Father Elijah

by Michael D. O'Brien

  “Praetextatus, clarissimus.”

  “Clarissimus. It means he was a senator. We’re not far from the grave of Saint Cecilia, the great early martyr of noble birth. This man was possibly a member of her family. Now, look across here. What does this one say?”

  “Osimus, servus.”

  “A slave. You see, these two men were brothers in Christ. They rest side by side, awaiting the Last Day.”

  “A peaceful place to wait. . .”

  “Yes. It’s full of saints, most of them unknown to history. Here are the real foundations of the Church. Many of these died horrible deaths. Torn to pieces in the arena, burnt alive, beheaded. A few even died by crucifixion. Look at this one. She’s my favorite. A girl. One of the thousands of unknown martyrs. I think of her as my saint, the little daughter I never had. Do you ask yourself if I am slightly mad?”

  “No, Eminence.”

  “A Christian lives both within time and beyond it. I’m closer to this one than to most of those walking and talking up there on the surface. Yes, she and I know each other well.”

  “What is her name?”

  “Severa.”

  “Do you know anything about her?”

  “Only that she died during a persecution of the third century. She was a martyr. Thirteen years old. She chose to be thrown to the lions rather than submit to sexual seduction. The family selected the words of her eulogy with tact—a martyr for holy virginity, victorious over the lion, it says. Beneath that inscription, there is another. Can you read it, Father?”

  “A dove without bitterness. Rest, Severa, and rejoice in the Holy Spirit.”

  “A little saint.”

  “Yes. Seventeen hundred years old. Our daughter she is—and our mother.”

  Elijah could find no words that would reach his tongue.

  “For a moment you looked happy, Father Elijah. For the first time since I met you your face has lost its burden. What is it that crosses your mind?”

  “A memory. My wife died young and took with her into eternity our child, in her womb, a little girl. I saw her in a dream recently.”

  “Your daughter is literal.”

  “Your Severa gives me hope that I may one day see her.”

  “Listen to us. If the Protestants have a bug in here they will conclude that we are demon-infested necromancers, haunting the house of the dead in search of visions and voices.”

  “Our communion is of another order. A union of spirit that needs no mediums and seances.”

  “Tricks of the devil, they’ll say! Ah, the devil would feel very uncomfortable in this holy place.”

  The word bug recalled Elijah to the purpose of their meeting.

  “Eminence, I have a grave matter to convey to you.”

  “Bene! Tell me.”

  Beginning with his trip from Assisi to Naples, and on to Capri, Elijah recounted the events of the last few weeks.

  He stumbled over the account of the discovery of Cardinal Vettore’s connection to the President.

  Even in the wan light of the kerosene lantern, Elijah could see the cardinal’s face grow pale. Though his expression did not falter, his eyes ceased to blink regularly.

  At the conclusion of the Elijah’s tale, he exhaled loudly and sat down upon a stone.

  “It is difficult to accept. You’re absolutely sure it was Vettore?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “This is most distressing. He is considered a good man.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. You have brought into the light a seemingly small fact, perhaps nothing more than a suspicion, but one upon which the future of the Church may hinge.”

  “I may have jumped to conclusions. Perhaps the cardinal was it on a separate mission, at the request of the Holy See.”

  “It’s unlikely the Holy Father would have done so without discussing it with me.”

  “Perhaps it was a personal mission of the cardinal’s, a desire to assist the Church in her negotiations.”

  “This sort of negotiation is entirely out of his province. You are a novice at life in the Vatican if you suppose such a mission would ever be undertaken without consultation. I think, Father, that you’re trying to throw as generous a light upon the situation as is reasonably possible.”

  “I may have misjudged it.”

  “I hope you have. What you have told me has implications beyond your grasp.”

  “I wish I could have told you sooner, but it seems that the receptionist who manages your visitors and mail was not helpful.”

  “He’s a good man. Very efficient.”

  “Cardinal Vettore, too, is a good man.”

  “You say you left a message for me with the receptionist?”

  “Yes, a written note, marked urgent. I also telephoned several times and left verbal messages.”

  “I see.”

  “There is more to tell you. I’m convinced Monsignor Stangsby was murdered. During my last conversation with him, he expressed strong doubts about the accident. He believed he was drugged and the car crash arranged in order to give the appearance of an accident.”

  “He told you this?”

  “Yes. He told me other things too.”

  “Such as. . .?”

  “He was fairly certain that his apartment was bugged, but in haste one night before his departure for Helsinki, he dictated the story of Cardinal Vettore into a recorder, hoping to dispatch the message to you.”

  “William was not always discreet.”

  “He also told me that he had information far more damaging than the Vettore connection. He said that in Helsinki he had learned about the enemy’s plans for the destruction of the Church.”

  “Did he tell you any details?”

  “No.”

  “That is probably why you are still alive.”

  “He said it was all on the cassette. But by a tragic chain of events, he was unable to put it into your hands. It has disappeared.”

  “I see.”

  “And with it all proof that what I have told you is the truth.”

