“I never smoked.”
“It’s not necessary for salvation.”
It took a while, but finally Hannan smiled. “Have you looked at it?”
The secret. “No.”
“Could you?”
What would Hannan think if he knew that the document was in Crowe’s briefcase in his suite in the guest building?
“Anybody can. It was made public in the year two thousand.”
“Let me tell you about a priest named Jean-Jacques Trepanier.”
IV
“I thought you wanted money.”
Gabriel Faust had a doctorate in art history from the University of Chicago, but his subsequent academic career had been brief. The lure of foundation grants, short-term tasks—cataloguing the holdings of private collectors—and modest dealings in minor art works, bringing buyers and sellers together, had brought him at the age of fifty to the recognition that he had not become what he had set out to be. His beau ideal was Bernard Berenson, whose villa in Florence had become the property of Harvard University. An early fellowship at the Villa I Tatti where the legendary Berenson, long since gathered to his fathers, remained the genius loci had caused Faust to turn his back on campus and classroom and embark on what he had hoped would be the replication of Berenson’s career. With thus far unsatisfying results.
What fascinated Faust in Berenson was the fact that his model had fashioned his own job description, managing by shrewdness, vast knowledge, and a touch of larceny to dominate the art world, becoming the all but universally recognized final arbiter on art. It was that little touch of larceny, accounts of questionable dealings that had come under scrutiny only posthumously, that became central to Faust’s admiration for Berenson and came to define the character of his own hoped-for career.
The epiphany had come on the night of his fiftieth birthday. He was in Paris on a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts. A planned celebration with friends had been postponed when a freakish bout of weather covered Paris with snow and all but extinguished life in the City of Light. In the end, he dined alone, had two bottles of wine, and then trudged back to his apartment where he continued to drink, nursing the feeling that the world was treating him badly. After fifteen years of abstinence he opened the pack of Gauloises Bleues he had bought on the way home and lit up. It was his way of giving a return one-up to the fickle finger of fate.
Any birthday can be the occasion of long thoughts, but to hit the half-century mark makes brooding mandatory. Faust reviewed his career and, in his melancholy mood, found himself concentrating on the defeats and reversals of his life since graduate school. He felt as bank tellers must, condemned to count out the money of others and receive a pittance in recompense. Art auctions were bringing in unprecedented prices. Faust had sat through half a dozen auctions during his stay in Paris and marveled at the amount paintings commanded long after their makers were dead. Great art that had been produced in garrets became a commodity traded for sums of which the artist would not have dared to dream. What irony. It became clearer to him than ever that it was the dealers, the middlemen, who were cleaning up. What had his broad and deep knowledge of Renaissance art brought him except small grants, the occasional commission to write a catalog for an exhibition in some midwestern town, dribs and drabs of income, and a reputation that hovered between anonymity and recognition from those whose recognition meant little? Must he return to academe and the security of a tenured position, frozen in mediocrity?
In search of aesthetic consolation, he began to shuffle through the small reproductions he had bought at Versailles some days before. This brought back his admiration for a Japanese artist, Inagaki, who worked at his easel making an exact copy of an El Greco while tourists wandered past, sometimes stopping to kibitz, then moving on. Faust did not move on. He sat on a windowsill behind the artist and watched him work. All that skill devoted to reproducing the work of others. Surely, the artist had not set out to become what he was. Faust thought of violinists in the metro playing their instruments with consummate skill to indifferent passersby whose thoughts were only on the next train. From time to time, someone would drop coins into the beret the musician had put on the pavement before him. All musicians play the music of others, of course, but surely this haunted fellow had not devoted months and years to mastering his instrument in order to coax a few coins from indifferent subway passengers. But Faust could not put the copyist in the Versailles palace among other instances of dashed hopes. For one thing, the man seemed wholly absorbed in what he was doing, as if this had indeed been what he set himself to do. His copy was as good as the original; in some ways it seemed better. But hadn’t Charlie Chaplin entered a Charlie Chaplin look-alike contest and come in third?
Faust finally drifted away, but with the intention of returning to the spot when the museum was closing. He wanted to make the acquaintance of the Japanese copyist. But when he went back, the easel was covered with a cloth and the artist was gone. His surge of disappointment made clear to him that his interest in the man was not a whim. And then, ah destiny, kismet, providence, he saw the artist waiting at the bus stop, smoking a cigarette. Faust hurried toward him as if he were keeping an appointment. He introduced himself. The artist smiled in incomprehension. Faust repeated himself in French.
“Vous êtes vraiment artiste.”
“Merci, mais non. Je ne fais que des copies.”
Faust shook his head. “Une photographe est une copie. Ce que vous faites est quelque chose tout à fait autre.”
“I do speak English.” A little bow. “I thought you wanted money.”
Not a flattering estimate, but Faust brushed away the remark that had the makings of an unintentional insult. He felt that this was a moment of maximum importance in his life, though he scarcely knew why.
“Gabriel Faust,” he said, putting out his hand.
“Inagaki. Miki Inagaki.”
“I have a car. Can I take you someplace?”
