The Clowns of God

by Morris West

  “That’s a catch-all brief,” said Utley. “Why did Gregory fall for it?”

  “He was caught in a trap. If he refused, he was suspect. If he accepted he was subject to the medical consensus.”

  “And what was that?” Mendelius asked.

  “My man couldn’t tell me. You see, that was the other smart thing they did. They asked each doctor to render an independent opinion in writing.”

  “Which left the Curia free to write its own assessment afterwards.” Bill Utley gave a small dry chuckle. “Very smart! So what was your man’s verdict?”

  “Honest, I believe; but not very helpful to the patient. He was suffering from gross fatigue, constant insomnia and elevated, though not necessarily chronic, blood pressure. There were clear indications of anxiety and alternating moods of cheerfulness and depression. Obviously if these symptoms persisted in a man of sixty-five, there would be reason to fear graver complications.…”

  “If the other reports were like that…”

  “Or,” said Mendelius softly, “if they were less honest and a shade more slanted…”

  “The Cardinals had him in checkmate,” said Georg Rainer. “They picked the choicest bits of the reports, constructed their own final verdict and presented Gregory with an ultimatum: go or be pushed!”

  “Loving God!” Mendelius swore softly. “What choice did he have?”

  “A beautiful piece of statecraft though.” Bill Utley chuckled wryly. “You can’t impeach a Pope. Short of assassination, how do you get rid of him? You’re right, Georg, it was pure blackmail! I wonder who dreamed up the ploy.”

  “Arnaldo, of course. I do know he was the one who instructed the physicians.”

  “And now he’s the Pope,” said Carl Mendelius.

  “He’ll probably make a very good one,” said Utley with a grin. “He knows the rules of the game.”

  Reluctantly, Carl Mendelius, the onetime Jesuit, was forced to agree with him. He also thought that Georg Rainer was a very smart journalist and that it would pay to cultivate his acquaintance.

  That night he made love with Lotte in a huge baroque bed, which, Herman swore on his soul, had belonged to the elegant Cardinal Bernis. Whether it had or it hadn’t made small matter. Their mating was the most joyous in a long time. When it was over, Lotte curled up in the crook of his arm and talked in drowsy contentment.

  “It’s been a lovely evening—everybody so bright and welcoming! I’m glad you made me come. Tübingen’s a nice town; but I’d forgotten there was such a lot of world outside.”

  “Then let’s start seeing it together, liebchen.”

  “We will, I promise. I feel happier now about the children. Katrin was very sweet. She told me what you’d said to her and how Franz had taken the news.”

  “I didn’t hear about that.”

  “Apparently, he said, ‘Your father’s a big man. I’d like to bring him back one good canvas from Paris.’”

  “That’s nice to hear.”

  “Johann seemed happier, too; though he didn’t say very much.”

  “He got a few things off his chest, including the fact that he wasn’t a believer anymore.…”

  “Oh, dear! That’s sad.”

  “It’s a phase, liebchen.” Mendelius was sedulously casual. “He wants to find his own way to the truth.”

  “I hope you made him aware that you respected his decision.”

  “Of course! You mustn’t worry about Johann and me. It’s just the old bull and the young one sparring with each other.”

  “Old bull is right!” Lotte giggled happily in the darkness. “Which reminds me, if I catch Hilde playing pat-hands with you too often, I’ll scratch her eyes out!”

  “Nice to know you’re still jealous.”

  “I love you, Carl. I love you so very much.”

  “And I love you, liebchen.”

  “That’s all I need to finish a perfect day. Good night, my dear, dear man!”

  She rolled away from him, curled herself under the covers and lapsed swiftly into sleep. Carl Mendelius clasped his hands under his head and lay a long time staring up at the ceiling, where amorous nymphs and rapacious demigods disported themselves in the darkness. For all the sweet solace of loving, he was still haunted by what he had heard at dinner and by the last letter in the pile which the maid had left on his dressing table.

