“Certainly it does,” said Cardinal Cadini at his most disarming. “What would be the point of denying the problems? The entire election has caused problems. But we will not set ourselves against the manifested will of the Holy Spirit. There are measures we can take to adapt the Mass for these…remarkable circumstances, and I assure you that they will be carefully scrutinized during our preparations, to ensure the integrity of the elevation.” He nodded toward a woman from Sao Paolo. “What is it?”
The woman cleared her throat and almost lost her chance to speak. “It doesn’t seem likely that the College of Cardinals would be able to agree about every change required by such a Mass. Have there been clashes?”
“Naturally. There have been clashes,” said Cardinal Cadini with his usual smiling candor. “But that’s nothing new. There are clashes constantly in the College of Cardinals. It did not take the coming of Zhuang Renxin to do that. We have always debated and argued. It is part of our purpose. In this instance, we have disagreed more often because we are less certain of how we should proceed.” He shrugged eloquently.
The next volley of questions came more quickly, and Cardinal Cadini provided a blanket answer.
“I’m afraid I can’t give you the details of the Coronation Mass because, frankly, we are still working them out. We will prepare a full release to issue in four days. Every one of you will receive the text. Until then, it would be most incorrect of me to speculate on the final form the Mass will take.” He hesitated. “We are planning to continue our daily press conferences until the coronation. We are also going to keep the Vatican closed until the celebration. This is for the protection of Zhuang Renxin and for public safety. I need hardly remind you of the hundreds of thousands of people who have come here in the last month. We are not prepared to guarantee the safety of so large a crowd.”
“What about the threats? Have there been threats on her life?” demanded a newsman from a Los Angeles tabloid.
“There are always threats to the Pope,” said Cardinal Cadini mildly. “There are threats to Cardinals and Bishops and monks as well. It is part of the job, as they say, to receive threats. Perhaps,” he added with a trace of mischief, “a few of you might have received a threat or two at some time?”
“What precautions are being taken?” shouted a journalist from Egypt.
“The same we have taken in the past. We have our own Vatican security forces, and the assistance of the EECPA and Interpol,” Cardinal Cadini answered, continuing, “The Pope is given the same protection as other heads of state. You’re all aware of that, aren’t you?”
Another barrage of questions came, none of them distinct.
Again Cardinal Cadini held up his hands. “Please, please, ladies and gentlemen. I can’t answer you if you all shout at once, and in so many languages. Be patient, if you will. I’ll answer as many of you as I can in the time allotted. Now then. The gentleman from Warsaw. What is your question?”
“The Separatists are claiming their numbers have increased steadily since the election of this Chinese woman was announced. Have you anything to say to that?” It was the same question he had been asking for over a week, but Cardinal Cadini answered it as if it were new to him.
“The Separatists are well-intentioned but misguided. They claim that the Church has lost the mandate of the Holy Spirit. They are saying that the current election is proof of that. But I ask how, if not by the mandate of the Holy Spirit, could the entire College of Cardinals unanimously elect a woman Magistrate in China? Still I do understand the difficulties many Catholics are experiencing now, nor am I surprised that the Separatists are taking advantage of the confusion. It does not astonish me that others share this confusion. It saddens me that there are so many willing to take advantage of the doubts of Catholics. And I am confident that in time most of them who now turn to the Separatists will realize that they have erred and will wish to return to the Church. Those who follow the Separatists in good conscience can reconcile themselves to the Church when their doubts are ended, and the Church will receive them gladly. I can comprehend why someone, faced with the tremendous changes of the last few months might seek something more familiar than the current Church appears to be. In turmoil most of us cling to what we have known before. It is a prudent mistake, to seek the familiar. But religion is not familiarity, it is mystery.” He smiled directly at the Polish reporter. “You may recall how many were upset when John-Paul II was first elected, but his election did not destroy the Church, as many predicted it would. The election of Zhuang Renxin may be more unexpected than the election of John-Paul II, but it is as valid.”
“But what about those who claim the woman is the Antichrist?” shouted a man with a strong Alabama accent.
