by Morris West
“And if I decline?”
“Then I shall take the meeting and do the best I can.”
“I can’t decide immediately on this. I need time …”
“You have none.” He quoted ironically: “‘Now is the acceptable time. Now is the day of salvation.’”
“Can you at least limit the scope of …”
“I believe I can limit the damage and still leave you some vestige of reputation. Tell me now, Eminence, yes or no?”
“Have you told the Secretary of State about this?”
“I remind you that it was he who arranged our first meeting at your request. I quote him verbatim: ‘You may even find some ground of compassion which would encourage him to confront his accusers. You may perhaps break through to the real man behind the enamel.’”
There was a longish silence on the line. Then Aquino asked:
“How will you arrange this?”
“Rosalia Lodano is here. You should speak with her first. Then we should all meet Mademoiselle Guillermin.”
“Who else will be there?”
“Señora Ortega. It was she who put me in touch with Rosalia Lodano.”
“What is her standing in all this?”
“Rather like mine, a friend of the court. Well, what do you say?”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“I think that’s a wise decision,” said Luca Rossini. “Very wise.”
When he went back to report the conversation to the two women, he found Rosalia Lodano quite hostile.
“The more I think of this, the less I like it, a private talk in a private room. Afterwards, everyone has a different version. This is what happens always, here and at home: soft words, careful phrases, a promise to study the matter further – then nothing.”
“We shall record the talks,” said Rossini calmly. “You shall have the original tape. Much more important, however, is what you will get out of the meeting.”
“We have to get him into court!”
“No, Señora!” Rossini was curt. “You will never do it. I have seen your documents. You will bleed yourselves of money and of life, but you do not have a case to bring to court.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because it’s a fact, clear from your own files. In any legal sense, Aquino is not a criminal; on what I have read in your dossier, you will never get an indictment against him either in Italy or the Hague.”
“So why am I wasting time here?”
“Because this afternoon you have the chance to bring the story once again to world attention, implant it more deeply in world memory, so that the shadow of guilt hangs always over the perpetrators. As for Aquino, his previous silence may yet be a powerful witness in your cause. If you can get him to admit to moral guilts, then you will have won a great victory.”
“Can you guarantee he will admit anything?”
“I believe he can be brought to it, yes. His consent to this afternoon’s meeting puts him halfway along the road.”
“And the rest of the journey?”
“I believe I can coax him further.”
The two women stared at him in astonishment. Isabel uttered a warning.
“You’ve arranged the meeting, Luca. Already that’s a great deal. Is it wise for you to conduct the discussion?”
“I’m not sure. That is, in any case, a choice for Señora Lodano. The fact is that I can use words and arguments which she would find too bitter in her mouth. I can judge the impact of those words on Aquino. In their own context they may prove more potent than any reproaches pronounced upon him in the name of the absent ones. However, I am equally prepared to be mute and let her conduct her own dialogue.”
The old woman sat in silence for a few moments, then she said abruptly:
“Why do you think you can plead our case better than we can?”
“I cannot plead it better. I may deliver you a quicker result and perhaps a better one than you will otherwise get.”
“Convince me of that, Eminence. Convince me that we should trust you so far!”
Ten
There was a sudden winter chill in the air when Aquino entered the room. Rossini introduced the two women. Aquino acknowledged them with a bow but fearing a rebuff did not offer his hand. Rossini seated him on the opposite side of his desk while he took his own chair and laid the folder of documents before him. The women sat together, a pace away from the desk. A third chair was set beside them for Steffi Guillermin, who was due to arrive within the hour.
Rossini was carefully formal. He announced:
“I propose that we record our conversation so that there can be no doubt about what is said here. If either party wishes to speak off the record, then I shall simply stop the machine. Are we all agreed?”
They nodded assent. Rossini switched on the machine and dictated the time, date, location and names of those attending the meeting. Then he began:
“This conference is being held in the hope of settling certain problems outstanding between the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo and His Eminence Cardinal Aquino, formerly Apostolic Nuncio to Argentina. Let me make it clear that some days ago Cardinal Aquino had asked me to mediate such a discussion. The Secretary of State approved the idea. Señora Lodano, leader of a delegation of the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo, presently in Rome, had been trying to arrange a meeting for some time. Nevertheless, all the discussions are without prejudice to the position of either party, and they have no formal character. My role is that of mediator only. I am not called upon to make judgments, only to facilitate discussions. My role does not exclude a certain advocacy for either party, if such advocacy helps to bring about a solution. Unfortunately, some solutions are beyond our reach. We cannot bring back the dead. We cannot – for this moment at least – say where or how the disappeared ones met their ends. Justice for them, redress for their sorrowing relatives are beyond our reach.