  It was in Italian, handwritten on heavy notepaper, embossed with the official superscription of the Sacred Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith.

  Dear Professor Mendelius,

  I am informed by our mutual friend the rector of the Pontifical Biblical Institute that you will shortly be visiting Rome for the purpose of scholastic research, and that you will be delivering some discourses at the German Academy of Fine Arts.

  I understand also that you plan to pay a visit to the recently retired Pontiff at the Monastery of Monte Cassino.

  Since I have always had the greatest admiration for your scholarly work, it would give me great pleasure to entertain you to coffee one morning in my private apartment in Vatican City.

  Perhaps you would be kind enough to call me at the Congregation any evening between four and seven so that we may arrange a mutually convenient day, preferably before you go to Monte Cassino.

  I send you my salutations and my best wishes for a pleasant sojourn.

  Yours in Christ Jesus,

  Anton Drexel,

  Cardinal Prefect

  It was beautifully done, as always: a courteous gesture and a tart reminder that nothing, but nothing, that went on in the sacred circle escaped the watchdogs of the Lord. In the old days of the Papal States they would have sent a summons and a detachment of gendarmes to enforce it. Now it was coffee and sweet biscuits in the Cardinal’s apartment and sweet seductive talk afterwards.

  Well, well! Tempora mutantur… ! He wondered which the Cardinal Prefect wanted more: information or an assurance of discretion. He wondered also what conditions might be laid down before they would permit him to visit Jean Marie Barette.

  III

  Herman Frank had good reason to be proud of his exhibition. The press had been generous with praise, compliments and illustrations. The galleries of the Academy were thronged with visitors—Romans and tourists—and there was quite astonishing number of young people.

  The works of Gaspar Van Wittel, a seventeenth-century Dutchman from Amersfoort, were little known to the Italian public. Most of them had been jealously preserved in the private collections of the Colonna, the Sacchetti, the Pallavicini and other noble families. To assemble them had taken two years of patient research and months of delicate negotiation. The provenance of many was still a closely guarded secret—witness the large number still denominated “raccolta privata.” Together they constituted an extraordinarily vivid pictorial and architectural record of seventeenth-century Italy. Herman Frank’s enthusiasm had the rare and touching innocence of childhood.

  “Just look at that! So delicate yet so precise! Almost a Japanese quality in the colour. A magnificent draftsman, a complete master of the most intricate perspective… Study these sketches.… Notice how patiently he builds the composition.… Strange! He lived in a dark little villa out on the Appia Antica. It’s still there. Terribly claustrophobic. Mind you, it was all meadowland in those days, so probably he had all the space and light he needed.…” He broke off, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I’m talking too much; but I love these things!”

  Mendelius laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

  “My friend, it’s a delight to listen to you! Look at all these young people! You’ve lifted them out of their resentments and confusions and set them down in another world, simpler, more beautiful, with all its ugliness forgotten. You have to be proud of that!”

  “I am, Carl. I confess it. But I’m also scared of the day when all these canvases are down, and the packers arrive to ship them back to their owners. I’m getting old. I’m not sure whether I’ll have the time, or the energy—th
e luck for that matter!—to do anything like this again.”

  “But you’ll still be trying. That’s the important thing.”

  “Not for long, I’m afraid. I retire next year. I won’t know what to do with myself. We can’t afford to go on living here; and yet I hate the idea of going back to Germany.”

  “You could take up writing as a full-time occupation. You’ve already got an established reputation as an art historian. I’m sure you could get a better publishing deal than you’ve had.… Why don’t you let me talk to my agent and see what he can set up for you?”

  “Would you?” He was almost pathetically grateful. “I’m not very good at business and I worry about Hilde.”

  “I’ll call him as soon as we get home. Which reminds me, can I use your telephone now? There is a call I must make before midday.”