He hesitated. Then he looked at the crowd waiting at the bus stop. He picked up his paint box and they went off to Faust’s car.
Inagaki was staying in a little hotel near Saint Germain des Prés. Faust found a parking place and took the artist off for a drink at Les Deux Magots. They drank sweet vermouth while Faust questioned the artist.
“What do you do with the finished painting?”
“Oh, it is commissioned. I never begin without a commission.”
“Is it profitable?”
Inagaki became wary, so Faust reassured his new friend with an account of his own life, the kind of edited curriculum vitae that made all the difference between a successful and unsuccessful grant application. Inagaki would have been forgiven if he thought he was drinking with a university professor on sabbatical.
“If I could afford it, I would give you a commission myself.”
Inagaki smiled as at a polite remark.
“What are your fees?”
“That depends.”
“I’m afraid there would be a large gap between what I think your work is worth and what I could afford to pay.”
“What painting were you thinking of?”
Faust’s grant was meant to enable him to study Delacroix, an effort to branch out. Would Inagaki think one of the artist’s watercolor sketches of horses too undemanding? Inagaki smiled enigmatically.
Faust had not pressed the matter. Now, on his fiftieth birthday, alone and morose, he thought of Inagaki, he thought of Berenson, he smoked and drank and let the fuzzy idea form. In the morning, he had forgotten all about it, but then he had a terrible headache. The little reproductions from Versailles brought it back. Night thoughts, particularly when fueled by drink, seldom survive the scrutiny of daylight. But this idea was different.
For the rest of his stay in Paris, he had cultivated Inagaki. They became friends of a sort. Several times they went off to a brothel and this seemed to seal some unstated bargain between them. Before he left Paris, Faust had exchanged e-mail add
resses with Inagaki. He was almost surprised when the Delacroix arrived. He was about to go to Massachusetts at the invitation of Zelda Lewis, one of his patrons, a woman for whom he had cataloged the paintings her dead husband had collected. He sold her the Delacroix for a large sum but far less than a putative original should bring. He sent half of that to Inagaki, and so they had become partners of a sort. Going to bed with a tipsy Zelda had been almost inadvertent, but once in bed the discrepancy of their ages was forgotten. After some years of abstinence, Zelda proved a voracious lover. Afterward she wept at such infidelity to the memory of her husband. Faust soothed her, and soon there was a second round.
“It will be our secret,” he whispered. He might have meant the Delacroix.
CHAPTER FOUR
I
“What are we looking for?”
Brendan Crowe had disappeared.
When Traeger learned that Father Crowe had not been to his office for two days, his first impulse was to check the rooftop villa to see if Crowe had met the same fate as his boss. The librarian had clearly never thought of himself as in danger until Traeger had mentioned it to him. Now he wished he hadn’t. The frightened Crowe seemed to have just vanished.
Rodriguez, fortunately, had been on the job.
“He’s gone to America.”
“America.”
“He and Father John Burke.”
“Where in America?”
Rodriguez could only guess. But he was sure it was connected with Father Burke’s sister Laura’s visit. “Have you ever heard of Empedocles?”
Traeger thought. “There are two possibilities. A pre-Socratic philosopher and a New England electronics firm.”
“Laura Burke is the administrative assistant to the founder of Empedocles.”
“Ignatius Hannan.”
“Do you know him?”
Traeger knew of him, of course, because of his consulting business. And through Zelda Lewis he had learned more of Ignatus Hannan. Bea didn’t approve of Zelda.
“She’s a customer.”
Bea’s silence was eloquent. Well, she wasn’t that far off. Zelda played the forlorn widow card masterfully, but the memory of her husband Chuck seemed all the protection Traeger needed. During the first year, he had taken his turn with Dortmund, helping Zelda through her bereavement.
“She ought to marry again,” Dortmund said, not complaining, just expressing a wish.
“You never did.”
“She’s still a young woman.”
Well, younger than Dortmund. About Traeger’s age.
“A home computer?” Bea asked when Zelda called to ask him to come check her system. Not exactly the level on which Traeger worked, but he thought of Chuck. What the hell. Zelda had hired a man to do a catalog of her collection. Most of the paintings she had brought to the marriage with her. Chuck would have collected baseball cards if he collected anything. But it had been a happy marriage, so far as the outside observer could tell. However their tastes and interests diverged, it was pretty clear that the fundamental point of marriage was there. So Traeger had driven off to see Zelda, one more favor to a fallen colleague.
“I don’t understand how I’m supposed to access the program,” Zelda complained after the teary reminiscences were over.
“What are we looking for?”
“Oh, nothing in particular. I just want to know how to get at things.”
“Who set it up for you?” Traeger asked.
“An art historian. The man who did the catalog. Gabriel Faust.”
“Didn’t he break you in?”
Zelda got flustered. “Break me in?”
“Show you how to use the program.”
“I guess I didn’t pay close enough attention. I hated to call him.” She looked away. “A stranger.”
It was an Empedocles program, far more than what was required for the catalogue Faust had put together. Even so, Traeger was sure Zelda’s call had just been an excuse. Well, why not? She must lead a lonely life. She showed him her Delacroix and Traeger said the usual things.
