“Glad?” repeated Cardinal Jung, his glittery eyes starting to protrude from his head. “That we are being made the joke of the world? How can such a thing make me glad?” He turned abruptly at the sound of hurried footsteps; Alexander, Cardinal Bradeston was all but running toward the garden, trailed by two young American priests.
The security man nodded his approval. “About time. I hope more are coming. This is a pretty paltry turn-out so far. You don’t want her to think she’s unwelcome.” His smile told Cardinal Jung that the staff was fully aware of how most of the men felt about this distressing Papal election.
“It isn’t my decision,” Cardinal Jung said at his huffy best. “Little as we may like it, we have agreed that this is the will of the Holy Spirit.”
“Good enough for me,” said the security man, and took the portable telephone from his belt. “Better not use these any more tonight,” he said into the device. “We’re probably being picked up by eavesdroppers all over the city.”
There was a crackly reply, and the man returned the telephone to the clip on his belt. “Just a precaution, Your Eminence,” the man said to Cardinal Jung. “You can’t keep anything private on one of these things. Anyone with the right equipment can monitor what we say. Under the circumstances—”
Cardinal Jung sighed his compliance.
The lead helicopter was overhead now, and descending slowly, the rotors beating as fast and regularly as the innards of a bread-kneading machine. It was near enough for Cardinal Jung to make out an armed man in the seat beside the pilot. The noise was overwhelming.
Cardinal Bradeston came up beside Cardinal Jung. “We’re lucky to see this, Eminence,” he bellowed into Cardinal Jung’s ear, panting a little from his exertion. “This is an historic moment.”
“What?” Cardinal Jung shouted, not able to hear.
“We’re lucky to see this,” Cardinal Bradeston repeated more loudly, taking care with each word.
“If you insist,” said Cardinal Jung. He glanced at the Bostonian Cardinal, and noted with distaste that the man was wearing a business suit and lapel pins. He favored Cardinal Bradeston with a disdainful look before returning his attention to the lowering helicopters. He stopped praying they would crash.
The second and third helicopters paused, hovering, over the garden. From the roof of Saint Peter’s came a sudden, bright beam of light.
The security man nodded his approval.
Another searchlight on the roof of the Vatican Museum sprang to life and the three helicopters were suddenly suspended in their glow. From the banks of the Tevere there rose a ragged, waiting cry as those patient watchers began to realize what was happening.
“We’re going to need more protection,” said Cardinal Bradeston to the security man. “Listen to them.”
“It’s already been arranged. Two squads of Eurocops arrived ten minutes ago. They’re getting into position right now.” He had to yell this at Cardinal Bradeston and was aware that only half of his words were heard. “Better stand back, Your Eminences,” he added, pointing to a spot a little to the rear.
Cardinal Bradeston did not bother to answer. He retreated, plucking at Cardinal Jung’s satin sleeve to pull him along.
“What—?” Cardinal Jung blustered.
By now the lead helicopter was very close; the shrubbery around the garden tossed and writhed in the rotor-wash. The searchlight beams followed the helicopter as it dropped the last short distance to the mosaic court, landing squarely on the enormous inlaid crossed keys. The rotors whined as they slowed.
An instant later the security man gave a signal; half a dozen men in inobtrusive clothes rushed forward, surrounding the helicopter. All of them were armed, and their eyes were wary. Above them the other two helicopters hung on the might of their self-generated storms, waiting while the first was unloaded.
The door in the right side of the first helicopter was pulled open, and the armed man from the cockpit stepped out. He crouched in the glare, like a escaping convict trapped in prison surveillance lights, his machine pistol at the ready. A moment later he signaled to those inside.
Cardinal Mendosa appeared in the open door, his eyes shaded against the brilliance of the searchlights. The wind from the helicopters above rumpled his clothes and disarranged his badger-grey hair; he grinned. He waved once, then stepped out, turning to offer support to the person behind him.
