by Morris West
In the end, however, the older ones spread the word that this was a man to be trusted. He gave no lectures. He understood the words and the facts of life on their side of the street. He understood how it could be with the police. They knew that his gifts made life a little easier for them all. There was nothing furtive about him either. He spoke gently, but he knew the difference between merda and macaroni; and you knew he’d tell you straight if you tried to play games. He let it be known discreetly that he, too, had been embroiled with the police in his own country and that he understood their reticence. There was no compulsion to come to his Mass, but first a few and then more came, so that when they knew he was coming the chapel was usually full.
This morning, he was reluctant to move from his house, but he would not disappoint them. The nuns were a special breed, a diminishing but still courageous tribe. The women in their care were, like himself, the outlanders, the exiles, the proscribed, the avanze di galera, remnants of a gaol system to which some would, almost inevitably, return. It was to these he addressed his own poignant petition.
“My friends, I have a favour to ask you. A very dear and close friend of mine has just been told she has an incurable cancer. Many years ago, this woman risked her life to save mine. I beg you to pray for her this morning. I am offering the Mass not to ask for a miracle cure, but that courage may be granted to her and a speedy respite from pain. I wish I knew why she, of all people in the world, should be so stricken; but that’s the mystery we all face, isn’t it? As I carne here this morning, I kept asking why she? Why not me instead? I feel like a blind man, groping in a sudden darkness. Then I remind myself that Our Lord and Saviour was stricken with this same darkness, just before he died: Pray for me, too. You are all my sisters. Pray for me.” His voice cracked. He stood for a moment recovering himself, then he stepped to the altar to begin Mass.
When the Mass was over, he lingered just long enough to drink a coffee and exchange courtesies with the Mother Superior. Then, as he was leaving the building, one of the women, a sturdy veteran of the roadside, stopped him and thrust into his hand a small medallion of the Virgin on a flimsy silver chain. She told him: “Here! Give this to your friend! It saved me from a lot of trouble on the street. Maybe it will do something for her.” Then she was gone, clattering down the paved corridor on her wooden pattens. Rossini, touched again with emotion, shoved the gift into his breast pocket and hurried out of the building.
Back at his apartment, he checked the screen for his e-mail. There were three messages. The first two were from his own office. The interview requested by Steffi Guillermin of Le Monde was scheduled for ten o’clock the following morning at the Sala Stampa. Monsignor Angel-Novalis was prepared to attend and to record the conversation if his Eminence wished. A moment’s reflection convinced Rossini that this was a wise insurance. The next message was from the Secretary of State:
I have reset your meeting with the non-voting Cardinals for eleven-thirty. This gives you a half-hour break after your meeting with the press. Angel-Novalis may need some support and you may expect some rough words from the press over the Pontiff’s diaries. They resent the notion that they may have been trafficking in stolen material. So they are establishing a defence line. Our colleague, Aquino, gave me his version of your conversation. When I told him you’d be talking to the press, he asked, rather more meekly than usual, whether I could arrange another brief talk with you – “More brief and more friendly” was the way he put it. I suggest you call him. You may be able to dispose of the matter with more grace and civility. Have a pleasant day in the country.
Rossini glanced at his watch. There was still an hour and twenty minutes before Isabel arrived – with or without Luisa. He picked up the phone and dialled Aquino’s number. When his Eminence answered, Rossini was carefully bland.
“I have a message from the Secretary of State. He asked me to get in touch with you.”
“That was kind of him. Good of you to respond so promptly. I’ve been troubled. I felt our talk went astray. My fault, I’m sure. If it’s possible, I’d like to make amends, repair the damage, so to speak.”
“We were both revisiting old battlefields,” said Rossini calmly. “There’s always the danger of stepping on a landmine. What would you like me to do?”
“I’d like to accept your offer of intervention with the women. I’d like to see whether an arbitrated situation is possible. I’d be happy to use Angel-Novalis to handle the press. However …”
There was a momentary silence. Rossini prompted him.
“I’m listening.”
“However, I felt, I still feel that the condition you made – that I should offer myself for a court appearance – is too much to ask, and besides, it is canonically impossible.”
“I thought about that, too,” said Rossini mildly. “It was a condition I had no right to make; but there is still a condition as far as I am concerned.”
“Which is?”
“Open response, open discussion. There is much anger. I don’t want yours – or mine – added to it.”
“How do we handle matters of secrecy?”
“We don’t. If you have the answers, you give them freely and openly. If you do not have the answers, say so. If there is a real impediment to disclosure, you admit at least the impediment. But there is one thing that you should know. In addition to the evidence collected by the women, there are documents lodged for secrecy in Spain. Some of these have been copied and deposited in Switzerland. The women will be inspecting them while we are in conclave.”
“You’re sure of this?”
“Yes, though I have no knowledge of the documents themselves.”
“But the source of your information …?”
“Is impeccable.”
“I shall have to think a little more about this. There are certain complications, not least of which is any clerical involvement in the transactions. I’m sure you take my meaning.”
