The Good Shepherd

by Thomas Fleming

  Summing it all up, L’Unita dismissed the Villot appointment as another piece of Vatican window dressing, a sop thrown to the liberals.

  At the consistory, Pope Paul had appointed a theological commission, a recommendation that had been made by the first synod of bishops in 1967. The bishops’ suggestion had been aimed at getting better representation for all schools of theological thought in Rome. Matthew Mahan winced to see how Paul had twisted it into a negative framework. The commission would, the Pope said, “set a limit to theological speculation,” and define where speculation ended and heresy began. Three days ago, Matthew Mahan mused, he might have agreed with this approach. But now he heard only too clearly the harsh ring of the judicial gavel. But he did not want to go any further with that kind of thinking now. No, he sensed danger in it.

  At the chancellery, the afternoon passed in a blur of faces and handshakes with dozens of diplomats, Cardinals, monsignors. Most were strangers to him; all were ill at ease in his presence. He was clearly a supernumerary. It was Wright and Cooke and Dearden that they came to see. Each of them had power, actually or potentially; it amounted to the same thing. He was an oddity, the accidental American friend of John. Matthew Mahan could readily imagine the whispered exchanges as they approached him. He could see the puzzlement in their eyes as they shook hands and extended suave congratulations. For a while, he found himself wishing Davey Cronin was with him, to give them his outrageous explanation of why Mahan was here.

  The visits of Cardinal Jean Villot and Archbishop Giovanni Benelli were the only ones that caused Matthew Mahan to grow tense. Villot was now the second most powerful official in the Vatican. If Davey Cronin was right, and Romanita was the answer to his elevation to the cardinalate, here was the man who might tell him. But there was not even a hint of such a possibility in Villot’s smooth very Gallic conversation. His thin face seemed animated by nothing but good humor as he talked of their mutual friendship with neo porporato Jean Derrieux. Benelli, a stocky intense man of medium height, had the same job Pope Paul had held under Pius XII. By reputation, he was a tough operator, who often served as Paul’s hatchet man. Today, he had left his executive style in the Vatican. They joked about how well Cardinals Mahan and Wright spoke Italian. If the habit spread among American bishops, Italy would be accused of cultural imperialism, Benelli said. Again, there was not the tiniest hint of politics. But Romanita included the art of making the political remark at precisely the right moment. Perhaps this was not considered the time or the place.

  Not until the end of the afternoon did Matthew Mahan see a face that he recognized as a friend. “Giorgio,” he exclaimed when he saw the small, shy man in the doorway. It was Giorgio Bartoli, Pope John’s valet. They shook hands enthusiastically, and Matthew Mahan inquired eagerly about his present status. “Oh,I’m well taken care of,” he replied.

  What was the name of John’s secretary? He groped for a moment and found it. “How is Monsignor Capovilla? I hope they have taken good care of him, too.”

  “Oh yes. He is Archbishop of Chieti now.”

  “Chieti. I don’t even know where that is.”

  “It is directly east from Rome, a few miles from the Adriatic coast.”

  “Is it what we call in America the sticks, the boondocks? An obscure place?”

  “Very obscure,” said Bartoli. “But that is what they want. All of us must be obscure. There is great fear of a cult, you know.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yes. I was warned that under no account must I sell any article of clothes or religious goods, a Bible, a rosary, that sort of thing, that were given to me by the Holy Father. If I did, it would mean my head,” he said, drawing his fingers across his throat. “You heard, of course, about the dedication of the doors?”

  Matthew Mahan shook his head.

  “The Manzu doors at St. Peter’s, the bronze doors by the great sculptor. They were dedicated at sunset one day. No one was there but Manzu and his family and the Pope and a few monsignori. No one else. I was not invited, Monsignor Capovilla was not invited. The Holy Father’s nephew, Monsignor Roncalli, was not invited. It was as if they wanted to keep the doors a secret.”

  Bartoli sighed and shook his head. “Some popes are as jealous as women. Do you know what Pope John said to Manzu? ‘Let me know when your doors are finished and we will have a festa. We will invite everybody to come to St. Peter’s to look at them.’”

