Willie did as he as told, adding, “I don’t think she’s going to change her mind, Bishop.”
“I suppose not,” said Bishop Flanders, his voice surly. Reluctantly he assigned himself ten minutes of extra prayers for his behavior; his temper had very nearly got the better of him. “But it will not be easy to explain her decision to the faithful.”
“An example of humility, perhaps?” Willie grinned. “I think explaining Zhuang is the least of your difficulties.”
Bishop Flanders glowered at Willie, wishing that the British journalist had remained Catholic so he could have the pleasure of excommunicating him. “You’re not amusing, Foot.”
“Sorry,” Willie responded with stunning insincerity, adding, “I stay where Magistrate Zhuang requires me. I am at her service.”
Bishop Flanders determined to ignore the interloper. “In that case, increase your magnanimity. I have to announce to the Curia what name the Pope will take. This is an irregular request, but it is in response to a most irregular situation. It is essential that her name be…appropriate. You have explained that to her, haven’t you? Or does she have some objection to that as well?”
“Yes,” said Willie. “Cardinal Mendosa had discussed that with her at length. They settled on one before he left.” He saw Bishop Flanders wince at the mention of Cardinal Mendosa. “And they have arrived at a name I believe all of you will find wholly unexceptionable.” He paused to relay to Zhuang what they were saying, and then remarked, “Magistrate Zhuang has chosen the name An. As in the mother of the Virgin Mary and the woman in the Temple.” He gave this a second or two to sink in. “She is staying with the Latin form, instead of using the Judean Hannah. That’s An. Just one n: a-n.”
Bishop Flanders was rigid with conflicting emotions. Finally he asked “How much of this was Cardinal Mendosa’s idea?” He knew he had erred again, and added another ten minutes of prayers to his assignment.
“Cardinal Mendosa merely advised her. He told her of the holy women in the New Testament and permitted her to choose.” Willie relished the scowl of disapproval that marked Bishop Flander’s features. “It really is all he’s entitled to do.”
“At least he grasps that much,” Bishop Flanders said grudgingly.
Willie said nothing but there was a mischievous look in his eyes. He translated for Zhuang. “I think he won’t object to the name you’ve chosen. He doesn’t have to know it has special meaning in Chinese.”
“That priest they want to take your place could tell him,” she said with a trace of concern. “If they know about the Chinese meaning, might they not protest?”
“Only if they understand in which context you intend an, and they don’t. If they should ask, tell them it is short for an-pu chui-pan. Father Zirhendakru will tell them that means to go step by step or carry out a sequence of duties. How can they object to that? You need not say that you intend an-liu instead, which are secrets against doctrine. Let them assume what they wish.” It was difficult to find synonyms for the two versions of an he used, but he managed it as best he could.
“I dislike clandestine things,” she said, using an again, in an-chung; she smiled at her own pun.
“I suspect you dislike the constraints of the Church rather more,” said Willie, then addressed Bishop Flanders, who was getting restive. “I would recommend you tell Father Zirhendakru that Magistrate Zhuang has also chosen An for its significance in Chinese. The phrase is an-pu chiu-pan, and I am sure he can provide an adequate translation.
“I’ll ask you to write that down for me,” said Bishop Flanders stiffly.
“Of course,” said Willie, smiling broadly. “In English transliteration or in Chinese characters?”
Bishop Flanders decided he had to leave at once if he did not want to spend the entire night on his knees.
* * *
Even for Texas it was hot. The bloated sun sizzled overhead, and the air hung sodden beneath. In front of the Cathedral of the Four Evangelists the members of the press sweated as they faced Charles, Cardinal Mendosa, the weather making them snappish.
“The Papal coronation is next week,” said the man from INS, his perfectly cut hair limp on his brow. “Do you expect any difficulties?”
“Of course I expect difficulties,” said Cardinal Mendosa, turning slightly to indicate the riot damage to the cathedral. He was in secular dress, his dark grey suit of tropical weight wool, his shirt of fine linen, his tie dark burgundy silk. Instead of his cowboy boots, he wore black Italian loafers. “I’d be a fool not to expect them. This whole election has been filled with difficulties, from the very beginning.”
