by Morris West
“It was crafted to justify a very odd situation. It attributes to a stroke victim directions and dispositions which he could not have made after the event, and which he seems to have addressed only in the most general terms before it.”
“You still have not made your point,” said Ulrich.
“They want him to die.” Guillermin made an emphatic assertion. “They need him to die as quickly and quietly as possible. They are even appealing to the whole Church to pray for that event as a divine mercy. Why? Because if he doesn’t die, they are left with a seriously damaged Pontiff who must be formally retired and replaced to allow the life of the Church to continue.”
“So, they kill him!” said Colson softly. “They kill him by a conspiracy of benign neglect.”
“That’s one reading. The tabloids will certainly make headlines of it. However,” Guillermin raised a cautionary hand, “the alternative is clearly stated in the bulletin. His Holiness is exercising his fundamental moral right to decline a prolongation of his life by officious and excessive intervention.”
“Provided,” Ulrich waved an admonitory finger under her nose, “provided always, the text we have is an authentic rendering of the Pontiff’s wishes! You will note that there is another departure from custom. There is no citation of a relevant authority – a letter, a will, not even a quotation from his encyclical on euthanasia.”
“Fritz is right,” said Colson. “That’s something we could quite legitimately ask from the Press Office.”
“I’ve got ten bucks to say they won’t come up with a line.” This from the UPI woman who had just drifted into the end of the talk. “Any takers?”
The others grinned and declined the bet. The UPI woman then made her own point. “If they don’t give us a citation, then we’re free, are we not, to speculate? We have conflicting stories: a cabinet of concerned prelates nursing their ailing Pontiff to a quiet end or – Frank Colson’s version – conspiring to kill him by benign neglect.”
“Either way,” said Guillermin, “it makes Part One of a great story.”
“And what, pray, is Part Two?” Ulrich’s tone was still provocative. Steffi Guillermin, the code-breaker, gave him a cryptic answer.
“It begins with my first question, Fritz. Who’s cooking this soup?”
“And you, of course, have the answer?”
“Not yet; but as always you will read it first in Le Monde! Then you can buy it from our Syndication Department. Excuse me now. I have to get home.”
“Give my love to your Lucetta.” Ulrich laughed. “That’s one very pretty woman.”
“And you’re a pig, Fritz!” Guillermin was out the door while he was still groping for a retort.
There was a more muted hostility in the late-night meeting of Cardinals summoned by the Secretary of State. This was not a formal gathering but a convocation of those Curial prelates residing in Rome and available at short notice.
These were all high men, firmly anchored to the rock of authority on Vatican Hill. Whether they were all as securely anchored in virtue was a moot question; but they understood the potency of protocol, the delicate balances of interest and influence, the awesome reserves of power that resided in the Petrine office. They knew how that power could be used to honour a man or hang him, high as Haman, on the slenderest thread of definition. For the moment, at least, the power was represented by the Cardinal Secretary of State. He came swiftly to the subject of the meeting.
“I understand that several of you are unhappy with the bulletin on the Holy Father’s health, which was issued this evening by the Press Office. Under the Apostolic Constitution of 28 June 1988, the Press Office is attached to the Secretariat of State. I, therefore, must accept full responsibility for its actions. The text of the bulletin was drafted in consultation between the Cardinal Camerlengo, the Papal physician and myself. Members of the Press Office had no part in the composition. They simply distributed it through their normal channels.”
“Then, with great respect, and in privacy among colleagues, let me register objection. This is a hasty and ill-considered document which will, in my view, have serious negative consequences.” The speaker was Gottfried, Cardinal Gruber, Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, watchdog of orthodoxy in the Church. A small silence followed his protest; then the Secretary of State answered with studious restraint.
“The document was prepared in haste because it was required in haste, to cover the unexpected event of the Pontiff’s illness.”
“I would hardly call it unexpected. Given the state of the Holy Father’s health in recent times. I would accept that we were unprepared for the event. I submit that we might have been forewarned.”
“We were forewarned, Gottfried, as was the Holy Father himself. However, he had his own mind on the matter. We could not move him.”
“Did anyone try, seriously … ?”
“I tried, for one.” Luca Rossini was cool and relaxed. “I tried many times in private talks. He would not change. He insisted that he would go when God called him. He wanted to die in his own bed.”
“Did you never suggest that he leave some document expressing his wishes?”
“I suggested it several times; but you know better than I, Gottfried, how hard it was to get him to sign anything until he was ready to do so!”
A small ripple of amusement went round the assembly, and the tension relaxed a little. Gruber nodded a reluctant assent, but continued his complaint.
“I still say he should have been taken directly to the hospital.”
“Against his published wishes?”
“He didn’t publish them. We did.”
“Are you suggesting,” the Secretary of State was dangerously quiet, “that our colleague, Luca, is lying, or that the rest of us have conspired to fabricate a document?”
“No, of course not! But think a moment, we are on record now as praying for his death.”
“I seem to remember,” said the Secretary of State, “that the traditional prayer for the seriously ill patient is that God will grant ‘a speedy recovery or a happy death’. In the case of the Holy Father, there is no hope of recovery.”
