by Ray Flynn
Bill grabbed his son’s hand. “Yes, you have to, pal. Be a brave boy now. Meghan is going with you.”
The boy was helped to his feet and slowly walked alongside the nurse, gaining moral support from his sister.
Monsignor Cippolini glanced up at the pope as they returned to his office. “It sounds like he’s had stitches before, Bill.”
The pope smiled ruefully. “That seems to come with the territory for small boys, Al. I’d venture to say he’s been sewed up five or six times. So he’s a pro at it. Thanks for looking after him.” The anxious look returned to his face as he sat behind his desk. “Incidentally, how is the poor guard? I almost forgot about him.”
“He’ll be fine,” Al Cippolini assured the pope. “Roger was going pretty fast and hit him in … well, let’s say the lower half. A few of his countrymen helped him off while needling him with their little quips. He was trying to apologize, but it wasn’t his fault.”
“Thanks, Al. Let me know his name. We’ll invite him to dinner some evening so the two warriors can shake hands and be friends again.” He sighed deeply. “Meantime I’ll quarantine the skateboard for the duration. I guess it’s my fault. I told Roger I would find him a place to use it and haven’t quite gotten around to it.”
A slow smile brightened Al’s visage. “I’m supposed to know this place better than anyone. I think I know a few places in this vast complex where the young man can practice his skills.”
“That would be appreciated, Al.”
“Well, please don’t forget, you are the pope. I think we may find a guard with a little time who might be able to supervise his demonstrations.”
Bill smiled appreciatively. “That would be great if you could. I must move on quickly now. Tim Shanahan is coming to discuss some Church history. Do new popes get a chance to peek into the family closet?”
Flustered, Alonso Cippolini said, “I don’t know anything about that kind of thing, Bill. It’s not my area.”
“Well, you’ve got me saying Mass again, in Italian and English. That’s pretty good.”
Meghan pushed open the door and interrupted them breathlessly. Bill gave her an alarmed look. “Is Roger okay?”
“He’s coming along fine. I dropped by the apartment and on our private voice mail there was a message from a Cardinal Motupu in Angola. He asked if his message could get to you personally and privately.” She glanced at Cippolini questioningly.
“It’s all right, Meghan. Gus is concerned about a certain cardinal intercepting my messages.”
Meghan handed her father a note. “Here is the routing of his number. He said he’d wait until he hears from you.”
Bill took the slip of paper and turned to Cippolini. “Al, would you excuse me, please?”
“Of course. I hope all is well in Africa.” The monsignor stood up and left the room immediately.
Bill gestured for Meghan to sit down beside his desk and picked up the phone. It would naturally get back to Robitelli that Motupu had gone around the approved routing. The call must be urgent and personal.
Soon Motupu’s high-pitched voice was coming over the phone. “Your Holiness, I am sorry to bother you outside protocol but I felt it was important. I never had a chance to brief you personally on certain African affairs, and Robitelli unfortunately never got around to paying much attention to our continent.”
“Go ahead, Gus. I’m listening,” Bill invited.
“I can’t tell you too much on the telephone. I’d like to see you personally.”
“Is it truly that urgent?”
“I think so, Bill. It is a situation that has been festering here for the last half century. I had hoped that it would die out with the collapse of Communism.”
“Can you tell me any more?”
“On these lines out of Africa there is no such thing as security. Get Monsignor Shanahan to tell you what he knows about things here in respect to certain Christian religious rivalries. That’s all I can say in these circumstances.”
“When do you want to come, Gus?”
“The sooner the better.”
Bill glanced at the calendar before him. “Can it wait until after the Christmas holidays? This is a busy time for me, and I’ll be saying Mass and greeting a lot of folks.”
“It’s waited this long; a few more weeks won’t make a great big difference … I guess,” he added doubtfully.
“Any hint so I can be prepared?”
“Check your files on Russian Orthodox African intervention. And see what you can find on the Patriarch Alexis and a certain Bishop Yussotov, sometimes known as the ‘Mad Monk of Odessa.’ Anything more will have to wait until I can see you.”
