by Morris West
“I presume, sir, you have studied some specimens of the late Pontiff’s handwriting, otherwise you wouldn’t be here?”
“That’s true.”
“And since this is a friendly discussion and not a court of law, I accept you as an expert. Now, would you be good enough to study the dedicatory inscription in this missal. In case you don’t read Italian, I’ll translate it for you:
To my faithful servant, Claudio Stagni:
My Figaro, who in some very dark hours offered me the gift of laughter.
On the occasion of his fiftieth birthday.
and that’s followed by his signature. You have no problem identifying the handwriting or identifying the signature?”
“None at all.”
“Now look at this. It is, as you see, a short letter from the Pontiff, written on one of his memo-cards. Again, I’ll read the text:
My dear Figaro,
Five and a half centuries ago, one of my predecessors, Pope Pius II, Enea Silvio Piccolomini, dictated his memoirs to his secretary, who later suppressed them for fear of scandal. I did not dictate these pages to you, but you were present in the late hours of many nights when I composed them. In olden times, I might have been able to enrich a faithful retainer like yourself. Soon I shall die as a Pope should, owning nothing.
These volumes are my legacy to you. Pray for me sometimes.
Once again, you will recognise the signature. I ask you again, is the handwriting authentic?”
This time the expert took a little longer to scrutinise the handwriting. He used a magnifying glass and lingered over the details of the calligraphy. Finally, he faced the small assembly.
“No doubt at all. It’s authentic.”
“So where does that lead us?” Maury Rosenheim put the question.
“It leads us to this.” Stagni put on a pair of white gloves, took the three volumes from their tissue paper wrappings, spread the wrappings on the table and laid the volumes reverently upon them. Then he made the climactic speech of the evening.
“I trust, ladies and gentlemen, you will not be disappointed. Miss Busoni, you can read the texts and judge their editorial value. Your expert has already authenticated the handwriting. And you, Mr Rosenheim, have seen proof of clean provenance. Now, a very simple question. Do you want to start dealing?”
“Where do you suggest we start?” Maury Rosenheim was leading with his chin, as he always did.
“We start at five million US dollars,” said Stagni calmly. “That secures your right to handle the property in all media. Then we talk about percentages and overriders.”
Maury Rosenheim gaped at him in wonderment.
“Overriders? Where the hell did you learn about overriders?”
“I’m a quick study.” Stagni gave his happiest smile. “If you want to sample the manuscript, if you want to confer, use the bedroom. If you want to call New York, please use the telephone or the fax. Just one detail, my friends. Please don’t play bazaar games with me. My offer expires at eleven tonight Zurich time. That’s close of business in New York – and remember it’s cash against documents in Zurich tomorrow.”
As the bedroom door closed on his three guests, Stagni breathed a long silent sigh of relief. He had invested two thousand dollars in the best forger money could buy – an old counterfeiter who had served ten years on Lipari and had lived with his married daughter and her husband two alleys away from his apartment. Stagni had composed the text, and supplied the necessary specimens of the Pontiff’s handwriting. The old forger had guaranteed his handiwork against any expert in the world. He was careful to point out that it was not poor handiwork which had put him in gaol, but a jealous woman who had found him in bed with her sister and denounced him to the carabinieri. Unfortunately, he could not guarantee himself against mortality. He had died of a heart attack two weeks after delivering his work.
Stagni had every intention of profiting from the event. The moment the funds were in his bank, he would be off and away to Brazil by a very roundabout route.
Four
For two days after his death and his embalming, the body of the Pontiff lay in state in the Chapel of the Most Holy Sacrament in Saint Peter’s Basilica. Tall candles burned about him. Officers of the Swiss Guard stood vigil while thousands of believers and non-believers – Romans and strangers alike – passed in slow procession by his open coffin.
His body was dressed in full pontificals, with a veil over his face, a rosary in his hands, his breviary laid open on his breast with the silk marker set at the Office of the Day. Tucked into the casket were copies of the medals he had struck during his reign, and a small leather purse containing specimens of his coinage. These, so the reasoning went, would help to identify him if, after the cataclysms of another millennium, he were exhumed and reburied. The Romans, a sceptical people with a long history, had another explanation: The Pope is human, too. He has to pay the ferryman like the rest of us.
On the third day, they entombed him in the crypt. The world media treated the obsequies and the interment with suitable gravity. The first editorials were couched in sonorous, panegyric prose. The first photographs emphasised architectural grandeur, ritual splendour, the worldwide reach and diversity of the Church – One Holy Catholic and Apostolic. The television services delivered reverent rhetoric and self-indulgent visuals of the familiar and unfamiliar icons.
Then began the Novemdiales, the nine days of masses, prayers and public preaching by notable prelates in the major churches of the city. The sermons were not pious celebrations of a dear departed soul. They were intended as public expressions of the needs of the faithful, as signals to the electoral college about their duty to find a good pastor for the Romans and for the Church at large.
