The HolyPhone Confessional Crisis

by Charles Brett

  Contents

  Dedication

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  To

  Lourdes, Luisa and Claudia

  and

  Charlie and Joyce

  The HolyPhone Confessional Crisis

  Charles Brett

  © 2014 Charles C C Brett

  Published at Smashwords

  This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

  First published in 2014

  C3B Consulting Ltd

  registered at:

  School House, St Philip's Court, Church Hill,

  Coleshill, Birmingham, B46 3AD, UK.

  All rights reserved © 2014 Charles C C Brett

  The right of Charles C C Brett to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. This book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9541518-8-1

  ISBN-10: 0-9541518-8-7

  www.holyphone.net

  CHAPTER ONE

  Wednesday, Rome

  He had sat there immobile, half watching and wholly thinking. It had been this way for over two hours, though he hadn’t noticed the time pass. In his mind he was asking himself over and over again what he should do. To decide to go down one path seemed to lead to one form of catastrophe; to go down any others just offered alternative paths to equally unpleasant disasters.

  Still he sat there.

  By now the sun was beyond its peak. The early afternoon had passed and the welcome, relative cool of a Rome evening was arriving. Yet he felt no nearer a decision.

  The truth was that something had to be done and he was the only person who could take responsibility.

  Responsibility. This was a strange word. For some it seemed so easy, natural even, to accept that they had responsibilities to other people. For others it was a concept formed in hell – something to be avoided at all costs and by any measures.

  His mind wandered, thinking of the political messes in Greece, in Portugal, in Argentina, in Israel and so many other countries in the world. In many of these places responsibility seemed not so much a dirty word as one that must not be permitted to exist, as if by denial it simply disappeared.

  As his mind churned he contrasted the narrow – sometimes vicious – forms of responsibility that seemed to belong to Northern Europeans and even some elements of the United States. He compared these with the attitudes of Southern Europe. Though they were by no means perfect, he could see English political ministers “falling on their swords”, if he remembered that quaint English phrase correctly, when they made a mistake. There was even, he remembered, a British Foreign Minister who had insisted on resigning after the Argentines invaded the Malvinas, what the English still persisted in calling the Falklands, because he had not anticipated an invasion that nobody else had expected. That was taking responsibility – even though nearly everyone agreed that the minister personally could not be blamed for what no one had predicted. Nevertheless that hapless but honourable politician had insisted that somebody must accept blame; that errors had been made, and therefore the buck must stop at his door if only to give his successors the freedom to operate without blame in resolving that tragedy.

  As his mind circled round notions of responsibility he contrasted such apparent selflessness with what was happening in Spain, though it could be any number of other places. There, a daily drip feed had and was continuing to appear in newspapers and courts over many months, with innumerable examples of greed or improper behaviour from politicians and public servants alike. To his astonishment the Spanish seemed to greet this with simple ignorance, that art of ignoring what you do not want to hear about, never mind admit or do anything.

  Examples of a political few exploiting the many when in power seemed of little matter to those who had been so greedy, whether for power or money or both. All levels of government seemed tainted, from small town councils right up into the heads of government, parliament and even – worst of all – the Catholic Church. So many seemed able to deny what they had done, preferring to behave as if responsibility was something that others accepted only if they were fools.

  Indeed, as the months passed, what continued to amaze him was that there was no outright rebellion by the many against the greed of those few. What made this even less acceptable was that the worst offenders seemed to be those who proclaimed their righteous Catholic faith loudest and from on high, forgetting all that Jesus had preached.

  His thoughts returned to his own dilemmas. He knew he had to act.

  He stood up with a burst of energy unseen during the previous four hours of contemplation. He walked across the study to his desk to pick up the telephone — an old fashioned one with a dial. While slowly calling a familiar number he recalled watching a young girl in a restaurant, which had as an antique decoration a similar old-style rotary phone. He had looked on as she tried to punch in each number as if on a digital phone. She clearly had no idea that, in his old world, you had to drag your finger around the dial and not tap keys.

  “José Antonio? It’s Nelson. May I impose? Would you be free for dinner in a couple of hours? I know it’s very short notice. I need to talk to a friend, one outside these walls. Yes. Thank you. Shall we go to that place local to you that you are always recommending and where I have been so rude as never to have come yet? Giovanna’s, no? Good. And yes, I do remember where you said it is. Let me book. I will ask for a discreet table. For 9 p.m.? If there is any problem I will get back to you. Hasta luego.”

