Greene shook his head. “Eminences, there are those who say that she is the end of the Church—”
“They say that because of the picture frames,” muttered Cardinal Jung. “Superstitious nonsense. The Church is not determined by how many pictures can fit on a wall.” He stared at Greene. “You will go ahead with your plan whether we help you or not, isn’t that true?”
“Yes,” said Greene, his manner apologetic; his eyes were like glass.
“If we expose you, you will call the College of Cardinals dupes of the Chinese Communists who are looking to destroy the Church,” he went on. “You have no need to threaten me. I can understand your ploy, Mister Greene. I may sympathize with what you want to do. But I do not like to see the Church exposed to ridicule.”
“You’re a little late for that,” said Clancy brightly, and was waved to silence by Greene.
“Then help us,” said Greene, looking from Cardinal Jung to Cardinal Hetre. “Join us, so that we may preserve your Church and the Christian faith.”
Cardinal Hetre pressed his finger and thumb on either side of his nose, though this did little to alleviate the ache. “It would also put us in your debt, Mister Greene, yours and the people you represent. In time you would become as great a danger to the Catholic Church as the Chinese woman is.”
“But not for some time,” said Greene, who had anticipated this argument. “There is time for us to make suitable arrangements that will embarrass no one.”
Clancy McEllton had seen that expression on many faces and he had learned to know it for the lie it was. He glanced at the two Cardinals wondering if they, too, knew what they faced. They ought to, he thought, coming from the Vatican. “I’ll be at your service,” he reminded them.
“I don’t see how we can compromise the Church this way,” said Cardinal Jung. “It isn’t correct of us to ally ourselves with any project that is not directly our own.”
Cardinal Hetre was not convinced. “You say you will release this story?” He watched Greene nod. “It may become necessary for us to reconsider our position then.” He looked toward Cardinal Jung. “If our election is subjected to…the kind of questioning he proposes, the damage it does will extend to future elections as well as this present one, and we cannot expect to survive unscathed. No matter how galling it is to have this Chinese widow, there is consolation in knowing that when she is gone we may once again return to our proper roles. If we are forced to change the process of election, then we will leave all future Popes a heritage of doubt that would cripple the Church forever.” As he said it, the oppression of this prospect took hold of him. He had trouble taking a deep breath.
Greene watched him, unaware of how cynical he looked. “I see you have grasped the heart of the problem, Eminence.”
For no reason he could identify, Clancy McEllton felt suddenly cold.
Cardinal Jung snorted. “Every Protestant movement thinks it will have strength enough to bring the Church down, and not one has succeeded.”
“True, the Church has endured every assault from outside its precincts,” said Greene, nudging McEllton as if they could share the joke between them. “But this time it isn’t Protestants you have to fear, it is your own elected Pope.”
* * *
The Houston riot was the worst in the USA. Windows on the conspicuously modern Cathedral Church of the Four Evangelists were broken and graffiti were scrawled on the walls over the murals of the Stations of the Cross. The baptismal font was filled with excrement and a dead piglet covered in sweet-and-sour sauce was left on the altar. All the details from the seven wounded priests, to the dead police officers, to three hundred forty-four arrested rioters, were gleefully and meticulously covered on the international news, since the Four Evangelists was Charles, Cardinal Mendosa’s home base. All of the reports stressed Cardinal Mendosa’s role in the recent efforts of the Vatican to locate the new Pope. All but one news report mentioned he was currently in China; the report which left this out originated in Beijing.
In Hongya, Mendosa watched the coverage on television with Zhuang Renxin and Willie Foot as they sat in her office chaperoned by an army lieutenant who was doing his best to be invisible. The Cardinal’s expression was set but saddened steadily as he saw his beloved cathedral trashed. He ground his teeth and said little.
“Is this what I am to expect when I go to Rome?” Zhuang Renxin asked as the report concluded. She was not angry, but she expected an explanation. “And these riots are going to continue?”
