The Sinner's Grand Tour

by Tony Perrottet

  At last, the door to the Admissions Office creaked open, and the applicant slunk out, looking ashen-faced. I stepped inside to face a beady-eyed official with a bald pate and diabolical goatee. He cast a cold eye over my documents, then began taking sharpened pencils out of his desk—moving very calmly, one pencil at a time—before casually asking the subject I wanted to research.

  “The Council for the Index of Prohibited Books,” I said confidently. The Congregatio pro Indice Librorum Prohibitorum had from 1571 decided which volumes should be put on the Vatican Index to be burned or banned. One of the key tools of censorship since the Renaissance, it was something I could discuss with a straight face.

  The official began putting the pencils back in his desk, one at a time.

  “The Congregation of the Index is not in the Secret Archive,” he said, rising. “It is part of the Office of the Inquisition, and thus is in the Archive of the Sant’Uffizio.”

  “But Francis X. Blouin Jr.…” I stammered. “He says the documents are here!”

  The official paused and sat down. “Oh, Blouin! His work is full of errors. We have had so many problems with Blouin.”

  But the name had taken him off guard. Maybe I was serious.

  “Oh, I don’t only want to consult the Index records,” I laughed, scanning my notes. “There’s the Council on Indulgences, too … the Council on Sacred Relics … the Registri Vaticani, I’d definitely like to see.…”

  The official harrumphed and reluctantly started tapping my details into a computer. I held my breath. Better not to babble, in case I gave away my rank ignorance. I was finally starting to relax when he sucker-punched me.

  “So what should I actually put as your research topic?”

  Now it was me who was off-guard. How could I link all the disparate subjects I’d mentioned? “Why … the inner workings of the Renaissance papacy.”

  “What, all of them?” he raised his eyebrows.

  The entrance to the Secret Archive, where Papal documents dating back for over a millennium are kept.

  “Well, um … the day-to-day functioning of the Papal bureaucracy.”

  He looked dubious but reluctantly handed me a pass bearing the papal coat of arms—a laminated tessera with my photograph, for Professor PERROTTET Anthony to enter the Archivio Segreto Vaticano. As I stepped inside the elevator, I was overcome with euphoria. I pulled a face in the mirror and let out a maniacal giggle. Then I realized I was probably on video. Calm, Antonio! Don’t blow it now.

  The Secret Archive is now a seamless blend of the medieval and the digital. The catalog room looks like Merlin’s study, its walls covered floor to ceiling with index volumes bound in cream vellum, which had been compiled by hand by the librarians since the 1600s. For book lovers, it’s an aesthetic experience just leafing through their enormous yellowing pages covered in runic script. Next door, the reading room’s vaulted ceiling is covered with faded frescoes; the walls, with prized diplomatic documents sporting the wax seals and medals of King Charles V and Napoléon. On the long wooden desks, by contrast, are banks of gleaming white Macintosh computers and piles of CDs. Today archivists are scanning the Vatican’s rarest and most fragile holdings.

  I was momentarily at a loss as to what I should actually do now that I was in here, so tempting it was just to sit back and admire the scenery. I could call up the trial of the Knights Templar in Chinon in 1308 or the Papal Bulls from 1521 that excommunicated Martin Luther. But no, I had to remain focused on the Papacy’s dirty linen.

  The archive does have a rather creaky digital catalog, even though it covers only a fraction of the holdings. I typed in “Stufetta.” “Bibbiena.” “Raphael.” Nothing came up on any count. OK, I thought. Maybe the bathroom is mentioned under Leo X?

  This was a more fruitful tack. The librarians were all men, in finely tailored suits, standing in rows behind a long wooden desk. They helped me sort out arcane call numbers to summon works relating to the Papacy in 1516, when Raphael and his crew were at work. And eventually, I manage to locate some dusty volumes that not only mentioned the legendary Stufetta, but provided clues to its current condition.