As Bill hung up, an alarm went off in his head. For a moment the avviso flashed through his thoughts. The Orthodox Church and the patriarch suddenly took on meaning in light of a passage in the previous pope’s warning. He noted with relief that Tim Shanahan was coming for one of their general consultations. Impatiently, he read a memo from Cardinal Robitelli regarding the next scheduled meeting he must attend before he would have a chance to discuss Motupu’s call with Tim.
“Archbishop Enrico Locatelli, the socially progressive papal nuncio in Washington, constantly agitating for social and economic justice, is upset about the way things are going in America.” The memo indicated that the pope’s representative in the United States needed to confer on the fact that American bishops were having a difficult time keeping the flock united.
By the time Archbishop Locatelli was announced, the pope had managed to don something resembling formal attire after having been more comfortably dressed all that morning. Bill rose to meet the nuncio as he entered the richly appointed papal library. By force of habit the bishop, a short, plump, and fussy individual, dropped to one knee, reaching to kiss the fisherman’s ring. Both flushed slightly as the bishop rose.
“So glad to have this opportunity to meet with you, Your Holiness. Sorry about the ring business. I was forewarned that it bothers you.”
“I’m likewise trying to adapt. Please be seated,” the pope replied.
The nuncio cautiously made sure not to seat himself ahead of the pope. “Thank you, Your Holiness.” He winced again as the words escaped his lips. “Oh, sorry about that. I hope you understand how much emphasis we put on showing the highest respect for the representative of Christ on Earth.”
The pope let a long breath flow from his lungs as he tried to adjust his own mindset. “I know, I know. Whatever makes you feel the most comfortable.”
The archbishop cleared his throat. “Well, Pope Bill, as you know I personally came here to see Cardinal Robitelli—and yourself—to try to impress more firmly upon your minds that the Church in the United States has for some time been drifting toward a potentially debilitating state of affairs. The U.S. government, including both political parties, is generally walking away from the concerns of the needy and the poor. This is placing a greater burden and more responsibility on private charities, especially the Churches. Catholic Charities in cities like Chicago and Boston are now practically the safety net for the poor.”
The archbishop paused to gauge the effect of his situation on the pontiff. “There is marked division when the bishops meet for their annual conferences. Everyone is sincere, I know. But I see an increasing dissatisfaction, even fear, creeping into their various presentations. They are under great challenges and are meeting more while accomplishing less.” He gave the pope a questioning look. “I was hoping that perhaps, finally, a strong stand from Rome, some sort of definitive pronouncement, would make them regroup and get on with the business of bringing all alienated souls—the homeless, drug addicts, fallen-away Catholics, all of them—back to Christ.” He stopped abruptly and stared at the pope.
“Well, well,” Bill muttered, clearing his throat and fumbling for words. “No one can argue with that. Of course, Cardinal Robitelli has apprised me of some of this. I have even met with several bishops and cardinals here to come up with solutions.�
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The nuncio plunged ahead with his argument. “On the social front, they have fewer dollars and more needs. Charitable giving overall is down. People are not contributing and they have had to close hundreds of inner-city schools and Churches. They just can’t afford to keep them open! The Catholics with money have gone out to the suburbs; charter schools are opening up everywhere, taking students and dollars out with them. The politicians are afraid of the antiChurch groups and liberal media so they don’t want to go out front on school vouchers.”
Locatelli stared almost accusingly at the pope, who replied apologetically, “Naturally, I admit I haven’t been much help. My knowledge of ecclesiastical affairs is still limited. But I do receive a great deal of input from the American bishops. Secretary Robitelli is putting reports together for me to sign as a sort of … what do you call it … ‘rescript’?”
The archbishop smiled involuntarily at the pope’s attempt to search out the right word.
“It’s called an ‘encyclical,’ Pope Bill.” The pope’s face reddened. Archbishop Locatelli continued. “We feel that an encyclical would be the most powerful way to press our point further, and would clarify our stance on all related issues. Do you agree? To define and clarify once and for all Church’s responsibility? I read part of the paper that Cardinal Robitelli is writing. Very good.”