“They are not part of the Roman Catholic Church,” answered Cardinal Cadini smoothly. “It isn’t my place to comment on them, except to say that they do not reflect the Church’s position.” He raised his voice. “I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but you will have to save your questions for tomorrow. Trevor, Cardinal Stevenson of Melbourne will be here.” He ignored the last, persistent rush of questions. “Thank you very much for your attention.”
* * *
He could not sleep and he was unable to pray. Since midnight he had been in the grip of his unadmitted gift. Cardinal Mendosa lay on his bed, every atom of his being fixed on the vision that enveloped him. There was light, so much light, so intense that it ought to have hurt his eyes, though it did not. In that light was Zhuang Renxin; her kind, sensible face was turned toward him. She was speaking, but no words came. There was, instead, a distant, soft, tremendous sound, more exalted than singing. She wore the Papal ring on her thumb, and though she extended her hand, she would not permit him to kiss the ring.
Somewhere not far away a clock chimed the quarter hour and was echoed by bells. Cardinal Mendosa heard them but paid no heed. The vision claimed him as it had never done before. He was caught up wholly, engulfed in light. He watched the glowing nimbus radiating from Zhuang Renxin and longed for words to express his reverence and awe; none seemed adequate.
As he watched, Zhuang Renxin held out her hand again, not to him, but to figures beyond the light. The light spread. The walls of Saint Peter’s crumbled but not into ruin—an edifice of light took its place, more glorious than jewels and gold could ever be. With an effort, Cardinal Mendosa remembered to breathe. Zhuang Renxin stood in the center of that refulgence and nodded once in approval.
Then Cardinal Mendosa stumbled and fell; an instant later, Zhuang Renxin disappeared.
He came to himself suddenly, gasping, one arm flailing against his sheets.
After a moment, Cardinal Mendosa lay back, his breath still ragged in his throat, his body tingling. He pressed his lips closed, as if he feared he might cry out. Not since he was a boy and had told Father Aloysius about the murdered Catholic President he had seen in his mind, had he talked about his visions; not to his priest, not to his family or anyone else. For years he had kept it all to himself. But never had he experienced anything as vast, as real as what had just transpired. He made himself be still. He didn’t want to blow it now. I’d be a fool to talk about this, he cautioned himself. Worse than that. They’d claim I’d gone off my rocker, and they’d use it against Zhuang. Everything I’ve worked for would be jeopardized if I start blabbing now.
Very carefully, as if he were recovering from a serious illness, he got out of bed. He felt light-headed, almost tipsy. “This’ll never do,” he muttered to the darkness, and hoped that neither Father Viernes nor Father Gilbert were awake. Had he made any noise that might alert the two junior members of his staff? Bishop Peverston kept to his own quarters at night, and therefore would not be aware of any disturbances. He pulled on his robe and wandered toward his bathroom. “What I need,” he announced to the air, “is a long, hot tub. It was good enough for the old Romans; it’s good enough for me.”
By the time he had filled his bath, he heard the clock chime the half hour. “Now, if
I only knew the rest,” he confided to the walls of the bathroom as he put his robe and pyjamas aside. He could always return to his bedroom and look at the clock on the east wall, or his watch on his nightstand, but neither notion seemed practical. He slid into the tub and reached for the soap and brush.
It was almost four in the morning when he at last climbed out of the bath and toweled himself off. Slowly he put on his pyjamas again, the thin cotton feeling heavy and stiff, as if made of poster board. He had shaken off most of his vision; the jitteriness had left him without sinking him into mild depression, as had so often happened in the past. He went to the mirror and inspected his chin. No point in shaving now, he decided. His beard could wait a couple more hours. He compromised by brushing his teeth, then picked up his robe and toddled back to his bedroom.
“I’ll make a deal with you,” he said as he lay down once more, not at all certain whom he addressed. “I won’t get mad at that old fart Jung, and you won’t give me any more visions tonight, okay?”
He drifted back to sleep with occasional flashes of Zhuang’s face suffused with light.
