When it became known that a deal had been struck and that she was working for Monsignor de Mérode, a shudder of anxiety rippled through the town. He was thought to be short on scruple and she was unlikely to stick to the truth.
Meanwhile, at the Secretariat of State, Cardinal Antonelli plodded manfully on with his labours, ignoring his rival’s manoeuvres and, presumably, biding his time. Security, diplomacy, finance and foreign affairs engaged his energies. Son and grandson of men who had amassed a fortune through their own industry, the cardinal had an impressive appetite for work and figures. Eschewing balls and conversazioni, he rarely took a holiday but, unlike the slovenly Mérode, was known for the elegance of his dress and carriages. He had alluring dark eyes and, in the privacy of his own palace, permitted himself to soothe and refresh them by revelling in choice collections of antiques, flowers and precious stones. Here too he received visits from great ladies who were enthralled by the ambiguity of his status – the cardinal was a layman – and whose appeal for him was, assured his friends, of the same chaste, aesthetic order as that of his hot-house flowers. Perhaps. Perhaps not. The Italian press laid bastards at his door, but Romans found as much piquancy in the perception that his role in his twelve-year association with Mastai was that of a woman. Pius, who was wilful, took decisions and Antonelli, who was ingenious, had often to repair the damage incurred. Like the good wife in old manuals of husbandry, he managed the economy as well as could be done without reforming it, which meant that the cleverer of the two men was condemned to continual improvisation.
*
Nicola’s appointment had come through and he was now at the Treasury, where he spent his first weeks learning the ropes under the benevolent direction of a hierarchy at whose apex was Monsignor Ferrari, the Finance Minister, with whom he had few dealings at first. Then, one morning, he was told to go to Ferrari’s office.
When he came in, the Treasurer rose, walked around his desk, removed his spectacles and stared at him. Monsignor Ferrari had a reputation for caution. When he put back the spectacles, his eyes seemed to press against the glass like blunt-nosed fish.
‘His Eminence wants to see you?’
‘Cardinal Antonelli?’
Ferrari’s chin sank so that Nicola could see nothing of him but an entanglement of eyebrows. ‘I must warn you that you have been named in the Democratic press.’ The Treasurer’s mouth shot forward, then closed like that of a draw-string purse. Centripetal wrinkles met in a knot. He handed Nicola a copy of a paper called Roma O Morte, in which a letter to the editor had been circled in ink. It was, said Ferrari, a clandestine publication.
Nicola took it and the word ‘clandestine’ triggered a fear that his more tormenting fancies had somehow oozed from his head. He almost expected to see the name ‘Maria’ in the swimming print.
‘Read it.’
He made an effort and the print steadied. Signed ‘Indignant patriot from Subiaco’, the letter informed the editor that Marco Minghetti, a minister in the Turin Cabinet, was secretly corresponding with priests in Rome. ‘Indignant patriot’ warned the minister that he would no more be a match now for priestly perfidy than he had been in 1848, when, as one of the first lay politicians to try working with Pio Nono, he had been bamboozled, double-crossed and led by the nose. The letter named Monsignor Nicola Santi as one of the priests. Ah, thought Nicola, and his heart lurched a second time. Politics! He longed to be clear of them.
Monsignor Ferrari took back the paper, put it in a drawer and turned the key. ‘His Eminence fears that forces hostile to himself could be planning to make something of this. Since you are now a dependant of his, it could be a repetition of the Fausti case.’
Nicola felt a chill.
Fausti, a childhood friend of Cardinal Antonelli’s and a member of his household, was serving a twenty-year sentence on an implausible charge, and many believed his innocence to be the reason for his conviction. He had always been a fanatical supporter of the papacy, yet when Costanza Diotallevi accused him of plotting against it, he was arrested and Monsignori Pila and Matteucci – respectively Minister for Justice and Director of Police – rigged a trial designed to strike terror into the cardinal’s camp by displaying their own power and the erosion of his. Their tactic had worked too, for His Eminence made no move to save his friend.
The Treasurer’s knuckles were the colour of milk. La Diotallevi’s proofs had been arrogantly flimsy. To be sure, her accusations were backed up by compromising papers found in envelopes addressed to Signor Fausti. But this proved nothing, since plotters regularly put respected names on their missives in case their courier was stopped by the police. Normally, the outer wrapping was discarded before reaching their addressee. The fact that this had not been done in Fausti’s case was proof of the intention to discredit him. Indeed, the police had probably concocted the letters in the first place.
