by Morris West
“We’re agreed. And thank you for the trust you’re showing me.”
“Come to think of it,” said Rossini with a grin, “we’re both putting a lot of trust in each other. If either, or both of us, becomes a non-believer, none of the rules makes sense, except as tools for the conduct of the institution.”
“Which is why most of them were invented down the centuries,” said Piers Hallett. “A well-ordered society is a splendid thing to see. It’s like a hot-house. You can grow anything in it, but not everything will survive the rough weather outside. That’s the real terror of the world for me, Luca. All us humans – and so many are so bloody lonely!”
In the lounge of the Foreign Press Club Fritz Ulrich, well primed with a heavy lunch and two brandies, was dispensing wisdom and irony to a group of newcomers from the Bavarian Catholic Press.
“This is the smallest and most exclusive electoral college in the world: a hundred and twenty male celibates appointed to choose an absolute ruler for the largest religious constituency on the planet. Think about that! They, themselves, are not elected. They are appointed by a reigning Pontiff. Whom, truly, do they represent? Certainly not the vast mass of the faithful. What are they charged to do? Find a universal man for a universal Church. Impossible! In theory, they can elect any baptised male, and make him priest, bishop and Pope in one ceremony. In fact, they’ll choose one of themselves: one out of a hundred and twenty – if they all turn up! – to hold the keys of the kingdom for a billion believers and all the other benighted souls whom they claim a mandate to convert.”
“You’re talking very loudly, Fritz!” Steffi Guillermin called to him across the room. “Some of us are trying to work.”
“I apologise! I will try to be more quiet. Anyway, I have said my piece. These good people will make up their own minds.”
“Thank you, Fritz.”
Now that they were both under pressure to report a millennial event, now that they were involved in pooling and syndication deals, their relations were less abrasive. Ulrich dismissed his audience, heaved himself out of his chair and crossed to her table. She frowned and waved him away.
“Not now, please, Fritz. I’m working.”
“A few moments only, Steffi. Home office has sent me a query.”
“On what?”
“Your Aquino interview. You know we bought the German language rights to all those portrait pieces of yours.”
“So, what’s their problem?”
“You discuss the accusations brought against him by the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo. My people ask do you have any notes on another aspect of the situation: the involvement of former German nationals in the dirty war, suspected war criminals and the like?”
“No, I don’t, Fritz. That’s old ground. I didn’t want to walk over it again. Why do they need that sort of stuff anyway?”
“They’re trying to build a background piece on candidates who may have black marks against them for political or other reasons. Italians who have lived in the pockets of the Christian Democrats, South Americans who turned too far left or too far right, that sort of thing. I told them I’d send some brief notes; but I didn’t want to waste time on it. It’s filler material – pure speculation.”
“Well, tell them I’m sorry I can’t help. Now, if you don’t mind …”
“Just one more thing, then I’ll leave you in peace. What do you know about the Janissaries?”
“The who?”
“Janissaries!” He was happy to have surprised her, happy to be launched on a new monologue. “Shock troops of the old Ottoman Empire, founded in the fourteenth century, they garrisoned all the Balkan outposts of the Ottoman Turks.”
Steffi Guillermin stared at him blankly.
“And what the hell have they got to do with a Papal election? Are you sure you’re sober, Fritz?”
“No, I’m not sure. I need another drink. One more would prove it one way or the other. You wouldn’t like to join me, would you?”
“No way! And you shouldn’t have one either. Now what’s this garbage about Janissaries?”
“Analogy.” He stumbled over the word, then took a run at it. “Important historical analogy. They recruited captive Christian boy-children. They enslaved them to Turkish families where they learned the language and embraced Islam. After that, they were enlisted in the army as an elite corps. They trained in special barracks; they were celibate; they were debarred from trade or commerce; their obedience was absolute. Their badges of honour were the old slave-names: pot-cleaner, wood-cutter, cook. But they were a feared and formidable force. Now, my dear Steffi, do you see where my little analogy is leading me? All the prelates who are assembling in this city now are like the Janissaries – shock troops of a religious empire.”
“It’s an interesting thought, Fritz. But what are you going to make of it?”
“A panel piece perhaps. Would your people be interested in picking it up?”
“I doubt it, but I’m willing to try for you when it’s done. The problem we’ve all got is an overdose of information and not enough educated readers to deal with it. Now, get the hell out of my hair. I’ve got a deadline to meet.”
“I’m going! I’m going!” He scrambled awkwardly to his feet before delivering his exit line. “The Janissaries did well so long as they had a regular supply of slave boys. But once the fighting stopped, the breeding had to begin; so they tossed celibacy out the window. There’s a lesson in that, Steffi – a lesson for the Church. A lesson for you, too, come to think of it.”
“Thank God I’m not a breeder, Fritz, otherwise I could be stuck with a child like you!”
As he wandered away laughing, Frank Colson came to the table. Before he opened his mouth, Guillermin appealed to him:
“Why do I always fall for it? I’m an intelligent woman, yet every time he talks to me I fly off my perch like a demented parrot.”
“Fall for what, Steffi?”