  Evidently, in the last century and a half, at least two gentlemen-scholars with impeccable Catholic credentials did talk their way inside. In his massive 1887 Church history, the Austrian historian Dr. Ludwig Pastor dispelled rumors in academic circles that the bathroom had been destroyed, although he found Raphael’s frescoes “in the most deplorable condition.” Nevertheless, Pastor was disturbed by what he saw. “The erotic paintings … prove that Bibbiena was more worldly-minded than beseemed his position,” he complained, adding that the licentious adventures of Venus and Cupid made “a most unseemly subject for a Cardinal’s palace.” In 1931, the French art expert Michel Emmanuel Rodocanachi reported that several of the Stufetta’s panels had actually been whitewashed over. His book on Leo X includes several smudgy photographs of the artworks showing vandals’ scratches over some of the genitalia. (“Permission for a viewing is difficult to obtain for the curious,” Rodocanachi warned, with admirable understatement.)

  Another book baldly reported that, as Raphael’s reputation soared in the twentieth century, restorations were conducted in 1942 and 1972. Clearly, the Stufetta still existed in reasonable condition. All I had to do was figure out who had the key.

  A SPY IN THE VATICAN

  After a couple of days, I became a regular at the Secret Archive. I could just walk through the Vatican City gates, flash my tessera, or reader’s card, and the Swiss Guards would even give me a nod. The librarians gradually loosened up and chatted with me outside the coffee machine downstairs, providing tips on how to navigate the system.

  The fabled Stufetta, I discovered, was now under the authority of the terrifying-sounding Assistant for General Affairs in the State Secretariat. “I’m not sure you’ll get a reply from them,” they shrugged. “They’re in the top two or three echelons of the Papacy.” Still, I decided to e-mail their office every few days, requesting permission to pursue my sober study on “the influence of pagan imagery on Renaissance art,” as well as e-mailing any other official in the Vatican Museums who I was told might have some pull.

  The Casina of Pius IV, now the Pontifical Academy of Sciences, within the Vatican Gardens.

  I had some surprising good luck in other departments. One morning, after inhaling too much parchment dust in the Secret Archives, I was able to arrange a tour of the Vatican Gardens, which I had often glimpsed with longing through barred windows on the stairwells. Another day, I was given access to the restricted collection of Greco-Roman art, where my fondest hope was to find the fabled cache of marble penises removed from their classical owners. The story began in the 1870s, when it was said that Pope Pius IX, maddened by the loss of his territories, wandered the chambers of the Vatican Palace, personally lopping off the genitals of pagan statues. It has been passed on through the generations with varying details—a version appears in the oeuvre of Dan Brown—and often includes ribald jokes about frustrated nuns who take advantage of the room, where the genitalia are said to be stacked like gleaming white sausages. The most recent version I’d heard, cited by a painter who worked at the American Academy in Rome, included the juicy, unverified detail that a “female German academic” in the 1990s had been working to catalog the genitalia and restore them to the statues until her “mysterious” death. Now, as I wandered the Greco-Roman halls, I asked my aged guide about it as delicately as I could. He took it as a perfectly reasonable question.

  “Well, from the 1700s, there was definitely a campaign to cover classical statues with fig leaves made of plaster or metal,” he said. “But the process would not have required the actual removal of penises.” We examined several male statues where the genitalia did look to be merely hidden. Later, exploring the public sections of the Vatican Museums, I noticed that many other statues, like the famous Apollo Belvedere, were casually exposed and fully equipped. I kept up this investigation, taking various
anatomical photographs, until the guards started to give me funny looks.

  Although there were no original parchments relating to the Stufetta in the Secret Archive, I was able to explore the lubricious atmosphere of the Renaissance Papacy.

  If I had to pick my favorite Vatican scandal, it would be the Joust of the Whores, generally considered a low ebb for the Holy Church. This spirited fiesta was held in the Vatican Palace in 1501 by Rodrigo Borgia, a Catalan prince who became Pope Alexander VI and who wins the laurels as the most godless, vicious, and debauched of the era’s pontiffs. We know about the event thanks to the pope’s master of ceremonies, Johann Burchard, who kept a scrupulous diary of the palace’s goings on called the Liber Notarum. On the night of Sunday, October 30, 1501, Burchard records that “fifty honest prostitutes” were invited to a banquet in the rooms of the pope’s illegitimate son Cesare. (The Borgia Apartments are today a popular section of the Vatican Museums. They are covered with extravagant murals and house the collections of modern religious art.) The guests included assorted clergymen, the seventy-year-old pontiff, Alexander—once handsome but now gouty and obese—and his attractive and lascivious daughter, Lucrezia.