  “And so we are left with only your testimony”, the cardinal said slowly, looking down at the floor of the chamber.

  Elijah stood silently, praying.

  The cardinal looked up. “I believe you”, he said.

  “The situation may not be as compromising as it appears. Vettore may be entirely innocent of subterfuge.”

  The cardinal looked straight at Elijah and said, “I wish that were so. But I have a feeling it is not so. What you have told me explains many things. Many small, ordinary anomalies, almost invisible, the kind of things one expects in a large office complex like ours. Daily life at the Vatican consists of a hundred thousand details, much of it insignificant. One of the details, for example, is that my receptionist, able fellow that he is, recently came to me from the Pontifical Council for Dialogue with Non-Christian Religions.”

  “Cardinal Vettore’s office.”

  “Yes. There are other minor events that now appear in an entirely different light. Relationships, conferences, glances, a word here and there, an innuendo. A nudge of romanità. Still, this doesn’t add up to a murder.”

  “I may be guilty of faulty reasoning, Eminence, but I cannot help noting that the accident occurred precisely when Billy tried to communicate an extremely sensitive piece of information. His death would have eliminated the only man alive who had knowledge of the Helsinki information. One man, that is, outside of their circle.”

  “I suspect that is the motive. However, we should not underestimate the Vettore connection to Capri.”

  “I agree. I do not think we should rule it out at this stage.”

  “If your reasoning is correct, however farfetched, then you are in harm’s way. You are in danger.”

  “If I may add a further conjecture: if anyone knows of your communication with me this evening, then you also may be in danger.”

  “No one knows except your porter, and I doubt that he’s a
subversive, by the looks of him.”

  “Indeed he is not. He is a very simple fellow. In fact, he does not even know the name of the Vatican official who came for me this evening. But I will advise him to keep silent, if there should be any inquiries. Have you told anyone else?”

  “No. As far as the world knows, no message from you has reached me, nor has it reached the Holy Father.”

  “Should we continue that illusion for the sake of a higher good?”

  “Ah, I wonder what the moral theologians would make of this one! Yes, we will ride the wave of illusion.”

  “Tomorrow, why don’t I telephone your receptionist and ask if he has passed on my message? I could beg for an interview. If he is involved in a deliberate deception, he will tell me one thing and do another. He will pass on the information to his friends, and refrain from passing on my message to you. If that happens, we will have at least an indication that some kind of conspiracy is underway.”

  “A splendid idea. My dear Father Schäfer, I had no idea that you were capable of such intrigue!”

  “I have been at various times in my life a street rat, a member of an underground army, and a government prosecutor, among other things. Some rather odd skills lie dormant within this priest.”

  “I can see that. Bravissimo!”

  “Will you warn the Holy Father?”

  “I will arrange to see him tomorrow morning, over breakfast.”

  “If I may suggest, Eminence, it would be best if you were to speak to him about this matter as you walk in the most private sections of the Vatican Gardens.”

  “The thought had already occurred to me.”

  “How will we know if your receptionist has passed or failed his test?”

  “Call the office at eleven o’clock tomorrow. In my own way, I am rather good at detective work. I will observe the morning’s events with much interest.”

  On that note they rose and returned to the surface.

  The cardinal drove back to the city at breakneck speed and dropped Elijah several blocks from the college.

  * * *

  At eleven sharp, he called the office of the Secretary of State and was answered by the now familiar voice of the receptionist. Elijah asked to speak with the cardinal.

  “Once again, I must inform you, Father, the Cardinal Secretary is an extremely busy man. We simply cannot answer every message as quickly as people would like.”

  “Did you deliver my message?”

  “Of course I delivered your message! I have mentioned your telephone calls to him, and I gave him your written note.”

  “I see.”

  “Really, Father, you must have patience. If the matter is something the cardinal can help you with, he will do so, but all in good time. One mustn’t aggravate him. One mustn’t become a nuisance.”

  “I am sorry. It was inconsiderate of me. You will tell him?”

  “I will go in to his office directly and advise him of yet another message from you”, said the receptionist dryly.

  “Thank you.”

  “And Father, I suggest that you not call again. If you do not hear from the cardinal, it means he has weighed the matter and has decided he is unable to help you.”

  “Yes, of course. I understand.”

  “And, Father, whatever it is that seems so urgent, I suggest you leave it to the actions of divine Providence. I recognize your name. You are a professor at the Carmelites, are you not?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Then I suggest that you focus your attention on your duties and leave the management of the Church to those who are better equipped for it.”

  “Yes, I will think about that”, said Elijah in a conciliatory tone. “Thank you. It is good advice.”

  “It is very good advice.”

  “You are right. I have been overtired lately. I may have imagined something. It is probably best to forget it.”

  “We have many real crises on our hands at this office, Father. We cannot deal with the doubts and imaginings of every cleric in Rome. Few things in life are as urgent as one thinks they are.”

  “That is true. I have been a nuisance. I won’t bother you again, Please excuse me.”