“In what ways?” asked a youngster from Fort Worth.
Cardinal Mendosa gave him a long, tolerant look. “How many times has a Chinese woman been elected Pope?”
A few of the newspeople laughed, but the sound was polite and half-hearted. One or two of the reporters shook their heads, too aggravated by heat and inconvenience to indulge the Cardinal.
“You return to Rome tomorrow?” The question came from the CBS correspondent assigned to Austin. He held up a press release that had been given out earlier. “It says you’re leaving at five in the morning.”
“Yes.” Cardinal Mendosa was not in the mood for obvious questions.
The CBS correspondent was not through. “You’ve had more direct contact with the incoming Pope than any other Cardinal. What is your opinion of her?”
“My opinion is not important,” said Cardinal Mendosa curtly. “She has been chosen by the Holy Spirit to lead the Church, and no man’s opinion matters in the face of that fact.”
“But,” protested a well-groomed woman from the St. Louis Dispatch-Enterprise, “you’ve spent time with her, more than any of the other Cardinals. You must have an opinion of her.”
Cardinal Mendosa sighed, wishing he could avoid an answer. “You mean, what is my assessment of her personally? That’s not appropriate for me to discuss. Why must you always reduce it to personalities?” he asked, not expecting an answer. He ignored a volley of questions in the same vein, choosing his words with great care. “All right, let’s get it over with. For the record, Zhuang Renxin is a very capable woman, concerned with justice and fairness. Her record as a Magistrate is laudable. I have an abiding respect for her, and a profound regard for her abilities.”
“Do you like her?” demanded the anchorwoman from the local newsteam.
“I don’t think that has any bearing on the situation,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “The Papacy isn’t a popularity contest.” He bit back a joke about how unpopular Zhuang’s election was.
“Do you think she’ll make a good Pope?” asked a reporter from Atlanta.
“I doesn’t matter what I think: the Holy Spirit thinks she will.” Cardinal Mendosa felt sweat on the back of his neck and forehead, and wished the cameras were not on him, so he could swab it away. He could not afford to do anything that would make him appear nervous or uncertain.
The handsome African-American anchorman for Turner-Marshall raised his voice over the babble. “What about the threat she poses to the Church?”
“Because of Zhuang?” Cardinal Mendosa asked. “Is that what you’re asking about?”
Several newspeople seconded the question.
“I deplore attacks on any religion: Catholic, Protestant, Moslem, Jewish, Hindu, Taoist, or any of the others.” He planted his feet more firmly on the wide, shallow step. “To those people who stormed this cathedral, I say that they have erred. Their intentions may have been excellent, but what they did was inexcusable. I would say that if any house of worship was treated the way Four Evangelists has been treated. Jesus spoke against violence, and as His follower, I cannot condone violence of any sort.”
“Do you expect the police to find the ones behind it?” shouted a reporter from New Orleans.
“If it is possible, I suppose they will. If it isn’t, then they won’t. I can’t speak for the police.” Cardinal Mendosa had been baited on this subject befor
e and was growing tired of it.
“Have you given any instructions to Catholics about the Chinese woman?” called out a red-faced reporter from Boston’s PBS newsmagazine. “Cardinal Bradeston has issued instructions for—”
“Cardinal Bradeston’s op-ed piece was very well-presented and timely,” Cardinal Mendosa interrupted. “And given current circumstances in New England, I believe he has done the wisest thing for his flock. But Texas and the Southwest are not Boston. The demographics are different, the social issues are different, and the traditions are different. I wholly approve of what he has done, but I would not do the same thing here. Op-ed won’t cut it in Texas. I doubt it would be successful.” He wanted a shower and a change of clothes. He hated the way his shirt was sticking to his back. Giving this news conference on the steps of the cathedral might not have been a bad idea, but three-thirty in the afternoon was the wrong time, whether or not they made the early news.
“What instructions do you have for Catholics about the new Pope?” called out a reporter from Mexico City.
