by Morris West
“I’m an old woman with bitterness in my mouth. I’m sorry for some of the things I said – not all, but some. If this woman wants more information, then I will give it to her directly, but not here. We have all had enough emotion for one day.”
A few moments later, Steffi Guillermin was announced. She was clearly surprised by the group which confronted her. Her comment was addressed to Rossini.
“Two Eminences and two distinguished ladies. That’s quite a catch for a journalist like me.”
“And you will be appropriately grateful.” Rossini said it with a smile, but she was instantly wary.
“And how am I expected to show my gratitude?”
“In our previous interview, I accepted to play by your ground rules – everything on the record. Today you are in my house. I am giving you an exclusive release on an important story. Certain other subjects may arise which will be off the record. You have a high reputation as an honest journalist. If you can’t accept that condition, then we should go no further. Do you agree?”
“I have no choice, do I?”
“You do have a choice. You can give me your word and then find some plausible excuse to break it. Or you can give me your promise and keep it.”
She made him wait a few seconds for the answer.
“You have my promise.”
“Thank you. Please sit down. I’m going to play you a tape made this afternoon in this room. You may copy it on your own machine. Cardinal Aquino will decline to make any further comment. Señora Lodano is prepared, if you wish it, to make another appointment with you for further discussion.”
“And you, Eminence?”
“I’m reserving my position until I hear the questions. Shall we begin?”
The playback held them all speechless. It was only when it was finished that they realised how far Aquino had committed himself, and how adroitly Rossini had led him into the confession. Even Rosalia Lodano offered a reluctant compliment.
“I see now what you meant. If this is published, it may well save us money and grief.”
“It will be published,” said Guillermin. “We will originate and syndicate the material. We need a document of authority and a quit-claim.”
“If everyone else is agreed, you can prepare them and send them to me for execution,” said Rossini.
The others made no objection. Guillermin pressed on:
“Now, Eminence, may we dispose of the questions which brought me here in the first place. They relate to the interview which I had with you, and to the material I have just heard.”
“What are the questions?”
“The tabloid press in England is floating material which is still vague, but which may balloon into something more substantive. It refers to a violent crime connected with your escape from Argentina, a sexual assault on your person, a love affair and an illegitimate child born after you left Argentina.”
“We are now off the record,” said Rossini.
“As we agreed,” said Guillermin.
“I advise most strongly against any disclosures on this subject.” Aquino, at one stride, had put himself centre-stage. “They are not opportune. No matter what Mademoiselle Guillermin promises, rumours multiply. You can never control them all.”
“The deal stands,” said Luca Rossini. “Are we off the record, Mademoiselle?”
“We are.”
Rossini picked up the folder of photographs and handed it to Guillermin. She, too, paled at the sight of the pictures. She closed the folder and handed it back. Rossini said flatly:
“The man on the wheel is me. The photographs were taken by Señora Ortega’s father before he ran down into the square to rescue me.”
“Who shot the sergeant?”
“I did,” said Isabel. “My father took control of the troops, ordered them back to the barracks and sent us both into hiding while he negotiated amnesty for me and safe conduct for Luca.”
“And you became lovers?”
“For those weeks only,” said Rossini. “Now, we have only love.”
“But you, Señora Ortega, have a daughter, yes?”
“I do. She was born in Doctors’ Hospital, New York City. She was baptised Luisa Amelia Isabel Ortega in the Church of Saint Vincent Ferrer in New York.”
Guillermin turned to Aquino.
“I have some questions for you, Eminence.”
“We are still off the record, I trust?”
“We are. First question. How much did you know about Luca Rossini before you brought him to Rome?”
“Everything. I, too, was given copies of the photographs. I gave them to the Holy Father when I presented my report.”
“And you also told him of the association between Luca Rossini, an ordained priest, and Isabel Ortega, a married woman?”
“I did.”
“Yet, in spite of that, the Holy Father took him into his confidence and promoted him steadily over the years. Can you explain that?”
“It would be a presumption to try. In such matters, the Holy Father acted on his own absolute discretion. May I ask why you are pursuing this line of questioning with me?”
“Because two days before the conclave, we shall be publishing my interview with Cardinal Rossini and the final section of the Papal diaries. There is a significant reference in the diaries which only now makes sense to me. The Pontiff writes: ‘I have never learned the tenderness or the terror of love. Rossini paid a high price for that knowledge. In the end, I think he is more fortunate than I.’”
She turned to Isabel and offered an unexpected tribute of admiration.
“When I was a girl in convent school, I always admired the valiant women of the Bible: Ruth, Esther, Judith. I think you’ve earned your place among them.”
Isabel acknowledged the compliment with a smile and a shrug.
“You flatter me, Mademoiselle. Killing is very easy. The real art is to stay alive.” To Luca Rossini she said: “I should be leaving now. Luisa and I have a dinner engagement. Will you call me in the morning?”
“Of course. Juan will drive you to the hotel and take Señora Lodano on to Monte Oppio.”
