Magnificat

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Willie supplied the word and continued to Magistrate Zhuang, “You’d better get used to it, Zhuang. This is just the beginning, and not a very impressive one. There will be tens of thousands of people waiting for you in Rome.”

  “Which is why we are going to land in Milan,” said Mendosa, who had caught the drift of what Willie said. In the last two weeks his Chinese had improved significantly, though it was not adequate enough for talking with Zhuang unassisted.

  “Who are they?” asked Zhuang Renxin in English. Her proficiency in English was better than Mendosa’s in Chinese now.

  “Well, the woman in the long automobile is the British Ambassadress to Hong Kong,” said Willie with a touch of pride. “The Chinese soldiers you know. The ones in the fancy uniforms are British. They’ll accompany us to the embassy compound.” He started down the stairs behind Zhuang, taking care not to move too quickly. “Welcome to Hong Kong, Worthy Magistrate,” he said as she stepped onto the runway.

  “I have heard much of this place,” said Magistrate Zhuang as he joined her. She had worn the same clothes she usually donned for presiding at her duties, but as she looked at Dame Leonie in her Chanel suit, she felt shabby, which was a new sensation for her. Though she had seen very fashionable clothes on television, she had never supposed people actually wore such garments except as costumes. At once she upbraided herself for these unworthy emotions. Dame Leonie had come by those clothes at the expense of others, she told herself inwardly. For the British Ambassadress to wear such a suit, many workers had to be exploited. That reflection made it more appropriate to bow respectfully to Dame Leonie as she approached.

  Dame Leonie returned the bow and said to Zhuang Renxin in flawless Chinese, “It is great honor to meet you and welcome you to this city, Your Holiness.”

  “That foolish title again,” scoffed Zhuang as she met Dame Leonie’s eyes. Such pretty eyes, she thought, and discovered that she could not dislike the Englishwoman no matter how much she thought she would.

  “Get used to this, too, Worthy Magistrate,” said Cardinal Mendosa as he came up behind her. “Good to see you again, Dame Leonie,” he added, holding out his hand to her.

  Dame Leonie saved her best smile for Willie. “It’s good to have you back.” She then presented the leader of the Chinese and then the leader of the British escort to Magistrate Zhuang, turning at last to the stretch limousine. “Please join me, won’t you? I have ordered a bottle of champagne for us on the drive back to the embassy.” Ordinarily she would have stood aside for Zhuang Renxin to enter the vehicle first, but she could see that the Magistrate was out of her depth, and so climbed in, leaving the best place empty.

  Zhuang Renxin entered carefully, looking at the plush seats with wonder and distaste. “I have never been in such an automobile.”

  “Not many people have,” said Willie in English, getting in behind her. He went on in Chinese, knowing both women would understand him. “I love them, myself. I sit here in comfort while the chauffeur has to deal with all the traffic. Much the best way to travel. That’s probably why all those old aristocrats were so dependent on their coachmen.” He sat down directly across from Dame Leonie and switched back to English. “How’ s it been here?”

  “Well, there’ve been reporters all over the place, but nothing we haven’t been able to handle. There’s also been the most wild speculation in the press about Magistrate Zhuang. The most recent is a rumor that says she is an agent planted by Chinese intelligence for the purpose of destroying the credibility of the Church, or ruining it. That Canadian Cardinal—Het re?—he’ s been endorsing the theory.” Dame Leonie shook her head. “The story is like something out of a spy novel—hypnoti c suggestions to the whole College of Cardinals, drugs in the food, all part of a scheme to make sure that the wealth of the Church falls into godless hands.”

  “Sounds quite enchanting,” said Cardinal Mendosa as he took his place beside Willie. He was growing tired of sitting down. “How good to know the press and Cardinal Hetre are keeping busy.” He said it very straight-faced, and Dame Leonie stared at him.

  “You can’t be serious, Eminence,” she protested.

  “He isn’t,” Willie assured her. “It’s part of Texas humor. He wants to see how far he can pull your leg.”

  The limousine was moving at last, going slowly toward the side gate, the two sets of guards riding with it, British on the right, Chinese on the left.

  At the gate they were met by two army jeeps and six police cars to augment the motorcycles. The cop cars led and the jeeps brought up the rear; it had been arranged that the whole entourage would travel at a strict twenty miles an hour through cleared streets.

