An American Pope

by Doug Walker

  “I’m with you on this, Your Holiness.”

  “Good. It’s good to have a trustworthy ally. Of course, if you let the cat out of the bag I may decide to spend a long lifetime as Pope.”

  “I am the Sphinx.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Justin kept the lowest profile possible for several weeks after announcing his views on abortion and contraception as church doctrine. These were building blocks in his plan generally to bring new vigor to the church by making it user-friendly. Bishops were warned to fall into line or face forced retirement.

  During this time of repose, Justin turned his attention to the study of the Vatican, its darker history, or La Oscura Historia del Vaticano. There had always been stories and rumors of secret Catholic societies. There were also the actual Secret Archives, said to be so extensive that there are fifty miles of shelves. These archives can be opened only for specific purposes and only by permission of the Pope.

  Of course one man could never hope to bring all of this information into his small brain, or even digest the workings of the Holy See. But Justin did his best to skim the surface and was as well informed as any of the cardinals.

  And at least once a week he would appear overlooking the masses in St. Peter’s Square, give his blessing and say a few words. Shy at first, he was beginning to relish the job of Pope and the unearned respect that was its companion. And it occurred to him that he was actually an instrument of the Lord.

  He had talked to Sylvia about a world tour and the possibility of subsequently stepping down from his present task. She had chatted this up with Hilda and the two had come up with a plan, a trial outing to a castle in Germany.

  “A German castle,” Justin questioned. “A Mouse Tower on the Rhine?”

  “Not hardly. I don’t believe a Mouse Tower is a castle. Although it might be part of a castle,” Sylvia allowed. “In a day or two I’ll have her come to my office, then you can slip into my office and she can explain the castle. She was born in that region and the names are insane. You know how the Germans combine a bunch of words into one very long word.”

  “I’m willing to give it a go. But how would this help?”

  “I’ve looked into it. Travel for a Pope is always a challenge. For one thing you’re expected to ride around in that bulletproof Popemobile. Maybe we could do without that if we're on a trip to simply tour a castle. Then there’s the entourage. You’re expected to take certain people with you. Then the means of transportation.”

  “Complicated.”

  “Damn right. A small trip, only up into Germany. We could get some of the bugs out and see what comes of it. There’d be the matter of food service and who gets to kiss your ring.”

  “OK. Let’s get with Hilda. I think I’d prefer a castle to say, the Eiffel Tower, or old Big Ben.”

  “Good choice.”

  Hilda was a fountain of information about Neuschwanstein Castle.

  Justin said the name brought to mind a deli sandwich or a dark German beer.

  “In German, it’s Schloss Neuschwanstein,” Hilda explained. “It sits above the village of Hohenschwangau near Fussen in southwest Bavaria. To the south are the Alpine foothills toward the Austrian border. There are ruins of medieval castles nearby, the names almost unpronounceable as far as you’re concerned.”

  “Tell me why I would want to tour this castle,” the Pope questioned.

  “Well, as you know, castles are no longer in vogue. They’re cold and they’re drafty and, with the advent of gunpowder and bombs, they’re no longer useful as defensive bastions. This is a modern castle, construction started in1869 under the direction of Mad King Ludwig. It even has flush toilets, quite new at that time.”

  “This Ludwig, he was crazy?”

  “Certainly eccentric, maybe homosexual. He was a friend of Wagner and captivated by his operas. It’s a fairy tale castle, somehow connected to Wagner’s music. Get this: Ludwig was declared insane before the castle was finished. Three days later he was found floating in waist-deep water in Lake Starnberg. Floating next to him was his psychiatrist.

  “Days after that, the castle was opened to the public for a fee and work continued, although the original plan was never completed. Thus far more than sixty million people have visited the castle; in summer there might be six thousand visitors daily. It’s been used as film sites. Disney’s Cinderella Castle is based on it.”

  Justin held up his hand. “Information overload. That’s enough for me. Into whose lap do I dump the task of planning this trip?”

  Sylvia took over to say, “In recent years Cardinal Pio Margeot has been charged with trip planning. I understand he’s quite good at it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  When Justin proposed the trip to Cardinal Margeot, the good cardinal replied, “Rome was not built in a single day.”

  “By that I assume you mean you’ll need some lead time?”

  “Correct. This is not a major trip. No air transport is involved. The Germans are excellent at security and most everything else. So we can trust a lot of that to them. They’ll be delighted that the Pope will make his first trip outside the Vatican to their castle.”

  “So this is a good call,” the Pope said.

  “Totally. I’m guessing the planning will take a month. I’ll alert the Germans immediately. What about the Popemobile?”

  “I’d rather do without it if that’s possible.”

  “It could be because of German security. But I’ll ask them. So I’ll keep you updated.”

  It was amazing. Justin had all these people doing his bidding. It might be difficult giving up this life.

  Not even a week went by before Margeot dropped by the office to say, “I’m considering the Hotel Christine, it’s about 3.7 kilometers from the castle in Fussen. That’s one of the hotels; there are more, but none much closer. So your entourage would have to travel those 3.7 kilometers, and you can bet the road will be lined with well-wishers.”

  “How about assassins?”

