by Iain Pears
She looked at her watch. “Fifteen minutes maximum.”
Menzies thought for a second. “Microwave,” he said.
“Pardon?”’
“Stick it in.”
“Do you want it switched on?”’
“God, no. I don’t want to cook it. I just want a fairly airtight container.”
He fussed around fetching ingredients, and put them into a small metal bowl with a candle underneath.
“What’s that?”’
“Incense. Covers a multitude of smells and gives anything the true odour of sanctity. Plus one or two other ingredients that will smoke and give off a smell.”
“Such as?”’
Menzies grinned. “Dirty socks. Wool ones. Old friend taught me that. Ten or fifteen minutes should be enough to neutralize the smell of paint. Again, not a permanent job, but it should get us through the day. The knack is to make sure they smoulder, and don’t burst into flame. Otherwise I’ll have to start again.”
Certainly, the smell that came out of the microwave when he opened it up a quarter of an hour later had no traces of paint in it. And it was equally evident that the microwave would never be quite the same again, but no matter. Expenses would cover it, if all went well. And if all didn’t go well, she’d have more to worry about.
“Good,” she said. “Now I’ll have to go. Could you keep an eye on it until someone comes along for it? It’ll be a woman in her fifties, who’ll tell you she’s in the police.”
“By all means,” said the suddenly friendly and cooperative restorer. “No problem.”
And Flavia left. Paolo rang her up a few minutes later; Mrs Verney, he said, had left as well. Here we go, she thought.
Fathers Jean and Xavier sat facing each other in the hospital room, neither really knowing what to say. Father Xavier seemed tranquil and content, Father Jean was more perturbed. It was a lot to absorb, to be told that your superior general had acted in a way which was so—well, immoral. To go against the perfectly clear and unambiguous vote of the council, however narrow the majority, was shocking. Unheard of, in fact. It was even more disturbing that Xavier had chosen to tell him, of all people. The person who was most likely to act on the news. It was exactly what he’d wanted, of course; a handle to stop the man’s reforming tendencies.
And he couldn’t do it. There was no secret of the confessional involved, of course; but in the past few days he’d thought hard, reconsidered his own behaviour and judged it savagely. Had he known this a few days ago, it would have been very different. Now he felt that he should apologize, not the other way around. Rather than give his unquestioned obedience, as was Xavier’s due, he had done his best to undermine his authority. He had caused this situation, and was responsible, every bit as much as the superior.
“I will of course resign as head of the order,” Father Xavier said after a while. “And I am sure you will be elected in my stead. Perhaps that would be the best.”
“This may come as a surprise, but I would beg you to reconsider,” Father Jean replied quietly. “This whole business was unfortunate, but I do not think you should resign. I was as much at fault as you, for not giving you the support that was your due. I am prepared to say so in council.”
Father Xavier looked up, half wondering what his old foe was up to now. “That is kind, Jean. But no use, I’m afraid. I will have to relinquish the post. My error was too great, and is bound to become public knowledge eventually. I do not wish to bring dishonour on the house. And, of course, my injuries will not mend so quickly.”
“The doctors say you will make a full recovery.”
“Eventually, no doubt. I hope so. But it will take time, and in that period I will be quite incapable of discharging my duties. It would be very much better if I stepped down. You must take over.”
Father Jean shook his head. “Not long ago I would have grabbed the opportunity with both hands,” he said with a faint smile. “But now I must conclude that I am not an appropriate person to lead us. I am too old and hidebound. If we choose someone else, and choose well, this episode can become a great turning point for us, rather than a period of sadness.”
“We?”’ Father Xavier said. “We? I feel that you do not mean the council when you use that word.”
“No. If we can decide on someone, and both recommend him, then the council will agree. You know that as well as I do.”
“If we can agree. Who would you recommend?”’
Father Jean shook his head, and drew the chair closer to the bed.
“How about Father Bertrand?”’ he asked. “A man of no known political views and a good administrator.”
