“Twenty,” said Nigel No, surprising both Mendosa and Willie Foot. “I heard one of his men say it when they brought us in. He has been advanced…promoted just recently and some of the others are jealous.” He bowed to the young officer, then marked toward the door. “There is one thing to be said for this incident,” Nigel observed as Willie and Mendosa followed him out into the sunlight, “and that is that we will run into no fuel shortages now. I have an army authorization as well as my other rations.” He beamed at Mendosa. “You will find your widow yet, Cardinal and—”
“She is not my widow,” Mendosa corrected him testily. “I’m neither married nor dead. And say Charles.” He got back into the car, making another attempt to find a comfortable adjustment of the seatbelt.
“Well, whatever you like,” said Nigel, settling into the driver’s seat. “We could get some rain tonight. I hope we’re settled in by the time it comes. The roof leaks a little.” He started the car and swung back onto the Revolutionary Highway.
A little while later, Mendosa asked, “Do you think there will be any trouble for Zhuang Renxin if she talks to me?”
Nigel thought about his answer. “They’ll want to interview her, of course, and to find out what you said to her, the reason for your visit. Since she has a good reputation, that will stand for something, and she will probably have to do nothing more than appear before a magistrate like herself and the local military authority, to clear up any misgivings.” He shrugged, and at the same time passed an ancient truck wheezing along under an enormous load of bok choy and onions.
“Could it be bad for her?” He folded his hands in his lap as he waited for the answer.
“If she did not have a good reputation, it might be,” Nigel said when he had thought it over. “But that isn’t the case. She isn’t part of any of the radical groups, she hasn’t participated in any of the demonstrations in support of Eastern European independence or democracy, so there is nothing to cause her difficulties.” His eyes glittered. “She is a very proper person, this Zhuang Renxin. She is modest and firm and reliable. How could she be regarded as dangerous?”
“Talking to me might give her that appearance,” said Mendosa uneasily.
“You have already answered to the army, and you have a witness with you. I think she’ll be safe.” Nigel increased his speed. “This is faster than we are supposed to go, but on this stretch, who is there to stop us?”
“No Highway Patrol?” Mendosa asked between amusement and surprise.
“Just the army, and they are the worst drivers of all,” said Nigel, pushing north and west.
* * *
To Clancy McEllton’s annoyance, his request to see his uncle was refused by the warder at the monastery entrance. “But I’ve come from London,” he complained to the aged monk.
The old man smiled sympathetically. “We come from everywhere, those who live within these walls.” He crossed himself and was about to turn away. “God be with you, my son.”
“But I’ve got to speak with him. It’s urgent. It’s important. What can I do to apply for an interview with Uncle Edward?” Clancy demanded, afraid that if the door was shut to him, he would not be able to talk it open again.
“Oh, there are no interviews here. We’re Camaldolese here, cenobites, and most of our Brothers take vows of silence, like the Trappists, as well as of poverty and chastity. And,” he added pointedly, “obedience. Prior Luccio maintains the Rule of Order here, and we each accept his authority.”
Clancy McEllton glowered. “In other words, if I want to talk to my Uncle Edward, I have to go through Prior Luccio, is that it?” He knew it would not help him to become angry, but it was almost too much effort to keep his temper. He was so close, and there was so much money to be had.
“If Prior Luccio permits you to speak with Father McEllton, it is satisfactory. But if Prior Luccio does not give his permission, then I’m afraid—” He lifted his hands to show the limits of his power.
“How do I arrange to talk to this Prior Luccio?” Clancy inquired, unable to keep the urgency out of his voice. “It is important, Brother. If it weren’t, I would not have come here.”
The warder lowered his eyes. “I will inform Prior Luccio that you wish to visit again and speak with your Uncle Edward, and I will see that he has your written request, as well. He will give it his prayerful consideration. If he thinks your request has merit, he will inform Brother Edward McEllton that you have asked to see him, and if both Prior Luccio and Brother Edward McEllton agree to it, you will be given leave to interview your uncle.” He sketched a blessing in Clancy’s direction. “I cannot do more than this.”