  “They are making a great deal of fuss,” said Magistrate Zhuang as the limousine made its way toward Juilong—which the British still called Kowloon—and the ferry to Hong Kong.

  “We will travel on a private ferry,” said Dame Leonie. “The police here are afraid there could be trouble. There have been demonstrators here from Macao most of the week.”

  “Any riots?” asked Willie, first in Chinese and then in English for Cardinal Mendosa’s benefit. “And how bad?”

  “Only one that was serious. There were a couple hundred people arrested. The police are being very careful. World opinion has been volatile. It’s a question of religion, and that makes things touchier than usual.” She indicated the small array of glasses. “The champagne bucket is in the well there. It’s chilled enough, I think. If you’d be kind enough to open it, Willie?”

  As Willie reached for the bottle in its nest of ice, he asked Magistrate Zhuang if she had ever tasted champagne.

  “I have had it once,” said Zhuang Renxin after brief reflection. “It was quite warm.”

  “It’s supposed to be cold,” said Willie, setting to work on the cork.

  Cardinal Mendosa had been looking out the tinted windows. “What else is going on that we ought to know about, Dame Leonie?”

  She shifted her gaze toward him. “What do you mean, Eminence?”

  “Well,” drawled the Cardinal, “unless we’ve started the millennium, and the Kingdom of God is at hand, I don’t think the College of Cardinals is taking this lying down. I don’t think much of anyone is.” He rubbed his chin, though he had shaved only three hours ago and there was very little to feel. “I can’t get it out of my head that they’re up to something. Cardinal Jung’s been working on his first Papal Bull for the last year—you can’t tell me he’s changed his tune, not that old juggernaut. Cardinal Bakony’s been flapping around about the change of government, how now he’s going to have a Pope who’ll make some part of the Hungarian people break out in a cold sweat. I haven’t heard that much from Cardinal Cadini, we’ve only had short phone calls, but what little he says bothers me. But I get worried about things. I know those guys. They’re all spooked because of how Zhuang’s election happened, but they aren’t about to let her get in their way. I hear Vince Walgren is in Central America, doing something about displaced persons and no doubt stirring up trouble.” He regarded Dame Leonie. “So. What can you tell me?” He touched the two letters nestled in his pocket, accounts of the beginning and end of his journey, addressed to a box in Moscow. He hated the very idea of mailing them and knew that he must, now that he was out of the internal Chinese mail system.

  “I can’t tell you very much, Eminence,” said Dame Leonie just as Willie popped the champagne cork and reached for a glass to catch the exuberant wine. He gave the first glass to Magistrate Zhuang.

  “Do what you can. And Willie, make sure you tell Zhuang everything. I don’t want her missing any of this.” He regarded Dame Leonie with interest. “Please. Tell me.”

  She lifted her shoulder. “Well, they’ve been traveling a lot, I understand. Cardinal Lepescu is back in Romania for a week, Cardinal Stevenson is in Wellington. Cardinal Fiorivi is meeting with half a dozen of the Italian Cardinals somewhere around Lake Como. The French are doing something with the Dutch and the Belgians. I don�
�t know much about the others. Cardinal Llanos is away from Rome right now. Supposedly he is going through all the South American countries to get some impression of the people’s response to Magistrate Zhuang’s elevation—” She took the glass Willie handed to her. “To tell you the truth, Eminence, I haven’t made a point of keeping up. We’ve had enough going on here to keep me busy.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Sorry I have to add to the load. But after three weeks plus, I’m antsy about going back unprepared. I’ll have to make a couple of calls, if you’ll permit it?”

  “I expected it,” said Dame Leonie. She lifted her glass as Willie handed one to Cardinal Mendosa and kept the last for himself. “To our guest, Her Holiness, Pope—”

  “That doesn’t work in Latin,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “But Mater or Mama doesn’t do it, does it?”

  “Shut up, Charles,” said Willie genially. “Pope Renxin I. And undoubtedly only.” He toasted her and took a sip of his champagne.

  “No, Zhuang,” said Cardinal Mendosa, reaching out to stop her sharing their first sip. “No, that is not done. You let us have the first sip and then you may drink. It’s bad luck to drink your own toast.” His warning was about half English and half Chinese. Willie sorted it out for Magistrate Zhuang.