  “Come to my office. I’ll have some coffee sent in.… Oh, before you go you simply must look at this view of the Tiber. There are three versions of it: one from the Pallavicini collection, one from the National Gallery and this one came from an old engineer who bought it for a song in the flea market.…”

  It was another fifteen minutes before Mendelius was free to make his call to the Monastery of Monte Cassino. It took an unconscionable time to find the Abbot and bring him to the telephone. Mendelius fumed and fretted and then reminded himself that monasteries were designed to separate men from the world, not to keep them in touch with it.

  The Abbot was cordial, if not exactly effusive. “Professor Mendelius? This is Abbot Andrew Kind of you to call so promptly. Would you be able to arrange your visit for Wednesday next? It’s a feast day for us, and so we shall be able to offer you a little more generous hospitality. I suggest you arrive about three-thirty and stay to dinner. It’s a long drive from Rome; so if you care to remain overnight we’ll be happy to accommodate you.”

  “That’s very kind. I’ll stay then and drive back on Thursday morning. How is my friend Jean?”

  “He’s been unwell; but I hope he will be recovered in time for your visit. He looks forward to seeing you.”

  “Please give him my most affectionate greetings and say that my wife asks to be remembered to him.”

  “I’ll do that with pleasure. Until Wednesday then, Professor.”

  “Thank you, Father Abbot.”

  Mendelius put down the receiver and sat a moment lost in thought. There it was again: the courteous response, the veiled caution. Wednesday was a week ahead—more then enough time to cancel the invitation, should circumstances change or authority intervene. Jean Marie’s illness, real or diplomatic, would provide an adequate excuse.

  “Something wrong, Carl?” Herman set down the coffee tray and began pouring.

  “I’m not sure. It seems the Vatican is more than a little interested in my activities.”

  “I would have thought that was natural enough. You’ve given them a few headaches in the past; and every new book causes a flutter in the pigeon loft.… Milk and sugar?”

  “No sugar. I’m trying to lose weight.”

  “I’ve noticed. I noticed also you were pushing a little last night, for information on Gregory the Seventeenth.”

  “Did it show that much?”

  “Only to me, I think. Was there any special reason?”

  “He was my friend. You know that. I wanted to find out what really happened to him.”

  “Didn’t he tell you himself?”

  “I hadn’t heard from him in months.” Mendelius hedged his answer. “I imagine he had little time for private correspondence.”

  “But you’ll be seeing him while you’re here?”

  “It’s been arranged. Yes.”

  The answer was a shade too curt. Herman Frank was too tactful a man to press the matter. There was an awkward moment of silence; then he said quietly, “Something’s been puzzling me, Carl. I’d like your opinion on it.”

  “Tell me, Herman.”

  “About a month ago I was called to our embassy. The ambassador wanted to see me. He showed me a letter from Bonn: a circular instruction to all academies and institutes abroad. Many of them, as you know, have valuable material on loan from the Republic: sculptures, pictures, historic manuscripts, that sort of thing.… All directors were told to arrange secret safe-deposits in the host countries where these things could be stored in the event of civil disorder or international conflict. We were all given a budget, available immediately, to buy or lease suitable storage.”

  “It sounds like a reasonable precaution,” said Mendelius mildly. “Especially since you can’t insure against war or civil violence.”

  “You miss the point.” Herman Frank was emphatic. “It was the tone of the document that worried me. There was a note of real urgency, and a threat of stringent penalties for neglect. I got the impression our people are genuinely worried that some terrible thing may happen very soon.”

  “Do you have a copy of the instruction?”

  “No. The ambassador was very firm that it must not leave the embassy. Oh, and that’s another thing. Only most senior staff were to know its contents. I thought that was rather sinister. I still do. I know I’m a worrier; but all the time I think of Hilde and what might happen to her if we were separated in some emergency. I’d like your honest opinion, Carl.”

  For a moment, Mendelius was tempted to put him off with some facile encouragement; then he decided against it. Herman Frank was a good man, too soft for a rough world. He deserved a sober and honest answer.