  He sighed. At least he had taken a first step. He was still not sure where it would lead. Action, however, now seemed better than thought.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Wednesday, Monteverde

  The Ristorante Giovanna was in the Monteverde area of Rome where it was an average September evening. The main room was not full but it was nearly so, which pleased Giovanna, who stood by the door to welcome her customers. As usual these were mostly local rather than tourists, despite the fact that Monteverde was close to the heaving tourist delights of Trastevere, little less than a kilometre away. There, inevitably, Italian had become almost a foreign language and the prices rose to satisfy the expectations of young and old tourists alike.

  Fortunately the phone call asking for a discreet corner table at 9 p.m. was not a problem, though it had meant moving the family party of the Spanish Ambassador whose official residence nearby enjoyed possibly the best view in Rome as well as having care of San Pietro di Montorio with Bramante’s Tempietto, an architectural gem, beside it. She had moved his party of ten to a diff
erent section of the large room and they were now consuming the menu and awaiting their aperitivi.

  Looking down the street Giovanna saw Father José Antonio. He was another regular customer, though not an extravagant one. He tended to eat simply and often commended her for the Risotto al Fegato, which he claimed was an invention of genius he had encountered nowhere else. This always surprised yet pleased Giovanna. His Italian was fluent albeit with a definite Hispanic accent. With a last name of Valencia and coming, she had discovered, from that part of Spain she had presumed that he would always prefer paella to risotto. It seemed not to be the case; she was not going to complain.

  “Buona sera, Padre,” Giovanna greeted José Antonio. “It is always good to see you. You did not book? No matter, I am sure that we can find you a table if you can be patient for a few minutes. Will you have your usual vino bianco at the bar while you wait? On the house, of course.”

  “Buona sera, Signora Giovanna. It is good to see you too, and to see that you are busy in these difficult times. And no, I did not book. A Brazilian friend of mine, Nelson, should have done so — for 9 p.m. I have often recommended this place to him. Is he not here yet? I am surprised. He is improbably punctual for someone from a hot country.”

  “Yes and no. Yes, I do have a reservation for Nelson. But I was expecting an English – or possibly a French, if the latter had a sense of humour.” She smiled at her little joke, as did he. “And no, no Signor Nelson has arrived yet. But let me take you to his table and bring you that bianco della casa.”

  “Grazie, Signora. That is kind of you. Presumably he has been held up in the traffic, though he does not have very far to come.”

  As José Antonio sat down at the corner table set for two he saw a taxi draw up outside, though for no obvious reason he could work out it did not seem to be an ordinary taxi. It just seemed longer and cleaner than most others in Rome.

  Then he saw Nelson climb out — tall and imposing although nowhere near as slender as he had been when José Antonio had first met him. Indeed, he seemed to have become almost a shade portly since their last meeting. José Antonio knew, however, that he could not be one to comment. He was honest enough with himself to understand that he also had changed with age. In their first meeting thirty or more years ago he had been short and wiry with a good thicket of the deep black wavy hair of his native Spain. Now, as the mirror told him daily as he shaved, he was just as short but decidedly rounder (a generous way of putting it — stout was more accurate), with only wisps of grey hair surrounding what was a tanned bald pate.

  Giovanna greeted Nelson with a simple “Buona sera, Signore. Might you be Signor Nelson?”

  José Antonio heard this and almost giggled; an unusual act for a man in his early sixties dressed in standard clerical garb. He contained himself. Nelson had come in a light yet all-encompassing coat buttoned up to the neck but with nothing to cover his silver hair. As Giovanna led him to José Antonio, after confirming that he really was the expected Nelson, Nelson took off his coat.

  José Antonio stood and greeted his friend, bowing to kiss Nelson’s rather prominent ring just as Giovanna turned and gasped. Nelson, now without the coat, was simply dressed in a black cassock with scarlet piping and a similar coloured narrow sash round his middle, plus a prominent pectoral cross hung on a chain from his neck. Of the zucchetto on the head that a cardinal would normally wear there was no sign. Underdressed like this Nelson was unusual, yet his authority was manifest. It was not that of self-importance, or at least not to José Antonio. With a big smile Nelson received the formal obeisance from José Antonio and then enveloped the smaller and rounder man in what could only be called a clerical bear hug of pleasure.

  Once their greetings were done, and with Giovanna looking on in an unusual mix of Roman astonishment and even some awe (not a characteristic her staff recognised), José Antonio turned to her: “Giovanna, may I present to you His Eminence, Cardinal da Ferraz. Nelson, this is the Giovanna whose kitchen I have so often recommended to you.”

  If Giovanna had been shocked before she was now almost tongue-tied. Despite her ristorante being only a couple of kilometres south of the Vatican, high ranking church people were not common visitors, especially cardinals. As she tried gathering her wits, all she could think was that she had not had a cardinal as a customer before and she had certainly never expected to be introduced to one.