  “How odd a custom,” she said when Willie was done. “But I will honor it.” She held her glass until she was certain it was correct to drink. “It is very fizzy,” she commented after her drink. “And it is much better cold.”

  Cardinal Mendosa lowered his glass. “That’s another thing. The name. You are not going to be Pope Renxin. That’s against custom as well. The Pope selects another name for his…her reign. It’s not permitted to keep your own. Usually the name is chosen to indicate something of the nature of how the Pope regards his or her purpose in office. Some of them select the names of important saints, and some the names of illustrious Popes before them. The names are supposed to be religious in intent.”

  “That seems foolish to me, but much of what you have told me about the Church seems foolish.” She sipped her wine.

  “There haven’t been any female Popes before—in spite of the legend of Pope Joan. I told you about her already—and therefore you can’t really name yourself after any of them. But there’re some dandy female saints.” He had a bit more champagne, thinking that he was probably too tired for this to be wise. Jet lag was waiting for him, here in Hong Kong and later in Italy.

  “It would not be wise to call myself Joan?” Magistrate Zhuang inquired with feigned innocence. She had come to appreciate Mendosa’s sense of humor and could sometimes achieve it herself. “Joan II?”

  “Zhuang Renxin,” said Cardinal Mendosa with the flicker of a smile, “you are a rascal. How would you number your reign, since Pope Joan I didn’t exist? You’ll have the fox among the chickens for sure if you pull a stunt like that. They’re riled up already. Better choose something a mite less incendiary. We can talk about it later, if you want to. I got a few ideas you can consider, if you like.” He listened to Willie and Dame Leonie translate for him, pleased they liked his analogy of Cardinals as chickens. “Another thing to keep in mind, though, whatever name you choose, is you got to be careful. They’re all going to be looking for something to criticize. Not only the Cardinals, but Catholics everywhere, and everyone else, for that matter.”

  “But that is true already; I have been criticized since I was elected, before I knew anything of it,” said Magistrate Zhuang simply, looking from Willie to Dame Leonie to Cardinal Mendosa. “Who I am is subject to criticism. We are all aware of that.”

  “Then all the more reason to choose the right name,” said Cardinal Mendosa, and gave her a quirky smile.

  They were almost at the waterfront now, and there were traffic cops at every intersection as well as the escort for the limousine. The outline of loading cranes, like skeletons of extinct reptiles, loomed over the docks and quays.

  “We’ll be on the ferry shortly. We’ll lose part of our escort then. The jeeps are going to stay behind. There’ll be two more waiting for us on the other side, to take the place of those we leave here.” Dame Leonie permitted Willie to refill her glass. “The compound has doubled its guard for the length of your stay, Your Holiness.”

  “For the time being, I am still a Magistrate,” said Zhuang, taking care with the unfamiliar wine, so unlike the heady, grassy rice wine she occasionally drank in Hongya. She could not rid herself of the sense that it was all an illusion, one which would fade shortly and she would be back in her own town, watching the millet grow and presiding in the local court, where she belonged. This destiny which had overtaken her was perplexing; she had no sense of where it was leading her, or why it had come to her at all.

  “If that is what you prefer,” said Dame Leonie, a bit surprised at this announcement.

  “It is. I would prefer to keep it that way always, but apparently that is not possible.” There was a moment of silence when the muffled sounds of the motorcycles beside the limousine became louder to them, an ominous snarl. “But I do not know how to address you,” Zhuang went on to Dame Leonie. “What do I say that is correct?”

  “As they do. Call me Dame Leonie. I am Dame Leonie Purcell. Leonie is my personal name.” She found herself quiet taken with this serious Chinese woman.

  “Then the title is for—” Zhuang began, only to have Willie interrupt in order to explain.

  “Her family name, or rather her husband’s family name is Purcell, as your family name is Zhuang. Her title is Dame, as yours is Magistrate, for a little while longer.”

  “But a title and a personal name together.” protested Magistrate Zhuang.

  “It happens that way for certain titles in England,” said Dame Leonie. “Men who have the title Sir are called by their personal names. Women who have the title Dame are called by their personal names.”

