Early the next morning, Monsignor Angel-Novalis was summoned to a conference with the Camerlengo, the Secretary of State, Rossini and three other Cardinals. They were assembled for one of the curial committee meetings which would take place every day until the conclave began. Rossini laid out a proposal for Angel-Novalis.
“You have accepted to speak today, as a private person, at the Foreign Press Club. As that same private person, we ask, but do not command, a service from you. If you agree, you will make few friends and some enemies in the high clergy. You will expose yourself to harassment and a possible lawsuit with big financial risks. We have explained the risks to your superior and assured him that we shall underwrite them. However, you will not be able to reveal that now or later. If things go wrong, there may well be some damage to your public career in the Church. Are you prepared for that?”
“I am not a careerist, Eminence. My talents, such as they are, were placed long ago at the disposal of my superiors.”
“Good. For this role, we need a very good actor.”
“I’m a passable actor, Eminence. I’m not a good liar.”
“You will not be asked to lie. You will be required to offer a hypothesis to your audience. We should like you to offer it with as much personal conviction as possible.”
“Is it a reasonable hypothesis?”
“We believe it is.”
“But you can’t prove it?”
“At this moment, no.”
“So you want me to see how it flies with the media?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me what you are trying to achieve?”
“We want to throw the press a bone – a very big bone – which they can gnaw over until the conclave begins. After that, this unfortunate affair will fade into history.”
“And I am to be the bone?”
“Exactly. How do you feel about that?”
“I’m prepared to hear you out. As you say, gentlemen, in this I am a private person.”
“Who may soon be very public.” Rossini returned his smile. “Here is what we propose.”
Angel-Novalis heard him out in silence; then gave a thin smile.
“Your evidence would be worthless in a court of law, Eminence. You know that.”
“We are not asking you to present evidence, only to make a public assertion of a private opinion.”
“That’s pure casuistry, Eminence.”
“I know it is. You know it is. The press doesn’t – and our friend Figaro will assume we know a great deal more than you are saying. Most importantly, you will have introduced into the whole affair a useful element of doubt. Will you do it for us?”
“I will do it,” said Angel-Novalis. “I shall try to compose myself to total obedience, of mind, heart and will. Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen.”
“You are excused, Monsignore. We thank you for your co-operation.”
“De nada, Eminencia. In Spain we make fine swords and fine distinctions! By your leave, gentlemen!”
He bowed himself out of the meeting. As soon as he was gone, the Camerlengo turned to Rossini: “Now, my dear Luca, we have a commission for you, too.”
“What is the commission?”
“Our eminent colleague, Aquino, would like to meet with you this afternoon. He feels that there are issues between you which need to be resolved. We are of the same opinion.”
There was a long silence. Rossini looked from one member of the group to the other. They did not meet his look. They sat eyes downcast, their hands folded in their laps. Finally, Rossini asked:
“Has Aquino defined the issues between us?”
“He has,” said the Camerlengo. “And we’d be grateful if you spared us the embarrassment of rehearsing them.”
“Have you thought of the embarrassment to me?”
“We have, Luca. We believe you are a big enough man to wear it.”
“In whose interest?”
“In the interest of the Church. Another scandal at this time and on the eve of the conclave would be highly embarrassing.”
“We need more than embarrassment! We need to be shamed!” There was anger in Rossini’s tone. “We have covered too many scandals. This one is already out. It is firmly planted in the newspapers. It has to be dealt with openly. I will not be party to any conspiracy of concealment.”
There was another moment of silence, after which the Secretary of State himself intervened.
“It is for that reason, Luca, that we think your meeting with Aquino is important. You can reason with him on a level different from ours. You may even find some ground of compassion which would encourage him to confront his accusers. You may perhaps break through to the real man behind all the enamel.”
“If there is such a man,” said Luca Rossini.
“You have to believe there is,” said the Secretary of State. “Will you please meet with him?”
“On whose ground, his or mine?”
“Mine,” said the Secretary of State. “Two-thirty in Conference Room A.”
“I shall be there, but understand, I make no promises on the outcome.”
“We understand that. Thank you, Luca … Now, if we may pass on to the rest of the agenda.”
When he stood at the lectern in the Foreign Press Club, facing an audience of media folk and a battery of television cameras, Angel-Novalis had the air of an ancient hidalgo, challenging all comers. When he began to speak, however, his tone was simple, almost humble:
“My dear colleagues, I speak to you today as a private man, caught, as you are, in a millennia! moment in this ancient city. I have never explained myself to you before. As a Vatican official, I felt that would have been improper. As a private man, I can be open with you. You know that I am a member of the Priestly Society of the Holy Cross, better known to you as Opus Dei. Many people don’t approve of us. They judge that we are elitists, rigorists, old-fashioned ascetics, dangerous dealers in secret works. I am not here either to defend our reputation or our practice of the religious life. I declare simply that when my world was falling about me, when my wife and children were killed, when I had neither wish nor will to survive, the Society helped me to put my life and myself together again. I tell you this not to persuade you to join us. We wouldn’t suit most of you – and most of you wouldn’t be happy with us! However, there are larger fellowships, wider embraces and broader fields where we can all meet in comfort, as we do today.
