“We have been used”, said Elijah.
“Yes. This man has no interest whatsoever in our insights. He wants our image, nothing more, just as the Holy Father suspected. He had doubts about this, but I convinced him that we should let you go to Warsaw. I have made a grave error in judgment.”
“The article in L’Osservatore Romano will clear up the misunderstanding, will it not?”
“How many people read it?”
“But can’t the Holy See ask for a correction in the secular papers?”
“We have already tried. I have been on the phone all day.”
“And. . .?”
“A ringing silence. Unanswered calls. Some rudeness. A few evasive answers wherever I can get through to the publishers. The journalists of the world, with few exceptions, have no love for us and endorse practically everything the President stands for. He’s the man of the hour, the man of the year, and some say, the man of the century.”
“Then it is as I suspected. My mission goes from bad to worse. Eminence, perhaps it is time for us to reconsider. . .”
“No-no!” said the cardinal firmly. “A tactical setback does not mean defeat. The ultimate purpose of your mission has nothing to do with this propaganda. It is the soul of a single man that we want to reach.”
“Why is it so hard to reach him?”
“This soul is surrounded by several echelons of protective barriers. When he is not in a crowd, he is in a group of intimates; even when he is alone he is never alone, for there are powers and principalities that guard him and direct his every act. For a prophet to speak to him, that prophet would of necessity have to penetrate first his own fear, and second, the shields the enemy puts up around this servant of his.”
“You call him a servant?”
“Slave would be a more accurate word.”
“Slave. It is hard to think of him as such. He is the most powerful man in the world.”
“Oh, yes, without a doubt. But he is not his own master, You can be sure that he does nothing without a spiritual army protecting his every move and deflecting every step that would approach him and call him to Truth.”
“Is he possessed, do you think?”
“I don’t know for sure. He may not be fully possessed at this point, but he is certainly under the influence of the Adversary.”
“Can a word of warning really turn such a man from his course?”
“It’s our only hope. Especially if that word is spoken in the power of the Holy Spirit and if many souls are praying for victory over the enemy spirits.”
“Can we hope for such an army of allies?”
“Many contemplatives throughout the world are praying for your mission. A small number of living saints known only to us have joined with them. Day and night they fast and pray for you—and for him. I believe that there will come a moment when the President’s heart will be exposed, when his unseen body guards will be forced back, disarmed for a short period of time during which you must gather all the courage within your soul, and open your own inner being to the full authority of the Holy Spirit. Then, whether your words be eloquent or simple, they will pierce his armor and call him to see reality as it is. He will know there is a God. For one burning, luminous instant, he will understand what darkness he has fallen into, and what darkness he is bringing upon mankind, and that he is free to choose otherwise. At that instant, he will see the inexpressible beauty of God. He will long for God and see that God longs for him to return. That will be his moment of choice.”
Elijah’s heart pounded.
“Once again, I must protest, Eminence”, he stammered. “What if I am too small for this task? What if I fail again? Think of the consequences!”
“Think of the consequences if we don’t try!” The cardinal looked him full in the eyes. “You will receive grace to accomplish all that God asks of you. It won’t be from human strength or wisdom. It will be entirely a gift. Be poor, my son. Accept being a little one, and He who made the universe will fill you.”
Both men fell silent. Both men closed their eyes and went deeply into silent prayer.
They remained motionless for a time, until an extraordinary thing happened. In that airless place, the door to the outer gallery slammed violently shut, and the lantern was snuffed out by an unseen force. Both men jumped to their feet. A hideous stench filled the chamber.
“Father, strike a light”, the cardinal gasped. “The matches are by the lantern. Quickly!”
Elijah, disoriented and frightened, staggered around in the dark searching for the lantern. The cardinal’s voice cried out with a surge of strength: “Vade retro, Satana! Ipse venena bibas!”1
Terror filled the chamber. Malice beat against the two priests, hammering against their souls for admission, for possession. A shock ran through Elijah’s body, nausea gripped his stomach, his mind reeled with dizziness. He swayed and fell to his knees; he fumbled for the matches. His fingers performed their task only in obedience to a superhuman effort of the will. The cardinal continued to pray loudly in an authoritative voice. “Vade retro, Draco! Crux sacra sit mihi lux!”2 The stench left as quickly as it had come. Elijah lit the lantern, stumbled to the door, and threw it open. All was as before, ominously silent, horribly normal. Not a breath of wind stirred the air of the gallery.
The two men sat down, breathing heavily.
“Well,” said the cardinal, “the old dragon still has a few tricks up his sleeve.”
Elijah wiped cold sweat from his brow.
“That was the devil”, he said in a tremulous voice.
“Maybe the devil. Or one of his uglier lieutenants.”
“What was it all about?”
“It’s perfectly clear. He doesn’t like us.”
The cardinal’s back was straighter now, and he looked like a old soldier reinvigorated by a struggle at close quarters with a ancient foe.
“That felt good”, he said. “I had forgotten how it feels to hit back.”
“Hit back?”