“Not all of it,” said Rossini, “but I should prefer not to embarrass Angel-Novalis, who will be doing us both a service.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Expect a call from me very soon and thank you for your courtesy, Rossini.”
“It’s good that we understand each other better.”
“Very good, very good indeed. Thank you.”
When he put down the phone, Rossini was smiling. Aquino’s words were cordial enough but he sounded as though he were sucking a very sour lemon while he spoke them. He glanced at his watch. There was still time for a call to Turi at the Secretariat of State to brief him on the conversation with Aquino. His response was warm.
“Thanks, Luca. I appreciate it. The less friction we have at this stage, the better. By the way, where did you get your information on the Spanish and Swiss documents?”
“From Señora Ortega. She is going to Switzerland to help authenticate those which are held there. It’s a matter of conscience for her. That’s confidential to you, Turi.”
“Of course. You had a pleasant evening, I trust?”
“Pleasant but sad. Isabel won’t be with us very long, I fear. She tells me she is very ill – and the prognosis isn’t good.”
“I’m very sorry, Luca, for her and for you. I’ll say my Mass for her.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re spending today in the country?”
“Yes, her daughter’s corning with us. She’s a beautiful girl, the image of her mother.”
“You’ll be working tomorrow?”
“As promised, Turi. I meet the elders of the College at eleven-thirty, before that I have an interview with a woman from Le Monde. Angel-Novalis will be there to hold my hand.”
“A word of caution, Luca. You, yourself, are mentioned in the Pontiff’s diaries. The piece will be coming up soon. You may be questioned on it.”
“I wonder if the Guillermin woman will raise it tomorrow.”
“Who knows? If she does, you’ll have to handle it as best you can.”
�
��I’m not too worried, Turi. I don’t want scandal for the Church any more than you do, but for myself, I’m a stripped down man. There’s nothing they can take from me that I shall miss very much.”
“I’m glad to hear that. The weather’s beautiful. Enjoy the day, my friend.”
But when he put down the receiver, the Secretary of State was pensive. He dealt with crisis somewhere in the world every day. Men and women were made martyrs while he himself brokered deals with their executioners to protect the remnant faithful. He was a man of disciplined appetite and cool judgments, but he cherished a deep friendship with Luca Rossini. He knew very well that what had kept him sane and stable was not the ancient faith. It was the private and potent cultus of a personified Madonna of Perpetual Help, represented by Isabel Ortega. He preferred not to speculate what might happen to Rossini if she were taken from him, and he were left a worshipper at an empty shrine, in a wasteland of abandoned beliefs.
The elevator was still out of service. There was a promise that it would be fixed by midday: midday today or one fine tomorrow was always a moot question. So Rossini decided to spare Isabel the long trudge up the staircase. He waited in the street by his car, a twelve-year-old Mercedes which he had bought cheaply from an American colleague transferred back to the United States. It had been lovingly cared for, and now it stood solid and gleaming on the cobblestones outside the entrance while Rossini waited, lounging against it like any Roman driver on guard against cruising youths who might scrape it with a coin or wrench off the radiator symbol. He prized these moments of complete anonymity, when he was absolved from his past, detached from his present state and accountable for neither.
Isabel was late. The arrangement had been clear. They would meet at ten. It was now ten-thirty. Roman times were flexible, but Rossini was irritated because with the shadow of coming loss hanging over them like a storm-cloud, he was jealous of the few hours they could spend together. He called the hotel on his mobile phone. There was no answer from the Señora’s room. According to the doorman, she had just left in a taxi with her daughter. If the Signore would like to leave a message? No, thank you.
It was another ten minutes before the taxi pulled up with a squeal of brakes and decanted the two women on the pavement. Both were voluble with excuses, talking over and against each other: Luisa had come in late and had overslept, Raul had called from New York, which meant a long conversation with both Isabel and Luisa, then Miguel had called to make another date for this evening, which Luisa wasn’t sure she wanted, and, finally, when they were just about to step into the taxi, Isabel was called back for a very long conversation with the woman with whom she would be travelling to Switzerland.
“… And that, my dear Luca, ends our litany of excuses. We’re sorry! Now, will you please give us absolution and get us to hell out of here!”
“Kiss the woman, for God’s sake,” Luisa commanded. “She’s wound up tight like a fiddle-string. That’s not good for her – or for me!”
Rossini did as he was bidden. He kissed Isabel and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder as he settled her into the car.
“Now you may kiss me, Luca.”
“Luisa please!”
“Why not, Mama? He’s out of uniform, isn’t he?”
Rossini leaned into the back seat, gave her a hurried peck on the cheek, then climbed into the driver’s seat and pulled away.
“My place is tucked away in a fold of the Sabine Hills a few miles south of Tivoli. If you like, we can go by way of Tivoli – you can see Hadrian’s Villa, and the Villa d’Este, then go on to my place for lunch. I should warn you, however, it’s a popular tour, so there’ll be lot of groups in buses.”
“If you don’t mind, Luca, I’d be happier to spend a quiet day with you.”