  After a drunken feast, the fifty prostitutes were ordered to remove their clothes while roasted chestnuts, a traditional Italian food for autumn, were scattered all over the floor. Instructed to eat their fill, the naked girls went scrambling on all fours after the treats while the male guests applauded. The clergymen then stripped and turned the event into an open orgy. As Burchard delicately puts it, “Prizes were announced for those who could perform the act the most often with the courtesans.” Evidently servants kept score of the cardinals’ sexual tally for the evening, with rewards presented by the pope to the most virile—“tunics of silk, shoes, fashionable hats, and other things.”

  “That this banquet took place cannot be doubted,” concludes the historian Dr. F. D. Glaser, since it is also referred to by a Venetian ambassador Polo Capello.

  I found the index to the Borgia Archive—it was a foot thick and a yard tall, so heavy that it almost made my knees buckle—and I requested the correspondence from late 1501. When the volume arrived, it had 812 pages of handwritten text just for the second half of the year. I leafed through the pages eagerly, enjoying the scribes’ florid quill work. Doodles that looked like fingers pointed to important sections. Finally I found October 30, Anno MCCCCCI. On either side of the date, there was a series of somber discussions on diplomatic meetings. Business as usual for a Renaissance pope.

  Well, what did I expect? An invoice for chestnuts?

  To see what the Vatican now made of its reprehensible Renaissance past, I put through a call that afternoon to Dr. Giovanni Maria Vian, editor of the official Vatican newspaper, L’Osservatore Romano, and an expert on Church history. Before Vian’s appointment in 2008, L’Osservatore was regarded as a propaganda organ on a par with Pravda in the Soviet-era Kremlin. But today, Vian is being encouraged to take a more progressive approach to modern issues, such as women’s rights, and has put forth a more nuanced interpretation of Church history. He suggested I drop by his office on Via del Pellegrino, Way of the Pilgrim, in an undistinguished corner of Vatican City, for an espresso. It was all very pleasant. The breeze wafted through the open windows of his office, as Vian, bespectacled and relaxed, explained that the misbehavior of the Renaissance clergy was now seen in historical context.

  “It may sound strange now, but the most important role for the popes was waging war and inspiring the troops,” he said. “Take Alexander VI, famous for his orgies. From the moral point of view, perhaps, he was one of the worst popes in history. But he was an excellent pope from the administrative point of view. He was a brilliant diplomatic strategist. He confirmed the Papacy’s influence and guaranteed its survival. Before that, European powers would dictate terms to the Papacy. He secured its independence.”

  In general, Vian preferred a long-term view of the Vatican’s ups and downs.

  “Corruption is part of the natural dynamic of history. There’s an old Latin saying: The Church must always be reformed. That is the paradox of the Renaissance Papacy. Yes, it was decadent, but it allowed the Church to be reinvented and move ahead.”

  As I was leaving, I casually asked if he knew how I might be able to visit the Stufetta. Dr. Vian was not optimistic. “You see, Cardinal Bibbiena’s old apartments are now part of the State Office. That’s where the pope meets visiting presidents!”

  Maybe I should light a candle in St. Peter’s, I thought.

  RAPHAEL’S BATHROOM OF LOVE

  When I checked my e-mails a couple of afternoons later, to my amazement there was a reply from the Vatican Secretariat:

  Thank you for your email in which you requested a visit to La Stufetta del Bibbiena.

  I am pleased to confirm that you would be able to make such a visit on Monday at 16:30.

  At the entrance to the Vatican please explain the nature of your visit and you will be given the necessary directions.

  I hope you enjoy the visit. With kind regards,

  Secretariat of the Substitute

  I read the e-mail over several times to make sure it wasn’t a hoax. I had no idea how this had actually happened. Perhaps they were just sick to death of my e-mails clogging up their system. Admittedly, it was a little odd that it was unsigned.

  No matter! I was overjoyed.