“Pretty expensive?”
“I can afford it.”
It turned out that it had been her suggestion that Faust use an Empedocles program. She spoke of Ignatius Hannan with awe.
“Do you know him?”
“I own stock, Vincent. I go to the meetings.”
So Traeger had found out who Hannan was, beyond the programs and billion dollar company he had fashioned, that is.
Zelda adopted a pious expression. “And I see him at Mass.”
“What’s he like?”
“Devout.” She sounded disappointed.
Devout was the word. Traeger kept checking and found out about the replica of the grotto of Lourdes. He also checked out the Delacroix. The painting Zelda had bought was in a museum in Cincinnati.
“I wonder what the original would cost,” he asked Zelda.
“Oh, that is an original.”
If Traeger had had time, he would have checked out Gabriel Faust.
It was Rodriguez who had mentioned the Confraternity of Pius IX.
“What’s that?”
“A bunch of crazies. They have a kind of community under a man who calls himself a bishop.”
“Isn’t he a bishop?”
Rodriguez shrugged. “China is full of bishops.”
Traeger needed an explanation of that. In China bishops were ordained for the national church, against the wishes of Rome.
“It’s not that they’re not genuine bishops. But their status is irregular. Only Rome can appoint bishops.”
“And Catena is an irregular bishop?” Traeger said.
The Catholic Church was becoming a very complicated place. During his years in Rome, Traeger had thought of it as a monolith. He must have been aware of the grumbling among traditional Catholics who thought the Church had taken a wrong turn. But what one usually heard about was wild theologians who made media careers out of contradicting whatever came out of Rome.
“Are you saying Crowe is connected with this confraternity?”
Rodriguez seemed to compose his answer in his mind before voicing it. “No. But he had a meeting with Catena at the Castel Sant’Angelo. Out in the open, on a parapet one afternoon. But it had the look of a clandestine meeting.”
“What holds the confraternity together?”
Rodriguez wrinkled his nose. “Fatima.”
“The secret,” Traeger guessed.
“That’s right.”
No need to develop the thought. The secret was missing and now Crowe was missing, too. Traeger decided to look in at the Domus Sanctae Marthae.
Inside the building, at the desk, he said he wanted to get in touch with John Burke. The man behind the desk seemed delighted to be able to disappoint him.
“He’s away.”
“When will he be back?”
Thick brows rose above thick glasses. “I’m afraid . . .”
“It’s important.”
There was the unmuffled sound of high heels on the marble floor as a young woman approached the desk and joined the man with the eyebrows. She spoke to the clerk in Italian. As she answered, she looked at Traeger.
“He’s gone to America,” she said. “Just a visit.”
“Is Father Crowe in?”
She beamed. “They went together.”
The man with the eyebrows disapproved of such cordiality and helpfulness and moved away down the long counter.
“You’re not a priest,” she continued.
“Not yet.”
She laughed. It seemed a waste of a good woman, working in a residence filled with clerics, priests, bishops, archbishops.
“I know we’ve met,” he said, looking thoughtful. “It’s Donna, isn’t it? Donna Quando?”
She dipped her head and turned the nameplate so he couldn’t read it anymore.
“Oh is that yours? I thought it was his.”
He liked her laugh.
Even apart from the hope
that she could tell him things he wanted to know, he found her an attractive woman. Thirty at the most, with thick black hair that set off her olive complexion.
“Who are you?” But there was a chuckle in her voice.
“I only talk over coffee.”
She looked at him. She looked at her watch. “I just came back from coffee. I finish at four.”
At ten after four she came through the gate, earning a salute from the guard, and marched right up to Traeger.
“Where to?”
“You’re the native.”
At an outdoor table, she ordered a Cinzano and Traeger asked for a scotch and water, but when that drew a blank with the waiter, he too asked for Cinzano.
“I tasted scotch once,” Donna Quando said. “It tasted like iodine.”
“I’ve never tasted iodine.”
Their drinks came and he took a sip. “This tastes like mouthwash.”
“All right,” she said. “Who are you and what are you after?”
“I’m Vincent Traeger.”
“I already know that.”
“I didn’t give you my name.”
“Carlos did.”
“Rodriguez?”
She nodded. There are questions you just don’t ask, and he was not about to ask her if she worked with Rodriguez. And there was apparently no need to explain to Donna what he was doing in Rome.
“Tell me about John Burke.”
“There’s nothing to tell. He’s a marvelous young priest, attached to the pontifical academies. I suppose he’ll spend a few more years here and then they’ll send him home as a bishop.”
“The same with Brendan Crowe?”
“He’s older, you know. Older than John Burke. His career is likely to keep him right here. Of course you know what happened to Cardinal Maguire.”
“You think Crowe will succeed him?”
“It’s possible. He’s standing in for Maguire until an appointment is made. Not that he would be created a cardinal, at least not right away. Leonard Boyle was not even a bishop when he died.”
Leonard Boyle, who had been prefect of the Vatican Library before Maguire, was an Irish Dominican who had died in office and was buried in the crypt at San Clemente.
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