“I’m all for a quiet day.” Luisa was prompt to support her mother. “I had a very late night. Miguel was attentive, but he did it all by the book – dinner, a club, then the whole Rome-by-night scene with bells and whistles!”
“That’s settled then. No tourism. We’ll take the back road to my place. We’ll stop in the village to buy food – which you, Luisa, will help me cook while your mother takes her ease. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“We’ll both help,” said Isabel firmly. “I’m not yet an invalid! What did you do with yourself after you left me last night?”
“I suppose you could call it my own version of Rome-by-night. I walked home. I lost myself a few times, because I had a lot to think about. I remember looking up and seeing, through a lighted window, a most wonderful frescoed ceiling. I was almost run down while I was staring at it. When I got home, I read the last of my breviary and went to bed. I had to be up early today to say Mass for a community of Sisters, and make phone calls. So, here I am! A free man today with a loaded calendar tomorrow!”
Dressed in country clothes, behind the wheel of his own car, Rossini was a changed man – a throwback to the Neapolitan street urchin. He drove with skill and verve. He responded with enthusiasm to horn-blowing and personal abuse. As a tour-guide, he was less than informative, as a commentator on the race-track tactics of Roman drivers, he was eloquent, entertaining and theatrically abusive in Lunfardo. The two women were laughing one moment, gasping the next and deeply grateful when they turned off the Via Tiburtina and wound their way through a series of country by-ways towards Rossini’s hermitage. They stopped in a small village to buy food and, watching him in easy talk with the shopkeeper, Isabel was overwhelmed by a rush of memories, of another Rossini, youthful pastor of another village tucked away in the sub-Andean foothills.
Finally, Rossini unlocked the heavy gate and drove into his kingdom. He helped the women out of the car and left them standing while he walked back to close the gate. When he rejoined them, Isabel smiled and laid a hand on his arm and told him:
“I remember in one of your letters you told me you wanted to have un huerto abigarrado, a dappled garden. Now I see what you mean.”
“You are both welcome. My house is your house.”
Inside, there was a chill, but the fire was set with kindling and logs. He set a match to it and switched on the CD player. The flames were rising and the Haffner Symphony was filling the room as he took them on their tour of his small retreat.
“I did most of the alterations myself.” His pride in his handiwork was beguiling. “You can see where I started – and how the work improved as I got better at it. I like to have tools in my hands.”
“Did you design it yourself?” Luisa was already testing the faucets, opening drawers and cupboards, checking cutlery and crockery.
“Yes, I did. For the plumbing I had some local help; but the rest of it is mine. You two finish looking around. I’ll bring in the box of food.”
When he stepped out the door, the two women looked at each other. Luisa shook her head incredulously.
“He’s so happy with so little.”
Isabel challenged her sharply.
“Are we happier because we have so much more?”
“Mother, please! You’ve been snappish all morning.”
“I’m sorry. I had a restless night. You were touring Rome. I was touring my yesterdays and looking at the future. It’s not a pretty landscape.”
“Luca has his own past to cope with and you’re part of it. No! Don’t turn away, please! When his face is in repose, it’s tight and dosed. When he looks at you, it changes completely. I don’t see where he fits in your future, but I hope I can find a man who will look at me like that.”
“I found him and then I lost him.”
“You never lost him, Mother.”
Rossini came in at that moment and dumped the food box on the table.
“Leave these now and let me walk you round the garden. The house will be warmer when we get back.”
As they walked, they held hands, a family trio comfortable with each other, yet separate, each preoccupied with a private question. Luisa asked:
“Don’t you ever feel sh
ut in here? Nobody can look in, but you can’t see over your own fence either.”
“That’s the way I like it, but you have to understand I spend most of my life meeting people, engaged with them always in discussion or negotiation. I come back empty as a clay pitcher. Here I am filled again.”
“But don’t you ever get lonely?”
“The celibate life is a lonely road, Luisa.”
“But Mother has never been celibate and she’s been lonely, too, though she hates to talk about it.”
“I don’t talk about it either.” Rossini was gentle with her. “In one way or another, we all have to cope with the essential solitude of being human, whether we’re celibate or married.”
“If you’re a good person, doesn’t God fill your loneliness?”
“He fills it, I think, with a divine discontent.”
Isabel seized on the phrase with an intensity that surprised them both.
“It’s the discontent that keeps us alive. When the last desire is stilled, we’ve already crossed the river.”
“Then you and Luca have a long way to go yet.”
“Meaning what?”
“Please, Mother! A blind man can see that you two love each other. I’m happy for you both – but I don’t understand why you’ve made it so hard for yourselves.”
This time it was Rossini who reproved her.
“You’re treading on private ground, young lady!”
Luisa refused to be silenced. “You told me this house was my house, too. So if there’s ground I can’t tread on, point it out to me. I don’t know the whole story about you and Mother, because nobody’s thought I had a right to know it. But I’m here with you both in this garden. That needs some explaining, doesn’t it? It’s no secret that Mother and Father live separate lives, and Mother, too, has had lovers from time to time.”
