by Morris West
“Luisa, please!” Isabel was angry. “Now you’re really over the line.”
“Let her finish,” said Rossini, quietly. “She’s right. I gave her the freedom of the house. Please say whatever you want, Luisa.”
“I don’t blame Mother or Father. I’ve had love and care from both of them – a different love, a different care from each. So I have no complaints, Mother. But Luca has been part of my life also – a legend, a mysterious figure whom Grandfather Menéndez used to talk about sometimes. It was only yesterday that he became real. So you can’t shut me out any more, either of you.”
Isabel was about to intervene again. Rossini cut her off with a gesture.
“Here’s what we do. Let’s all prepare the meal together. While we work, we talk. If you have questions, I’ll try to answer them. Your mother can speak or be silent as she chooses. Does that sound fair?”
“Yes, it’s fair – provided neither of you patronises me.”
He steered them back into the house, talking as he went, pausing to pluck ripe pears from the laden tree.
“Understand something from the beginning. Some of what you’ll hear happened before you were born. Some of it happened when you were a very little girl and Argentina and its people were bitterly and brutally divided. No matter what side you were on, there was enmity and suffering. You were spared a lot of that, so try not to judge anyone too harshly. One more word before we start. I do love your mother. I’ll love her till the day I die. She loves me, too. We have corresponded for years. But in the circumstances of the times, each of us was a mortal threat to the other. In a way, we still are …” He turned to Isabel and asked: “May I show her?”
“If you can bear it, so can I.”
As Luisa watched, Rossini unbuttoned his shirt and took off his undershirt so that he stood naked to the waist. Then Isabel turned him about so Luisa could see the criss-cross of scars and welts on his back. She gasped in horror. Isabel said calmly:
“That’s where the story starts for both of us. Raul was away in Chile and Peru. I was staying with your Grandfather Menéndez. Our apartment looked down on the square and the church where Luca was pastor.”
After that first brutal moment of revelation, the rest of the story seemed to fall naturally in rhythm as now one, now the other, picked up the cadence of the narrative, while Luisa worked silently at the kitchen bench with them, asking no questions, offering no verdict until the narrative ended with Rossini’s return to Rome and Isabel’s return to Raul.
“So, now you know,” said Rossini.
“Thank you both for telling me.” Luisa was subdued. “Now, may we eat? I’m very hungry.”
Rossini poured wine while the women served the pasta. Then he invoked a blessing on the food and on the company. After the first mouthfuls, Isabel raised her glass.
“Compliments to the chef!”
“And the chef thanks his sous-chefs!”
“This sous-chef was working under a certain stress,” Luisa admonished them both gently. “That was high drama you were giving me.”
Isabel laid a hand on her cheek.
“I’m sorry you had to wait so long. Luca told me there was a grace in this house.”
“There is love in it this day,” said Rossini.
“And what was there before, Luca?”
“Some faith, some hope – a memory of love only. But this is our agape, the meal at which we celebrate love together.”
“And what about tomorrow?” Luisa’s question hung between them like a drop of clear water ready to fall into a dark pool. Isabel sat silent, with downcast eyes. It was left to Rossini to offer an answer.
“There’s an old adage among diplomats – deal with the hard questions between the pear and the cheese. Why don’t we do that? Let’s enjoy the meal and the moment, and talk afterwards.”
“Promise you won’t put me off?”
He looked at Isabel. She nodded. He answered Luisa:
“We promise: both of us.”
He got up to clear the first platters from the table, but Luisa pushed him back into his chair.
“Leave these to me! Mother and I are serving the meal. You look after the wine and try to look like a prince of the Church!”
It was a cheerful and chatty hour before the fruit and cheese were laid on the table and the coffee was ready to be served. Their talk trailed off as Rossini made a small ceremony of slicing a pear and offering “the first taste of the fruit of my garden”. When they had approved the offering, he turned to Isabel:
“Now, my love, we have a promise to keep. Let’s talk about the future.”
“Not yet.” Luisa stayed him with a gesture. “We haven’t finished with the past.”
“I thought we had,” said Isabel. “When Luca came back to Rome, I resumed my life with your father. Luca and I have corresponded, but last night was our first meeting in …”
“In twenty-five years,” said Luisa. “I know that; but while we’ve been talking, I’ve been doing some simple arithmetic. I know when I was born, where I was baptised. I know you had a Caesarian in New York. So, I ask myself whether there’s any possibility I might be Luca’s child.”
“You were born, registered and baptised Luisa Amelia Isabel Ortega.”
“That doesn’t answer my question, Mother.”
“Why do you ask it now?”
“Because this is the first time I’ve seen you and Luca together – and it’s the first time I’ve seen two middle-aged people so desperately in love it breaks my heart.”
“I think you should tell her,” said Luca Rossini. “Tell her exactly what you told me last night. It’s your story. She can interpret it as she chooses. I’ll do a little work in the garden. Call me when you want me.”
He left them then, stripped off his shirt and began hoeing the rows of vegetables, trying to slow down his whirligig thoughts to the pace of the mattock strokes as they broke the dry crust of the soil. It was the most primitive and most effective remedy he knew against the manic conflicts of ideas and arguments, of high matters and low ones, of interests and prejudices and claims and counter-claims which pressed for his attention every day.