  Bartoli sighed again. “It is a poor way to do things. It has nothing to do with God, do you think, Eminence?”

  “No,” Matthew Mahan said. “No. Only with men. Popes are human, don’t forget, my friend.”

  Bartoli nodded and stood up. They really had nothing more to say to each other. They were bound only by the name he had just spoken in Italian, Papa Giovanni. It was amazing how much better it sounded that way.

  Matthew Mahan rode back to his hotel through the Roman dusk. It took a half hour to travel thirty or forty blocks in the appalling traffic. His stomach continued to ache dully. In the hotel lobby, he saw Bill Reed sitting in a chair. Matthew Mahan was tempted, for a moment, to sneak past him. But he looked so forlorn, it would have been a sin against charity to even attempt it.

  “Hello, Bill,” he said. “Giving your feet a rest?”

  “More or less,” he said, good humor returning to his face. “Do you think maybe an atheist’s feet get tired quicker than a Christian’s feet tramping around all these churches?”

  “I’ll have to check that one out with the theologians at the Vatican.”

  One of the desk clerks touched Matthew Mahan on the elbow. “Eminence,” he said, “this cable arrived for you an hour ago.”

  Matthew Mahan nodded his thanks and ripped it open. It was from Sister Agnes Marie at Mount St. Monica’s College.

  I THOUGHT YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT WE HAVE SENT SISTER HELEN REED TO ROME TO DEFEND OUR POINT OF VIEW AT THE SACRED CONGREGATION FOR THE RELIGIOUS. IF YOU WISH TO CONFER WITH HER, SHE WILL BE STAYING AT THE PENSIONE CHRISTINA.

  “Look at this,” Matthew Mahan said, handing the cable to Bill Reed. “That spitfire of a daughter of yours is here in Rome.”

  “Really,” said Bill in a stricken voice. He stared dully at the telegram, and the forlorn look crept across his face again. “Well, I’m the last person she’d get in touch with.”

  “Now, that’s absolutely absurd,” said Matthew Mahan. “Let’s get in a cab and go see her.”

  Bill shook his head. “No, Matt, I don’t want to waste your time. In fact, as your doctor, I’m inclined to tell you to go upstairs and go to bed. You look exhausted.”

  “Baloney,” he scoffed. “I’m operating on sanctifying grace.”

  “Sanctifying grace won’t heal that ulcer,” Bill said. “Only rest and quiet will do that. You’ve gotten damn little of either since we arrived.”

  Bill shook his head as Cardinal Mahan started to argue again. “It’ll only be an unpleasant scene. And I’m not in the mood for one. Shelagh and I came here on our honeymoon, you know. I’ve been thinking about her ever since we arrived. I’m afraid it’s got me down.”

  “All the more reason to see Helen. You used to say she was a carbon copy of her mother.”

  “Well - I would like to see her.” But I don’t want to hear - what I’ll hear.”

  “Let’s take a chance,” said Matthew Mahan, deciding Bill was just depressed. What could a daughter, especially a daughter who was a nun, say to her father that would be so terrible?

  Bill let himself be hoisted out of his chair and led to a taxi. It was another half hour of inching and horn blowing and cursing before they reached the Pensione Christina. The affable lady at the desk assured them that the American sister was in her room on the second floor. They went up the stairs.

  “Who’s that?” asked a young voice in response to Matthew Mahan’s knock.

  “A surprise,” said Matthew Mahan.

  Sister Helen opened the door. She was wearing a dark blue bathrobe and had he
r head encased in a towel. She had apparently just washed her hair. It made her face look stark and almost cruel in the shadowy hall light. Quickly, Matthew Mahan explained why they were here. “I thought you might want to have dinner tonight with me and this fellow,” he said, nodding to Bill Reed.

  His good cheer produced no response. “I’m sorry,” Sister Helen said. “I already have a dinner date. With a friend of mine who left the order and is living here in Rome.”

  “Do you have time for an aperitif?”