  “And Popes?” asked Zhuang pointed. “They are called by a personal name that is not theirs?”

  “Something like that,” said Cardinal Mendosa, who had been able to follow the general thrust of the conversation. “In the West, it is the same with kings, too. They are known by their personal names. Their names and a number, according to the kingdom, not the king’s own family.”

  “It is very peculiar,” said Zhuang with a frown.

  They had reached the entrance to the ferry slip. Behind them two long lines of cars waited. Ahead, there was a boat about a third the size of what the slip could accommodate, maneuvering into position to take the limousine and its escort aboard. On its side was the logo of a major international corporation, but the angle of approach made it impossible to discern it clearly.

  “We’ll be on our way directly, Your Holiness,” said Dame Leonie.

  Zhuang Renxin turned pleading eyes on Cardinal Mendosa. “Is there no way to stop calling me—” She gestured.

  Cardinal Mendosa stretched out as much as the limousine would allow. “Well, after your coronation, you could promulgate a Bull about it, but that’s not going to make things any easier with the Cardinals. They’ll scream like stuck pigs.” He grinned impulsively. “It’s been the title for a very long time, even in Chinese terms. People are used to it. They like it. Most of the Cardinals imagine having that title for themselves.”

  “And you, Eminence?” Dame Leonie inquired politely.

  “I?” Cardinal Mendosa countered, doing his best to answer without revealing the existence or extent of his visions. “You mean, did I ever seek to be Pope? No. Not the way you’re implying. When I first became a priest, I think I wondered what I would do if I had the chance, but the higher I rose in the Church, the less I sought that office. Or any office beyond what I have.” How could he tell them that he had known he would be one of the Princes of the Church—had known since he was nineteen years old—and would never rise higher? How could he tell them that the advancement of his visions that he had sought was almost a reality, and that he was content? “I’m a reasonable man, in my way, Dame Leonie. I figu
re the odds. Not many of us get to be Pope, do we? It’s kind of futile to hanker after it.”

  Zhuang Renxin had been listening to Willie’s running translation; when Cardinal Mendosa finished speaking, she said, “Mendosa, I will gladly give it all to you.” She said it with a trace of laughter, but she meant every word, for she felt herself on the edge of a precipice, the ground crumbling at her feet. She was beginning to realize the vastness of the work before her, and she had much to do not to draw back.

  The limousine moved slowly onto the ferry, the escort coming behind it. The boat rocked as the cars and motorcycles were jockeyed into position.

  “Thanks, Worthy Magistrate; I appreciate it,” said Cardinal Mendosa with a rueful grin. “But the Papacy isn’t something you can give away, not in recent history anyway. If they give it to you, you’re stuck with it. They gave it to you twice. We’re all stuck.”

  “Does that anger you?” asked Dame Leonie, not knowing how to interpret the Cardinal’s attitude which seemed at once mildly sarcastic and elated. “Or dismay you?”

  “That I’m not Pope? Good God, no!” This outburst was accompanied by a blast from the ferry’s horn. He downed the last of his champagne as the boat began to slide away from the shore.

  * * *

  A fourth report was delivered to his apartment about mid-afternoon. Dmitri Karodin took the thick file with a routine and unthinking phrase of thanks, and closed the door abruptly. He stood in the entryway, thumbing through the pages, a faint smile on his lips. So many changes, and so sudden. Still reading, he ambled into his office, a room lined with tall, filled bookcases, with high windows at the north end of the room that overlooked a cemetery where tulips were blooming between the graves. Dmitri found it a comforting place to work.

  The press, he saw with satisfaction, had stirred up a furor over the news that Magistrate Zhuang Renxin had apparently left China two days before they had been told she would be allowed to go. He chuckled. Premier Zuo was not idiot enough to play directly into the hands of the international newsmedia, that much was clear. There were any number of stories floating about of how she left Hongya, and with whom. So far as Dmitri Karodin could tell, only three were close to accurate: Soir-Paris had guessed that Magistrate Zhuang had flown out of China and was not under large escort. La Stampa had not been right about her transportation but was correct in assuming she would depart for Rome from Hong Kong. In Argentina Porque had called Magistrate Zhuang’s port of departure but had pictured the occasion on a much grander scale.