Everyone in the garden fell silent as Zhuang Renxin put her hand on Cardinal Mendosa’s arm and emerged into the light. She peered at the shapes beyond the brightness and said something to Cardinal Mendosa, which caused Cardinal Mendosa to turn to the man just behind them. Willie Foot bent down and said something to the Chinese woman. The Chinese woman nodded and laughed.
“Welcome to Rome, Worthy Magistrate,” said Cardinal Mendosa as he knelt beside her.
“Mendosa, get up,” she said in her version of English.
For once he refused. “Not this time, Worthy Magistrate. If I don’t kneel the rest will not; they’ll assume I don’t recognize you for what you are,” said Cardinal Mendosa through Willie. “This time you will have to allow it, like it or not.”
“But there is no reason.” She looked around and then up at the remaining helicopters. “What cause can you have to make them—”
“Tell her to put her hand on my head,” said Cardinal Mendosa to Willie, not wanting to be misunderstood in Chinese. “Right now.”
Puzzled, Zhuang followed Cardinal Mendosa’s instructions. “I say this is most unnecessary, Mendosa, and unseemly. Now, get up,” she ordered when she had taken her hand from his brow.
Cardinal Mendosa obeyed with alacrity. “If you insist,” he told her in his inexpert Chinese. “Walk ahead of me, Worthy Magistrate,” he went on in English, as he motioned to Willie to fall in beside him. “Stay on the path toward the arch.”
“This is most absurd—” she protested even as she complied.
Cardinal Mendosa remained three steps behind her; he chuckled. “You ain’t seen serious absurd yet, Worthy Magistrate,” he said, but the words were lost in the surge of the rotors as the first helicopter prepared to rise, leaving room for next one to land.
* * *
In the antechamber to Dominique, Cardinal Hetre’s study, two men were waiting. Cardinal Hetre could sense their impatience through the closed door, and this served to increase the ferocity of his headache.
“Is there anything I can get for you, Eminence?” asked his second assistant, a tense young man from Fort Gary whose French was so Canadian that few of the Europeans could understand him.
“No,” he replied. “No.”
“Perhaps I should summon your physician,” suggested Father Duvenant.
“And have him tell me again that there is nothing wrong with me? No, thank you.” He saw the consternation in Father Duvenant’s face and did his best to modify his outburst. “And he may be right this one time. This last week must have given many of us headaches. If we are expected to come up with a coronation that changes the participation of the Pope in the Mass, well.…”
“Anyone would get a headache, most certainly,” said Father Duvenant. “Of course.” He did his best to look relieved. “I can’t say that I wish we could trade places, Eminence.”
“You would be mad if you did,” Cardinal Hetre said, wishing he could make a joke of it; flippancy came hard to him at the best of times. “Tell Cardinal Llanos and Cardinal Sinclair that I will be with them directly. Please. I’ll take something for my head and be along.”
“Do you want me to tell them?” asked Father Duvenant, “about your head?”
The French-Canadian Cardinal shook his head emphatically, which only served to increase the pain in his temples. “Of course not. It would only create problems. You know what the other Cardinals think. They are suspicious of my headaches. You’ll find a better way to make my excuses.”
Father Duvenant nodded once. “As you wish, Eminence.”
“You’re very good; prob
ably better than I deserve,” said Cardinal Hetre, and squirmed at the uninvited images that surged through his mind. He knew he had to resist them for the sake of his soul; he could not succumb to those despicable needs, no matter how many others did. It was an offence to the Holy Spirit and his rank. He had known this all his life. The Church made no allowances for such appetites. He crossed himself once, appalled at the sudden vision of Father Duvenant naked and bowed before him. A prayer caught in his throat. How many times would he be tormented by these unholy lusts? He motioned Father Duvenant away.
Cardinal Llanos watched Father Duvenant as he came through the door. “How long must we wait?” he asked in impolite haste. Both he and Cardinal Sinclair were in secular dress, their dark suits as uniform as if they worked in the corporate world. Each wore his lapel pins and each had a crucifix tie-tack.