“But Prior Luccio—” Clancy began.
“He will read a letter from you. I will be pleased to deliver such a letter myself if you will come tomorrow and give it to me.” The warder had almost closed the gate again.
“Why not now?” Clancy demanded, then softened his tone. “It’s very important, Brother, or I would not persist.”
The old monk thought it over. “If you will bring a letter tomorrow, I will myself hand it to the Prior. Today it would not be possible. The Prior is keeping an altar vigil, and he sees no one until he breaks his fast tomorrow morning.” The gate was open only a few inches now. “Tomorrow morning, Mister McEllton. That would be best.”
“Thank you, Brother,” said Clancy with as much reverence as he could force into his voice. What he wanted to do was shove the gate open, clobber the old fool, get rid of Prior Luccio, and find his uncle. He made himself look up at the imposing white walls of the monastery, and then fold his hands as if in prayer before starting down the long path to the small parking area.
* * *
Only Dominique, Cardinal Hetre was in the library alcove when Sylvestre, Cardinal Jung finally came through the door, his satin cassock whispering around his very correct dark shoes.
“Good evening, Eminence,” said Cardinal Jung with the meticulous politeness he reserved for those he loathed.
“Good evening,” said Cardinal Hetre, thinking he ought to have taken a fourth aspirin before coming to this meeting; he could already feel the pressure in his temples. How much would he have to endure before their discussion was over, he asked himself.
“I appreciate your coming here. To be direct, I am a little surprised that you agreed. I know that neither of us is inclined to assist the other except as it aids the Church,” Cardinal Jung said smoothly as he chose the largest chair in the alcove. He folded his hands in his lap and regarded Cardinal Hetre closely. “You favor Gemme and Cadini, don’t you, instead of those of us who are not as quick as you are to turn away from our traditions.”
“In the past nobles have ridden into our churches on horseback with their scabbards empty as a gesture of piety. Our traditions, as you call them, have caused us to be unable to function well in this modern time. What have our traditions to do with our current predicament, except the tradition that the College of Cardinals elects the Pope?” Cardinal Hetre could not conceal his curiosity, though he hated to admit the wily, pompous Swiss had caught his interest.
“Tradition is the very core of faith,” said Cardinal Jung.
“I thought the Trinity was the core of faith,” said Cardinal Hetre, pleased he had been able to parry Cardinal Jung so deftly while his head was so sore. “God, Son and Holy Spirit.”
“Not all Catholics are theologians, and for them we must have traditions, so that they can be sure of the strength of their Church and all it teaches.” Cardinal Jung looked around the shelves with their precious collection of seventeenth and eighteenth century books. “As any one of these will remind you.”
“Truly?” Cardinal Hetre inquired, deciding to press what he hoped was his advantage. “That is an odd observation, Your Eminence, if you will permit me to remark on it, for most of these books, had they been written three centuries before the time they were, would surely have sent their authors to the stake for heresy. These books are monuments to the end of the ru
le of zealotry and the beginning of understanding.”
“We won’t agree on that, so let us not be distracted,” said Cardinal Jung. “What troubles me now, and must trouble you as well, is the continuing impotence of the conclave. We have done our part in recessing, but it is time we resumed our deliberations and agreed which of us is to be Pope.”
“Why?” Cardinal Hetre asked bluntly. “Because you are dissatisfied?”
“No,” said Cardinal Jung, but in such a tone that Cardinal Hetre knew he had touched a nerve. “No more than any other sincere Cardinal must be dissatisfied. As you recall, I did not approve of this adjournment when it was decided upon. I have not changed my opinion in any way. Like you, I know that we cannot continue without a Pope, because too many things require his voice and approval. Therefore, for the sake of Catholics all over the world, we must settle this once and for all.”
“Another week will not make so great a difference,” said Cardinal Hetre. “We gave it as your opinion that we would spend three weeks in recess. The second is up tomorrow, and there are only seven days after that. If you were to demand the conclave resume now, it would be four days at least before all the College of Cardinals could assemble again.” He put his hand to his head and felt sweat there.