The pope frowned, aware that he was not yet in the loop. Here was a man meeting with him for the sake of courtesy, because he was pope. They apparently didn’t consider his opinions relevant yet, he realized. And he was an American! His mind began to assimilate previous information that Cardinal Robitelli had mentioned and the avviso’s warning concerning his native land. He had never been informed, actually, about the underlying issues involved.
When Bill Kelly became angry, his mind accelerated like a computer. An idea formed four squares in his head. “Say, Your Excellency, did you ever read or hear how some people try to learn God’s will by flipping open the Bible and choosing a random passage to see what it says?”
The archbishop stared at the pope in disbelief, remembering St. Augustine. Robitelli is right, he thought. This upstart is a gadfly. He shifted, uneasily but smoothly, in his chair. “Why, yes, Pope Bill. I have heard about that. You know, St. Augustine. I have done it a few times myself … as a young boy.”
The pope reached for the huge Bible resting beside a pile of papers on his desk. Archbishop Locatelli watched in amazement as the pope leafed through the Bible, lifted it, and then let it drop loudly on the desk. His forefinger came down on the open book, and he bent over to see what revelation it would offer, not noticing the archbishop shaking his head in astonishment.
Locatelli thought he might as well humor his deranged pontiff. “What did God tell us? Any solutions to our problems?”
The pope looked up momentarily and back down. “I don’t know exactly. ‘Tell Pharaoh to let my people go!’” he recited loudly.
The two men looked at one another questioningly. “Maybe try two out of three, Your Holiness,” Locatelli swallowed and suggested. “Sometimes these things take time.”
The pope seated himself in his chair with a slight grunt. He looked at the archbishop, then back at the book. Suddenly the light seemed to dawn. He settled back in his chair, eyes closed. Locatelli nervously watched someone who seemed lost somewhere in his thoughts. “Eh, Pope Bill,” he prompted, “are you all right?”
The pope’s eyes abruptly opened, looking straight at the nuncio. A smile curved his lips. “Yes, Your Excellency, I’m fine. Now I think I see our answer.”
The nuncio uneasily shifted in his chair again, not sure of his ground as the pope continued. “I think we should look at that statement in a more contemporary and spiritual sense. As if we are pharaohs.”
The nuncio’s brow furrowed noticeably. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Your Holiness. What do you mean, ‘we are pharaohs’?”
The pope pushed himself up and out of his seat, walking toward the window behind him. He stared out at the blue sky. After a few moments he turned around to face the nuncio again. “Don’t you see? Who was Pharaoh? A man of power and authority. He pushed poor people around. He couldn’t find any solutions either, because he couldn’t look at other people’s problems, only his own. To keep the old customs going. The old ways. To separate rich and poor … slave versus master … whatever. Even the miracles Moses performed couldn’t alter his mind, or his heart. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with this whole setup, Your Excellency. Maybe we need to really become more understanding of those homeless people, drug addicts, and inner-city poor. We need to be less pretentious about what we are doing. By our action or by our lack of action, by our misdirected action, we hold God’s people in bondage.” He pointed his index finger directly at the archbishop and his voice quivered. “Tell them to let my people go!”
The archbishop sat mesmerized. His mind kept reverting from a review of the pope’s words to the confidential conversation he had recently held with Cardinal Robitelli before leaving his ornately decorated office. “The man’s a nut, a total nut.”
In silence Locatelli sat gathering his thoughts as he watched Peter II move away from the window to sit down. He waited while the pope dried his eyes and reached for a pen and paper. Suddenly the nuncio felt sorry for this poor fisherman who had been thrust into a foreign environment with absolutely no idea how things worked in the vast, Byzantine complex of the Vatican. His own innate goodness urged him to help. He began impulsively.
