reminisce; so it was easy for Mendelius to steer the talk to recent events in the Vatican. Utley, the Britisher, who in his mother tongue had elevated obscurity to a fine art, was very precise in German.
“… Even to the outsider it was plain that Gregory the Seventeenth had everyone in a panic. The organization is too big and therefore too fragile to support an innovator or even a too flexible man at the top. It’s like the Russians with their satellites, and their comradely governments in Africa and South America. They have to preserve, at any cost, the illusion of unanimity and stability.… So Gregory had to go.”
“I’d be interested,” said Carl Mendelius, “to know exactly how they got him to abdicate.”
“Nobody’s prepared to talk about that,” said Utley. “This was the first time in my experience when there were no real leaks from Monte Vaticano. Obviously there was some very rough bargaining; but one got the impression there were some very uneasy consciences afterwards.”
“They blackmailed him!” said the man form Die Welt flatly. “I had the evidence; but I couldn’t publish it.”
“Why not?” The question came from Utley.
“Because I got it from a medical man, one of the doctors they called in to examine him. Obviously he was in no position to make a public statement.”
“Did he tell you his findings?”
“He told me what the Curia wanted him to find: that Gregory the Seventeenth was mentally incompetent.”
“Did they put it as bluntly as that?” Mendelius was surprised and dubious.
“No. That was the problem. The Curia was very subtle about it. They asked the medicos—there were seven in all—to establish, beyond reasonable doubt, whether the Pontiff was mentally and physically competent to carry on the duties of his office in this critical time.”