  The cardinal averted his eyes and said, “Hopefully not. Of course you did stir up a hornet's nest with this abortion and birth control business. You don’t change centuries of practice without some dissent.”

  “Major dissent,” the Pope corrected.

  “Yes, major dissent. And there are crackpots out there. Of course the trip will be publicized. There will be local press, TV crews, plus Victor Greene, the New York Times Rome correspondent, plus any other Roman media will tag along. So you’ll be in the fishbowl.”

  “Still, I’d rather not use the Popemobile,” Justin said. “That would almost make me a seated duck.”

  “But it’s bulletproof,” Margeot pointed out.

  “That’s the problem,” the Pope responded. “Everyone knows it’s bulletproof. So only a total idiot would take a shot at it. A smart person would plant a roadside bomb large enough to destroy a battleship. What I’d like is an open touring car. I’ll be in the backseat and you can sit next to me.”

  Margeot actually laughed. “We die together.”

  “Or we don’t die at all. Try to keep the hotel secret for as long as possible. Of course the Germans must know. But if it’s sub rosa the crazies won’t know what exact route we will take until the last moment. The Germans then will be prepared to keep a sharp lookout on any possible shooting positions.”

  “This will have little impact on a suicide killer.”

  “I’m guessing our touring car will be trailed by a carload of German quick-draw gunslingers. It’ll be like High Noon without Gary Cooper.”

  “Our little adventure. So glad you thought to include me. You’re assured that I’m going to be thorough.”

  “Share and share alike is what I say.”

  “A martyred Pope, the first big step toward sainthood.”

  “And me so young.”

  “You are a marvel.” the cardinal said, then departed to perfect the travel plan.

  Because eating, or dining if you prefer, is
an important part of life in the Vatican, Justin had installed his own cook who served both his office staff and his private life, what there was of it. He still kept to the habit of napping after lunch, disguised as prayerful meditation in his chapel. Often he would have the chef prepare a type of take-away he could share with Sylvia late in the day, or during the early morning hours. Sylvia had also adjusted her sleeping habits to that schedule.

  Of course having his own chef diminished the chance of someone slipping a deadly cocktail into his food. He had recruited a Brother Boris Shafia from a Monastery in the northwestern U.S. for the job after hearing of his fabulous ability through the Catholic grapevine. Fish, beef and lamb with a hundred twists were his specialties.

  Justin had become weary of pasta when he was fed normal Vatican fare. No matter how one sliced it, it was still pasta. There was bricchetti, lumachine, gramigna, anelli rigati, gnocchetti, farfalloni, tripolini, ziti and many more.

  Shafia seemed to fit right in. Catholics, wherever they might be, seemed drawn to the Vatican, the throbbing heart of the church. One day, though, he had found him in what seemed intimate conversation with Cardinal Mario Pujalte and he recalled the old cardinal was closely allied with Giovanni Piovanelli.

  He questioned Shafia about the topic of their meeting, but the chef said it was just passing the time, talking recipes. Justin saw it as a first move toward bringing his chef into the circle of his rivals. What to do? Simple. Pujalte was given a one-way ticket to Beijing where he could assist his good buddy Giovanni in smoothing relations with that prickly country.

  One last hurdle before setting out for Bavaria. Hilda Krieg was eager to visit her native land. At Sylvia’s urging she was placed toward the back of the sizeable entourage as a German translator. Her language skills might be valuable if she overheard the odd threat against the Pope.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The day came when the entourage, headed by the Pope, set off by motorcade for the Roma Termini Station, itself an architectural masterpiece, where a train was waiting to carry the party to Zurich, the Swiss city not far from their destination.

  Word was out and the streets were lined with people eager to see the young Pope on his first excursion outside the Vatican. He rode in an open touring car seated next to Cardinal Margeot, who was not totally at ease with all the fanfare.

  At the station, the carabinieri had turned out to keep the crowds back. Justin walked slowly from the car in a finger-length coat of his own design, wearing trousers as opposed to the traditional skirts, a beanie topped his head. Waving to the crowd, he paused occasionally for photo ops, then entered the station followed by his entourage.

  As they entered the station, he asked Margeot, who walked beside him, if he looked the proper Pope.

  “Not really,” Margeot replied, “there are several garments, some lacy with skirts sweeping the ground, but none of them involve trousers. Not as outer wear anyway.”

  “Good, I’m breaking new ground.”

  There were three cars. One isolated the press. A second for the bulk of the entourage, the third for the Pope, Margeot, Father Shafia the chef, Father Poulis, the PR spokesperson, plus three office staffers. The chef was along merely to oversee the meals, not to do any real cooking.

  Father Poulis informed the Pope that there was a slight hitch in Zurich, the regional press had gathered to await the train. “They expect some statement and possibly to ask you a question or two.”

  “They are Swiss?” Justin asked. He was aware Zurich was German speaking, but guessed that Italian and French might also be on hand.

  “Yes, there are Swiss print and electronic media, but the bulk of them seem to be from Germany. So I’m told.”

  Justin could picture himself walking into a mob of reporters and didn’t enjoy the vision. “I’m eager to have an exchange with these people. They represent the Catholic community with which I’m attempting to communicate. But we must have some control. Could we get them all on this railway car?”