Whatever argument or discussion Isabel and Luisa were pursuing inside the house would spill over on him, but their destinies were ultimately beyond his control. The question of his acknowledgement of Luisa as his natural daughter was a minor one, already settled. Her acknowledgement of him was another matter, far beyond the simple dispensation of affection. Soon her mother would be gone from her life – but the going could be long, painful and destructive. What could he offer to Isabel to ease her passing, what to Luisa to make up for her loss?
Which brought him by a round turn to a question he had debated many times with the Pontiff and discussed with his curial colleagues: the abiding problems of a celibate clergy in the Roman discipline of Christianity. Each age in the life of a celibate cleric brought its own crop of problems. In the training period, their sexual instincts were suppressed, their expressions of affection inhibited, their language purged of passion, so that when they encountered it again – if they ever did – in the writings of the great mystics, it was always with a sense of shock. In the middle years of pastoral life, companionship or shared ambition provided a partial support; but in the later years, illness or ennui or simple loneliness changed the landscape of their lives into a grey despair. And they had lost too long the simple skills of companionship with women and other men. What angered Rossini often was the element of hypocrisy in the discussions at every level – and that, also, was a very Latin skill: to add the colour of virtue to the least convincing argument, as the forgers of antiquities aged their bronzes and marbles in dung-hills and cess-pits.
This much-chewed argument brought him to the end of his bean rows and he was just scraping off his mattock when Isabel came out of the house, hand in hand with Luisa. He waited, dusty and sweating as they approached.
Isabel stopped a few paces away. Luisa halted just out o
f his reach. He leaned on the handle of the mattock and waited.
Suddenly she looked small and vulnerable, a lost child alone on an empty beach. Yet he could find no words either to comfort her or to explain himself. Her first words put him completely off balance.
“How are we supposed to feel about this, Luca?”
“I don’t know, Luisa. I can only tell you how I feel.”
“Then tell me, please!”
“I’m glad the truth is out at last. I was upset that I’d been kept so long in ignorance. I’m sad to think of the years that are lost to me. That’s pure selfishness, I know. I’m glad you’ve seen your mother and me together. I think you understand the love that has bound us together all these years. I hope you understand that you are truly a love-child and that you will let me spend some love on you. I confess I don’t know how, but I know the love is there to spend. How do you feel?”
“Confused, but not unhappy. I feel as though I’ve been born again, and all the landmarks in my life have changed suddenly.”
“For better or for worse?”
“When Mother goes – and I know how ill she is! – it will be for the worse. But now that I’ve seen you both together, I know how important your love has been in her life. That still leaves me with a host of puzzles to solve.”
“Like what?”
“How do I cope with two fathers in my life? Nothing will change with Raul. I know it can’t. I know it mustn’t. How can I live with so big a secret, because I know I’ll have to? How can I get to know you better; because I want that, too? Then there’s the problem of how I should feel about you.”
“How would you like to feel?”
“At ease – even loved a little, but for myself, not for Mother. I’d like you to hold me in your arms and kiss me and tell me I’m as welcome in your life as Mother is.”
He straightened up and tossed the mattock away and held out his arms to her. She came in a single leap and he held her to him, murmuring over and over: “Welcome, my daughter, welcome.” Then Isabel joined them and they embraced in silence until Luisa herself broke the cobweb that bound them. She said lightly:
“Mother was right. Look at us! Three graces in a garden! You need a shower, Luca, and afterwards I think we should all have a drink to celebrate.”
“Well, we’re dealing with country matters,” said Isabel.
“And what, pray, are country matters?” Rossini asked.
“My Aunt Amelia taught me the phrase. She learned it from the British who made themselves very rich in Argentina. Country matters are anything to do with sex and reproduction on either side of the blanket.”
“I never knew Aunt Amelia,” said Luisa. “But she certainly played an important role in my life. I think I would have liked her.”
The rest of the afternoon should have played itself out as an agreeable epilogue to the drama of revelations. Instead, Rossini found himself witness to the sudden eruption of a quarrel between mother and daughter. It was triggered by an apparently casual remark from Luisa.
“Now that you’ve sorted my life out so neatly, Mother, let’s talk about yours.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. As soon as we get back to New York, I have another series of tests. What happens after that depends on the results. It’s simple. One day at a time.”
“It isn’t that simple and you know it. Father has told me how seriously ill you are.”
“Then he shouldn’t have! It’s my life.”
“And he’s your husband and I’m your daughter and now Luca comes into the frame as well.”
“My life is still mine. I’ll make my own decisions about it, as long as I can.”
“And when you can’t?”
“Then your father can take over for whatever time remains. I won’t have you wasting your life nursing a terminal case. Raul can well afford any nursing I may need.”
“I know that, Mother. Father isn’t a monster. He’s kind and generous, but a fool with women.”
“That’s enough!”
“No, Mother, it’s not enough! What I want is that you should face whatever’s in store for you with calm and contentment …”
“I can’t do that, if everyone’s badgering me about how I arrange what’s left of my life. Give me time to work it out. I need privacy. I need personal space. You try to explain it to her, Luca!”