  “Things are bad, Herman. We’re not at panic stations yet; but very soon we may be. Everything points that way: public disorder, the breakdown of political confidence, the huge recession—and the fools in high places who think they can solve the problem by a well-timed but limited war. You’re right to be concerned. What you can do about it is another matter. Once the first missiles are launched there’s no safe hiding place anywhere. Have you talked to Hilde about it?”

  “Yes. She doesn’t want to go back to Germany, but she agrees we ought to consider moving out of Rome. We’ve got that little farmhouse in the Tuscan hills. It’s isolated; but there’s fertile ground around it. I suppose we could survive just on what we grew ourselves.… But it seems an act of despair even to contemplate such a thing.”

  “Or an act of hope,” said Mendelius gently. “I think your Hilde’s a very wise girl—and you shouldn’t worry about her as much as you do. Women are much better at survival than we are.”

  “I suppose they are. I’ve never thought about it that way.… Don’t you wish sometimes we could find a great man to take control and lead us out of the filthy mess?”

  “Never!” said Carl Mendelius somberly. “Great men are dangerous. When their dreams fail, they bury them under the rubble of cities, where simple folk once lived in peace!”

  “I want to be open with you, Mendelius. I want you to be open with me.”

  “How open, Eminence? And on what subject?”

  The courtesies were over now. The sweet biscuits were all eaten. The coffee was cold. His Eminence Anton Cardinal Drexel, grey-haired, straight as a grenadier, stood with his back to his visitor, looking out on the sunlit gardens of the Vatican. He turned slowly and stood a moment longer, a faceless silhouette against the light. Mendelius said:

  “Please, Eminence, why don’t you sit down? I’d like to see your face while we talk.”

  “Forgive me.” Drexel gave a deep growling chuckle. “It’s an old trick—and not very polite.… Would you prefer we speak German?”

  In spite of his name, Drexel was Italian, born in Bolzano, long a territory in dispute between Austria and the Italian Republic. Mendelius shrugged. “As your Eminence pleases.”

  “Italain then. I speak German like a Tyrolese. You might find it comical.”

  “The mother tongue is the best one to be honest in,” said Mendelius drily. “If my Italian fails me, I’ll speak German.”

  Drexel moved away from the window and sat down facing Mendelius. He arrang
ed the folds of his cassock carefully across his knees. His seamed face, still handsome, might have been carved from wood. Only his eyes were alive, vivid blue, amused yet appraising. He said, “You always were a tough customer.” He used the colloquial phrase: un tipo robusto. Mendelius smiled at the left-handed compliment. “Now, tell me. How much do you know about what happened here recently?”

  “Before I answer that, Eminence, I should like an answer from you. Do you intend to set any impediment to my contact with Jean Marie?”

  “I? None at all.”

  “Does anyone else, to your knowledge?”

  “To the best of my knowledge, no one; though there is obviously an interest in the encounter.”

  “Thank you, Eminence. Now, the answer to your question: I know that Pope Gregory was forced to abdicate. I know the means that were used to exact his decision.”

  “Which were?”

  “A series of seven independent medical reports, which were then consolidated by the Curia into a final document designed to cast grave doubts upon the mental competence of His Holiness.… Is that accurate?”

  Drexel hesitated a moment and then nodded assent. “Yes, it’s accurate. What do you know of my own role in the matter?”

  “It is my understanding, Eminence, that while dissenting from the decision of the Sacred College you agreed to convey it to the Pontiff.”

  “Do you know why they reached their decision?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a flicker of doubt in Drexel’s eyes; but he went on without hesitation. “Do you agree with it or not?”

  “I think the means of enforcing it were base: flat blackmail. As to the decision itself, I find myself in dilemma.”

  “And how would you express that dilemma, my friend?”

  “The Pope is elected as Supreme Pastor and Custodian of the Deposit of Faith. Can that office be reconciled with the role of prophet proclaiming a private revelation, even if that revelation be true?”

  “So you do know!” said the Cardinal Prefect softly. “And, fortunately, you understand.”