by Morris West
“And I’m impressed, too. You’re a very beautiful young woman. Your mother and father must be very proud of you.”
“Father is very proud. Mother keeps trying to turn me into a scholar and a lady. I want to be a painter. I go to art school in New York, but Mother is reassured because I’m also working as a restorer at the Metropolitan. She wants me to be an independent woman.”
“She was always an independent woman herself.”
“Do you think I could see how the restorers work in the Vatican Museum?”
“I’m sure I can arrange it, and you should also go to Florence.”
The telephone rang. Luisa answered it. A moment later she announced:
“My date is waiting in the foyer. Don’t wait up for me, Mother. And you, Luca, don’t keep her up too late. She hasn’t been well lately and the Atlantic flight didn’t help.”
She kissed her mother and surprised Rossini with a hurried embrace and a flattering request.
“I hope you can find some time for me, too, while we’re in Rome.”
“With pleasure. I may not have too much free time before the conclave, but certainly after it.”
“Good! I’ll hold you to that. Now wish me luck. I hate blind dates, but a girl has to start somewhere in a big city. And remember I’m doing this for you both.”
When the door closed behind her, Isabel laughed.
“Well! You’ve made another conquest. I’m glad. I had no idea at all how it would go between you. Would you pour me another drink, please, then let’s relax for a while. I’ve ordered the meal to be served at nine. I chose a simple menu, so we wouldn’t have waiters skipping in and out.”
“I’m so happy that you’re here.” He handed her the wine and sat facing her across a low coffee table. “I’m as awkward as a schoolboy. I don’t know how or where to begin.”
“Remember the game we used to play when you were sick: Past, Present or Future?”
“I remember it very well. Let’s get the past out of the way first.”
The phrase seemed to disturb her. Her smile faded. She shook her head.
“That’s not quite as easy as you think, my love.”
“Forgive me. It was a clumsy expression.”
“You’re forgiven; we’ve both been travelling a long time, with oceans dividing us. There’s an awful lot of baggage to be dealt with – most of it mine!”
“So, let’s deal with it. Your marriage seems to have lasted.”
“For what it was, when and where it was, it has lasted very well. It got us all through some dangerous times. I was an impulsive greedy young woman, who demanded all life’s good things as soon as I saw them. Raul was a weak handsome man with small talents, big family money and a powerful father clever enough to survive his brother generals, the disasters of the Malvinas and even the aftermath of the atrocities. In Argentina we stayed together because we were safe together. By the time we were posted to the United States, Raul had learned enough from his father to make him a useful nonentity among the bureaucrats. I taught him enough to maintain a diplomatic ménage, and provide a civilised upbringing for Luisa. I was able to develop a career for myself in Hispanic American studies and maintain the friendships that kept me – what can I say? – emotionally stable. It was a marriage of convenience, that somehow worked. My father was a great help in all this. He was an old-fashioned cynic who taught me never to expect too much of human relationships. You, my love, were the one indulgence he approved, and when he watched your star rising in Rome, he took it as a compliment to his own good judgment. It was he who helped me with Luisa while Raul was catting around in New York and Washington and Paris.”
“She’s a beautiful and impressive young woman. You should be very proud of her.”
“I am. Now tell me about yourself. Your letters were landmarks in my life, yet they told me nothing that I did not know already: you loved me, I loved you. Don’t forget, we didn’t start corresponding until I moved to New York with Raul. In the bad times in Argentina letter writing was dangerous.”
“And even when the good times came I never had the right words.” He gave a small embarrassed smile. “They don’t teach you to write love-lyrics in the Secretariat of State. My minutes, on the other hand, are highly praised for brevity and accuracy!”
“Even so, I’ve kept all your letters.”
“Is that wise?”
“When have I ever been wise, Luca?”
“Then I can confess that I have kept yours.”
“Now tell me how it was when first you came to Rome.”
“That was another Luca Rossini, the one with stripes on his back and the taste of wormwood in his mouth. I had been a good priest – a simple one, but a good one. I thought I had heard the call and I had answered it. I cared for my people – I tried to protect them, but I failed. Afterwards, when I realised how deeply we had all been betrayed, I was enraged enough to kill. There were moments when I think I was a little mad.”
“I remember those moments. I nursed you through some very bad ones.”
“You did more than that. You kept another Luca alive, the simpler one who still had cobwebs of dreams in his head. You put your imprint on him: your taste, your touch, your perfume that smelled like citrus blossom. When that Luca was separated from you and taken to Rome, he was fragile, powerless, uncertain as a hurt animal in a jungle of exotic predators. The other Luca was in control then. He began a vendetta against all those whom he saw involved in the conspiracies of oppression – and there are too many of those still in the Church. He was not yet armed for open warfare, so he campaigned by obstructions, impediment, challenge. Because he was still a little mad, and because he did not fully understand what was happening to him, he survived. He was patronised by the Pontiff himself. Because he did not seek the patronage and refused to bargain for it, he was respected – and sometimes feared.”
“And the other Luca, the one with my imprint on him?”