It was then he remembered the medallion which the woman had given him at Mass that morning. He picked up his jacket from the bed and took from the pocket the small tissue-wrapped object. He carried it back to the table, and laid it in front of Isabel.
“What’s this?”
“Before you open it, let me tell you about it. This morning I said my Mass in a convent where the Sisters run a halfway house for women on release from the gaol system. They’ve all had tough lives, but they’ve learned to trust me. I asked them to offer their prayers for you because, as Luisa does, I feel helpless to change the future for you, helpless even to support you towards it. After the Mass, this woman came up to me. She’s in her early fifties, I’d say, and she’s spent a large part of her life as a campfire girl flagging down truck drivers on the highways leading into Rome. It’s a rough game, as you may imagine, peddling yourself winter and summer in a roadside ditch. I was just walking out when she hurried after me and pushed her gift into my hand. She said: ‘Give this to your friend. It saved me from a lot of trouble on the street. Maybe it will do something for her.’ That’s the end of the story. Look at it one way, it’s a social outcast and a not very good cleric invading your privacy. Look at it again, and it’s an act of love and care.”
Isabel opened the package and brought out the medallion on its fragile chain. She asked Luisa:
“Would you put it on for me, please?”
As Luisa adjusted the pendant, Isabel reached up to touch her hands.
“Forgive me! I don’t mean to snap. When I’m frightened, I get angry. When I’m angry, I have to hit out at someone. Luca should be glad he didn’t marry me!”
Rossini was swift to answer.
“Married or not, we’re all bound to each other. So let me say my little piece in my own house. My whole life has been an act of gratitude for what you did for me and what you gave to me – dignity and manhood! I can’t make any judgments on your husband. I know only what you’ve told me. However, you must leave him the chance to give you what he can, to be what he can for you in this last term of your life. You can’t refuse that to Luisa either. We all need the chance to redeem ourselves by giving. Do you understand?”
“I understand; but no more lectures, please, Luca!”
“My God!” said Luisa with a grin. “He sounds just like the Grand Inquisitor, doesn’t he? I’m glad he’s on our side!”
“Come and help me do the dishes, young lady. Isabel, why don’t you put on some Haydn. I feel we need some nice orderly music in our very disorderly lives!”
As they worked together at the kitchen sink, Luisa asked:
“Are we likely to see you again before the conclave?”
“It’s unlikely. We could probably make a dinner at my place, but all of us in the College are under heavy pressure for the next few days. After the conclave, it will be much easier.”
“Unless you’re elected Pope?”
“That, dear daughter, would be the outside bet of all time. What’s much more likely is that I’ll be exiled to some very obscure office in the Vatican.”
“Is there any chance you could come to New York to see Mother – before the end? That’s what she’s hoping – though she’s too proud to admit it.”
“I’ll move heaven and earth to be there. That’s a promise: but I need a promise from you, too. I’ll have to depend on you for regular news of your mother’s condition. Send it e-mail.”
“Count on it. I’ll keep you informed.”
“Good! Now we should think of heading back to Rome.”
“Not yet, please. Mother needs some time alone with you. I’ll go talk t
o the birds in the garden.”
Then, swiftly, she was gone and he was alone with Isabel, sitting side-by-side on the battered sofa, his arm around her, her head resting on his breast, savouring the silence. After a long time, Isabel murmured drowsily:
“Luca, my love, I think this has been the longest day of my life.”
“Has it been happy?”
“Happy, yes; but after all, each of us will sleep alone tonight – and all the nights after. I’m scared, Luca – and cold inside, as if I were already locked in my burial chamber.”
He drew her close, murmuring words of comfort and hope which, even as he spoke them, sounded dry and hollow. Isabel, however, seemed to brighten a little. She began to finger the tarnished little medallion which lay in the cleft of her breasts. Finally she spoke again, in the same drowsy, detached fashion.
“Imagine all the things this little Virgin saw by the light of the roadside fires. I hope the woman who gave her to me isn’t lonely without her. Will you do something for me, my love?”
“Anything, you know that.”
“Buy another medal, a gold one with a gold chain, have it blessed by the new Pope and send it to her with a note from both of us.”
“What shall I say?”
“Tell her the gift was very important to me and already her little Virgin is looking after me, and most of all, I feel I have a new sister. Can you remember all that?”
“How could I forget it?”
“Too easily, my love. I know this black spirit that haunts you. Whatever you decide to do with your life, don’t do it in haste or anger. Above all, don’t do it for me, because I shan’t be here to share anything with you.”
“Please, my love, please …”
“No! Let me finish! If you find in the end you can’t believe, I’ll believe for you. If you can’t hope, I’ll hope for you. If that sounds foolish, remember that we both have love and that’s stronger than death, stronger than despair. Kiss me now. Hold me a moment, then take me back to Rome with our daughter.”
Eight
To prepare for his interview with Steffi Guillermin, Rossini had arranged a half-hour briefing session with Angel-Novalis at the Sala Stampa. He was an ideal mentor: crisp, lucid, dispassionate. He offered first a portrait.