  Poulis thought that one over, attempted to gauge the size of the car and replied with a firm maybe.

  “We could clear everyone out but Cardinal Margeot, bring in two guards for security, and invite the newshounds in. That should satisfy them.”

  “More than enough. Whether you should subject yourself to rough and tumble questioning, I’m not to say.”

  “Let’s do this, George, we set a half-hour time limit. You also will stay and stand nearby. You can call time. Give them their half hour and, if need be, a few minutes more. Is that a plan, or what?”

  “It’s a plan, Your Holiness. Let’s hope for the best.”

  The miles fell away with the click of the iron on the tracks, and before they knew it they were pulling into the Zurich Hauptbahnhof. Just over a half hour after the train stopped, arrangements had been made and the car filled with reporters, electronic devices and not-so-small camera equipment.

  Justin was pleased that each wore a tag with their name and news organization. His eye fell first on a strikingly lovely woman whose tag read AZ Nurnberg, Bavaria.

  The first to speak was an older man representing the Abendzeitung of Munich, which was simply a greeting and thanking the Pope for holding a press conference.

  Following that there was a TV reporter from ARD Tagesschau, who Justin could hardly see for the lights and the crowd. He got right to the point.

  “Some of us have heard that the miracle attributed to you and the German woman was not a miracle at all. But some kind of a stunt.”

  “I too have heard that,” Justin replied. “One thing certain in my mind is that I didn’t attend that mass in the Vatican with the purpose of becoming pope. I’m guessing some of you are religious and some are not. Obviously, I’m not a lifetime cleric. So there is a higher purpose to my becoming Pope.”

  “And what might that be?” This from a reporter from 3Sat, a German TV station.

  “If you are religious, you believe in the hand of God. That is, certain miracles. As to the German woman, Hilda, what if she is in truth Joan of Arc come back for a visit, or what if she might be a man in female attire? It really doesn’t matter. Her being in that church at that time propelled me to the office I now hold. Thanks to Cardinal John Black, who also may have been touched by the hand of God.”

  “You mentioned a higher purpose,” A reporter from the rear shouted. “What is that purpose?”

  “It boils down to the fact that the church is in trouble. We’ve been losing members, attendance is down. We’ve grown old and stodgy. So a thirty-two-year-old American presents a new face. I’m trying to go slow, but it requires great patience. I’ve launched an initiative for women to have a greater role in the church. I’ve liberalized abortion and birth control. I’ve sent a high-level delegation to China. There are other things I’ve done behind the scenes. Some subtle, some not so subtle.”

  The pretty woman from AZ Nurnberg piped in, “You must be making enemies left and right.”

  “Enemies and friends. I’m betting that the friends outnumber the enemies. You see, I represent the folks on the other side of the altar, the people in the pews. I think I have a grip on what they’re thinking. And if I don’t, I’m willing to listen.”

  “What about this business of not using the Popemobile.” It was the pretty woman again.

  Justin grinned. “I’m trusting to luck. Anyone who thought I might use the Popemobile would be busy planting a roadside bomb. But who wants to wipe out a nice young Pope like me? I ask you.”

  A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd and someone shouted, “Most parish priests.”

  Another added, “Every bishop and archbishop.”

  Father Poulis stepped up and said, “Time. Thank you all. Now it’s on to the castle.”

  “By what route?” someone questioned.

  “That’s a church mystery,” Poulis replied. “Now, please, goodbye.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  There was a crowd when the party left the statio
n, and Justin took his time, posing for pictures, signing a few autographs, smiling and waving, refusing to hold a baby. He was getting superstar treatment and responding like a superstar. He hoped to be the people’s Pope.

  Because of the devious route, few people turned out along the roadside, although some had guessed correctly. There were only so many roads between Zurich and the castle.

  Father Poulis brought it to Justin’s attention that the party of press people attached to the caravan were miffed because the press in Zurich had a crack at him, but they didn’t.

  Cardinal Margeot had told him that the party had taken over a small hotel not far from the castle. The plan was to rest overnight, then the castle the following day. It was to be a two-day outing, one devoted to the exterior, setting, logic, or illogic for the edifice and the order of construction. Interior and appointments would come the second day.

  Justin said he would meet the press they had brought along during breakfast the following day. More regional and international press had gathered near the castle. So there had to be a third press conference with everyone welcome.

  Victor Greene, who headed the New York Times Rome bureau, seemed to take center stage at the breakfast briefing. His English was perfect, and he had a foot in Rome and a foot in the U.S.

  Justin basically went over what he had told the press in Zurich, but Greene pressed for more information on the new Pope’s style.

  Justin was hoping for just such an opportunity.

  “I consider myself a modern-day Martin Luther.”

  There was almost an audible gasp among the assembled press, all of whom were familiar with church history and Vatican policy. Greene pointed out that Luther had confronted an indulgence salesman, refused to recant his observations and been responsible for the Reformation that produced the Protestant church.

  “And much more,” Justin acknowledged.

  “Yes, he was anti-Semitic,” someone called out. “A Jew hater.”