by Morris West
“I’m sitting here listening to Mozart and trying to make sense of an assignment that’s been handed to me. It’s a real poison cup. I, of all people, have to address the electors at the beginning of the conclave and direct their thinking to the consequences of their choice. My waste-basket is full of my failures. I’ve given up for this evening.”
“Why did you take it on?”
“I was pressed into it.”
“Forgive me, Luca, my love, but you were never pressed into anything – except your flight from Argentina.”
“And you would never let me lie, even a little. Very well, then! I was willing to speak. For a short while, there were things I thought I wanted to say. Now they’ve all flown away like pigeons from a bell-tower.”
“That means it’s time to stop thinking and let your heart speak.”
“I have to write the words. The translators need a text.”
“Then go back to your desk and write what we thought and said and argued in those few weeks we had together in the countryside near Cordoba, when we tossed our caps in the air and let the pampas wind whirl them away. You were so angry then, so passionate. I remember one thing you said: ‘We have to summon Christ back out of his nowhere and have him talk and walk among us again. If he doesn’t we’re all lost beasts lowing in a slaughter-yard, waiting for the butchers.’ That was was the first night we made love … You were a boy priest then. Now you are an Eminence. Does his Eminence remember?”
“I remember,” said Luca Rossini.
“Then tell it! Tell it as your heart remembers. Tell it for me.”
“But you will be gone.”
“I shall never be gone from you, nor you from me. Pick up your pen and write!”
Thirteen
Now Isabel was gone and Luisa with her. The labour she had enforced on him – to write the experience of their love into a passionate plea for change – had cushioned, for a while at least, the impact of loss and the fear of a future devoid of her presence. While he was grateful for the brief mercy, he knew that the agony would follow, as surely as night followed day.
At ten in the morning, dog-tired but bathed and shaved and spruce as a guardsman on parade, he presented himself to the Secretary of State and laid the manuscript on his desk. The Secretary acknowledged it with careful respect.
“Punctual as always, Luca! Thank you. I’ll read it later, if you don’t mind. Have you timed it?”
“Fifteen minutes – give or take thirty seconds. I hope the roof doesn’t fall in while I’m delivering it.”
It was a small joke, but the Secretary chose to take it seriously. He frowned and shook his head.
“They’ll be a hard audience, Luca. You’ll be addressing them in your mother tongue. The Nordics are sceptical of Latin eloquence; so they’ll be reading the text in translation. Don’t be too discouraged if their reaction seems tepid. There is much uneasiness, much discontent with the workings of the curial bureaucracy of which you and I are a part.”
“And of which certain ambitious members will try to maintain control.”
“As the list looks at the moment, they may well succeed.” The Secretary of State was sombre. “We have arrived, my dear Luca, at a critical moment in history: the end of a very long Papal reign, the end of a century, the beginning of a new millennium. It is idle to pretend that such events do not affect people. They do, most profoundly. They affect us also, much more than we are prepared to admit. We are the mandarins of the bureaucracy, but we are just as vulnerable as the lowliest peasant to the changes of times and of manners.”
“It would help me, Turi, to have your reading of the conclave as it is now constituted.”
“Well!” The Secretary of State took time to order his thoughts. “First, we shall be a deeply divided assembly. It is not easy to label the divisions because they are not all based on religious belief or disciplinary policy. Some are based on pure self-interest. Not all of us are good men. Not all of us are halfway good. A few of us are secret villains who have made their own pacts with greedy and tyrannous men. You know that. We all know it, even if we can’t confess it. Most of the men of goodwill admit that change is necessary. They all face two basic questions: what change and at what speed? The larger the ship, the harder and the slower it is to alter course. Our late Pontiff tried – though he would never admit it – to reverse the course set by the Second Vatican Council towards a collegial government and a compassionate Assembly. He almost succeeded; but he put the ship in stays, stalled its progress so that, at this moment, it sits dead in the water. The crew is discouraged; there are murmurs of mutiny between decks. The officers – you, me and all the thousands of others – try to maintain good order and discipline and confidence in our celestial navigation. Many of us have found ourselves changed into officials, sceptical of our own priesthood. The people, too, are sceptical of the ministry we offer. We are commanded to silence on too many questions which should be open for active discussion. You and I can talk ourselves through a whole catalogue of other questions clamouring for attention: celibacy of the clergy, an imperial Church or a collegial one, the theology of sex and marriage, the persistence of inquisitorial practices within the Church, the imposition of new oaths and professions of faith on educators in our schools and universities. Suppression of debate is an untenable position in today’s world. The people ask for light. We condemn them to darkness. They cry for warmth. We, who claim to be the keepers of fire, offer them a penitential cold. Sitting where I do, Luca, I am probably the least constrained man in the Church – but, God forgive me, I have felt the straps of the strait-jacket tightening every year!”
“Suppose,” Luca Rossini challenged him quietly, “just suppose, you found yourself in my position – not from frustration, but from the slow erosion of belief itself – what would you do, Turi?”
“I have no idea, Luca, because I have no idea how the problem presents itself to you. Mine is an unexamined faith. I wear it as I wear my own skin. I accept it, as I accept my own genetic identity. I claim no merit in that. It is a comfort I have done nothing to deserve.”