“At first he was like a pale ghost, living on fading memories: the memory of a lover’s bed, of long-dead parents, of neighbourhood loyalties, of early trusts. Sometimes, when I looked in my mirror, I would see this Luca and mourn him, and lust after the love I had lost.”
“But I was never there with Luca the avenger?”
“Oh yes, you were! You were the Isabel who taught him never to waste a bullet in a fight or a word in argument. You taught him to bow his head and say softly: ‘As your Eminence pleases.’ You taught him the uses of power. You gave him the gift of silence. You convinced him that he should never let his peace reside in the mouths of others.”
“Were there no other women in your life, Luca?”
“Neither before you nor after you. My only regret is that I wasn’t bold enough to carry you off and join the guerrillas.” He grinned and spread his hands in a comic gesture of defeat. “Just as well I didn’t try it. I’m sure I would have bungled it, and we’d both be long dead.”
“You’d probably be better at it now.”
It was a provocative remark, but he chose to sidestep it.
“We’ll talk about that tomorrow.”
“What’s happening tomorrow?”
“I’m taking you out for the day, to my own private place.”
“The one you mentioned in your letter?”
“The same. You’ll dress in country clothes. You’ll take a taxi from here and come to my apartment, then I’ll drive you into the country and we’ll spend the day pottering in my garden. We’ll drink wine. I’ll cook you lunch and nobody in the world will know where we are. I’ll drive you back before the traffic gets too bad. How does that sound?”
“It sounds wonderful; but what about Luisa?”
“Give me two minutes and I’ll have her happily arranged for the day.” He picked up the telephone and dialled the home number of Piers Hallett.
“Piers? Luca Rossini.”
“My eminent friend. I tried to call you a couple of times, but you were out. I wanted to say thank you
for the dinner, thank you for your invitation to devil for you in the conclave. I’m happy to accept. I’ll wait on your instructions.”
“Good! Now I’d like you to do something special for me.”
“Anything, my friend.”
“Call the Grand Hotel first thing in the morning. Ask for the Senorita Luisa Ortega. Tell her you’ve been designated by me to show her round the Vatican Museum and especially the section where the restorers work. After that, buy her lunch at a cheerful place in Trastevere, hire a carrozza and deliver her back to the Grand in good order.”
“All of this, I hope, on your expense account.”
“Of course. If you’re short of cash, call my office, ask for Roderigo and have him advance the cash on my authority.”
“Please! I was joking. I’m flush with cash at the moment – a cheque at last from the Connoisseur. What time do you suggest I call the lady?”
“Eight o’clock, no later, and make your own arrangements for the pick-up. If she wants to bring a friend, take care of him, too. If she cries off, try not to be too hurt.”
“Where will you be?”
“In the country with her mother.”
“Enjoy, Eminence, enjoy! Who knows what plagues may strike after the conclave. Ciao!”
Rossini put down the receiver and turned back to Isabel.
“There now. All arranged.”
“And who is Piers?”
“Piers Hallett, a Monsignore no less, an Englishman, a scholar who works in the Vatican Library and who will, I promise you, prove a most amusing and instructive tour guide for your Luisa. Before I leave, I’ll write a small note of explanation, which the concierge will give her tonight when she picks up her key. If she’s made other arrangements, like falling madly in love with Miguel what’s-his-name, then she can take him with her, or cancel Hallett. It makes no matter.”
“It seems to me,” Isabel mocked him gently, “that you, too, did some careful thinking about this visit.”
“I had to. The Secretary of State had me listed for a meeting with a group of elderly cardinals who are not entitled to vote but want their views made plain to the conclavists.”
“And what excuse did you offer to the Secretary of State?”
“The truth. He knows you’re in town. He knows I want desperately to spend time with you. He gave me a free day tomorrow.”
Isabel frowned and shook her head.
“If this means what I think it does, then you and I are an open secret in Rome.”
“We have been for many years, my love. Ever since my return, in fact. I was brought back, if you remember, by the Apostolic Nuncio, who is now Cardinal Aquino. He worked hand-in-glove with the junta. He made sure that every suspicious circumstance about me was noted, every guess inflated into a known fact. I was questioned by the Pontiff himself.”
“And you told him about us?”
“No! He told me.”
“And what did you say?”
“That you saved my life; that we were lovers; and that I would love you all the days of my life.”
“So, he made you a high person, to purge your demons on a mountain-top.”
“Rather the contrary, I think. He used me to purge his own devils.”
“You know what this tells me, Luca?”
“What?”
“You and I are still pawns in this game of silences.”
“Will you answer one question for me?”
“If I can.”
“My colleague, Aquino, confronted me with it. He suggested you were connected in some way with the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo, who are here in Rome now, trying to bring an indictment against him.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“I told him I would ask you.”
“Then, when you see him again,” there was resentment in her dark eyes, “tell him to go to hell!”
“With very great pleasure, Señora.”
The doorbell rang. Rossini stood up to answer it. A waiter and a butler came in with a trolley to lay out the meal and serve the wine. Isabel went into the bedroom, while Rossini waited in the salone, chatting with the butler about the food, the talents of the chef who had prepared it, and the virtues of the wine from a very noble reserve near Montepulciano.