“Let me also say that it is not possible to render full justice to Cardinal Aquino, who, as a diplomatic representative of the Vatican, served in Argentina during a terrible period of its history. Documents which he sent directly to His late Holiness are now held in the Secret Archive. Others, held by the Secretariat of State, cannot be released until a new Pontiff is elected. Conflicting claims are made about the actions of His Eminence in the context of the period. It is not my function to adjudicate those claims, but simply to elicit those facts upon which both parties can agree at this time. Eminence, are you prepared to state that during your service as Apostolic Nuncio in Argentina, there was a large scale campaign of terror by the State against certain classes of its citizens, and that this campaign resulted in the arrest, torture and death of many thousands, and the total disappearance of many others whose fate is still unknown?”
“Yes. I do not have an exact number for the victims but I can stipulate that the numbers were in the thousands. The government itself admits to ten, I believe.”
“Now, let us see if we can arrive at an accurate, if not all-embracing, description of your functions as Apostolic Nuncio. Please be as clear as you can. This is very important for Señora Lodano and the colleagues whom she represents here.”
“The function is a double one. A Nuncio is a legate of the Holy See, a permanent diplomatic agent of the Pope, who is Sovereign of Vatican City State. He carries the rank of Ambassador. His second duty, separate from the first, is to watch over the welfare of the Church in the country of his mission.”
“And what is his rank in the local Church?”
“He outranks all local clergy except a Cardinal Archbishop. He is responsible only to the Holy See.”
“Can he direct the local clergy?”
“At the request of the Holy See, yes.”
“But he does render regular advice to Rome on the state of the local Church – and, even if he doesn’t use them, he has wide powers of intervention.”
“Yes, but he is expected to use those powers with prudence and discretion.”
Rossini turned to the two women.
“Any questions so far?”
“Only one,” said Rosalia Lodano. “It seems we have a watchdog with two heads. Which one was supposed to bark when our people were being arrested, tortured and killed?”
“Would you care to respond to that, Eminence?” asked Rossini.
“I admit that neither one made enough noise.” Aquino was surprisingly subdued. “An Ambassador can only work within certain protocols. Normally, his exchanges with governments – his own government and that to which he is accredited – are made in secret. Much of his influence depends upon the tactful handling of difficult situations.”
“One understands that.” Rosalia Lodano was ominously cool. “One asks how tactful one must be about a young woman, a student, picked off the street, imprisoned, tortured, raped, and then murdered. That’s what happened to my daughter. My son? We don’t know what happened to him after his arrest. How do you come to terms with that?”
“I heard many such stories during my term as Nuncio. It was not possible to determine whether they were fact or rumour.”
“But you were very close to the Generals. No one was in a better position to ask for facts.”
“I’m not sure what you mean, Señora.”
“I think this is what she’s talking about.” Rossini leafed through the dossier and brought out three glossy photographs of a much younger Aquino dressed in tennis clothes, with a group of officers similarly dressed. Aquino glanced at them and waved them away.
“That, in hindsight, was an indiscretion. On the other hand, I was a diplomat. One does not conduct diplomacy from an office chair. One tries to make friends, cultivate people. I did that, I was able on several important occasions to make deals for the release of prisoners who might otherwise have disappeared.”
“We have a record of at least one such deal.” Rossini leafed through the file again. “You were offered – what was it – forty detainees, who had just been sent to Buenos Aires from other areas. The local commander did not want to handle them. You were told that if you could arrange to get them out of the country, they would be spared some very unpleasant experiences, ending in death or disappearance. You did that. You managed to persuade the Venezuelan government to receive them. These documents confirm it.”
“Yes, I did. It wasn’t enough, but it was something.”
“You did something special for me, too. You gave me safe conduct out of the country after my own experience.”
“Again, it was a question of doing what one could in difficult times.”
“But there is an anomaly here, is there not?”
“What kind of anomaly?”
“Before and after these events, in public interviews with the press, you denied any knowledge of what was being done under the system of State terror.”
“When one is walking a tightrope, one slips sometimes. It was, I confess, a diplomatic lie.”
“But the question arises, does it not: you knew and you were silent?”
“I explained to you, as a diplomat, I had to work in silence.”
“Did it never occur to you, Eminence?” Rosalia Lodano was implacable. “Did you never ask yourself what might have happened if you had shouted the truth just once to the world?”
“I asked myself that question many times.”
“Did you seek advice from your supervisors in Rome?”
“I did. The answer was always the same. I was the man on the spot. They had to rely on my judgment, and the judgment of the local Church.”
“Again,” Rosalia Lodano challenged him harshly. “Again, two dogs’ heads but neither barks!”
“No, Señora!” Rossini rounded on her swiftly. “Not true. There were many others who barked and shouted and fought, too. There were many good pastors killed. There were nuns and monks among the disappeared ones.”
“But their leaders were silent! They are still silent now. They play with words, trying to construct documents that will say yes and no at the same time.”
“Again, Señora, not all.” He leafed again through the dossier and came up with a passage which he read slowly. “‘We, the members of the Church of Argentina, have many reasons to confess our sins and to beg forgiveness for our insensibilities, our cowardice, our omissions, our complicities …’” He broke off and turned to Aquino. “You know the man who wrote this, Eminence?”