“Another ten minutes, Eminences. Fifteen at the most. He is not…not quite himself yet. Please, be seated and let me bring you some refreshments.” He was not sure what there was to offer these august men, but he knew that anything was preferable to leaving them cooling their heels, neglected in this little room.
“Fifteen at most,” said Cardinal Sinclair. “All right. But if His Eminence does not present himself then, we will have to leave. Regretfully, of course. Were it not for the…unusual developments of the last few days, we might have more leeway. With our daily press conference two hours away, there are more obligations ahead of us today beyond attending Cardinal Hetre.” His soft, Irish voice did not make his warning any less stern.
“I am sure he will be with you shortly,” said Father Duvenant. “It is the pressure of events.”
“Another headache,” said Cardinal Sinclair, and motioned away Father Duvenant’s protestations before he could voice them. “You don’t have to say anything, Father. We know the Cardinal of old and we have encountered these headaches of his for years. He can say what he wants: we understand.” He looked at Cardinal Llanos. “We’ll remember his suffering in our prayers.”
“Of course we will,” said Cardinal Llanos. He sighed. “But keep in mind, there is the coronation to prepare for. I’m convinced His Eminence wishes to give us the benefit of his prayerful reflection.”
“Most assuredly,” said Father Duvenant, who had been mulling over a few ideas of his own and hoped to present them to Cardinal Hetre in the next few days. “I know he has given many hours to contemplation and—”
Cardinal Llanos shook his head. “You need not tell us, Father; it’s not as if we were foreign press. Cardinal Hetre is as bewildered as the rest of us. None of us know what is best to do, not even Cardinal Mendosa.”
“But it must take place very soon,” Cardinal Sinclair said. “Every day we postpone the coronation is one day that those who oppose the Church gather strength and credibility from our inaction. It has been more than a week since she arrived. We must settle the matter soon.”
“Doubtless Cardinal Hetre is aware of these things,” said Father Duvenant. “I have heard him discuss them with members of the Curia.”
“Leave the Curia out of this,” begged Cardinal Sinclair. “They’re the worst of all. Cardinal Fiorivi has already protested the Curia’s refusal to admit any non-Catholics to the Vatican until after the coronation of the Pope.” He forestalled Father Duvenant’s questions with a single raised finger. “And do not bring up the issue of calling her Pope. That is the proper title. Male or female or anything in between, we still call the Pope Pope. That much we can agree upon.”
Cardinal Llanos glanced at his watch. “Our time is truly short, Father. Do you suppose we might ask His Eminence if he is ready to join us?” His outward patience stung Father Duvenant to action.
“At once, Eminences,” he said, and hurried back to Cardinal Hetre.
“I’m nearly finished,” Cardinal Hetre lied. In the last few minutes his headache had worsened steadily. “Apologize for my tardiness. I’ll be along in a minute or two.” He wondered as he said it if he would be able to walk without staggering.
“As you wish, Eminence,” said Father Duvenant, his face so expressionless that Cardinal Hetre guessed the priest knew he had not mastered his pain.
Left alone, Cardinal Hetre doubled over, his breath short and fast. Things had gone too far, much too far. He would have to speak to someone about stopping the coronation, and quickly. He could not stand idly by and see that woman ascend the Throne of Saint Peter. It was unthinkable. It was blasphemous. It was obscene.
* * *
“Why should all this pomp be necessary?” Zhuang asked Cardinal Mendosa as he guided her down the nave of Saint Peter’s. Her simple dark silk jacket and trousers seemed out of place in all this magnificence. Willie Foot followed after them, filling in where required. “I have been reading the records of what this man Jesus taught, and he said nothing worthy about finery and display, not as achievements.”
“That’s true,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “In fact, Jesus was in favor of giving up unnecessary goods to those in need. That is why the Church has so many charitable institutions, and one of the reasons the clergy is not supposed to own private property.”
“But the Church owns all of this,” said Zhuang reasonably, indicating the splendor around her. “It is oppressive to its people in order to amass this treasure. This is exploitation and an unworthy act. Jesus condemned it, from what I have read.”