“Well, Pope Peter, I must say you have a very interesting way of interpreting this passage. I’m not sure it suits our situation. We have always set up soup kitchens and clothing bins where the poor can come for help. It costs us a great deal of money to rent buildings for shelters for the destitute. Our people in the field are pushed to the limit donating to others without enough to take for themselves. I don’t see how we can do more. But I admire your deep concern for God’s people.”
Archbishop Locatelli paused, becoming aware that the pope was not looking up at him as he spoke but was silently scribbling something on a pad in front of him. The nuncio waited for some sign of recognition. After what seemed forever the pope looked up.
“Open your Churches, Your Excellency! Open the Churches and schools and leave them open … all the time!”
“What?” the archbishop mumbled in bewilderment.
“Are you deaf, man? I said open the Church doors and leave them open.”
“We can’t do that,” Locatelli snapped, shocked. “They would come in and steal … make a total mess of the place. It’s impossible!”
“You see,” Bill shot back, “always concern for our possessions. Let them take the candlesticks or whatever else isn’t glued down. Then we won’t have to worry about them anymore. Yes, that’s it! Apostolic poverty. Like the old days, when I was a boy. We stopped by our Church anytime to talk to God. Don’t you remember? It’s exactly what set us apart. It could, should, be like that again! Everyone will know that they can find refuge in the Catholic Church. I don’t believe it would be all that bad. People respect property if it is theirs. Let them know it is theirs. In time they’ll get used to it. Maybe the other denominations will do the same. We don’t serve things, Archbishop Locatelli. We serve people. We need to address those people, discover their problems and how we might help them.”
The nuncio, stupefied, was left speechless. He didn’t know whether to reply or to run. The pope made the choice for him. “Discuss my idea with Gino Robitelli and the finance staff. Then maybe we can kick it around and come up with some realistic conclusions before you leave. Thank you for coming here to fill me in on my native country’s problems.”
Bill followed the nuncio, who was beating a hasty retreat to the door and all the while glancing back uneasily at the pope.
“And I deeply appreciate your courageously expressing your concern about American Church leaders. I agree the Church must fight in the political arena for what we believe in, and I strongly b
elieve that U.S. leaders cannot be cafeteria Catholics either. They can’t choose which issues are politically popular, like AIDS, housing, and health care, then take a walk on other Church issues that are less popular. Everyone wants to be a leader, but they only want to lead on certain issues. Like they say at the Portuguese Club in New Bedford, ‘Everyone wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die.’ It seems to me that the United States needs a pro-life, pro-family, and pro-needy political movement!”
By then the nuncio had fled down the corridor, taking the first turn that would put him out of sight.
28
THE EASTERN ORTHODOX CONSPIRACY
Bill chuckled to himself as he watched the black-and-red-swaddled archbishop virtually fleeing down the long marble hall leading ultimately to the Sistine Chapel. The usually taciturn Swiss guards were looking after him, openly puzzled. Tim Shanahan glanced at the unnerved nuncio quizzically.
“What’s with him?” Tim asked as he entered the outer reception room.
“I’m afraid I made a suggestion that sounded as though I advocated the Church sharing its wealth with the parishioners,” Bill confessed. “Come on into the library. Fortunately, I have no other appointments this afternoon. Some tea and Irish bread, Tim? My daughter Meghan baked it last night. The Irish nuns here love it.”
“Sounds lovely.” They entered the secure, bug-free apostolic library. Instead of retreating behind his desk, Bill took a seat on the sofa, gesturing to Tim to sit in the facing armchair. He wasted no time getting to the topic concerning him most. “Gus Motupu called. He couldn’t talk openly on the phone but he needs to see me as soon as possible.”
Tim nodded. “From sketchy news reports and what I hear from my own net, the Church, Cardinal Moputu in particular, has big problems in Africa.”
“I keep current, Tim. What am I missing?”
Tim took a deep breath. “It all goes back to World War II and, of course, Pope Pius XII.”
Bill nodded thoughtfully. “From the avviso I know that events of half a century ago are shaping our destiny in the new millennium. My predecessor has warned me.”