* * *
Rufus Greene hung up the telephone and sat ruminating for several minutes. Outside the first of London’s morning rush was thrumming through the streets, but in Mister Greene’s elegant condominium there was only the sound of the Georgian mantle clock to distract him. Finally he picked up a pencil and made a few cryptic notes to himself before dialing a number in Tennessee. He rang through over the answering machine, then waited while Reverend Williamson woke.
“This better be important,” snarled a husky voice.
“It’s me, Reverend,” said Greene in his most deferential manner. “I am sorry to call you so early but it is urgent.”
“Greene.” There was hesitation and the sound of blankets moving. “All right. What’s the matter?”
“You heard that they’ve set the date for the coronation?” he asked, knowing the answer already.
“August 15th.” Reverend Williamson sounded annoyed. “Is that all this is about?”
“No, it’s not,” said Greene. “I had a conversation with…one of our gentlemen from the Vatican. His report is not encouraging. There is growing dissatisfaction in the ranks, but it appears there is no solid core of resistance, as we had hoped. So I would like your permission to engage Clancy McEllton to resolve the matter for us.”
“Without Vatican help?” Reverend Williamson asked, sounding more awake. “Do you want to do this independently?”
“Yes,” said Greene, his eyes blank. “I am afraid we will need—”
“I don’t like it,” Reverend Williamson interrupted. “We agreed we’d do this with Vatican participation. That way we’d keep our plausible deniability. If we don’t have that, how are we going to—”
“Reverend Williamson,” said Greene quietly, “I don’t think you want me to answer that, do you?”
There was a longer pause from Tennessee. “No. I guess not.” He cleared his throat. “But you better get someone from the Vatican to cover your ass, or we might have to answer for all kinds of shit. You hear me, Greene?”
“Yes, Reverend Williamson,” said Greene, his tone resigned. “I’ll do what I can.”
“Damn right,” said Reverend Williamson. “You know there’s a Cardinal who’s willing to give you the go-ahead. You have Clancy McEllton get ahold of his uncle again. I bet he can pick up leads that way.”
“His uncle has taken a vow of silence, he tells me. I don’t think we can learn much more from that source, Reverend.” He coughed diplomatically. The traffic outside snarled once, and banged. Greene cocked his head, listening for the two-toned sirens. There were none. Sirens always made him nervous. “I haven’t had any more contact with the gentleman from the Vatican. I have left occasional messages, but there has been no direct response. It’s too bad; I was hoping we might have heard something but so far, nothing. Under the circumstances, I don’t think we should put too much stock in the gentleman’s complaints.”
“Chickenshit pansies, every one of them. Greene, tell me something I want to hear.” His voice was stern, accepting no excuses.
“Clancy McEllton’s willing to work for us. He has quoted a reasonable fee, given the difficulties of the assignment. I doubt we could find anyone more competent on such short notice.” Greene was growing distressed and this turned his words to a whine. “I believe we ought to proceed before the 15th. Once they make her Pope, she’s the head of the Vatican state as well as head of the Catholic Church. That makes it a bigger problem, having her recognized officially. It isn’t a good idea to wait much longer. We want to make our point before the coronation takes place. Afterward the damage will have been done. Right now we can still interrupt the process, I’m convinced that—”
“For Chrissake, Greene, watch what you’re saying.” Reverend Williamson was more awake now, and more acerbic. “You don’t know who’s listening or what they could make of this. Jesus! You’re acting like a fucking amateur.” The American evangelist took a deep breath. “Now you listen to me, and you listen good. I want a report from you by noon, your time, tomorrow. I want to hear that you’ve made some progress with those Vatican cunts, and I don’t want to hear any more bullshit about us going on without a Cardinal to take the fall. You call back those faggots until one of them talks to you. They’ll have to take the heat for this. If anyone points a finger about her after it’s over, it ain’t gonna be at us, that’s for fucking certain. We have to get that Vatican support or we’re not going to be able to move. Do you hear what I’m saying to you?”
Greene sighed, not quite audibly. “Yes, sir.” There was a distant siren now. Perhaps the accident was serious after all.