At the same time, the world media were playing in a different key. The florid prose was dropped. Pious platitudes became political barbs. The election of a new Pontiff was a critical act whose consequences – for good or ill – would spill over the frontiers of nations and the barriers of race, creed and custom. The world was in crisis, the Church was in disarray. The media reflected all their confusions. It was the New York Times, however, which pulled the pin from the grenade:
The late Pontiff was a stubborn and courageous man who saw it as his pastoral task to mould human clay into a Christ-like image. However, it seemed often as if he were trying to create a community as uniform and as passive as the entombed warriors of China. He alienated the women of the Church. He silenced or intimidated its boldest thinkers. He was always a centralist and an interventionist. The notion of collegial government was as alien to him as the idea of a priesthood of women. It was a not unexpected move when he appointed men of like views to vacant bishoprics and gave others the Cardinal’s hat. Clearly? he hoped that the College of Cardinals would elect a Pope who would continue his own policies.
Now, immediately after his death, there is a new surprise. It could be interpreted – and most certainly will be by many – as a posthumous attempt at intervention in the electoral process itself.
In our weekend edition, we shall be publishing, simultaneously with other major newspapers around the globe, an extraordinary document. The document consists of private diaries written each evening by the late Pontiff. He kept them in a secret place in his dressing-room, and finally gave them, as a personal legacy, into the hands of his long-time valet, Claudio Stagni, who often kept the Pontiff company while he worked into the small hours.
The document has been fully authenticated by two handwriting specialists – one in Europe and one in the United States. The provenance is simple and direct – from the Pontiff to Stagni. The title is beyond question: a letter of legacy written by His Holiness to Stagni in the last days of his life. All this evidence will be displayed in our publication.
The diaries contain revealing footnotes on Vatican policies and vivid pen-portraits of high prelates all around the world, including those who are at this moment assembled in Rome to elect a new Pontiff. The material will
be published in full, except for a few passages which, on attorney’s advice, might be considered libellous …
There was more yet; a promise of backstairs gossip from Claudio Stagni himself under the title, The Little World of Figaro and his Papa. The upshot of these announcements, and a rash of similar ones in various capital cities, forced the Cardinal Camerlengo to summon an emergency meeting of Cardinals in the Apostolic Palace. They were aggrieved. He himself was hugely embarrassed, especially when the Cardinal Archbishop of New York tabled a proof-copy of the offending material, and distributed copies which had been run off that afternoon at the Villa Stritch, where His Eminence was lodged. In his brusque military style – he was Chaplain General to the US Armed Forces – he addressed the gallery:
“This was delivered to me this morning from the Roman bureau of the New York Times. They were quite courteous about it. They said they had nothing to hide. They claimed their title was unassailable, and from what I’ve read, the documents are authentic. What we all want to know is just how this could have happened, and second, do we have at this late stage any hope of injuncting the publication?”
“No hope at all, I’m afraid.” The Camerlengo was regretful but firm. “I’ve discussed the matter with Monsignor Angel-Novalis and with our legal advisers, both lay and clerical. On the face of it, Claudio Stagni has full title to the documents, which the Pontiff himself designates as a legacy. The buyers and the literary agents who sold them around the world have obviously conducted their own enquiries. Our advice is that there are no grounds for injunction in any territory.”
“But how could His Holiness have committed a folly like this? You saw more of him than any of us, Baldassare. Was he in his right mind?”
“I have no doubt of it – no doubt at all.”
“Was there any possibility of undue influence by this Stagni fellow?”
The Camerlengo gave a small humourless smile.
“You know – we all know – how hard it was for any of us to influence the late Pontiff in these last years.”
“Where is Stagni now?”
“He’s on vacation.”
“For which we are paying?”
“Naturally. He had accumulated quite a lot of leave for which he is entitled to be paid. He is also entitled to a pension to which he and we have contributed for a long time.”
“Are we going to pay that too?”
“In the absence of any evidence of criminal behaviour, we are obliged to do so.”
“Are we seeking such evidence?”
“We are at a loss where to begin. Consider a moment. Before His Holiness died, I made a full inspection of his study in the company of his secretary, and of his bedchamber and dressing-room with the valet. There was no evidence of any of these documents.”
“Did you see the secret hiding place?”
“It was shown to me. It was empty.”
“And the valet made no mention of the documents?”
“No.”
“In hindsight, at least, doesn’t that look suspicious?”
“Not suspicious enough to go to law about it, then or now. At worst, his silence could be characterised as an act of enlightened self-interest.”
“Or a response to the wishes of the Pontiff himself.”
The interjection came from Luca Rossini, who stood up holding the text in his hand. There was a sudden shocked silence before the Cardinal Archbishop quizzed him sharply.
“Is that what our eminent colleague believes?”
“It’s what this eminent newspaper suggests.” Rossini was unruffled. “First it points out, quite correctly, that the late Pontiff made certain appointments to the College of Cardinals in the hope that the man whom the College elected would continue his existing policies. Then it goes on as follows: ‘Now, immediately after his death, there is a new surprise. It could be interpreted – and most certainly will be by many – as a posthumous attempt at intervention in the conclave itself’.”
Out of the silence that followed came the voice of the Camerlengo.
“Is that what you believe, Luca?”
“I believe that such an interpretation will be made by many readers and many commentators.”
“What is your own reading of this unfortunate incident? You were, after all, very close to His Holiness.”