‘They’re vermin!’ whispered Ferrari. Emotion – a novelty? – and solidarity with Fausti were carrying him away. Mérode had perhaps overreached himself, for how, now, could the most ardent papist feel safe? And why, feeling unsafe, should he be loyal? ‘I’m assuming there’s no truth in this story either.’ Monsignor Ferrari indicated the closed drawer. ‘Go and see the cardinal.’
Nicola lingered. ‘Surely Monsignor de Mérode himself would not collaborate on such a scheme?’
Ferrari shrugged. ‘He needn’t know! Pila and Matteucci …’
‘I see.’
‘Besides’ – Ferrari’s breath was so close that Nicola was breathing it in – ‘soldiers, being absolutists, can lack scruple. His Eminence, thank God, deals in the relative. My experience,’ Ferrari, breathing hotly, conveyed wisdom in the ardent manner of the Holy Spirit, ‘is that, compared with our colleagues in – to take an example – the Holy Office, we in the Treasury are honesty itself. Keeping accounts is a salutary exercise. Why do you think Justice carries a scale?’
*
Cardinal Antonelli’s apartment in the Vatican was above the Pope’s, and Pius was known to amuse himself by invoking ‘the one above’, to the bewilderment of hearers who could not tell whether he meant God or Antonelli. ‘He decides,’ Pius would add, compounding their confusion and, if his visitors were supporters of Monsignor de Mérode, pique. He did this with a jocular slyness aimed at shuffling off responsibility for unpopular measures, and had been so successful that the image of an unworldly pope being misled by a wicked Antonelli had wide currency.
‘Don’t believe it!’ Amandi had often told Nicola. ‘Taking the blame is one of Antonelli’s duties.’
This, he had argued, was why he and Nicola should take some of the burden off the Cardinal Secretary by secretly resuming the correspondence which had been let lapse after Cavour’s death.
Nicola, who had expected to be kept waiting, was instead introduced so quickly into Antonelli’s presence that he had no time to settle his countenance. The apartment was simple – four rooms – because the cardinal had his own palace elsewhere, but no doubt also because a fine simplicity spoke in his favour.
‘Monsignor Santi.’
His Eminence’s tone gave nothing away and Nicola, kneeling to kiss the proffered ring, was unable to check his superior’s face for ambushed bad feeling. Raising his head, he met a large-eyed, level gaze. Before the ring-kissing, the cardinal had been tending a potted orchid. Returning to it with a graceful movement, he invited his guest to consider the flower.
‘Frail!’ he pronounced. ‘Exquisite but frail! I raise them in my own palace and sometimes bring one here to keep me company, but they don’t survive well. Sit down, Monsignore.’ The cardinal sat. ‘Is what that rag says true?’ Then, as Nicola hesitated: ‘We can’t wait for Cardinal Amandi’s nihil obstat to your avowals. We must trust each other. Shall I take silence for consent?’
He knows, thought Nicola. He must. Amandi had guessed that Antonelli would want a channel kept open for eventual use or denial, according to how things would turn out. Indeed, how could their acti
vities have escaped detection by the spy-network which, having once extended over the whole state, must now be as tight-meshed as a shrunken sock?
‘I think Your Eminence already knows. I forwarded letters. I doubt if there was much in them. We were a means waiting to be used; a bridge. I believe our contacts in Turin felt the same way.’
‘A floating bridge? Disconnected at both ends?’ The cardinal held Nicola’s gaze for a moment, then appeared to make up his mind. ‘Very well,’ he said briskly. ‘But now it must be sunk. Scuttled. Understood? We shall deny it ever existed and so, I imagine, will Turin. Roma O Morte, luckily, enjoys little credibility and, the better to give its story the lie, your move to the Treasury must be seen as a promotion. Officially, you will be second-in-command to Monsignor Ferrari. In reality, your responsibility will be limited and you are to take no secret initiatives. Can I trust you?’
‘Absolutely, Eminence.’
Nicola felt remiss, forgiven, deeply grateful and somehow possessed by the cardinal whose physical presence was powerful and impressive. Dressed as a cleric – and very elegantly so: his cape and soutane were beautifully tailored – he had an extra animal charge, due either to the rampancy of unconsecrated flesh or the natural cast of his features which were bulky, a little African, but even and strong.