“Fritz Ulrich’s bad jokes! He’s such a tasteless oaf.”
“He knows you too well. You always rise to the same lure. Now, I have a little news for your ears only.”
“Good news, bad news, what?”
“The London tabloids are floating a story about the morals of the senior clergy – old stuff most of it: one Austrian cardinal, a couple of stalwarts in the Curia. They’re just trawling muddy waters; but one of the names that came up was Luca Rossini’s. You interviewed him the other day. You called him the mystery man.”
“I know. I’m revising the story now and I still don’t like the phrase. I’d like to find a better one before I file. Anyway, what are the London tabloids saying?”
“They’re sailing very close to the wind. They’re talking about a mysterious crime with which Rossini was connected in Argentina, a horrendous beating, a statement that he had been sodomised, a secret arrangement to smuggle him out of the country – and they’re making smoke signals about a love affair and the birth of a child after he had left the country.”
“My God! They’re taking a hell of a risk!”
“Of what, a lawsuit? He can’t sue except by permission of the Pontiff – whom we don’t have at the moment. And besides, what would it matter? So far as election chances are concerned, Rossini will be dead in the water.”
“So, who loaded the cannon and fired the shot?”
“Good question, Steffi! What’s your answer?”
“There are two. First, the Argentinians have had this information for a long time. The one thing they’d never want to see is one of the victims of their dirty war enthroned in the Vatican, scars and all. The second guess, which I don’t like half as much, is someone inside the Vatican who has access to the records and the motive to leak them against Rossini.”
“Cleric or layman?”
“Cleric. It would have to be.”
“Motive?”
“Jealousy or malice, either or both.”
“So now I need your advice. My office has asked me to advise whether we shoul
d investigate the story or drop it cold and let someone else do the autopsy.”
Steffi Guillermin considered the question in silence for a few moments before she answered.
“First of all, Frank, there’s nothing there except the sodomy and the illegitimate child which wasn’t implicit in the Pontiff’s diaries. The love affair is mentioned, if not described. The child? A birth certificate would settle that question out of hand.”
“You’re right, of course. I hate rummaging in dirty linen. I guess I’m looking for a good excuse to cry off.”
“You know, Frank, that whatever advice one gives in a case like this, is bound to be wrong. You turn down a dirty story, it turns into tomorrow’s headlines. You chase it and you’re giving aid and comfort to the bastards who floated it in the first place. I’m keyed in to both Aquino and to Rossini, and it wouldn’t be too hard to prise some comment out of the Argentinians. But, as a friend, I’d say don’t touch it. You’ve got an easy out anyway. You’re bureau chief. You advise that any attempt to play up such a story on the eve of an election could be construed as an attempt by an Anglo Saxon Protestant country to interfere in an election.”
“That wouldn’t wash, Steffi.”
“So, invoke your conscience. Tell him you refuse to be party to scurrilous rumour-mongering at this crucial time.”
“The plea might just appeal to him. He has a taste for well-rounded phrases. I owe you a drink. Ciao!”
Which left Steffi Guillermin face to face with her own dilemma: how much treachery to a colleague would be involved if she took another look at her story before she filed it, and perhaps – only perhaps – floated some smoke of her own. It took her at least two minutes to make her decision. She telephoned Rossini’s office and asked that her call be transferred to him wherever he might be. Yes, the matter was quite urgent. She needed to check a key passage in her interview text before she filed it for publication. There was a longish wait before the answer was relayed to her. His Eminence had a very busy afternoon, but he would make time to see her at his apartment at five-thirty in the evening. He hoped she would not be offended if she were kept waiting a short time. Of course not. Please convey Mademoiselle Guillermin’s thanks to His Eminence!
The woman whom Isabel presented to him that afternoon was more than seventy years old. Her name was Rosalia Lodano. She was the leader of the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo, sojourning in Rome.
Her hair was snow-white, her skin like old ivory, seamed and scored by time and bitter experience. There was a strange sibylline calm about her, a formidable gravity beyond the reach of fear or malice. Her eyes were dark, hooded and implacable. With Isabel at her side, she sat, bolt upright, her clothing loose about her thin figure, her hands lying flat and immobile on a thick folder of documents. Her first utterance was a surprise: a curt, imperious statement.
“I know your history, Eminence. I know Señora Ortega. I am prepared to trust you.”
‘You understand I make no promises; but those I do make, I keep.”
“You know why my friends and I are in Rome?”
“I believe so; but I want you to tell me, simply and clearly.”
“In 1976, I lost a son and a daughter. My daughter was arrested, questioned, tortured, raped and finally killed. My son was arrested. We know he was taken to ESMA, the School of Mechanical Engineering. After that, no trace. There are thousands like him, the disappeared ones. We know they are dead. We do not know where or how they died. There is a torture in not knowing, a torture that never ends! We need to know – and once we know, perhaps we can bring the killers to justice. But knowing is the first step. You understand?”
“I do.”