“What I am experiencing,” Luca Rossini chose the words with great care, “what I have experienced for some time, is like the threat of blindness. I know that I may wake one morning and see nothing of what I see now. Will it be dark for me then, or light? I have no means of knowing. What sense will I make of the world – the same world, Turi – when all the intricate apparatus of reason and revelation and myth and beautiful legend, familial continuity even, has been dismantled, made to disappear by a single magic phrase: non credo, I don’t believe, I can’t accept to believe any more?”
“I don’t know, my friend. I don’t know. I suspect, however, that it might make life a little easier if one were absolved from all the burdens of belief One could pursue any path one chose, adapt oneself in any possible fashion to an accidental universe. I could see certain advantages, for instance, in a sceptic Pope, an opportunistic Secretary of State. We have had some of each down the centuries.” The slow smile belied the irony of the utterance. The after-thought took the edge off the irony. “I am not mocking you. I read your suffering in your eyes. Your Isabel is gone. You fear you may never see her again. Yet you will not ask me to share your mourning. You deliver what I ordered – fifteen minutes of homily, carefully timed. I admire that. I envy you – understand me well, Luca! – I envy you the experience of love, which I have never known but which you have had with Isabel. I cannot guess how you have managed to live, as I know you have lived, all these celibate years without her. I understand, or think I understand, the emptiness you fear after she dies. Belief, like sight, is a gift that may be taken away. But love will not fail you, as Isabel did not fail you in the time of terror.”
“I hope you’re right. I dare not think too far beyond today. I have never asked you this before, I had too much pride, I suppose. How much do you know of those early events in Argentina?”
“Most of it is in our files and those of
the Holy Father, which are consigned to the Secret Archive. Our friend Aquino was a careful recorder, if a self-protective interpreter. The Argentine government was also sedulous in reporting its side of the story – including the birth of a daughter to Isabel Ortega, by Caesarian section in a New York hospital.”
“You should know, in fact, Luisa is my daughter,” said Luca Rossini. “Isabel had never told me before this visit. Luisa did not know. As you may imagine, our first encounter was somewhat dramatic.”
“And how does Luisa feel about it?”
“Confused, I think, but she is kindly disposed to me. More importantly, she has seen her mother and me together. Our love is open to her. She understands and approves it. I may be able to offer her some support when her mother is gone. It’s too early to tell.”
“And Raul Ortega?”
“My understanding is that he loves her and accepts her as his child. I did not ask any more questions.”
“I ask,” said the Secretary of State calmly, “because, given this new knowledge, you may like to revise your somewhat tepid recommendation of Ortega as Ambassador to the Holy See. The letter is still in my hands. It has not yet been filed in the dossier. If he were appointed, it might make you and your daughter a little more accessible to each other.”
“You’re a kind man, Turi.” His voice was unsteady and there were tears pricking at his eyelids. “But I couldn’t let you do it. My daughter and I will find each other in due time.”
“I’m sure you will.” The Secretary of State was suddenly brusque. “Now, I need your help on a couple of matters. First, I received this message from our Nuncio in Brazil. He pushed the text across the desk:
At a social gathering last night, I spoke with a prominent editor, Eduardo da Souza, whom I know to be a numerary of Opus Dei. He talked in guarded fashion about a communication from a Roman colleague on the subject of Claudio Stagni and the disturbing effect of the Papal diaries inside the hierarchy and outside it. Apparently, there was a suggestion that what he called “a discreet harassment” of Stagni might be the first step towards discrediting the provenance of the documents themselves. I told him I had no knowledge of such a suggestion and would counsel strongly against it. Da Souza declined to reveal his Roman source. I recommend an enquiry at your end.
Rossini was still frowning over the document when the Secretary of State pushed a second one towards him.
“This piece was faxed to me from London this morning. It was published in the Telegraph and is attributed to their Roman correspondent, Frank Colson.
Rossini read the piece carefully and then asked:
“Do you have a problem with this, Turi?”
“Don’t you?”
“At first glance, no. I was here when you instructed him. You told him he was free to ‘work within the discretion of his office’ – your exact words, Turi. It seems to me he’s done just that.”
“No, he hasn’t. I questioned him closely just before you arrived. He admits that he sought evidence on Stagni from a colleague in Rio de Janeiro. He admits that he had no brief to conduct investigative procedures. Secondly, he ascribes motives and states of mind to the late Pontiff: ‘panic revelation, of an old and over-worked man.’ Already, this is too much. Finally, he lays special emphasis on a highly coloured word: ‘subversion’. That reflects on all of us!”
“You should remember, Turi, this is a reporter’s version. It does not purport to be a verbatim interview.”
“It was an occasion sought by Angel-Novalis to state his personal convictions. That is outside his official brief. He claims he had a moral obligation to defend the reputation of the Pontiff and to defend the Church from damage arising out of the misuse of private documents. He had grace enough to apologise for what he called the ‘taint of anger’ in his actions.”
“I think you were too hard on him, Turi. He’s like a thoroughbred race-horse. He runs best when he’s wearing blinkers.”