“That He did,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “But we are no longer fishermen and carpenters in Judea. And I ought to remind you that fishermen and carpenters were not poor working men, not then. Those men gave up good earnings and social position to learn from Jesus. But things have changed in the last two thousand years. The Church is no longer in the hands of His disciples.”
“I should say not,” Zhuang agreed, stern disapproval in her face. “It is in the hands of.…” She frowned as she tried to recall her reading. “Didn’t Jesus drive the bankers out of the church?”
“Money-lenders from the Temple, if you want to be more accurate, though it is much the same thing,” Willie told her in Chinese before he translated her question for Cardinal Mendosa.
“Yes,” said Zhuang. “And the money-lenders have returned and multiplied. I understand the Vatican has a bank of its own.” She laughed once. “How can anyone think that this Church, with all its power and politics, is what Jesus had in mind when he was alive?”
“The Church believes it is,” said Cardinal Mendosa very carefully.
“But how is that possible? How can people make such assumptions in the face of what their own Master taught them? They read your translations of what he said, and do the opposite of what he recommended. This is not sensible.” She gestured toward the Papal altar. “Look at that. It is supposed to be in memory of that last evening meal, isn’t it? Isn’t that what you told me? This is no table for a private dinner.”
“No, it isn’t,” agreed Cardinal Mendosa in Chinese, and returned to English for the rest. “But there have been many followers of Jesus who have taught other things, and they, in their wisdom, have brought the Church to—”
“To this place,” said Zhuang. “I find it difficult to accept that those who profess to hold the word of Jesus sacred would give equal and greater weight to the commentaries on his teaching, particularly when those later writers countermand what Jesus taught.” She folded her arms and stared up at Michaelangelo’s dome. “Those later writings are commentaries, nothing more, no matter how learned. They cannot have the same significance as what Jesus said. You know, Mendosa, I am beginning to think you were correct to come to me, after all. I can see why I am needed, to restore a proper balance in your Church teaching.”
“Spoken like a true Confucianist,” said Cardinal Mendosa when Willie had finished. “And you’re probably right.”
“You sound surprised,” said Zhuang, looking directly at Cardinal Mendosa.
He shook his head, a faint smile in his eyes. “Not really.”
She was willing to take him at his wor
d. She approached the altar. “This building is so vast. Must it be the place where the coronation takes place?”
“Yes,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “You would upset many, many people if you refused to have the ceremony here.”
“I have already upset many, many people,” she said in cadenced English. “But your point is made,” she went on in Chinese. “There is no good reason to oppose the tradition, though I dislike such pomp. It serves only to remind me that the Church is an instrument of oppression and exploitation, where it is supposed to be a haven.”
“You’ll get your chance to change that,” said Cardinal Mendosa.
She looked around the basilica again, her face filled with doubt. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was distant. “So you tell me.”
* * *
“We are pleased to announce,” said Vitale, Cardinal Cadini at the start of the Vatican’s daily press conference two days later, “that the Papal coronation will take place in six days, on the Feast of the Blessed Virgin Mary. That is August 15th, for those of you not familiar with the calendar of saints.” He chuckled to let the reporters know he was not slighting them. He beamed as the questions began, not the slightest flicker betraying the long hours of controversy which had led to this decision.
A tall reporter from Oslo made himself heard over the babble. “What about the Mass, Cardinal? Will it be modified?”
The roar of accompanying questions made it impossible for Cardinal Cadini to answer at once. He held up his hands, waiting amiably while the noise diminished. “Thank you,” he said when he knew they were listening again. “Now I know how the early Christians felt, facing the lions,” he quipped, and let the reporters be amused. “It would be easier if you do not all try to speak at once. And yes, there will be modifications in the Mass. There must be. Zhuang Renxin is not an ordained priest or yet Bishop of Rome, and has said she does not wish to become either one.”
“Doesn’t that cause problems?” one of the Greek reporters bellowed.
Magnificat Page 35