“And someone dedicated to his hospital in Bulgaria. You’d never get him to agree to come back. A good man, of course, but not for us. I thought maybe Father Luc.”
Father Jean laughed. “Oh no. A saintly man, I admit. But he makes me seem radical. We’d be up all night flagellating ourselves with birch rods again if he took over. No, sir. Spare us from Father Luc.”
“Marc?”’
“Too old.”
“He’s younger than I am.”
“Still too old.”
“Francois?”’
“Terrible administrator. We’d be bankrupt in a year. More bankrupt.”
They paused for thought.
“Difficult, isn’t it?”’ said Father Xavier.
“What we need is someone new, not wedded to any faction, who could bring in fresh ideas. All these people we’ve been suggesting, they’re no good at all. We all know exactly what they’d do. We need someone from the outside, in effect. Someone as different as Father Paul.”
Father Jean made the suggestion carelessly, but once it was made, the name reverberated around his brain. It was a shocking idea, he knew.
“He’s in his thirties, has no experience of administration, no constituency in the order, he won’t want the job and he’s an African.”
“Exactly,” Father Jean said. Now the idea had occurred to him it suddenly gripped his imagination almost irresistibly. “He’s neither a reformer nor a traditionalist. The reformers will like him because he’s enthusiastic about missions. The traditionalists will like him because he’s very orthodox liturgically. When he’s not in Africa, anyway. Heaven knows what he gets up to there. And he’s a good man, Father. He really is.”
“I know. Father Charles spotted him, did he not? Brought him in? I was doubtful, I must say, but I’ve grown to like him.”
“The only hesitation I have is about what people will think,” Father Jean said. “An African? The youngest superior we’ve had for three centuries?”’
“Perhaps it’s time not to think of such things. Besides, I hate to be practical, Jean, my friend, but it’ll make us the most talked-about order in the church. Think of what that will do for recruitment.”
“Is he up to it, do you think? I must say, I believe he is. More than anyone I can think of. He has dedication and integrity. And common sense.”
Xavier folded his hands on his stomach with satisfaction. “He will do very nicely,” he said with finality. “Especially if we give him our support.”
“Will you?”’ Father Jean asked, conscious that a momentous decision was on the verge of being taken. “Give him your support?”’
Father Xavier paused for a fraction of a second, then nodded. “With my whole heart.”
“And so will I, then.”
Father Xavier chuckled for the first time in days. “In that case, we have a new leader. We need to draft some memoranda for the committee. For my sake, I would like it done as quickly as possible. This afternoon, even. A letter from myself stepping down, and a joint note from both of us recommending Father Paul. I will make a few phone calls when you leave, but you will have to run the meeting. The problem is Father Paul himself.”
Jean shook his head. “I think it would be best not to tell him in advance. He would only refuse to stand. If it’s sprung on him in the meeting and we have a quick vote … well
, he won’t have any choice.”
Xavier lay back in his bed. “My goodness, Jean, my goodness. This’ll make the Jesuits sit up and take notice.”
Father Jean stood up to go, feeling as though an immense burden had been taken from his shoulders. With a small tear in his eye, he clasped his former leader’s hand, and shook it firmly. “I’m so glad,” he said. “Do you know, I believe we have been guided?”’
17
Menzies sat on his sofa contemplating his handiwork. He was an egotistical man in all areas of life except where his work was concerned; in that he was extremely self-critical, to himself if not to the outside world. But even he, as he sat and looked, then got up and picked up the icon, turning it over, brushing it with his finger, then looking at it critically once more, was satisfied. Was it perfect? he thought as he wrapped it carefully in a cloth. No. Could he tell there was something wrong? He wondered as he covered this in newspaper and tied it with string. Certainly, although it would have taken him some time to figure it out. Would anyone else? He paused reflectively. He didn’t think so; really he didn’t. It was a decent piece of work. In the circumstances, a brilliant one.