“Before I became a bishop, I was the exorcist of my diocese. Not a pleasant job, but I did it. I was happy when they promoted me to lesser tasks. How swiftly thirty years pass! It’s good to know I haven’t forgotten the old prayers. Did you see how he backed off?”
“Not before delivering a few blows.”
“Does it disturb you? Surely you have encountered this sort of thing before?”
“On a different level. Spiritual warfare usually takes a form the senses cannot detect.”
“But when the demons reveal themselves it’s not pretty, no?”
“I have prayed with a few people in Israel who came to the convent for help. Peasants who fell into magic. There have been more of them in recent years, mostly young people involved in the occult.”
“It’s getting bad. The cities of the West play host to hundreds of cults carrying on their arts clandestinely. Some are more bold than others, and they are getting bolder. Rome is riddled with them.”
Elijah sighed and his hands shook. The cardinal eyed him. “Don’t look so worried. He tried to frighten us. But it’s a very good sign.”
“It is?”
“It tells us that we must be doing something right if he throws this kind of ammunition into the battle. He is desperate.”
“I wish I could feel your confidence.”
The cardinal clapped him on the arm. “You are tired, Father. You have just returned from a different field of battle. In many ways, a more trying one. I order you to go home and rest. Take a few days off. Put aside that apocalyptic literature you have been reading. It will still be there when you take it up again. Walk in the sun. Listen to some beautiful music. Fill your mind with all that is lovely, as Saint Paul tells us to do. Now, let’s go upstairs and get some fresh air.”
“May I ask you one more question before we go? Why is it necessary for us to continue meeting this way? Why are we still pretending to be gardeners?”
“My unreliable clerk is gone, but there is st
ill much that is unclear. The removal of one individual from a Vatican desk doesn’t solve every problem. There may be more like him.”
“Doesn’t this throw everything and everyone under a pall of suspicion? How can the Curia function properly if that is the case?”
“It does present certain difficulties. There is the danger of paranoia, of course, but at the same time we must be cautious. It is no longer prudent to assume that everyone is loyal.”
“And what of Cardinal Vettore?”
“Ah, yes, Cardinal Vettore.”
“What is to be done about him?” Elijah prompted.
“It’s difficult”, said the cardinal. “There is no objective proof that he has done anything wrong. The Holy Father has spoken with him privately, and Vettore denies everything,”
“Then it is his word against mine.”
“Precisely.”
“Does the Holy Father believe him?”
“No. He believes you. And so do I.”
“Then why isn’t he removed from office?”
“It’s not as simple as that.”
“Forgive me, Eminence, but it seems quite simple.”
“You don’t understand. He is a powerful personality in his way. He has said or done nothing openly against the deposit of Faith, nor against the Holy Father. We have so many interior and exterior enemies right now. The summary dismissal of a man who is considered loyal would increase the confusion on all sides. More than that, it would undermine the confidence of many good people who admire Cardinal Vettore and consider him to be papabile.”
“Then what is to be done?”
“The Holy Father is doing the wisest thing possible, considering the circumstances. He has gently but firmly deflected Vettore’s attention elsewhere. He has given him a noble project that will consume his energies, yet demand of him a proof of orthodoxy It is a test the cardinal cannot escape without abandoning his public image. He is to begin a series of fact-finding journeys to the Far East, assessing the condition of the Church in mainland China and Vietnam. He is to put all of his effort into this research for the coming two years. And the Pope has generously excused him from the ordinary duties of his office, replacing him, temporarily of course, with a man we know to be loyal.”
“It is ingenious.”
“It’s the best we can do. Outright dismissal would only reinforce the widespread impression that the Pope is a hardliner who wants to return the Church to her preconciliar state, an autocrat who doesn’t support his own staff, who listens to anonymous accusations that aren’t backed up by proof.”
“Surely, I am not anonymous. If necessary, I can testify to an ecclesial court regarding what I saw on Capri.”
“And in the process destroy any hope of success for your own unique mission. No, with your cover blown, as the spy novels call it, we would lose far too much in order to gain a little.”
“I see.”
“These are not easy times, Father Elijah. One needs the wisdom of Solomon just to get through an ordinary day around here. Much depends on keeping our wits about us.”
Elijah reached out and traced the letters of Severa’s name.
“I know what you’re thinking”, said the cardinal. “You think we should march straight to the Colosseum and tell the guards to turn the lions on us.”
Elijah said nothing.
“A heroic martyrdom is fast, simple, glorious, isn’t it? Blood washes away all ambiguities. Death breaks the intolerable tensions. You would like us to braid a rope and drive the moneychangers from the Temple, then go to the cross. Correct?”
“Is that so wrong? Isn’t that the pattern our Savior has shown us?”
“Indeed it is. And I tell you that we are going to the cross. But it is not our right to hasten that day. We must work while the light lasts. We must strengthen what remains. This is the long and lonely martyrdom. It is the most difficult of all.”
The two men looked at each other without speaking. Then by mutual agreement they rose and went their separate ways.