  “Not really. I’m getting dressed as you can see. I have nothing to say to him,” she said, staring stonily at her father. “Or to you, for that matter.”

  “Sister, this is no place for me to give you a lecture. But common politeness, not to mention Christian charity -”

  “- has nothing to do with it,” she said. “Neither of them. You must think you can work miracles with a wave of your episcopal hand. The difference between him and me is fundamental. It goes back to the Gospel. Didn’t Christ say he would turn son against father and daughter against mother and so forth? That’s what’s happened here.”

  She stepped back and slammed the door in their faces. Bill Reed shook his head and took a deep breath. When he exhaled, it was almost a groan. “I told you, Matt. I told you.”

  As they rode back to their hotel in the taxi, Bill Reed looked moodily out the window at the Roman facades and said, “The one thing I can’t figure out, Matt, is the way she quotes the Gospel at me. To be honest, I always thought that raising a daughter in the Catholic Church was the safest route I could take. The only thing I ever worried about was the possibility that she’d be too repressed.”

  “It isn’t the same Catholic Church anymore, Bill,” Matthew Mahan said mournfully.

  “It looks the same and sounds the same to me - except when I start talking to Helen.”

  “Tell me something, Bill. Why haven’t you married again? With a wife -”

  “Yes, she wouldn’t be able to hurt me quite so much. I know.” He sighed, and still looking out the window, said, “I haven’t got the guts, Matt. I couldn’t go through - that pain again. Maybe it’s because I’m a doctor. But it was a special kind of defeat for me to have my own wife die of cancer. To realize that I was hearing the symptoms at the breakfast table - and not paying any attention to them.”

  “Bill - that could happen to anyone. Any doctor.”

  “Sure. But it happened to me, and I can’t forgive myself.”

  “God forgives you, Bill.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. But I can’t talk to him. So I’m stuck with doing the job for myself. We atheists, agnostics - whatever you want to call us, Matt - it all comes down to the same thing - have to play a double role, sinner and judge. We’re pretty hard on ourselves.”

  “Can’t you let a friend get into the act?” Matthew Mahan asked softly. “How about letting me masquerade as God for about sixty seconds? I’ll put on all my regalia, miter, cape, the whole works. No, better yet, we’ll go up to my room and strip down to our undershirts and sit around drinking beer the way we used to in the aid station when there was a lull in the fighting. And when you’re in the middle of telling me one of those dirty stories you loved to shock me with, I’ll put my hand on your arm” - Matthew Mahan reached out as he spoke and made the gesture – “and say, ‘Your sins are forgiven thee.’”

  “Thanks, Matt,” Bill Reed said in a choked voice. “But it wouldn’t do any good. I’m a coward about pain, you see. I guess that’s why I became a doctor. I don’t have the guts to risk any more pain.”

  “Bill, that’s bunk. You became a doctor because you love helping people. Do you think you ever fooled me for five seconds? Underneath that cynical mask you wear, there’s a man who cares-yes, even weeps the same way I do - for the children of men. That sounds like a sermon, but there isn’t any better way to say it.”

  “You get tired of weeping, Matt, you just get tired, I guess.”

  They were in front of the hotel. Matthew Mahan stuffed some lire into the driver’s hand and walked back into the lobby with Bill Reed. He was deeply worried about his old friend now. “My stomach would feel 100 percent better, Bill, if I made you a convert. Not necessarily a convert to Catholicism. A convert to - to the presence of God, to the awareness of someone who - who can lift the burdens off your back.”

  “But not off your stomach,” Bill said mischievously. “Matt, it’s enough for me to know I stir so much concern in you. It makes me believe that somehow, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary, I am doing something important.”

  Upstairs, Matthew Mahan sat down at the desk in his room and wrote a letter.