Cardinal Jung sat very straight in his large chair, his round face rigid with disapproval. “All the more reason to act now,” he said, biting at the words as he spoke them. “We appear to be vacillating, which leads to doubts.”
“Whose doubts?” Cardinal Hetre asked, feeling bolder.
“Catholics!” Cardinal Jung exclaimed. “They seek our guidance. They need a Pope, not this wallowing in mysticism that has taken some of the Cardinals over. Don’t you see we’ve put ourselves in an untenable position, and the longer we remain there the less credibility we will have with our own people?” His face had darkened and he forced himself to be calmer. “If we want Catholics to accept the next Pope, we have to elect him without stopping in the middle for a quixotic quest. You’ve seen the television and read the papers—”
“Though neither are very traditional,” Cardinal Hetre murmured.
Cardinal Jung ignored the aside. “Everyone is speculating what kind of deal is being put together, and the more we delay, the stronger their suspicions grow. It looks too much as if we’re bargaining and playing politics.”
“Which never happens?” Cardinal Hetre ventured. “Your Eminence, look at our history. Politics have always been with us. I think the least political thing the College of Cardinals has done in the last two hundred years is to recess in order to learn more about this Chinese woman.” The last was difficult to speak, for he continued to be upset at the thought of her.
“That was the most political thing of all, pandering to the most gullible of our numbers, acting as if everything we have ever learned about reasonable faith was—” He snorted. “This is our opportunity to reassert our proper leadership and guidance of the Pontiff. It is in our power to have a Pope by the end of the week.”
“Really?” he thought of his fellow-Canadian, Victor, Cardinal Mnientek, who was in Winnipeg and had summoned all the Canadian Bishops and Archbishops to meet with him in four days, having already spent five days speaking with priests around the country. “Less than half the Cardinals are in Rome, Your Eminence. We cannot properly issue such a summons; there aren’t enough of us to override our vote of adjournment. If we made such an attempt, we would put the College of Cardinals in a much more questionable light than it is now.” He felt as if his headache was not quite so severe as it had been half an hour ago. Perhaps it would not be so intolerable after all. He wished for the luxury of rubbing his neck, but dared not show such human weakness to Cardinal Jung.
“Cardinal Tokuyu has agreed to come from Kyoto on twelve hours’ notice, Your Eminence,” Cardinal Jung declared. “If he is willing to do that, how can Cardinal Mnientek and the others not do the same?”
“Yes, but what of Jivin, Cardinal Tayibha? Will he come from India as quickly as Cardinal Tokuyu will come from Japan? Will Cardinal Nkomo leave Lagos? Will Cardinal Stevenson leave Melbourne? Will Cardinal Ygnacio leave Buenas Aires?” He flung the names at Cardinal Jung, deliberately choosing those Cardinals who would be least inclined to answer so high-handed an order. “We have agreed that it will be twenty-one days, and so it will.” He stood up, aware that he was speaking too loudly for their setting, and unable to care. “I ask you to forgive me, Eminence, but I fear that if I remain I will give you greater distress than I have already.” He started toward the door, his head feeling engulfed in heat.
Cardinal Jung fumed as he watched Cardinal Hetre depart. Their discussion had not gone the way he had wanted. Had he not been aware of his position, he would have damned Hetre for an arrogant fool. As it was, he promised himself he would pray that God send Hetre some realistic sense, since the Canadian was impervious to wisdom. His eye was caught by the book Hetre had been reading, which annoyed him afresh, being a large, new book on the Church, censorship, and art. Cardinal Jung seized the book and carried it off to the monitor of the section of the library where he demanded an explanation for its presence.
The young monk blinked at the irate Cardinal. “But it was Pope Urban’s policy, to purchase books critical of the Vatican and the Papacy, so that the Church could better answer her critics as well as learn from them. The College of Cardinals advised him to make such a provision—don’t you remember, Eminence?” He smiled tentatively, still confused, and thought it would have been better if someone else had been on duty that afternoon.