“She could come with me.” Steffi Guillermin never missed a move. “We could talk on the way.”
“Thank you. There is much more to say than we have covered here. Nonetheless, I am grateful to Cardinal Rossini for what he has done, and for the good offices of Señora Ortega. Neither do I forget that it has cost Cardinal Aquino some pains to be here today.”
At this moment, Rossini thought it prudent to intervene.
“Does your Eminence have transport? If not, Juan can take you with Señora Ortega.”
“My own driver will come for me when I telephone; but I’d like to have a private word with you before I leave.”
Which was how, after the three women had left, Rossini found himself entertaining his former adversary over a decanter of brandy. Aquino made the first toast:
“Salud! You gave me a rough ride! But you’re a bigger man than I ever believed, Luca Rossini.”
“I’m glad, for both our sakes, it’s over.”
“It will never be over,” said Aquino sombrely. “But now, at least it’s in the open. I’ll still be looking at the same man in the mirror, but I won’t have to keep the door closed.”
“You said you needed to talk with me,” Rossini reminded him. “I don’t want to seem inhospitable but I think I’m suffering from some kind of delayed shock. The sight of those photographs was like a punch in the belly.”
“I don’t understand why she brought them to Rome in the first place.”
“Unfinished business,” said Rossini simply. “We haven’t seen each other for a quarter of a century.”
“I could see you were shocked. I thought you recovered very quickly.”
“I knew what she was trying to do. When we met for the first time, I was like a shattered vase. Shards of me were scattered everywhere.” Rossini seemed to be musing aloud. “Day by day, piece by piece, she put me t
ogether again. When we parted and I came to Rome, there were pieces still missing. You were with me. You remember how I was.”
“I remember very well.”
“Those photographs were the missing pieces. I couldn’t admit the horror of the violation. Isabel knew I would finally have to face it.”
“And you can now?”
“Yes, I feel I am whole; but please don’t shake me too much before the glue sets.”
“I have to confess something to you.”
“What?”
“When I brought you out of Buenos Aires and back to Rome, I made a report to the Holy Father. I told him that I thought you were a very fragile case and that there were elements of scandal in your situation. Before I went back to Argentina, he summoned me again. He told me he had thought much about the young man I had brought him. He gave me a discourse about Saint Paul’s letter to Timothy: ‘In a great house there are vessels of gold and silver, some also of wood and earth.’ I didn’t know quite where he was leading me until he said ‘Our son, Luca, he’s a damaged vessel, but he will one day be a vessel of honour, for the master’s use.’ It has taken me a long time to see what he meant.” He broke off and then put a question to Rossini.
“Do you have any plans for this evening? Would you consider dining with me? The rector of the Angelicum is entertaining a few of us electors to dinner. I’m sure he would be delighted to welcome you. You’re much talked about, but little known. In a few days, we’re all going to be locked into Saint Martha’s House. It wouldn’t hurt to condition yourself a little. I’ll drop you home afterwards.”
There was a refusal on the tip of his tongue, but he did not utter it. The prospect of a solitary evening was too daunting. He hesitated only for a second and then said:
“It’s a kind thought. I’d like to come.”
“Good! Let me call the rector and alert my driver. Then, we can make ourselves comfortable for a while … This is an excellent brandy. And later, if I can borrow a razor, I’ll make myself presentable for our colleagues.”
The dinner-party was good for him. It wrenched him out of his isolation and forced him to assume the collegial function implicit in his office. It did more, it required him to match himself with a tightly knit group of Italian prelates, most of them graduates of the institution which was entertaining them.
It was not only language and scholastic tradition which bound them together. Italians were now a beleaguered minority in the electoral college. They held only seventeen per cent of the votes. Certain key positions in the Curia had been taken over by non-Italians, so that they now depended for their power upon a curious little oligarchy of highly political men, who were called the “grand electors” and sometimes the night-fishermen.
Their nets were cast wide even in the least promising waters. They trawled patiently in intricate patterns, ignoring the minnows in the surface stream, waiting for the big fish who must, sooner or later, swim into their traps.
In the old days, not so long past, a candidate needed two-thirds plus one of the votes to be elected Pope. Basically, that meant that even a popular candidate could fail if one-third of the voters refused him. However, since 1996, a further provision had been in force. If more than thirty normal ballots had failed, then a simple majority would suffice for election. This meant that, if the balloting went on long enough, a candidate could scrape by with a bare majority of one. This was not a matter of debate at the rector’s dinner. It was, like so much else in Rome, taken as read, filed for reference until the moment carne to invoke it. However, it did provide a sub-text for Aquino’s invitation. In terms of nationality, Luca Rossini was an outlander, a cultural hybrid. In terms of the coming event, he was a collegial voter and a long-odds candidate for office. To the “grand electors” he was a disposable but potentially useful piece in the chess-game which would begin in a few days.
So they courted him with small respects and flattering curiosities about his missions. They also tested him with subtle allusions to matters with which a new Pontiff must deal: a married clergy, how it might be addressed, how would it be received in this country or that, how, in any case, could it be financed; the powers of the dicasteries, should they be limited or increased; a third Vatican Council, should it complete the work of Vatican II or should it not be held at all?