“But we cannot establish that with certainty except under full clinical conditions.”
“Which, on the evidence, he has declined in advance as officious and unacceptable. We are all the family he has, Gottfried, what would you have us do?”
“I believe we should override the wishes of the Holy Father and put him immediately in complete clinical care.”
“Do it, by all means,” said Luca Rossini with weary indifference. “But remember his vital faculties are in decline. So, to protect themselves, the first thing they’ll do at the hospital is put him on life-support while they scan him. After that, if the present diagnosis is correct, you’ll find yourselves tending a vegetable. Is that respect for life? Is that a moral imperative? If it’s not, then I assume Gottfried here will volunteer to turn off the switch and the feeding tubes.”
“That’s enough, I think,” said the Secretary of State. “This is not a formal consistory. It has no canonical status, so I will not ask for your votes on the matter. I believe in good conscience that the Holy Father should have his wish. He will stay here in his own place …”
“Then,” Gruber asked the crucial question, “how long will you give him, before you decide to depose him as incompetent and declare the See vacant?”
“I have trouble with the word depose.” This time the Prefect of the Congregation for Bishops intervened. “It seems to me to presume powers we may not possess.”
For the first time, Baldassare Pontormo, the Cardinal Camerlengo, raised his voice.
“That’s a problem which faces us all in this meeting and outside it. Let’s ignore the drama of the Holy Father’s collapse and ask ourselves what we would do if the nature and circumstances of the illness were different – if he were dying of any protracted disease, or were suffering from dementia. The Church would go on. Its structures are strong,
tested over the centuries, and the Holy Spirit abides in it as our Lord Jesus Christ has promised. For the rest, let us admit that we are not well organised to deal with one of the principal phenomena of our time, longevity and the problems of ageing, like Alzheimer’s disease. In the case of a stricken Pontiff, it may not be possible – it is not possible – to secure his explicit consent to resignation. We may have to depend on implicit and circumstantial evidence of his will to do the best for the Church. So, we work in prayerful prudence. We wait and watch and take counsel with our medical advisers – and with one another! In spite of the misgivings of certain of our colleagues, we are not subject to outside opinion. The Vatican is a sovereign state. We hold our stewardship of souls under God. We should deal with each other in charity.”
It was the longest speech Luca Rossini had ever heard him make, and he was surprised at the eloquence and power of it. It also made him wary, because it suggested that it might not be so simple to depose an ageing Pontiff – even an incompetent one. He led a small round of applause which brought a smile to the lips of the Secretary of State and a nod of reluctant approval from Gruber; but the old watchdog still had a growl in him.
“I agree with Baldassare, but only under caveat. The Church can function without its Pope. We know that. It has done so in the past, it can do so again – but not for too long, not in these troubled times! As for public opinion, we are not subject to it; but we have a duty to form it where we can, to accord it with the teaching of our Lord. I should like to propose that all future bulletins on the Pontiff’s health and treatment be submitted to a select committee of the Curia.”
The Secretary of State sat bolt upright in his chair. His knuckles were white against the dark fabric of his soutane. There was a rasp of anger in his voice.
“No! I will not consent to that. We are dealing here with facts and not with opinions on moral theology. My authority is clearly defined in the Apostolic Constitution of 1988. I will not, I cannot, delegate or abrogate it.”
“As Your Eminence decides.” Gruber bowed stiffly and sat down.
“The meeting is closed,” said the Secretary of State. “Thank you all for coming.” The Secretary of State beckoned Luca Rossini to his side. He had a request and a commission.
“You said good words tonight, Luca. Now, if I may suggest, you should step back into silence: no arguments, no commentaries. You understand why?”
“Perfectly. There are issues and opinions here that could drag us all the way back to Constance in 1415: Papalists and Conciliarists at war with each other. That’s an ancient mess; but part of it is still on our doorstep.”
The Secretary of State made a wry mouth. He fished in the breast pocket of his cassock and brought out a sealed envelope and held it out to Rossini. “I’d like you to read this at your leisure and send me a minute on it.”
“What is it?”
“The Argentine Ambassador to the Holy See is retiring soon. It’s a patronage post, as you know. The government would like to make an early appointment. That’s the dossier on their candidate. They want to be assured as soon as possible that we’re happy with him.”
“So, what has that to do with me?”
“Argentina is your home-place. You have special insights into its people and its history. Your comment is important to me personally.”
“Please! Don’t involve me in this! Argentina, of course, is my home-place; I do have special insights, but my judgments about it are skewed, as you know. You can find twenty better opinions in your own office. I beg you to dispense me.”
“And I am begging you, Luca, to accept what is after all a very simple task. There is no hurry. We shall do nothing until our situation with His Holiness is resolved. Just toss the envelope on your desk and wait until you’re in the mood to deal with it. Now, let’s get to bed. This has been a brutal day for all of us!”
He thrust the envelope into Rossini’s hands and clasped his palms together so that he was forced to retain it, then with a curt goodnight, he walked from the room.