* * *
Elijah did as the cardinal directed him to do. The academic year came to an end a week after his encounter with the draco in the catacombs. He corrected papers and final examinations, studiously avoided apocalyptic literature, and took daily walks in the small garden behind the college. He also read a novel that he had promised himself for many years, Manzoni’s I Promessi Sposi—The Betrothed. The struggle between light and darkness was in it, and the author had taken care to bring his characters to the brink of absolute hopelessness before rescuing them through the intervention of a saint. Like any nineteenth-century romantic Catholic novel, it presented the struggle as relentless and full of appalling twists and turns, but it was uninfected by the existential nausea of twentieth-century fiction. At the end of the tale, the disastrous events were restored to divine order, and there was the added bonus of a spectacular conversion. It seemed a little contrived until he realized with some poignancy that his own encounter with Smokrev was, in its own perverse way, no less a miracle Minus the saint, he thought to himself.
As the weeks of late spring slipped into early summer, he drew strength from the patterns of prayer, at once rigorous and restorative. The anxieties that had plagued him gradually receded, and the image of Anna Benedetti, whenever she arose in his mind, ceased to overwhelm him. He accepted an abiding sense of loneliness as a gift, as a wound the Lord permitted to remain open, exposed to the healing power of light. He suffered it gladly and made an offering of it for Anna herself, and as a sacrifice in anticipation of that future moment when he would be called to speak the truth to the President. He also offered it for the soul of Count Smokrev—and for Pawel.
Some instinct had so far kept him from investigating the contents of the tin box—an extraordinary exercise in self-restraint. If he had tried to explain it to himself, he would have said that he merely wished to keep it for the right moment. He fully intended to read the material when his peace was restored and his attention clear of all intrusion. Then, and only then, would he come to know the soul of the man who had been his friend.
That spring was one of Italy’s finest. The heat was not oppressive, and day after day the sky stretched out pale blue, marbled with high, thin clouds. The scent of flowers was everywhere in the city, and even the automobile traffic seemed to have lost its frenzy. The tourists were less numerous than usual, and one could stroll through the art galleries and pray in the churches without the irritation of noisy crowds.
On a Sunday afternoon, he took the tin box out of his closet and held it in his hands. He felt a lightness that had long eluded him. He had offered the Mass that morning for Pawel and, after receiving Holy Communion, had experienced the warmth within his breast, an embrace of love that was both serene and passionate. There had been a burst of ecstasy, a brief parting of the veil that separated the human from the divine, that line of division and union running inexorably through the center of the heart. He understood that the time had come.
He went to a park near the Vatican gardens and sat on the grass beneath a cypress tree. Its perfume was delicious. The sun cast a golden light on the ornamental bushes. Riotous small birds competed mightily for attention, but their polyphony faded from his consciousness as he opened the battered, rusty lid.
Cold rain smashed against the glass of the bookshop. The doorbell chimed. Distant gun shots punctured the leaden sky with dread.
13 September 1942
Dearest Kahlia,
Things are happening quickly. I have a guest who will not be here for very long. I hope he goes soon. Not only is my position now made precarious, he places me in danger of another kind. The face is yours. I fear him. . . .
Elijah knew immediately the identity of the guest. He carefully unfolded the scrap of paper lying below the first:
Breeze-kissed, the vessel’s pennant barely stirs,
The water gently heaves its radiant breast;
So plighted girls, in reveries of bliss,
&nbs
p; Wake, sigh, then promptly sink to sleep again.
(From The Crimean Sonnets, Adam Mickiewicz)
*
5 October 1942
My dearest Elzbieta,
Why is it so difficult to write to you this night? Is it because the guest is gradually taking your place, or assuming your form? He is asleep in the attic.
The sounds of gunfire have waned into silence. The clock ticks on the wall by the bust of Paderewski. My desk has become an entire landscape. Above my head there lies an extraordinary presence, a live coal resting on a bed of old newspapers. Why has he been dropped into my hands? What madness to thrust a child upon me! I of all people. . . a man incapable of love, afflicted with introversion, and an overly sensitive temperament?
I do not dare to use the word, love. It is a word that disguises our selfish pursuit of relief from loneliness. I do not trust my own heart. But why do I feel the very feelings I once felt—and which I still feel—for you? I am afire wit’ a passion I did not know existed, but it is not an impulse of the carnal kind.
I feel you fading upon the night wind. I would run after you into the streets if I could. Would I be running toward or from—I know not which. I long to run through the night until this ache has spent itself utterly. I would run like the wind if it were not certain that a German bullet would put an end to my silly poetic romance in short order. Oh, God, do not let me degenerate into that disordered youth I once was. I shall pull myself together. If you are there, hold me. If you are what you appear to be, then tell me that my senses are not playing false. If beauty is sacred, then how could it ever betray us? But what is beauty?
I have run out of words. For the first time since we met, there is less to say to you than there is space and time in which to say it. Love? The Greeks called it exousia, a breathing forth of being. My being calls to you now, come quickly, come quickly to Pawel. I am sinking.
*
Triumphant shrieks the blast; then, towering high
Out of the gurge, astride the humid crags,
Father Elijah Page 34