To finish with the scandal, said the cardinal, it was true that, from time to time, we were obliged to make use of secret channels of communication with Italy – if only to discuss such matters as vacant dioceses. Every third one in the kingdom was vacant. Flocks could not be left without pastors. We had to negotiate. At the same time, we must not give our French defender any pretext for abandoning us. ‘Rome,’ said the cardinal, ‘is like a raped woman. She must not be seen to have any understanding with the rapist. It follows that a go-between who is unmasked must either be denied – like Padre Passaglia – or, as is possible in your case, whitewashed. You are lucky and so owe us extra loyalty!’ The cardinal looked keenly at Nicola. ‘Yes? Yes. So now you will be working for a near-landless Church whose lifeblood is real money. You and Monsignor Ferrari must try and get your hands on some. I say ‘real’ because your task will be to assess very coolly the promises of this Belgian financier, for whom your friend, Duke Cesarini, is working.’ Antonelli’s eye was vigilant and disabused. ‘You should know that we normally prefer not to deal with Catholic saviours whose enthusiasm can be detrimental to their business sense. Monsieur Langrand-Dumonceau is far from being the first to propose his services. The reason why we may be obliged to turn to him is that the Rothschilds, with whom we have dealt satisfactorily until now, have begun making unacceptable political demands. Are you a practical man, Monsignor Santi?’
‘I seem not to be.’
‘Self-abasement,’ said the cardinal a touch brusquely, ‘is not useful in human relations. Keep it for those you have with God. You made a mistake – you or Minghetti. That means that one of you has a false friend or confessor. Beware of both from now on.’
And, said His Eminence, bear in mind that this state’s current annual deficit was about thirty million francs and the national debt alarming. The Treasury was planning to float a new fifty-million-franc loan like the one the Rothschilds had floated for us in 1860. ‘They sold thirty-six million bonds at par and fourteen million at 77‧5‧ We shall expect our Catholic financier to do at least as well. What you must ensure is that he helps us rather than himself, and God rather than Mammon. Be assured that he will express great piety, which the Rothschilds, thank God, spared us, while thinking of his profit. Be alert. Be suspicious. Remember that we are short of time and that if he can buy us some, anything may happen. The kingdom of Italy may collapse and God put an end to our trials.’
Nicola left the room in a state of exalted and exhilarating loyalty which, it seemed to him now, was something he had always wanted to feel. And as Amandi too admired Antonelli, there was no conflict.
Twenty-one
Gossip continued to chase after reality. A staple topic was the band of mercenaries whom the ex-King of Naples did or did not pay to burn and pillage his lost lands. They wore old French uniforms so as to discourage regular troops from shooting them, and many people claimed to know the address in Rome where the uniforms were kept. Other staples were the imminent conversion to Catholicism of various members of the British royal family and their offer of Malta as an asylum to the Pope, the Mérode/Antonelli row and, more topically, one between the French Ambassador and an English agent over the Malta offer which must therefore have really been made and, perhaps, provisionally accepted by the Pope, whose epilepsy, by the way, was leading him a dance.
At a reception in the Belgian Embassy, Nicola was approached by Father Grassi who made a remark which, though it sounded at first like the other pious fancies floating about their ears, later struck him as odd. Something to do with how the pronouncements of the little thaumaturge at Lourdes had been put to use. Did Nicola remember what the Madonna had said to her? She had said, ‘I am the Immaculate Conception!’ Four years earlier, noted the Jesuit, His Holiness had defined that doctrine by himself which, according to many experts, he had had no right to do. It was, they claimed, a usurpation of his bishops’ powers. And note who his adviser had been: Padre Passaglia! Grassi’s black eyes gleamed and he began, quite shockingly, to laugh. ‘But who could complain once he had the support of the Madonna! Eh, Monsignore?’
Nicola could not tell who was the butt of this merriment. Himself? The Madonna? Could Grassi be losing his mind? He said dampeningly, ‘I can’t believe you are criticising the Holy Father.’
‘Would you be troubled?’ Grassi drew closer. ‘People’s minds are on the succession. His health is so poor.’