* * *
Cardinal Cadini’s great-niece was getting married; with a sigh he donned all his red finery and prepared to officiate, despite the fact that Santissimo Redentore accommodated no more than seventy people in its worn and squeaking pews. He was happy now that he had obtained permission from Celestine before he died, because this was an unusual office for him to celebrate, given his exalted rank. The wedding was a pleasure, as would be the three lectures he had agreed to give in Athens, Budapest, and Riga, all of which would keep him a safe distance from Rome until the conclave resumed. He had done his part for the adjournment and now he desired a little peace before word came from Cardinal Mendosa; he enjoyed giving lectures and knew he was very good at it.
A scrawny young deacon with a prominent adam’s apple assisted him, more trouble than he was worth, fussing and fluttering around the charismatic Cardinal. He recited the various prayers with Cardinal Cadini, his voice cracking from time to time. “The bride is most fortunate,” he said when Cardinal Cadini was almost ready.
“We are all fortunate when God shows us favor,” Vitale, Cardinal Cadini said quietly, wishing the deacon were less in awe of him. “God has been good to this family, for which we thank Him and praise Him. Lionella is as great a treasure from God as any of them.”
“They say it is a good match,” the deacon reported with a nervous cough. “She can be proud.”
“If she is satisfied that she has a man who will love her loyally and respect her for the rest of their lives, then it is a good match, no matter what else happens, or where his father was born.” The elaborate vestments he wore always seemed theatrical to him. He rubbed his fingers down the embroidered silk.
“Isn’t it proper for a bride to honor her husband, rather than the husband accommodate the bride?” asked the deacon, shocked at what Cardinal Cadini had said, for it countered what he had been taught most of his life.
He did not want to be drawn into yet another debate on marriage. “It may say so in our texts, but if there is no parity, I suspect the marriage will not be what God intended.” He looked toward the altar, recalling a time not so long past when even this mild an answer would have brought cries of protest from almost anyone in Orders. “Is everyone ready?”
Santissimo Redentore was a small church in an old village set in the dry folds of the Umbrian hills between Foligno and Assisi; in the last ten years new, aggressively modern apartment buildin
gs had been going up less than ten minutes from the ninth-century gates. The old families watched the encroachment with cynicism and dismay. The priest who usually served at the altar had excused himself from the wedding ceremony. He claimed this was out of respect for Cardinal Cadini, but everyone knew that Padre Teobaldo Davinetto was staunchly conservative on all matters liturgical and regarded Cardinal Cadini as a dangerous and radical scoundrel.
Sparing no expense, Lionella’s family had filled the church with flowers and had imported a small, world-famous chorus that was known for their interpretations of Renaissance church music. As Cardinal Cadini knelt before the altar—the old-fashioned kind, where he could not face the congregation—he smiled at the sweet, sensual harmonies that blended with the scent of flowers.
Lionella and Remo made a handsome couple, Cardinal Cadini decided as he proceeded with the Nuptial Mass. Both bride and groom had that glossy finish of prosperity and favor, and both were surrounded by friends and family of the same sort. They were comfortable with their success, used to it, as confident as many much older families that they were entitled to good things. It amused Cardinal Cadini to remember that his grandfather had been a blacksmith who developed an interest only a century ago in what was then a new and questionable invention: the motorcar. From that beginning came machine tools, aircraft engines, and hydroelectric plants.
The couple saw the Cardinal smile, and misread the reason for it. Both assumed it expressed approval of them, and they took tremendous satisfaction in that assumption. Lionella was now convinced that she had done the right thing in asking her illustrious great-uncle to perform their wedding. Some of her nervousness faded.
Cardinal Cadini decided that there were too many flowers in the church; their odor was stronger and becoming cloying with sweetness. As a child he had suffered terribly from allergies, and a trip to a nursery or florist brought on agonies of sneezing and coughing and itching, with stuffy head and teary eyes. This time it struck him more as a tightness in the chest that made him feel slightly queasy. Asthma? he thought. At my age? He faltered, repeated himself and went on, promising himself he would lie down for a short while before the reception.
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