  “It’s nothing. Buon giorno, Don Schäfer.”

  “Buon giorno.”

  During lunch, Elijah was called away from the refectory by the porter.

  “Telephone for you. Imagine, at this time of day. It’s nap time in Roma!”

  “Buon giorno.” It was the cardinal’s voice.

  “Buon giorno, Signore.”

  “We won’t need to use names. I’m calling from an outside line but we don’t know the condition of your line.”

  “I understand.”

  “The matter was as we suspected. The garden is invaded by parasites, but not fatally, as far as we can see.”

  “You received no word?”

  “Nothing. I stood by the door. I overheard his side of the conversation.”

  “Afterward, did he tell you about it?”

  “Not a word. Instead, he called a certain office of which we have spoken. He advised the party on the other end that all difficulty is now averted.”

  “I see. Then we have our confirmation.”

  “We do. I spoke with Papa at breakfast. He was feeling poorly, but we took a stroll in his garden to look at the flowers.”

  “How are his red roses?”

  “They are near the end of bloom. Some are worm-eaten. But a majority remain healthy.”

  “You told him?”

  “Everything. Papa understands. He saw it coming.”

  “What does he advise? How should we save the plants?”

  “He believes we must let matters take their course. We mustn’t do anything suddenly. Some discreet pruning, some fertilization of the soil. Spring will come again, he says, and a new generation of roses will bloom.”

  “He is wise, our Papa.”

  “Yes. A saint.”

  “Can we meet soon?”

  “Yes, we must. I have a message for you from Papa. Let’s meet at Severa’s place. Can you get a car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tonight, at nine?”

  “I will be there.”

  After supper Elijah borrowed the house car and drove north through the city, away from the catacombs of San Callista. He circled, wandered aimlessly for an hour, then doubled back toward the Appian Way, certain that he was not being followed. The cardinal was sitting in his Volkswagen with the engine running and the lights off. They went down into the crypt and five minutes later were facing each other beside the tomb of the dove.

  “The infestation,” said Elijah, “is it extensive?”

  “At first glance, it seems to extend only as far as the limits of Cardinal Vettore’s circle of friends. It’s not a large group, possibly a dozen cardinals and as many bishops. It may be much larger. It’s difficult at this stage to untangle the associations that are connected to his official work, and those which are voluntary and connected to something hidden.”

  “What do you think is their purpose?”

  “I’m not certain. I’m perplexed by it.”

  “Are they ambitious?”

  “Some yes, some no.”

  “Personal enemies of the Pope?”

  “None of them, as far as I know. Two or three speak well of him.”

  “That may be cosmetics.”

  “Possibly. I can discern not a single unifying factor in their association. No common thread of passion. They are of differing opinions about the nature of the Church.”

  “This does not indicate an ideological component.”

  “But what could possibly draw such a disparate group of men together?”

  “Perhaps a spiritual bond.”

  “Spiritual?”

  “For the sake of conjecture, let us say that these men from such widely differing backgrounds within the Church have each in turn succumbed to an approach, let us call it. Suppose that the nature of this offer was so veil
ed, so disguised as a good, that they did not recognize their peril. At some point, interiorly, they gave an assent, some subtle turning of the mind away from Christ, away from the historic vision of the universal Church. Gradually, their perceptions were bent away from Catholic eschatology.”

  “You mean the last things? The time of the End?” said the cardinal, dubious. “Why should that have anything to do with conspiracy? Ah, wait, I see where you are leading.”

  “This could be the thread that unites them. They may have been seduced by a beautiful vision of the future—a spiritual vision.”

  “You mean, a salvation of some kind.”

  “Something like that. I do not say this is the case, but I think it would explain many things.”

  “It doesn’t explain murder.”

  “The situation may be more complex than we think. These poor churchmen could very well be naïve, manipulated by organizations or forces, or a combination of both, which are adept at reading human nature. Someone else may be responsible for Billy’s death.”

  “It makes sense. It is no simple thing to turn a man of God into a killer.”

  “Your use of the term parasites is apt. I do not think that these poor bishops are our parasites. The parasites are men or powers behind the scenes, riding upon these prelates’ backs into the very House of God.”

  “That would be an abomination! If so, it must be stopped.”

  “How do we stop a chimera?”

  “As we always have—by prayer and fasting. We must awake the entire body of believers. They have been sleeping far too late into the day!”

  “Eminence, prophets and saints, popes and teachers have been trying to arouse the faithful for more than a century. They refuse to rise.”

  “I know, I know”, sighed the cardinal. “But some will respond. We must save what remains. Besides, the Holy Father is right. The garden is ever young. A new generation of souls will need cultivation. Our responsibility is also to the ones who are yet unborn, who will come after us.”

  “On a practical level, how can I help?”

  “The Holy Father would like you to remain in Rome for the time being. He wishes you to await his instructions, for he wants you to proceed as you have begun. You are to be his presence within the camp of the enemy. He knows the President has his eyes on you and believes he can turn you to his purposes.”