He was still judiciously congratulating himself when Mrs Verney, posing as a police messenger, came to pick it up. Would she notice anything wrong? he wondered anxiously.
“You’d better check it,” he said with concern as she took the carefully wrapped parcel. “I don’t want it damaged and you coming back and saying it was like that when you picked it up.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”
“I insist,” he said. “And I want a receipt.”
She sighed heavily. “Very well.” And began to unwrap it.
“Fine.”
“Look at it carefully,” Menzies said.
She looked it over. “Seems OK to me. Have you done any work on it?”’
“Some,” he said. “I was just starting.”
“I’m sure you’ll be able to finish later.”
“You’re satisfied?”’
“Oh, yes. Now I must go. I’m late.”
“My receipt …?”’
With barely concealed impatience, she put the parcel down and hurriedly wrote out a note. Received from Sig. D. Menzies, one icon of the Virgin belonging to the monastery of San Giovanni. Menzies took it and regarded it with amused satisfaction. A certificate of competence, he thought. Something to show his friends.
“Now, I must go.”
“Splendid,” Menzies said. “Take care of it. It’s caused enough trouble already, that has.”
“Don’t I know it.”
And Mary Verney, with the icon under her arm, walked out of the apartment block and turned left up the street. A man sitting at the little cafe over the street saw her come out, and picked up his phone.
“You can add impersonating a police officer to your list of crimes and misdemeanours,” he said quietly. “She’s got it, and heading into the Campo dei Fiori. I’m right behind her.”
Mary Verney took a taxi from the rank outside San Andrea; it was busy, as the market was still in full flood, but the rush hour was over, and she didn’t have the alarming problem of having to stand in the open with a stolen icon under her arm for too long. She got off to a good start by giving the driver 100,000 lire.
“Now, listen carefully,” she said. “This will be an unusual drive. I want you to do exactly what I say; if you do, I’ll give you another 100,000 at the end. Is that understood?”’
The driver, a young man with a malevolent smile and a bad squint in one eye grinned horribly at her. “As long as you’re not going to shoot someone.”
“You’d object?”’
“Charge you more.”
“I see I picked well. Now, at three o’clock exactly, I want you to be driving south down the Lungotevere Marzio, towards the crossing with the ponte Umberto. Fifty metres up, there is a bus stop. Near it, there should be a man standing. You with me so far?”’
The driver nodded.
“You will get into the lane closest to the pavement, and slow down. When I say stop, you stop; when I say go, you go again as fast as possible. Then I’ll tell you what to do next. Got it?”’
“One question,” said the man, who Mary Verney suddenly realized had a thick Sicilian accent.
“Yes?”’
“Where is Lungotevere … what did you call it?”’
“Oh, Christ,” she muttered under her breath. “Do you have a map?”’
Five minutes later, they were under way, Mary Verney clutching the map in one hand and the icon in the other. She thanked God they didn’t have that far to go. Otherwise they’d have got stuck in the traffic and never made it. The driver took the route up the via della Scrofa, then swung round at the Porte Ripetta, and headed south again. Mary’s heart began to thump with nervousness. She took the icon out of the bag she’d been carrying it in, and laid it on her lap.
“Into the nearside lane now,” she said, noting that the traffic was heavier than she’d hoped. “Slow down.”
Then she saw him, standing beyond the bus stop, hands out of his pockets.
“Stop.”
The taxi stopped, and she held up the icon to the window. Mikis stared at the icon, and she stared at Mikis. It lasted for about ten seconds, then he nodded, and took a step forward. He put a hand in his pocket.
“Now! Go! Fast!” she shouted. “Get us out of here.”
The car lurched forward as the driver, now thoroughly enjoying himself, slammed his foot on the accelerator and let out the clutch. There was traffic everywhere; twenty metres further on the lights were at red and the road was blocked with two large trucks.
“Keep going,” she shouted to the driver. “Whatever you do, don’t stop.”