Finally, they were seated at table, alone, with the hot dishes simmering in the chafing-dishes, and the wine ruby red in the goblets. Isabel was calm again and Rossini was sedulous to divert her.
“The wine you’ll be drinking tomorrow is a lot rougher than this one, but it goes well with my home cooking.”
“Are you a good cook, Luca?”
“Within limits, yes. Soup, pasta, salads, paella, ragout, a charcoal grill; that sort of thing.”
“Do you entertain much in your country house?”
“You’ll be my first visitor since I built it.”
She gave him an odd searching look and an uncertain smile.
“Should I be honoured or afraid?”
“I hope you’ll feel welcome and comfortable. Understand something, my love. This is my hermitage, the foxhole where I hide from the wars of the world. No one comes except the local farmer and his wife who keep it tidy for me.”
“The way you put it, I could be invading a shrine.”
“No. You have always been there. I have lived without you all these years, yet I have worn you, sleeping and waking, like my own skin.”
“I had no idea my Luca was a poet.” She said it lightly, as if she were fearful of lending too much importance to the words. He answered in the same easy fashion.
“Not really. The songs I sing for you are all borrowed, but in my hermitage garden they sound sweet.”
“I’m proud that you love me so much, Luca. I am more happy than I can tell you in my love for you. It is your loneliness that frightens me, I think.”
“It should not, believe me. My exterior life is busy and varied. In my secret life I have had some bad times, but since I have known you would be coming, I have reached a strange calm place. The air is cold, but there is no wind and the sea is flat under the moon. I feel it is a gift I have been given to help me reflect on my future, to make a decision about it.”
“What decision, Luca?”
“To stay in the Church, or leave it.”
“Luca! You can’t mean it.” There was a note of panic in her voice, she set down her fork with a clatter. “That’s an enormous decision for a man like you. I pray God that I am not part of it!”
“You are part of everything I am, everything I do. That is something both of us know and neither of us can escape. But this experience is personal to me. I have to decide whether, here and now, or next week, or the next month, I am truly a believer. I feel curiously relaxed about what may be in the end a devastating loss. Piers Hallett tells me the English have a saying: ‘God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.’ I can’t even pray about it. I just wait.”
“I’ll pray for you, my love.”
“You are still a believer, in spite of everything?”
“Because of everything, probably. I fight like an old conquistador hacking my way through to what I want, but always with the Church to clear up after me. You’re different. You swallow all the bile and wait …”
“As you taught me.”
“Or as you read my lessons. Who knows? In any case, there are things I have to tell you. I wasn’t going to do it tonight – but why carry them into tomorrow? I want to enjoy your hermitage.”
“You can tell me anything you want, and in your own time.”
“That’s the problem. There isn’t too much time. You’re going into conclave. I can’t stay in Rome indefinitely. And yes, I have work to do for the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo. There is evidence that most of the files on the ‘disappeared ones’ were shipped out to Spain to keep them out of the hands of future investigators. Some, however, were copied by friendly hands and sent to Switzerland. While you’re in conclave, I’ll be flying to Lugano with two of the women to verify them. S
ince I was a protected person in the bad times, I feel it’s one way I can pay off my debt. There’s another thing also, but it can wait.” Abruptly she changed the subject. “Let me serve the second course. We shouldn’t let the food spoil.”
“It’s very good food.” Rossini matched her changed mood. “You’ll make a splendid Embajadora.”
“Tell me frankly, Luca. Do you think Raul has a chance of appointment? Will the Vatican accept his nomination?”
“That is a decision for the next Pontiff.”
“What did you say about Raul?”
“I gave him a qualified approval. He couldn’t do much harm. We shouldn’t depend too much on him, either.”
“You weren’t tempted to make it better, for me?”
“A little tempted, yes, but cynical enough to know that stratagems like that never work for very long.”
She laid his plate in front of him and took her place at the table again. They ate for a while in silence, then Isabel said:
“Even if Raul got the appointment, I should not be coming with him.”
“But you said in your letter …”
“I wrote it while I was waiting for the specialist’s report on the CAT scan he had ordered for me. I have bone cancer, Luca, a serious invasion. When I go back, they want me to go into hospital for therapy, but they warn me the prognosis is negative.”
For a moment he stared at her, dumb with shock, then the only words he could find were banality.
“Oh God! I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be, Luca! Like you, I have come to a certain place, and your love is there, too.”
His grief threatened to choke him. Isabel reached across the table and imprisoned his hands in her own, holding him until his emotions subsided and he surrendered to quiet tears. Finally, he asked:
“Does your husband know?”
“Yes. He’s accommodating to the idea in his own fashion. He will be generous in everything except personal involvement. He will tailor his life as he always does.”
“And Luisa?”
“She doesn’t know it all yet. She thinks I’m going into hospital for more tests. I’ve tried to spare her the worst so she can enjoy her holiday.”
“Is there any way I can help? I feel so useless to you.”