The Secretary ruminated on that thought for a while and then nodded a cautious agreement.
“You could be right, Luca. I was angry with him. He remained in control of himself. He offered me his immediate resignation.”
“Did you accept it?”
“No. I told him that, as he had been appointed by the late Pontiff, he should follow the common practice and offer his resignation to the new man.”
“A wise decision on your part, Turi.”
“I’m glad you think so, Luca,” said the Secretary of State in his direct fashion. “I have also told him that the last thing we need is any involvement with his colleagues in Buenos Aires, or any involvement by them in the Stagni affair.”
“One has to presume Angel-Novalis has enough influence to prevent it.”
“Who knows?” The Secretary of State shrugged in resignation. “We create our own sacred monsters in the Church, both individuals and organisations. The monsters create their own agenda, and stamp the documents with their own seal of godliness or perversity. There are great saints, great institutions of piety, learning and charity. There are also witch-hunters, murderous crusaders, Jew-baiters, inquisitors who will condemn a thinking mind to silence and solitude. And now, my dear Luca, having delivered myself of all these indiscretions, I have to put you to the question. The Camerlengo would like to see us both in his office.”
“About anything in particular?”
“I would guess your interview with Le Monde would at least be mentioned.”
“I haven’t seen it, Turi.”
“A lot of other people have.”
“Do you have a copy?”
“I do.” He gathered up the other papers from the desk and offered Rossini the article, clipped inside a folder. He also offered a cautionary comment. “Take enough time to read it carefully while I look over your text. Then we’ll stroll across to see Baldassare.”
“What else does he want to talk about?”
“He hasn’t told me. The See of Peter is vacant. We are simply invited to sit under the Chamberlain’s umbrella and drink morning coffee. I’ll tell him to expect us in fifteen minutes!”
Steffi Guillermin’s piece was much longer than he had expected. It had been laid out with great care, divided into two distinct sections, with key portions of the text boldly boxed. It was headed “Enquiry into an Eminent Person”. The subheading read simply, “Portrait of a Papal candidate”. The introduction was deceptively prosaic:
This portrait was composed during two sessions with the subject, Luca, Cardinal Rossini, Italian by ancestry, Argentinian by birth and nurture, who has lived in distinguished exile for a quarter of a century, and was promoted steadily by the late Pontiff to curial rank.
The first session was a formal one, supervised by the Chief of the Vatican Press Office, Monsignor Domingo Angel-Novalis. The conditions were agreed in advance. I was free to ask any questions I chose. His Eminence might decline to answer, but everything that was said during the interview was on the record. It is printed here in full and without comment.
The second session was much less formal. It took place in the private apartment of His Eminence in Rome. Present were His Eminence Cardinal Aquino, former Nuncio Apostolic in Argentina, Señora Isabel Ortega, and the leader of the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo, Señora Rosalia Lodano. The conditions were changed also. I agreed in advance that certain subjects would be discussed off the record. I consented to this arrangement and I have observed it. However, certain information embargoed during the discussion was available to me from other quarters. This I have not scrupled to use. What I hope to have captured is the public and the private face of a complex man who, though he is little known to the Church at large, will not fail to impress himself on his colleagues in conclave.
The public man is easy to depict. He is a presence in any company. He is tall, lean and handsome, with aquiline features and dark observant eyes. When he smiles, his face lights up and he radiates an eager interest. When he is displeased, his features harden into an unreadable mask. He i
s always courteous; but, as I discovered at my first meeting, he is impatient of tricks and professional ruses. I learned quickly to deal from the top of the deck. In professional terms I found him grave, occasionally humorous and always precise. He appreciated the fact that I had come well prepared and that I knew how to spell the words. He returned the compliment, with the well-turned answers which you will read on this page.
The private man revealed himself by indirection. First, he was engaged in a delicate diplomatic enterprise. The Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo want to bring Cardinal Aquino before an Italian court on charges of complicity and collaboration with the Argentine military dictatorship in the death and disappearance of Italian nationals, both lay folk and those in religious professions, who were tortured, murdered or simply disappeared during the dirty war. To accomplish this, they need a waiver of immunities by Vatican City State. This, one guesses, would be unlikely to be granted. So, enter Cardinal Rossini, himself a victim of the dirty war who, as a young priest, was flogged and violated in front of his own church. He was rescued from further horror by Señora Ortega and her father.
While her father went on to Buenos Aires to negotiate a deal for Rossini’s safe-conduct out of Argentina, Señora Ortega fled with him to a country estate and nursed him back to health.
I saw photographic evidence – which I have agreed not to describe in these pages – of what was done to Rossini.
I perceived then, very clearly, how Rossini achieved a personal salvation through a woman. I was privileged to see them together under circumstances of extreme paradox. Both are now in their fifties. They had not seen each other for a quarter of a century. Even so, there was no doubt in my mind that once, for however brief a time, they had been lovers and that the same love still endured in them both. It lit up the sparse bachelor room in the Cardinal’s residence. One read it in every glance and gesture. It lent a special character to Rossini’s plea for a truce, if not a settlement, between Aquino and the women who were his accusers.