For a long cataleptic moment Rossini stood staring after him, then he too hurried from the conference chamber. His day was ending as it had begun, in panic flight across a wasteland, filled with the wailing of yesterday’s ghosts.
Two
It was after midnight when Luca Rossini came home to his apartment in the Via del Governo Vecchio, a narrow thoroughfare lined with time-worn palaces built in the fifteenth century but converted long since into twentieth century apartments. Once, this had been called the Papal Way because it led directly from the Lateran Basilica to St Peter’s across the Tiber. Now the ground floors were occupied by workshops and small traders, and the apartments inhabited by an element of the middle-aged Roman bourgeoisie which cursed the pollution of the city but could not afford to move out of it.
Rossini’s apartment occupied the fourth floor, to which one either climbed by a stone staircase or ascended by an antique elevator. His household consisted of a Spanish couple, she a cook-housekeeper, he a valet and factotum, who had been recommended to him by an outgoing Ambassador. They had their own living quarters. They were sober quiet folk, drilled in the Castilian manners of the diplomatic service and protective of their taciturn master whose comings and goings were as mysterious as his past. They knew that he was an Eminencia at the Vatican. They knew that he spoke the Spanish of Argentina, where his father and mother had gone as migrants from Naples after the Second World War. They knew that he entertained exotic people of both sexes – Chinese, Indians, Ethiopians, Ukrainians, Indonesians, Africans.
Domestically, he was not an exacting man. He spoke to them quietly and always with respect. His only demand was that they observe what he called “the privacy of the house”. They should not discuss outside what they saw or heard in their daily service. They should not gossip about his guests. Rome was plagued by the threat of terrorist groups from more than one country. Lives could depend on their discretion, his own included. Did they understand that? They did. They kept his confidence and he gave them a comfortable life within the means his office provided.
When he came home this night, dog-weary, they were asleep, but beside his armchair in the lounge supper was laid out: a thermos of coffee, a decanter of brandy, sandwiches under a silver cover. Before he ate he went into the bedroom and changed into pyjamas and dressing gown. The letter which the Secretary of State had given him was still in his pocket. He did not bother to read it but took it with him into the lounge and locked it in his bureau drawer. The contents were already known to him. They were the cause of the unease that had plagued him since dawn. He switched on the computer and punched up the e-mail which he had received that morning from Isabel. Then he poured himself coffee and brandy and sat down to contemplate the text again.
Her letters came infrequently at irregular intervals, generally from New York where her husband held a senior posting at the United Nations and she herself was a Director of Studies at the Hispanic American Institute. No matter how rarely they came, the fire and the passion in them never waned and there was always a surprise and a smile to end them.
My dearest Luca,
Even after all these years, I miss you. On one level my life is calm, well-ordered, rewarding, as yours seems to be. Buried deep below the surface, however, is a lava stream, flowing red hot, seeking always some crack or fissure in the thick crust of everyday existence to burst out and flood my life again.
One such crack appeared today. Raul told me that he has been recommended for the post of Ambassador to the Holy See. This is a pre-retirement post, as you know, a reward for discreet service in the turbulent times, before and after our disastrous war with the British in the Malvina Islands.
For Raul it represents something much more, a final public absolution for things done and undone in his life as a vacillating careerist. I am not disposed to deny him this small sterile triumph. He has been a good father to Luisa and he has never attempted to deny me the freedom I demanded to survive the desert
stretches of our marriage.
I could hardly object, therefore – though I did try to counsel him against it – when he insisted on including in his dossier an account of his part in getting you out of the country, when the military put you on a list of those they wanted “disappeared” because of the witness you could mount against them. You and I know the real facts but, each in our own way, we have consented to revise history at least enough to make our lives tolerable.
It was Raul’s hope, I think, that I might intervene in some fashion on his behalf. I told him the truth which is only half-true, that you have been out of my life since you left my father’s house and I could not in any case solicit favours or recommendations from you.
Yet that is exactly what I am doing now, my dearest Luca. I am doing it for myself and not for him. If Raul is appointed to Rome, Luisa and I will come with him. I want, I need most desperately to see you again, and you, in your letters, confess the same need of me.
Love is like grief. One has to work through it. We have never been able to do that. I should like to think we could before the hidden fires are quenched and the ice age of indifference overtakes us. So, if you can, please write or say the word that may bring us to Rome, officially and without scandal.
I smile to myself when I think what a beautiful romantic comedy it would make if I, as the Señora Embajadora, could entertain Your Eminence in our embassy. Which raises another question: how and where would Your Eminence entertain me?
All my love always,
Isabel.
The symbols on the screen began to blur before his eyes. He deleted them. Then, because he was a punctual man, he typed in his reply.
Isabel, my dearest one,
My answer is yes. I will write and say the right words at the right time. I must tell you, however, that nothing will happen quickly. The Pontiff is very ill and is likely to die soon. No diplomatic appointments will be made until his successor is elected. Inevitably, therefore, the comedy you hope to stage between the Eminence and the Lady will have to be postponed!