Once again Cardinal Mendosa stopped himself from giving a sharp answer. “Every Catholic knows the authority of the Pope. It is no different for Zhuang than it is for any other Pope. She is the choice of the Holy Spirit. As such, she is due the reverence and respect accorded to the Pope, no matter how much unlike our previous Popes she may be.” He hesitated, then decided what the hell and went on. “I know there are those of you who call themselves Christians, who have accused Zhuang of being a tool of Satan, the Whore of Babylon, the Antichrist, and other, less flattering things. Those who make such accusations speak without knowledge; they sow doubt and dissention and confusion, which is not Christian of them. These are people who wrap themselves in the Testaments for the purposes of serving their own ends. They are distressed that God has chosen a woman to lead them, and that the woman is not of their race, nor their faith, and they intend to exploit the fear and novelty of her election in order to impugn her and the Roman Catholic Church. But what better way can God show that we are all His children, or remind us of Jesus’ new commandment, that we love one another, than to raise such a woman as Zhuang Renxin to the Papacy? Before any Christian—Catholic or Protestant—decides that this Chinese woman must be the tool of the Devil, let me suggest that he or she reread Scripture, and remember that Jesus would not cast the first stone. If He would not, how dare anyone calling himself or herself a Christian do so?” That ought to put Reverend Williamson and his ilk in their place, thought Cardinal Mendosa as he finished.
“Cardinal Mendosa!” The reporter from the Los Angeles Times had his hand up and waving. “How much resistance do you expect from Catholics?”
“I don’t know,” answered Cardinal Mendosa at once. “I would hope there would be very little, but that is clearly unlikely.”
One of the local reporters came a step closer. “What about Father Cook? You stated that you would not let his death be forgotten.”
“Yes. And I won’t,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “Father Cook was the victim of precisely the kind of intolerance we have been discussing. His injuries ought never to have happened. I mourn his passing, and I have already arranged a memorial for him within the cathedral.”
“After what happened to Father Cook, aren’t you scared? Are you afraid someone might try to kill you, too?” shouted the AP&T stringer.
“Afraid?” Cardinal Mendosa regarded the newsman evenly. “I am a devout Christian, Mister Miller, and my own death is the least of my concerns.”
Miller persisted. “Okay, but that doesn’t mean you’re making a target of yourself, does it?”
“I am no more a target now than I ever was,” said Cardinal Mendosa, fighting down the images of his dreams. He lifted his hands. “Your ten minutes are almost up.”
“Cardinal Mendosa!” The chorus was ragged and determined.
“Wentworth from Dallas, and then Collins from Kansas City,” said Cardinal Mendosa, pointing to the two newspeople. “Go.”
“Cardinal Mendosa,” said Sally Wentworth as she held up her minirecorder, “four European news services have reported active conspiracies against the new Pope, and the police have confirmed two of them. Can you comment on this?”
“If Interpol and the Eurocops have uncovered groups whom they are convinced have been plotting against Zhuang, then I assume they know what they’re talking about. They aren’t the kinds who cry wolf. But I have to add that I have no direct knowledge of the situation, and I won’t speculate. I have every confidence in Interpol, Vatican security and the EECPA to deal with any and all threats to Zhuang’s safety.” This last was for diplomacy, not conviction. He had reported to Dmitri Karodin only the day before that Zhuang’s protection seemed inadequate, and he was not convinced that all necessary measures were being taken to guard her. He had hated how he felt, revealing that to the Russian.
Niles Collins nodded as Cardinal Mendosa directed his gaze to him. “I was wondering, Your Eminence, if you have any reason to believe that the College of Cardinals was influenced or manipulated in the election of this Pope? I know I’ve asked you this before, but the rumors haven’t—”
Cardinal Mendosa took a deep breath. “You’re right; I have answered this question before. And I’ll reiterate my answer. If some group was trying to influence the College of Cardinals, it did so without detection, without a single hint of its presence or its methods, and succeeded so thoroughly that every single Cardinal specified the same Chinese name—in Chinese, I might remind you—not once but twice. Frankly, I find it more convincing that this was the manifestation of the will of the Holy Spirit than the result of a conspiracy, no matter how subtle and clever.” He took one last question. “Hill. Go ahead.”