  Dear Agnes,

  I hesitate to write this letter to you. I am afraid I have always been a little in awe of you, since I sat beside you in old St. Patrick’s and became convinced in a month or two that you already knew more than I could ever learn. Since that time, I have heard even more awesome stories of your progress in the spiritual life, another field in which I fear I am only a dull normal at best. But a few hours ago here in Rome I encountered something so spiritually saddening, and at the same time so terrible, in one of your young sisters that I feel I must speak to you about it. I don’t know whether you are even aware that Sister Helen Reed is bitterly alienated from her father. He is an introverted lonely man, a widower so deeply wounded by his wife’s death, he has never attempted to achieve a comparable relationship with another person. This evening, with my usual overconfidence, I thought I could be the instrument of reconciliation. Instead, I made a fool of myself. I had to stand there and hear her say things to her father that only worsened his loneliness. I don’t know where this great revolution which is wracking the Church will take us, but I am reminded tonight of a saying attributed to the liberator of Ireland, Daniel O’Connell, that no political revolution in the world was worth the loss of a single life. I believe that the greatest imaginable revolution in the Church is not worth the loss of a single soul. Tonight I saw a soul in torment, in grave danger of being lost. I should add that Dr. Reed is not a Catholic. But other sheep I have, which are not of this fold.

  Sincerely yours in Christ,

  Matthew Mahan

  P.S.: I’ve decided not to see Cardinals Confalonieri and Antoniutti. If we can’t settle our differences among ourselves, we don’t deserve to be called Christians. In next year’s budget, your sisters will have $25,000 from the Archdiocese to help pay their expenses downtown. I will also try to keep St. Clare’s Hospital open.

  Letter in hand, Matthew Mahan knocked on Dennis McLaughlin’s door. He found his secretary, his Jesuit friend Andy Goggin, and Davey Cronin poring over a road map. They were driving up to Florence tomorrow to visit the suburb of Isolotto, which was apparently involved in a nasty clash with the Vatican. Matthew Mahan shook his head. “Don’t you ever quit looking for ammunition?”

  “Now, Matt, you can’t deny this isn’t rare stuff,” said Cronin. “A revolution practically in Il Papa’s backyard. You might be glad to know a bit about it yourself the next time you get one of those nasty stop-everything billet-doux from some Curia Cardinal. You can fire back a comment about the beam in his own eye.”

  Matthew Mahan yawned and gave Dennis the letter to mail. “I’m going to bed. If anybody is looking for me, tell them I’m having my tiara fitted at Castel Gondolfo.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Dennis said as he was going out the door.

  “There was a priest named Mirante looking for you here at the hotel about a half hour ago.”

  “He’s an old friend. I meant to tell you that I wanted to see him, no matter when or where.”

  “Here’s his telephone number,” said Dennis, handing him a slip of paper. “He seemed awfully anxious to hear from you.”

  Matthew Mahan sighed. All he wanted to do was sleep. But he went next door and asked the hotel operator to place the call for him. A half hour later, Father Mirante was in the sitting room of his suite, fingering a glass of Cinzano and talk
ing about their mutual friend, Mary Shea.

  “She is depressed, poor lady,” Mirante said. “It is almost an epidemic these days in Rome among a certain sect. We might call them the Johannines.”

  “Is it - serious?”

  “I have sent her to the best psychiatrist in Rome. One who understands - and even occasionally believes in - the reality of the religious factor. The situation as he explains it is really quite simple. She is celibate, like us. She, too, has invested most of her emotional capital in, shall we say, Vatican futures. And finds herself in a declining market.”

  “Is it really that bad, Guilio?”

  Mirante’s downcast mouth drooped to a Pagliacci smile. “You are asking a prejudiced observer.”

  “You’re in trouble. Mary told me. Why?”

  “You have perhaps heard of Isolotto?”

  “Oh yes, the parish up in Florence. They seem to be having some sort of brawl with the local bishop. My secretary and my auxiliary bishop are going up there tomorrow to take a look.”

  “Eminence,” Mirante said, “I am the last person in the world who should give anyone advice, but do you think that’s wise? Are you prepared to inject yourself into the controversy?”

  “Of course not,” said Matthew Mahan, the pain in his stomach leaping into contrapuntal life. “I can’t see any harm in them visiting the parish -”

  “It is much more than a dispute between the parish and the bishop. It has become a test of Roman authority. That is why I am no longer a member of the Jesuit order.”