“That was Houston, in Texas. Not Rome,” Mendosa told her. “But I won’t deny it could happen. If there’s trouble, there’s the Swiss Guard to protect you—not the ones in the Renaissance costumes; they’re there for the tourists—the real Vatican police. We have very good security at the Vatican. They can handle worse than that.” He listened to Willie translate and realized he had picked up a few more words of Chinese. He noticed that the lieutenant was nodding very slightly, revealing his comprehension.
“I am very distressed by what I have seen,” said Magistrate Zhuang.
“No more than I, Worthy Magistrate,” Mendosa responded. He looked at Willie. “Keep an ear open for me as the reports come in, will you? I want to know if Father Cooke comes through this all right. They said he was in critical condition, didn’t they?”
“Yes,” said Willie, knowing Mendosa well enough to be aware of how upset he was under his controlled exterior, and worried for him.
“He’s a good man. And a pretty good priest. Tad Cooke. He must be sixty-five now. The kids love him. He’s good at sports and telling jokes. He never talks down to them. Why did he have to be the one to get a fractured skull. God forgive me for the thought, but why couldn’t it have been Daniel Ritchie? He’s the one who’s always sending little missives to Vince Walgren, and he knows more about illegal drugs in Texas than all the law-enforcement squads rolled into one.” At that Mendosa crossed himself and laughed self-consciously. “I’ll have to do penance for that. None of them deserved the kind of treatment the mob dished out. And neither did Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,” he added, referring once again to the cathedral.
As Willie did his best to translate this, Zhuang Renxin held up her hand to make a point. “What is penance?” she asked. “Why must you do it for what you said about your friend Tad Cooke?”
“Penance is what you do when you have sinned,” Mendosa said. “I told you about sin.”
“Yes; the person who errs is one who sins,” said Zhuang. “I do not see why concern for your friend should be an error.”
Mendosa, when he heard Willie’s translation, shook his head. “It’s a sin because I gave special consideration to one friend, and not to priests in general. To make it worse, I wished harm on a priest I dislike and distrust. Favor and disfavor in this situation is not appropriate.”
“I know that the benefit of all is more significant than the benefit of one,” said Zhuang, “but I still fail to see why concern for your friend was an error, or why you would prefer ill befall one who is untrustworthy. If it were for me to decide as a Magistrate, I would not require you to do penance. I might ask that you do something to aid others in need as well as your friend, but I can see no good coming from penance for wishing your friend well.” She was puzzled by the strange look Mendosa gave her. “I do not mean—” she began, Willie striving to keep up with her.
“If you tell me that I ought not do penance,” said Mendosa very slowly and carefully, “then I will not do it. You have not been elevated officially yet, because you have not had the tiara placed on your head, but Holiness, you are my superior, and I will follow your instruction.” He lowered his head while the television flashed on a picture of Moscow where it was rumored there had been an upheaval in the GRU.
“I have told you I think it is foolish to call me ‘Holiness,’” said Zhuang severely. “You persist in calling me ‘Holiness.’”
“It is your title now,” Mendosa said to her. “But I will offer you this compromise: w
hen we are private I will still call you Worthy Magistrate.” He was pleased at her approving nod. “Listen to me, Zhuang Renxin,” he went on more urgently, “with the others, accept the title, insist on it. You may not believe in it, you may not like it, but if you do not use it, you will lose the respect of the Cardinals, and that will be difficult to maintain as it is. Give them no opportunity to denigrate your position, because once you do, you will be at their mercy.”
“But you have said that the Pope is the final authority,” said Zhuang in consternation.
“Yes.” Mendosa tried to explain without getting into particulars. He would be able to do that later, while they traveled to Rome. “But Popes come and go. The College of Cardinals and the Curia endure. They can be very patient, because—”
“Because in time I will die, and they will find someone who is more what they want?” she asked.
“Charles,” said Willie when he had translated her question, “she is headed back into deep water again.”
“Yes, I know,” said Mendosa. “Tell her this. The Princes of the Church are very powerful men. They are ambitious.”
“And you?” asked Zhuang when Mendosa’s words were translated.