They did not expect a text-book answer every time; they judged him by his skill in fielding the questions, by the good humour which he displayed when he saw the snares they had laid for him. They wanted to know how he would react in a crisis: could he be bullied, seduced or blackmailed into conformity with a powerful group like the “grand electors”. There was one question to which a peculiar emphasis seemed to attach itself. It was framed like a conundrum. “You travel much, Luca, how do you see the Church: as one or many? What shall we become in the new millennium?”
Rossini, rendered less wary than usual by fatigue and fraternity and the rector’s Frascati, rose to the bait.
“Of all the men in this room, I am the least equipped to answer that question … I have travelled widely enough to know the diversity of the world. I have lived long enough in Rome to understand both the truth and the fallacy of the claim that where Peter is, there is the Church. I think that’s one of the historic notions which we accept without examination. There is a much older statement made by Jesus Himself: ‘Where two or three are gathered together in my name there am I in the midst of them.’ In that sense, many churches, one in faith, yes. It depends, does it not, on whose sign is over the lintel of the door? ‘By this shall men know that you are my disciples if you have love one for another.’ But what am I saying? You didn’t invite me here to debate Pettine primacy.” He raised his glass in a toast: “To the brotherhood we share, to the future we hope to shape together!”
They drank. They gave him a good round of applause. Some of them laughed over his choice of the word fratellanza for brotherhood, because that was a word coloured by many associations, good and bad. However, after all, Rossini was an exotic and was not expected to understand all the nuances of the mother-tongue.
As they were driving home to Rossini’s apartment, Aquino told him:
“You made quite an impression there tonight, Luca. They gave you more than the usual roasting but you came up smiling like Saint Laurence on his gridiron. That last little homily went down well, also, because it was the last thing they were expecting.”
“I hope I passed the test.”
“Oh, you did, with high marks! It will all help.”
“Help what?”
The driver was just drawing up at Rossini’s house when Aquino answered:
“I fear you may be in for another roasting in Guillermin’s article. She’s not going to forgive you too easily for keeping the best part of the story off the record. Not that she won’t give you a fair run, but she’ll plant a few pics in your hide!”
“She could come straight over the horns for a kill.” Rossini was bone-weary. “I wouldn’t feel a thing. Thank you for the dinner and the company.”
“I wish you golden dreams,” said Aquino. “Goodnight.”
At five in the morning, he was wakened from a dead sleep by the shrilling of his telephone. He groped in the darkness to find the light-switch and the instrument. Luisa was on the line. She was obviously in distress.
“I know it’s an ungodly hour, Luca, but Mother’s sick. I wanted to call the hotel doctor. She refused to have him. She told me to wait until morning and call you. She said you’d be able to recommend a good doctor.”
“How is she now?”
“The vomiting has stopped. She still has a high fever. She’s drifting in and out of sleep.”
“Has this happened before?”
“Yes, but the intervals are getting shorter. In spite of medication, this was the worst attack I’ve seen.”
“Where are you calling from?”
“I’m in the salone of her suite.”
“She told me she carried a copy of her medical records.�
��
“They’re in her briefcase.”
“I’ll be with you as soon as I can. Meantime, I’ll get a doctor and have him meet me at the hotel.”
“I’m worried. Whatever happened yesterday left her very stressed. She held up well during the dinner; but by the time we got back to the hotel, she was in a state of collapse.”
“But the medication helped?”
“Yes. It always does. One more thing, Luca. I really don’t want her to go to Switzerland. I know it’s in a good cause, but she does not have too much energy to spend. Could you talk to her?”
“I will. Now, order up some breakfast for yourself and some tea for your mother. I have to get busy. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”
He rang off and then went into his study to find the private number of Doctor Angelo Mottola, physician to the late Pontiff. The good doctor was less than happy to be wakened, but he also had a healthy respect for this odd, peremptory alien who seemed to command spirits in high places, as well as his own private demons.
He listened attentively as Rossini sketched what Isabel had told him of her illness, then he said:
“I will examine her, of course. It helps that she has her medical records. I’m not a specialist in oncology, as you know. I can, of course, bring in a specialist; but even without seeing her, I would recommend an immediate return to New York, where they have much better facilities than we do. If she remained here, I would have to recommend treatment in Milan rather than in Rome. Does she have next of kin here?”
“An adult daughter; the husband is in New York, but within easy contact.”
“Then shall we say eight this morning at the hotel?”
“Thank you, doctor. I’m very grateful.”
Eleven
Doctor Angelo Mottola had come and gone. He had read the medical reports. He had examined the patient carefully. His advice, which had cost two hundred dollars, was simple. ‘There is nothing I can do for you, dear lady, beyond what your own physician has prescribed. Your condition will continue to deteriorate. The remissions will be shorter. You should go home immediately and put yourself under proper clinical care with your own doctor.”