  The next afternoon, I got another e-mail.

  We regret to inform you that the State Secretariat has informed us that in this period it is not possible to visit the Stufetta del Bibbiena.…

  It was from a completely different office. Did this overrule the previous e-mail? I wasn’t sure. Maybe one wing of the Kafkaesque Vatican bureaucracy had no idea what the other was doing. Clearly the only course was to turn up as scheduled and pretend I hadn’t received the second e-mail.

  When Monday rolled around, I spruced myself up for the big visit, then foolishly checked my e-mails again. This time, I was appalled to find a message directly from the Secretariat itself, sent that day at noon, with the horrifying subject line URGENT: CANCELLATION OF VISIT TO LA STUFETTA DEL BIBBIENA.

  I let out a groan as I scanned the bald letter:

  Dear Mr. Perrottet,

  I regret to inform you that, due to unforseen circumstances, the visit to La Stufetta has to be cancelled.

  I am sorry for any inconvenience caused.

  Secretariat of the Substitute.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. There was no name, no contact number, no offer of rescheduling. It was barbaric! Without pausing to think, I shot off a reply begging for a new appointment and providing my Italian cell phone number. I even added that I would turn up at 4:30 p.m. as planned to try to arrange a more suitable time. In the meantime, I sat in the Campo dei Fiori, trying to remain philosophical. I’d managed to see more of the Vatican than I ever hoped. Perhaps seeing the Stufetta was too ambitious.

  I was just about to change out of my suit when the cell phone rattled in my pocket. I saw the caller ID was 111-111-111. Only two places I knew had such a telltale security block. One was the New York Times. The other was the Vatican.

  A young man with a refined English accent answered—a Monsignor Miles.

  “Sorry for all the confusion,” he said. “I’m happy to say that the unforeseen circumstances have been resolved, and you can in fact come as previously arranged.…”

  “Really?” I asked, incredulous. For a second it occurred to me that Les was playing a practical joke. But no, she wouldn’t be that heartless.

  “Just remember, no cameras or video are allowed, I’m afraid.…”

  “Sure, thanks, yes, grazie,” I muttered, still in shock.

  This time, when I mentioned the Secretariat, the official at Checkpoint Charlie decided to give me a hard time. I needed a much higher level of pass to visit the Papal Apartments, the sanctum sanctorum of the Vatican. He also found the stated purpose of my visit entirely far-fetched, having never even
heard of any Stufetta del Bibbiena. The copies of my e-mails from the Secretariat proved very little, in his opinion.

  “Do you have a name”?

  “Actually, yes—Monsignor Miles! I spoke to him only two hours ago.”

  The official looked through the Vatican directory, then back up at me in surprise. There really was a Monsignor Miles in the Substituto. The lunchtime mix-up had been a blessing in disguise; without a contact, I would have been standing there all day.

  Calls were placed, discussions conducted in low, serious tones. The Italians in line behind me craned their necks and grew restive.

  Finally, I was given a visitor’s pass—this time, a much more regal version, exquisitely printed like an invitation to an embassy banquet. I was directed toward a quiet courtyard, the Cortile del Triangolo, where a Swiss Guard in full plumage of orange, blue, and red escorted me to a special elevator. It was a huge wooden cube with walls about a foot thick. An art deco light fixture gave off a weak light.

  I pressed the button for the top floor, and the box rumbled slowly upward, as if it was being raised on pulleys by teams of slaves.

  When the doors opened, my jaw dropped. A soaring Renaissance gallery spread before me, filled with celestial light and lavish color. On one side were the fifteen-foot-high picture windows I’d seen from below, each one open with stunning views across the rooftops of Rome. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the cypress trees were glowing in the sunshine as if Saint Michael had come down and given the city a polish for the occasion. The other side of the gallery was decorated with enormous painted maps—vast hemispheres with gilded edges and majestic Latin names. I tried to walk as slowly as possible to take in the poetic details. Caravels swept through the seven seas, the stars glittered in the heavens, and the occasional sea serpent popped up from the waves. The interiors of North America and Africa were mostly blank. Australia was entirely missing. Instead, Terra Incognita, the Unknown Land, loomed from the frozen south.