He needed little encouragement and swerved with a thump on to the pavement, put his hand on the horn and his foot on the pedal. The taxi shot along, gaining speed until the pedestrian crossing at the bridge; then he cut left across the traffic, swerved to avoid a tourist and barrelled over the crossing so fast that, had anything been coming towards them, they could not possibly have missed it. He went faster and faster in the direction of the Piazza Navona, then cut right down the old cobbled streets that surround it.
“You’re going to kill someone,” she shouted as he swerved to avoid an old tourist eating an ice cream.
No reply. He kept on driving, almost like a professional racer. Then he slowed abruptly, and turned sharply into a cavern underneath an old apartment block.
The engine died as he cut it off, and the pair of them sat in silence for a few seconds. Mary was trembling from terror.
“Where are we?”’
“My brother-in-law’s garage.”
He got out of the car and pulled the big old doors closed, cutting out all the summer light with a frightening suddenness. The weedy light bulb he switched on was no substitute. Mary breathed deeply several times to calm herself down, then fumbled in her bag for a cigarette, and lit it with shaky hands.
“Thank you,” she said when the driver came back. “You did a marvellous job.”
The driver grinned. “Normal driving for Palermo,” he said.
“Here.” She handed him a bundle of notes. “The additional 100,000 I promised. And another 200,000. You never saw me before. Don’t recognize me.”
He pocketed the money, and gestured to the door. “Thank you. And if you ever want another lift …”
“Yes?”’
“Don’t call me.”
Mary nodded, dropped her half-finished cigarette and ground it into the dust with her feet, then picked up the icon in its wrapping.
“How far is it from here to the via dei Coronari?”’
The taxi driver, pouring himself a drink from a bottle he’d found in a rickety desk, pointed. She walked out, back into the brightness of a Roman summer.
Five hundred metres away, in an entirely different street, pointing in the wrong direction and encased on all sides by cars a
nd trucks, Paolo wept with frustration and humiliation. It was the sudden acceleration and the appallingly risky driving of Mary’s taxi that had caught him unawares. When pushed to the test, he wasn’t that willing to die. He beat his fists against the dashboard of the car, then picked up his phone and spoke reluctantly into it.
“Lost her,” he said.
“Oh, Christ,” Flavia said, her heart sinking. “Paolo, you can’t have. Tell me you’re joking.”
“Sorry. What do I do now?”’
“Ever thought of suicide?”’
“What the hell are you playing at?”’ Mary Verney, now she’d had a drink and had calmed down, was furious by the time she found the public phone in the bar and called Mikis again. “We had a deal. You had nothing to gain by pulling a gun.”
“I was not pulling a gun,” Charanis said at the other end.
“Oh, come on.”
“I was not pulling a gun,” he repeated. “As you say, what would I have to gain by shooting you? Nothing. So stop being hysterical. I want to get this over and get away.”
“Did you see the picture?”’
“Yes.”
“Are you satisfied?”’
“Enough. Until I can examine it properly. In about quarter of an hour you should receive a phone call. I will ring back in half an hour and you will tell me where the picture is. And it had better be there.”
There was no pretence at the urbane suavity he normally affected; he was serious now. Mary Verney looked at her watch; somehow she felt the next fifteen minutes would be vital. It would either work, or blow up in her face. Dear God, she wished there had been another way. If anything went wrong …
She looked at her watch again, thirteen minutes. She lit a cigarette, another one but at her age what did it matter, and ran through the list of things that could go wrong.
The phone went. She grabbed it, fumbling slightly in her impatience.
“She’s at liberty.” Oddly formal in its phrasing.
There was a click and the line went dead.
She dialled her daughter-in-law’s number, fumbling badly and dialling the wrong number the first time she tried, and the second. The third time it connected.
“Hello, Granny.” The bubbly, infectiously childish voice at the other end brought tears to her eyes; the moment she heard it she knew she’d won. She’d done everything she set out to do. She managed to mumble back a few words, but Louise would have to wait.