  She just managed to remember the correct salutation with a stuttering, “Welcome Your Eminence. And to think I called you Signor Nelson. How can you forgive me? How can I forgive myself? What will people say?”

  In revealing her embarrassment she was acute. Her staff, already sensing that something unusual was happening, were stealing glances in their direction and enjoying her obvious if rare social distress.

  “Signora, it is my pleasure to be here. Please don’t worry. It was my fault that I made the booking only as Nelson. I find it much simpler. But, should I visit again, as I hope I will, perhaps you might remember me as Signor Nelson?”

  “Thank you, Your Eminence. I do not think I will make this mistake again. Let me fetch some menus.”

  She bustled away, thoroughly discomfited — a sensation she disliked almost as much as seeing her staff’s amusement. Worse still, she knew they would not let her forget this. She would not be able to complain as most were part of her extended family in some form or other.

  At the other end of the room the Spanish Ambassador had also been watching. Nelson had walked in just as he finished entertaining his table with some juicy diplomatic gossip about an unnamed Foreign Minister who, when visiting the head of state in one country, had wished Happy Christmas when it was the president’s birthday (in April), and who had then gone on to visit a second country where he called the current prime minister by the name of that lady’s predecessor-but-two throughout their formal meetings, even though that predecessor had been dead for several years. It was a good story and his party had responded well. This had made for a warm start to the ambassador’s evening.

  While his guests were still laughing and Nelson was removing his coat, he had nudged his wife Concha, saying, “We have distinguished company here tonight. After the Holy Father himself, over there is one of the most powerful men in the Vatican. And it seems he has reduced the delightful Giovanna almost to tears of embarrassment, something I had never expected to see. I wonder who he is with.”

  His wife looked over to the corner. “The small round one? Oh, I know him. That is Padre José Antonio. He’s the local priest here in Monteverde — the one I told you about who comes from Denia and was moved to Rome many years ago. He now leads the Monteverde parish team. He was also involved early with that horrible ‘Santofonino’ that everyone talks about. If it wasn’t for that I would probably be going to him for confession, because at least he could hear my sins in Spanish.”

  Her husband looked at her indulgently. Confession might be for her but was definitely not for him. He was glad he had the seniority to be the Spanish Ambassador to the Republic of Italy rather than to be the Spanish Ambassador to the Holy See. Besides his own decidedly a-religious views he also preferred his official residence to the one of his colleague, which was located on the other side of the Tiber in a Palazzo close to the Spanish Steps. The temptations there for his wife, of being surrounded by the most wildly expensive yet glorious shoe, leather and clothes shops in the world, would be infinite. Add to that the horror of so many tourists and the idea of living in such a location was more than he could imagine, never mind tolerate. Far better to have temporary possession of the complex with its incredible views overlooking Rome’s Centro Storico and what internally he referred to as the ‘poor St Peter’s’, which dominated the Vatican. At least, while he was ambassador, he felt privileged to play guardian to what he privately called the ‘good St Peter’s’ with its Tempietto whose restoration had been sponsored by the King and Queen of Spain, located next door.

  Yet his professional curiosity was also piqued. Clea
rly, from Giovanna’s reaction, da Ferraz had not been here before. Equally clearly da Ferraz had deliberately arrived with a minimum of fuss, in a taxi, dressed more like a common priest than the ‘prince of the church’ he was. Though he had heard that da Ferraz was not one of the magnificos from the Vatican who demanded to be treated like a prince, the combination of anonymity, a novel location and something else he thought he could see in da Ferraz’s face gave him food for thought. Maybe he would have to meet up with his fellow Ambassador. At least now he had a good reason to extend dinner so that he might observe from afar.

  Wednesday, Monteverde

  José Antonio and Nelson sat down.

  “What are you drinking?” asked Nelson. “Knowing you it will be some dull vino della casa, yes?”

  “You are right, as usual. Old habits die hard and times are not easy, even in a good family ristorante like this.”

  “Then we must have a change. I know you like a good red but I doubt if your Signora Giovanna has a decent Ribera del Duero or even a Rioja to warm your Spanish heart. On the other hand I can afford, occasionally, to indulge and so I think a Vino Nobile di Montepulciano, no? And if it’s good we might have a second or, if not, move to something else. What do you think?”

  “That would be a singular pleasure, and more. I won’t complain, Your Eminence.”

  “José Antonio, José Antonio. How often do I have to tell you? Forget the ‘Eminence-ing’ when we are alone. When we are outside formal church settings I am Nelson to you. I much prefer it and you know it. We are both old enough to disregard the trappings of our backgrounds. I try never to forget that I come from a Sao Paolo favela.”

  Nelson waved a hand at Giovanna, who was waiting — eager to respond now she had a cardinal for dinner. Coming across immediately she brought the promised menus and the wine list.