“I was close enough to know that, in his later years, he could be sometimes hasty in judgment and that sometimes he believed that he could, or should, pre-empt the future course of history. That, however, is a personal opinion. It gives us no grounds to take legal action against Claudio Stagni, or even to impugn his reputation.”
“You mean we should do nothing?” The Archbishop of New York was outraged. “The man’s a thief!”
“Can we prove that?”
“Not yet. But we have to discredit him.”
“We may end by discrediting ourselves. Let’s reason a little here. The most powerful newspapers in the world will defend the authenticity of what they have bought. Most of us in this room recognise in the text echoes of remarks that the Pontiff has made from time to time in public or in private. We can all attest at the very least that the handwriting closely resembles that of the Pontiff. So I think we’d look foolish if we tried to discredit the documents. Stagni’s claim of ownership is another matter not easy to dispose of. He has a holograph document, a letter in the Pontiff’s handwriting, giving him the diaries as a legacy. Two handwriting experts have verified it as genuine. I submit that by the time we could offer contrary proof in court, we’d have spent millions – and we’d be handing our new Pontiff a sackful of litigations in a dozen jurisdictions. Hardly a good beginning to a new reign!”
Rossini sat down. There was a long silence while the Camerlengo looked about the room, waiting for another intervention. Finally the Secretary of State stood up:
“Our colleague, Luca, is right. Prima facie the diaries are authentic. Our only real challenge – hard to mount and expensive to sustain – is to the validity of Stagni’s title to the documents. Are they a valid legacy from the Pontiff to his valet? The letter of gift is in the same handwriting as the diaries, which most of us here would accept at first glance as that of the Pontiff himself. So what do we do? Mount a full-scale challenge or raise whatever legitimate doubts we can and hope that the affair will fizzle out like a Roman candle once the procedures of election begin?”
“Any more comments?” asked the Camerlengo.
“Only one,” said the man from Paris. “I hate the thought of that little salaud sunning himself in Rio or some place like it and living like a prince on his ill-gotten gains! Maybe he’ll catch the plague.”
“I wouldn’t wish that on anyone,” said the man from Rio. “My city is one of the pest-houses of the world.”
“Not half as bad as mine,” said the man from Kinshasa.
The Camerlengo called the meeting to order.
“His Eminence the Secretary of State has offered a motion: We make no challenge to the authenticity of the diaries. We announce that enquiries are being made as to the legitimacy of title.”
“With respect,” said Luca Rossini, “I suggest a small addendum. That Monsignor Angel-Novalis be given authority to conduct the enquiry and make whatever comments are possible to the press. The rest of us are going to have more important things to do.”
“I accept the amendment,” said the Secretary of State.
“I second the amended motion,” said the Archbishop of New York.
“Placetne fratres?” The Camerlengo put the ritual question. All hands were raised. All voices murmured agreement.
The Archbishop of New York raised his hand with the rest, but being a testy fellow, he delivered a final unhappy protest to his neighbour, Gottfried Gruber:
“I still can’t figure out the relationship between that little creep Stagni and the Holy Father.”
“I can,” said Gottfried Gruber moodily. “The Holy Father became such a public figure, he had no place to laugh or cry except in h
is own chambers. Even with us, his colleagues, he was often wary and withdrawn. His valet was the only person with whom he could relax and share a joke or the gossip of the day. We all knew that. Some of us were jealous of it.”
“Do you really believe he gave his diaries to Stagni?”
“I’m sure he shared some of the entries as he wrote them.”
“I could see that happening. I know what it feels like to be alone at the end of a rough day, with only God to talk to. He’s a good listener, but a silent one. Sometimes it’s hard to believe He’s there at all.”
“My point exactly,” said Gruber. “No-one has worked harder than I to keep the Faith pure and defend the authority of the Roman Pontiff as its arbiter and interpreter. But lately, I have come to wonder …”
He broke off in mid-sentence. The Archbishop prompted him sharply.
‘You wonder what? Say it, man! We’re all brothers here.”
“I have come to wonder whether I have not helped to create a recipe for revolution.”
“There’s only one way to answer the question, Gottfried.”
“Please, tell me!”
“Ask yourself what you would do, if suddenly we sat you on the throne of Peter!”
The idea was proposed by Steffi Guillermin at the bar of the Foreign Press Club. Fritz Ulrich was loud in support. The vote in favour was unanimous. Monsignor Domingo Angel-Novalis should be invited to address the members of the Club at luncheon the next day and answer questions afterwards. Guillermin made the phone call and received a favourable answer. A shout of jubilation went up when she put down the receiver and gave the thumbs-up sign.
“He wants to do it. He’s just got to clear it with the Secretariat. He doesn’t expect any problems.”
“They’d be fools to refuse,” said Ulrich. “It’s the best chance they’ll get to respond to our publication of the diaries.”
“It could also be Angel-Novalis’s last hour in the spotlight – and the Opus Dei people must be wondering how their role will change in a new pontificate.”
“Angel-Novalis won’t have to hedge as much as usual,” Colson reminded them. “He’ll give us answers in double space, so we can read between the lines.”