‘Father Grassi,’ Nicola spoke carefully, ‘I hope you will forgive my supposing that you are trying to trap me into an indiscretion. The only alternative is to suppose you disloyal – which, obviously, I resist. In the light of your known devotion to the Holy See …’ Irritably he mumbled on, unsure how much of this was a charade. A group close by was discussing the expedition to Mexico. Markets and raw materials would be opened up, said an enthusiast. A Catholic empire would … But he lost the rest.
Grassi nodded, as though congratulating Nicola on his perspicacity. He wore a small, approving smile.
‘Anyway.’ Nicola felt offended. ‘I heard His Holiness’s health was better.’ Testily, he snatched a water ice from a passing tray. He needed to cool down.
‘It’s precarious!’ The Jesuit whispered, ‘The Emperor has been taking soundings. He,’ Grassi paused, ‘wants a conciliator and many people’s minds turn to Cardinal Amandi.’
‘Who is out of favour.’
‘What would you expect?’
‘… to stop,’ cried the Catholic imperialist, ‘the expansion of the United States!’
‘I would expect you to back a conservative,’ said Nicola.
‘Cardinal della Genga? But he died and the Church needs unity. If I am driven to making an alliance with you, Monsignore, what will you have against me? That I am a turncoat? That is another word for “convert”!’ Smiling that ambiguous, encouraging smile, he whispered: ‘I have a warning for you. Your connections – the duke and his business friends – are dangerous. Beware, Monsignore. A scandal could damage all our plans.’
*
‘The Belgian Midas is courting us.’ Monsignor Ferrari handed Nicola a parchment scroll. It was long, sealed, ribboned and headed ADDRESS TO THE HOLY FATHER. ‘Skip the flourishes,’ directed the Treasurer. ‘It is astonishing how laymen like to preach.’
Nicola skipped with difficulty, for the text was a web of wordiness. ‘“If humbly prostrate at Your Holiness’s feet … we submit to Your attention our project for the establishment of a UNIVERSAL CATHOLIC FINANCIAL POWER, it is not because we suppose that, without it, the Church or the Holy See would perish …”’
‘Skip! Skip!’ Ferrari cracked his knuckles. ‘Some tame abbé wrote it. Can you find anything into which we can get our
teeth?’
‘“… we conceived the idea of a UNIVERSAL CATHOLIC FUND and of a CATHOLIC FINANCIAL POWER: (ideam UNIVERSALIS CATHOLICI FUNDI et PECUNIARIAE POTENTIAE CATHOLICAE conceperimus …)”’
‘Blessed if I can,’ said Monsignor Ferrari.
‘“One need but look at the state of finance in our time to see the heavy monopoly (premens dominium) exercised … by Jews and Protestants, both adversaries of the Church.
‘“Even Catholics invest with them! And recent examples show how ready such bankers are to use investors’ money to help governments hostile to the Church: such as that of Italy.
‘“The World is divided between Protestant and Jewish financiers … and Catholic wealth and the forces of conservatism …”’
‘Preach, preach!’ said the irascible Ferrari. ‘Do they think we need telling?’
‘“The first … induce Catholic princes to assign key posts to … enemies of all religion, so as to turn humanity towards temporal delights and to keep it under their financial yoke … Catholics, investing with infidels, nourish in their bosoms … to free them from bondage … a CENTRAL UNIVERSAL CATHOLIC FUND must be set up … if the Holy See, by giving its apostolic blessing to the project, would recommend it to Catholic rulers and priests … we have found a man who is truly Catholic, zealous and devoted to the Holy See … Monsieur André Langrand-Dumonceau …”
‘There’s nothing about money for us,’ said Nicola.
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Ferrari. ‘It is a request disguised as an offer.’
*
Passing a photographer’s window, Nicola’s attention was solicited by ogling models wearing the costume of the Roman Campagna. Stuck in cheap frames, the photographs were souvenirs for an undiscerning clientele: for French soldiers perhaps or foreign governesses. He dismissed them, then saw, in after-image, that one ogle was, after all, for him. The eyes were Maria’s. And so was the rest: a ruined mnemonic. He turned. It was indeed she – which meant that so, from the neck down, had that other scandalous photograph been, since, clearly, she was a model and here was the missing face, faded like an old flag, but smiling gallantly, although its mouth was in the harsh custody of two wrinkles.
The Judas Cloth Page 47