“I understood that,” Mendosa told Willie. “Yes, Holiness, I am ambitious. I want power. But there are two kinds of power, Worthy Magistrate. There is the kind that is hoarded, as some men hoard gold and weapons and food. They want to have it, and they long for it more like a glutton lusts for satiation. There are others who seek power because it gives them the means to do things. If these men are wrong, they do great harm. For better or worse, I am one of them.”
“Of that I was certain from the start,” said Zhuang, her eyes bright with amusement. “I am no stranger to the seeking of power.”
“Are you ambitious?” Mendosa asked with surprise.
“No,” she said after giving her answer some thought. “No, I do not think I am. I have wished to see changes, it is true, for change is the natural order of the world, but not change only for my exclusive benefit, and not at the cost of others. If I were ambitious, I would not have agreed to go with you to Rome, for any goals I have for my own achievements are here in Hongya and Szechwan.” She let Willie translate that as she poured tea for all of them and then turned off the television which was showing a program on the construction of a new international sports arena in Beijing. “No, what has happened to me is not the result of my ambitions. Why would I aspire to such an office as Pope, when I am who I am? Yet it has been given to me, though I did not seek it, and denied to those who sought it and thought themselves entitled to have it. How am I to regard this? It may be that I am being brought to this for the reasons you say and it may be that this is another way for the world to balance its forces. There is no way to find out but to go to Rome and see.”
* * *
“They’re up to something,” Vitale, Cardinal Cadini remarked to Piet, Cardinal van Hooven as he looked across the Raffaelle chapel to where Cardinal Hetre knelt beside Cardinal Jung. “Those two haven’t been cozy in years and now look at them.”
“It’s just Cardinal Hetre showing his true colors,” said Cardinal van Hooven, trying to concentrate on his prayers. “We’ll discuss this more after coffee.”
“I had a call from Cardinal Mendosa this morning. He said he phoned early because he wanted to be sure of getting through. Apparently the load on communications between China and Europe has reached an all-time high.” If Cardinal Cadini was aware of interfering with Cardinal van Hooven’s religious observations, there was no sign of it.
Cardinal van Hooven gave up. “Does he know about the riot in Houston?” he asked, ignoring the sharp glance from Andrew, Cardinal Aquilino of Chicago.
“Yes. He saw it on the news there. They gave it very thorough coverage, he says.” Cardinal Cadini pursed his lips. “Not that I want to say anything that might be regarded as critical of Cardinal Mendosa—because he’s braver than most of us are—but I’m afraid the severity of that riot is going to cause some problems for him when he gets back. If the people of Houston are really so opposed to Zhuang, Cardinal Mendosa might not find his cathedral a very happy place.”
“But we are not certain the riot was a…a Catholic affair,” Cardinal van Hooven reminded Cardinal Cadini. He crossed himself and rose, knowing that he was not in the proper frame of mind to keep vigil any longer. He touched Cardinal Cadini on the shoulder. “Come. We might as well discuss this where we won’t give offence.” At the rear of the chapel he bowed to the altar, remarking to Cardinal Cadini as he did, “I always feel that I am showing as much reverence for the art here as the presence of God.”
“Heresy,” said Cardinal Cadini at his mildest. “To confuse Raffaelle Sanzio with God.” He kept pace with the Dutch Cardinal as they made their way toward his quarters. “God’s Michaelangelo, not Raffaelle.”
“He certainly is. Are you being permitted coffee these days?” Cardinal van Hooven asked as they climbed the stairs.
“It depends on the mood Sister Fabiola is in. She reads signs in the air, I think, and then decides what I am allowed to eat.” He was able to laugh although it ended on a wheeze. “At my age, one cup of coffee is not going to make as much difference as all these years I’m carrying around.”
By the time they reached Cardinal van Hooven’s quarters, they were both cheered. “Who decided that we had to keep vigil for Zhuang Renxin until she arrives? Why did we agree to do it?” Cardinal Cadini asked in mock outrage.