“Understand something more. At home, the regime has changed, yes. However, our President has blocked all roads to the justice we seek. He has granted amnesty to the senior officers who were responsible for the years of terror. He will not authorise the taking of testimonies and depositions against them or other offenders in Argentina. Vital records have been sent out of the country – we believe to Spain. As Señora Ortega has told you, we hope to lay hands on some of them in Switzerland.”
“But you have come to Rome. Why?”
“We want to bring this whole dirty business to the International Court in the Hague. As individuals, we cannot do that. The petition must be made by a country through its legal government. Our own country refuses to act. So we address ourselves to Italy. You and I, Eminence, are of Italian origin, but we are not citizens. Again, we have no voice. However, hundreds of the disappeared ones were Italian citizens, holders of Italian passports, legally resident in Argentina. They have no voice, because they do not exist anymore. So, we turn to an Italian who knows what happened, the Pope’s man, the Apostolic Nuncio, Archbishop Aquino.”
“But you discover you can’t touch him either, because he is a citizen of Vatican City State?”
“Precisely! We beg him to abdicate that position so we may lay charges against him in an Italian court, and there expose witnesses and testimonies which may force the Italian government to bring the matter to the International Court. The Archbishop – he is now a Cardinal – declines. He claims we have no evidence. He says he should not be asked to convict himself. Besides, he needs the consent of the Holy Father to present himself in a civil court. Now the Holy Father is dead – and whatever hopes we had died with him. I mean no disrespect. You have received me in your house, but I have to say I have no faith in the Church anymore. In Argentina, too many of the hierarchy made a pact of silence with evil men. It seems we shall have to wait to argue the matter with God!”
“If you are looking for justice, Señora,” said Luca Rossini “that’s the only place you’ll find it. I should be a liar if I told you differently. Listening to you, I myself feel guilty. I suffered, as you know. Señora Ortega took a mortal risk to save me; but in the end we owed our lives to that same conspiracy of silence. A bargain was made. If we broke the bargain, others would suffer.”
“But why are you still silent, now that things have changed? Are you still afraid?”
“I can answer only for myself,” said Rossini. “I have nothing to fear.”
“I have something to fear,” said Isabel. “I have a husband, a daughter. I cannot play dice with their lives.”
“I understand,” said the old woman. “I know very well what fear means. So, my brave Eminence, what do you think you can do for us?”
“Let’s talk a little more, Señora. We get one chance at this, we cannot afford any mistakes. I want to hear your whole case against Aquino – and remember it’s against him, not against the local church.”
“I have the documents here …”
For more than forty minutes they sat huddled together at the desk, while Rosalia Lodano displayed the contents of her dossier and Rossini questioned her closely on their authenticity and their provenance. Finally, he broke off the conversation.
“I have seen enough. I’ll have Juan bring you tea or coffee. I need to be private for a few minutes.”
He rang for the servant, ordered refreshments for the women, then retired to his bedroom, where he made a telephone call to Aquino. He began abruptly.
“This is Rossini. I am at my house. With me is a woman from Argentina, Rosalia Lodano, with whom you have been in correspondence. I have just gone through the documents in her dossier against you.”
“This is outrageous! You have no right to intrude in this fashion.”
“Be quiet, please. Just listen. I did not intrude, you asked for my help. Today this woman came to me with the same request. A couple of days ago, you gave a rather mischievous interview to a journalist from Le Monde in which you revealed our private conversations about the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo.”
“I would hardly call it a revelation. I thought it a good opportunity to prepare the ground for any discussions we might have with the women – create an atmosphere of goodwill. I saw nothing objectionable in that.”
“I found it gravely object
ionable. You represented me as your advocate and defender.”
“I did not.”
“The lady said otherwise.”
“Come now, Rossini! Be fair! You know how exposed one is to misinterpretations, especially in a relaxed interview.”
“And you know it, too! You’re an experienced diplomat. You’ve been weighing words all your life. You weighed these, too, before you spoke them.”
“That’s ridiculous – utterly paranoid!”
“Is it? Let me put it in context for you. I consent, privately, to mediate a discussion – not arbitrate, not adjudicate, just mediate. The Guillermin woman is very intelligent, an accurate reporter. You give her a version of our agreement that immediately and irrevocably compromises me and absolves you. The victim himself is pleading the innocence of the accused. That does everything you need. You don’t have to answer any accusation. You walk into the conclave a cleanskin candidate for an interim papacy. And that’s another thing – please don’t recommend me to anyone.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Another meeting, with a deputation of our colleagues. You were quoted: ‘Rossini gets about a lot. He knows how to read the wind. If I were Pontiff, I’d make sure to keep him near me.’”
“It was a compliment.”
“It was conveyed to me as an inducement.”
“And you were appropriately insulted!”
“Yes, I was.”
“Then I suggest you cool off before we finish our business together.”
“We can finish it this afternoon, if you wish. Rosalia Lodano is still here. Mademoiselle Guillermin will be here at five-thirty. I have all the dossier material I need to take an intelligent role in the discussion.”
“To what end?”
“To give you the chance to state your case openly to the press – to a woman with whom you were obviously comfortable. To give the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo a chance to be heard in an open forum. To give me a chance to do what you asked in the first place, mediate a position of minimal risk for you and for the Church.”