“I do. He was – he is a good bishop – but that is his testimony and the testimony of the clergy of his diocese. His statement was not welcomed by all the clergy. They still do not welcome it.”
“Why not?”
Aquino did not answer immediately. He sat, hands clasped, head bowed, staring at the desk, searching for words. Then he pieced out the answer with painful deliberation.
“It’s the oldest and saddest story in the world. Too little and too late. Evil bloats itself on silence. Good people are seduced by comfort into indifference. Men of God flatter themselves that they are empowered by the Church behind them. They go out to sup with the devil, confident that they will convert him in the end. They are always shocked when they see blood in the soup. A few of them – very few, thank God – seem to develop a taste for it.” He turned to Rosalia Lodano and said with sombre pathos: “That’s the best I can do for you, I’m afraid. We could go on for hours. The rest would be more of the same. I wish I could bring back your lost ones, Señora. I can only beg your forgiveness.”
Rossini switched off the recorder and the room was filled with silence. Then, on a rising note of anger, Rosalia Lodano attacked again.
“This still stinks of conspiracy! Both of you wear the same uniform, say the same bland words. You are both protected by the same institution. Has either of you ever borne a child; nurtured that child in love, and then had it brutalised and killed. Have you?”
“Enough!” Isabel’s voice sounded like the crack of a bullet. “Now, Señora, you will be silent and listen to me.”
She reached for her handbag, opened it and took out a small leather-bound folder the size of a passport. She opened it and thrust it at Rosalia Lodano.
“Look at that and tell me what you see.”
The woman stared at it for a few moments, then asked:
“Why do you show me this?”
“You talked about conspiracy, protection, bland words. Do these images spell conspiracy to you? Please pass it to his Eminence.”
Aquino held up his hand to decline.
“Thank you. I’ve already seen it. I have my own copies.”
Rossini asked:
“May I see it, please?’
Rosalia Lodano handed him the folder. He opened it and found himself staring at a series of plastic-covered photographs of himself, naked, spreadeagled on the wheel like a flayed animal with the sergeant’s riding-crop dangling like a tail from his backside. The sergeant was shown in each shot, in a different position, now opening his breeches, now displaying his penis, and finally lying on the ground with his head exploded like a melon.
Rossini turned to Isabel. He was pale as death. His voice seemed to curdle in his gullet.
“Why have I never seen these?”
“Because my father took them with him to Buenos Aires. They were his bargaining card with the Generals and with his Eminence here.”
“But I spoke with him before I left the country. I asked him why he had let the beating go on so long. He didn’t say he was taking pictures! Why didn’t he show them to me then?”
“Because he thought you weren’t ready. The doctor agreed with him. So did I. This was something you had blocked out completely. We thought you might have been unconscious when it happened.”
“So, tell me the rest of it, for God’s sake.”
“He took the pictures as fast as he could, but carefully too. Then he tossed the camera on to the bed, handed me the rifle and told me: ‘As soon as you see me hit the square, kill the son-of-a-bitch and take a picture of him dead.’ That’s what I did. I killed him and took the last
shot. You know the rest.”
“I look like an animal.” Rossini was still staring at the photographs. “They skinned me like a beast in a slaughter yard and raped me with a riding whip.”
He tossed the folder on the desk and fled the room. The next moment, they heard him retching his heart out in the toilet. Isabel was on her feet instantly; but the old woman held her wrist in an iron-grip.
“No! Better he deals with his own devils!” She turned to Aquino. “Even with those pictures in your hands, you did not speak out?”
“There were lives at stake. That was the deal I had to make.”
“That was the blood in the soup,” said the old woman. “How does it taste now?”
“Be quiet, grandmother!” There was vast weariness in Isabel’s voice. “There’s no profit in anger anymore. Better you ask his Eminence to say Mass to quiet the dead and give some peace to the living!”
Fifteen minutes later, Rossini emerged from his bedroom. He had taken off his clerical garb and put on a clean white shirt. He was pale but composed. He walked straight to Isabel, laid his hands on her shoulders and said plainly for all to hear:
“Thank you, my love, for the photographs. They were the missing piece of myself I did not dare to look for, did not want to find.”
He touched his lips to her hair. Aquino averted his eyes from the intimate gesture and began toying with the paper-knife. The old woman’s face was unreadable. Isabel reached up to touch Rossini’s fingers with her own. Then he withdrew from her and sat down at his desk again, turning to Aquino first and then to Rosalia Lodano. He said:
“Mademoiselle Guillermin will be here shortly. I should like to spare both of you any more interrogation. I propose, therefore, that we let her hear the tape and then address any questions to me. You need intervene only if you feel my answers are inadequate.”
“I understand what you are doing,” said Aquino, “and I thank you for your consideration, but you may be opening yourself to a great deal of criticism from our colleagues once this interview is published.”
“After the deluge, what does one do? Wait for the dove with an olive twig in its beak? How do you feel, Señora Lodano?”