Tom Hill from Norman, Oklahoma, looked startled at this recognition. “Cardinal Mendosa,” he said, recovering quickly. “What do you plan to do once this new Pope is in office?”
“Whatever Zhuang, as Pope, wants me to do,” said Cardinal Mendosa, and went on to explain. “I was fortunate enough to be the one to meet her first. Perhaps as a result of that Her Holiness has been kind enough to trust me. I consider this a singular honor. As a Cardinal, I have an obligation to assist and advise her in any way she deems fitting. Her Holiness has not yet informed me what the way is to be.” He made a point of looking at his watch. “I’m afraid the time is up.”
There was another belligerent clamor of questions, but Cardinal Mendosa did not relent. He started back up the steps, and was annoyed when a number of the newspeople hurried to cut him off.
“Just one more, Your Eminence,” insisted a reporter from San Antonio.
“I have to be on a plane in a matter of hours, and there is a great deal of work I must finish before then,” said Cardinal Mendosa, hoping that someone from the cathedral staff would break this up. “I can’t spare much time. I made that clear when I agreed to answer questions this afternoon.”
“Do you think the Church can survive the Chinese woman’s Papacy?”
Cardinal Mendosa crossed his arms. “We’ve survived liars and villains and debauched atheists as Pope. We have endured rivalries and wars and assassinations and heresies. There have been Popes who were sexually perverted, incestuous, sadistic, dissipated, monomaniacal, corrupt, and insane. If none of these things has ruined us, I doubt one honorable and upright Chinese widow can destroy us.”
“Cardinal Mendosa! Cardinal Mendosa!” came the insistent shout.
This time he would not permit them to detain him, but made his way directly to the boarded-up doors of the cathedral.
* * *
Cardinal van Hooven was the host that afternoon, and although he feared the meeting would do little good, he was resigned to making the effort. Two dozen Cardinals were expected, so he had taken over one of the reading rooms of the library for the occasion. His assistant, Brother Crispino, had arranged the catering; but Cardinal van Hooven was not completely satisfied that the Franciscan’s arrangements would be adequate for the event, so
he had arrived a little early to go over the plans with his staff.
“It might be better if you bring in another four or five of the upholstered chairs,” the Dutch Cardinal said to Carlo Urbi, who was in charge of preparations. “The comfortable wing-back ones. I don’t think we can ask the Cardinals to use wooden chairs.”
“Of course, Eminence,” said Carlo, implying a bow without actually executing one. He was the head of a large number of laity who staffed various functions of the Vatican, many of them sporting elaborate Papal titles.
“And it appears to me that the refreshments are not quite as generous as I would like. A wider selection of sweet biscuits would be welcome, and perhaps a few chocolate truffles, especially the ones flavored with Chambord. I leave it to your good taste to make the choices. Brother Crispino is an admirable assistant, but he tends to plan on a monk’s scale, and that will not do for this meeting. I am certain you appreciate my meaning.” Behind his thick lenses his blue eyes were as candid as a baby’s.
“I will attend to it at once, Eminence,” Carlo promised him.
“I’m sure you’ll do very well. And while you’re at it, I think it might be best to prepare some tea and coffee as well as wine, for the Asian Cardinals prefer tea, as you recall.” He took care not to make this seem to be a reprimand. “With everything that is going on, I am astonished you can manage as well as you do.”
“You are kind to tell me so, Eminence,” said Carlo, lowering his eyes in a respectful way.
“Nothing of the sort,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “I would be a poor manager if I was not aware of the superior work my staff is doing, and for this occasion, you are my staff.” He looked about the library once more. “I’ll leave this in your capable hands. And I will return in ten minutes, just ahead of the rest. If you have anything you require of me, phone my quarters and I’ll speak to you at once.” There was no particular reason for him to leave, but he was aware that his presence might seem judgmental to Carlo Urbi’s assistants. There was no difficulty in getting out of range for a time while his instructions were carried out. “If anyone arrives early, tell them I will be back shortly.”
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