“One of those Cardinals has to come in with us and be the decoy. We won’t be able to get close enough without that, and we won’t have any way to keep out of the flak afterward unless there’s a Cardinal or two standing around with powder burns on his hands. You got that, Greene?”
“No action without a Cardinal for cover,” said Greene dutifully.
“Exactly, Mister Greene,” said Reverend Williamson, and hung up.
As he put his receiver back onto the telephone cradle, Greene bit his lower lip, either in worry or concentration.
Chapter 19
“But, Your Holiness,” protested Bishop Flanders, who had been given the task of coordinating the Coronation Mass, “it is essential that you wear the tiara at all times.” He had got up from the couch in the small sitting room of the quarters she had been assigned. There were nuns billeted on both sides of her, and a Swiss Guard in the hall, to prevent any sort of scandal. There was also an unobtrusive security camera in the northwest corner of the room.
“Do not call me Your Holiness,” said Zhuang, motioning to Willie Foot to assist her. “If you insist on such a name, it must wait until the ceremony is concluded.”
“If you wish,” Bishop Flanders muttered, glancing at Willie Foot as the journalist translated.
She studied Bishop Flanders’ face, aware of his disapprobation. “I do not like the tiara. It is heavy and ostentatious. If you must put it on my head, then take it off as soon as possible.”
Bishop Flanders had been a bad-tempered little boy and at his confirmation had sworn to conquer his occasional rages, as proof of his worthiness and piety. While he was young the task was often too much for him. For most of his twenty-nine years since ordination he had been able to rise above his fits of anger. Now he was sorely tested. His blocky face reddened. “If you are to be Pope, you must wear the tiara.”
“Why?” she asked in English, then continued in Chinese, pausing occasionally to allow Willie to catch up with her. “I have been reading your texts and I see no reference to any tiara ever worn by Jesus. I do not recall anything he said that indicated he wanted one, or required his followers to wear one, or to aspire to wear one. The only crown I recall was the one made of thorns, which was intended as a disgrace, or so I am told. Therefore it
is not because of what Jesus taught that the tiara is worn, but because of the rules established by the Church in a display of importance and power. For the sake of tradition you may place it on my head if you must, but then you will remove it, or I will take it off myself.”
“He’s not going to like that last bit,” Willie warned Zhuang in Chinese before he translated it for Bishop Flanders.
“That is unfortunate,” said Zhuang with no sign of relenting.
“The tiara is necessary,” Bishop Flanders persisted. He tried to console himself with the reflection that Cardinal Mendosa was back in Houston for the week and not here to plague him.
Zhuang sighed and stared out the window; she could just make out part of Saint Peter’s dome. “It is not respectful for me to wear such…adornment. You in the Church may have good reason for your finery, although I notice that many of the Cardinals prefer secular garments most of the time. You have set yourselves apart from your people through such display, which distinguishes you more than it honors your Jesus. Had I been one of you, I might sense the need you do, and seek to—” She stopped, for she had castigated Bishop Flanders about privilege and abuse of power only two days before.
Willie waited, anticipating another lecture, then realized that she was not going to continue. “What is it, Worthy Magistrate?”
She shook her head. “Nothing important,” she answered. “Mendosa cautioned me, and I realize I should have heeded him more closely than I did.” She turned away from the window. “It is very disturbing, this demand for luxury. I suppose I should be satisfied with the concessions I have been granted, but I am not.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Willie with an understanding smile.
“I had not anticipated the pressure that would be put on me. I’ve had some protection from it. And I admit that I miss Mendosa. This morning I had another dispute with Cardinal Fiorivi about Father Zirhendakru. The rest of the Cardinals would prefer he translate for me because he is a priest. But I still prefer you, Willie, because you are not.” She chose a simple armchair and sat down, indicating Bishop Flanders as she did. “Tell that officious martinet that he cannot bully me. It is not acceptable to me to wear the tiara beyond the actual crowning. I will consent to wear the tiara for the crucial parts of the ceremony, but after that it must be removed.”
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