“Cardinal Ochoa brought it up. You remember. You were there. You said it ought to be voluntary. Cardinal Gemme endorsed it. I suspect it was for the public relations as much as the spiritual exercise. Everyone else wanted something to do other than persuade government officials over half the world to assist us in bringing her here.” Cardinal van Hooven had a small domestic staff: his manservant was a Franciscan, his cook was not in Holy Orders. “I don’t believe in forcing someone to mix his dogmas,” he remarked as he opened the door for Cardinal Cadini.
“The dogma of haute cuisine,” said Cardinal Cadini as he kissed his fingertips. “A sublime devotion; and more heresy.”
It was a splendid day, and Cardinal van Hooven’s apartments had a fine view, looking away from Saint Paul’s over the extensive gardens. To make it better, his room had an octagonal oriole window where Cardinal van Hooven had placed an angled couch to take full advantage of the panorama beyond. “It makes up for the remoteness of the position. When I had the chance to take these apartments over last year, I could not say no.”
“Who could blame you, except for envy?” asked Cardinal Cadini, winking at his friend.
“These are supposed to be used for prayer,” Cardinal van Hooven observed as he sat down. He had loved these rooms from the first time he saw them, at night, thirty-two years ago. At that time the occupant was a feisty Irishman who had died just seventeen months ago. “I suppose the contemplation of Rome could be considered a form of religious exercise.”
“Are you making a practice of entertaining heresies?” Cardinal Cadini chuckled as he sat down. “It is quite wonderful out there.”
“Heresies would seem to be the order of the day. Tell me about Mendosa,” said Cardinal van Hooven. He had already summoned his Franciscan manservant with a small bell. “I want to know what headway he has been making with Magistrate Zhuang.”
“Is she our Magistrate Zhuang?” That seems to be the latest question,” said Cardinal Cadini, tilting his head back so he could look at the ceiling. “Oh, not that Cardinal Mendosa doubts, but if you saw the news last night—”
“The election of this Pope is a Chinese Communist plot?” Cardinal van Hooven finished. “Yes, I saw that. I wish I could discover who is behind that one. It has the appearance of plausibility.” He looked up as his manservant came in. “Brother Crispino, will you ask my cook to make us coffee and something light to eat?”
The Franciscan nodded and withdrew.
“Does he always have so much to sa
y?” asked Cardinal Cadini, who could never understand Cardinal van Hooven’s preference for silent servants.
“He made a vow to speak only when necessary. He used to be very talkative, and that compromised two Brothers at his monastery. He found them doing something they ought not to, vowed he would reveal nothing of their activities—”
“Which he should not have done,” Cardinal Cadini interjected.
“Perhaps,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “But he forgot his vow, ended up gossiping about the Brothers, and they, in turn were asked to leave the Order. Poor Brother Crispino tried to kill himself—”
“It gets better and better,” said Cardinal Cadini.
“And his Abbot, whom I’ve known for decades, asked me if I’d take him on.” He leaned back. “Which I did.”
“To keep your hand in as a psychiatrist?” Cardinal Cadini suggested. “Well, if it saves him from mortal sin, why not?” He lowered his head. “I understand Cardinal Mendosa’s finally got a Chinese translation of the Bible and is trying to explain it to Zhuang. He says that she is not a very promising convert. She has argued with almost everything he has read with her. I think he enjoys the arguments, given the way he complains, but—”
“But you’re worried what it might mean when she actually gets here,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “You think she’ll end up in direct confrontations with the College of Cardinals and the Curia.”
“Yes,” said Cardinal Cadini simply. “I’m also afraid that she might expect that the rest of us will be like Cardinal Mendosa.”
Cardinal van Hooven laughed at once. “Should we all hurry out and purchase cowboy boots, do you think?” He grew more serious. “That might be awkward for all of us.”
“Mendosa says that he’s explained to her that all the Cardinals are very different, but how much she has believed is anyone’s guess.” Cardinal Cadini folded his stubby fingers. “I hope she has a strong will and a lot of good sense.”
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