“The Bishop of Rome is dead. Soon another will be elected in his place because the Church abides and is continuous in Christ. In the memorial Masses we pray for the departed: ‘Enter not into judgment with your servant, O Lord.’ Here, today, we are doing just that: entering into judgment on a dead man who can no longer answer for himself. On the other hand, it is your profession to report news and comment on it. I have no quarrel with that, provided you render true report and prudent judgment.
“This brings me at one stride to the subject of my small discourse: Past and future in an abiding Church. The late Pontiff represents the recent past – a large slice of this century. The man who is elected in his place is elected for the future but is commissioned also as a custodian of the past: that body of teaching, tradition and revealed truth which we call the Deposit of Faith. Bear with me, I beg you, while we explore this notion together.”
They were all professionals. They knew a good performer when they saw one. They gave him their full attention. They knew he was wooing them, softening them up with sedulous skill, trying to disarm them before question time. He was also making more concessions in his private role than he would ever have made in his public one:
“The Church has its own enormous inertia, its own glacial immobility …
“It is not, like truth, a seamless cloth, but it is almost as hard to unpick and reshape …
‘The burden of office is laid like a leaden cope on the shoulders of a Pontiff. It is not too long before he realises that one day it will crush him …
“He knows, too, he can be destroyed by his own shortcomings – as Peter knew that he had betrayed his master three times at the jibing of a servant girl and Paul knew that he had stood in silence holding the cloaks of those who stoned Stephen to death. It has been my personal task to present the late Pontiff to the world through the media with as much truth and as little blemish as possible. Now, in the diaries, he presents himself as Everyman in pyjamas and bedroom slippers. It’s not always an edifying spectacle. I enter a personal plea: pity him before you blame him!”
It was this final sentence that brought him generous applause: the simple admission of human frailty – and the implied confession of necessary myth-making around the Pope and his office. It also provided a standing-place for Frank Colson in his role as inquisitor:
“So you would agree, Monsignor, that your first task at the Sala Stampa is to protect the Pontiff?”
“Our task is to convey official information and to convey it as clearly as possible. Others, like the Congregations and the Bishops, are the official interpreters.”
“How did you feel – as a private person – when you heard of the publication of the Papal diaries?”
“Saddened, angered.”
“Angered by what?”
“The gross breach of privacy.”
“But the Pontiff must have been aware of that possibility when he made a formal deed of gift to his valet?”
“I know nothing of his intentions in the matter.”
“There is a phrase in his letter which is interesting, I quote: ‘In olden times, I might have been able to enrich a faithful retainer like yourself. These volumes are my legacy to you.’ Do not those expressions indicate that the Pontiff knew that his gift might be turned into money by his faithful retainer?”
“I have no brief as an interpreter, Mr Colson. I must decline the question.”
“Let me put it another way. Are you, as a private person, satisfied with the document of gift?”
“As a private person, no. I have certain reservations about it.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“Not at this moment. Later perhaps.”
“Has any legal action been taken by any Vatican authority to challenge the document?”
“I have not been informed of any such action.”
“Do you think it is likely?”
“I would venture to doubt it. The See of Peter is vacant. The Camerlengo is only a caretaker.”
“Given your doubts, would you recommend such action or enquiry?”
“My opinion will not be asked, Mr Colson. In the normal order of things, I may soon be out of a job.”
That raised a laugh and some of the tension in the room relaxed. Frank Colson took a sip of water, straightened his papers and glanced at the note which had just been handed to him. It was from Steffi Guillermin. It said: “He’s pleased with himself. Move in. Cut him down.” Colson gathered himself like a prosecutor for the next assault on his witness.
“It is clear, Monsignor, that, whatever your private opinions, the Vatican is not prepared to challenge the authenticity of the diaries, or the validity of the gift to Claudio Stagni.”
“It would be more exact to say that, at this point, the Vatican has made no formal challenge.”
“So, another scenario presents itself. The gift of the manuscript was valid. It was made by a Pontiff in full possession of his faculties – fully aware of the use to which it might be put.”
“That is pure speculation.”
“But, you agree, at least an admissible hypothesis?”
“Improbable, but yes, admissible.”
“Extending the thought a little, is it not equally admissible that certain members of the Curia, close counsellors, suggested this stratagem to the Pontiff, and encouraged him in it?”
“That’s too big a leap for me to make, Mr Colson. I was counsellor to the Pontiff only on matters affecting the media.”
“But surely this was a matter of prime concern to the media? It is the sole subject of our discussion here today.”
“All I can say is that I was not consulted on the matter at any time.”
“But you would concede that such discussion might have taken place with the most intimate and powerful counsellors of the Pontiff?”
“It’s a possibility. I can say no more than that.”
“The alternative is rather frightening, is it not?”
“What alternative, Mr Colson?”
“That the Holy Father, a man charged with enormous responsibility, committed an egregious folly by giving a most private document into the hands of his valet.”
“There may be other explanations.”
“What, for instance, Monsignor?”
“Theft.”
“Which would make us and our employers traders m stolen goods?”
“It could. Such things have happened before.”
“Another alternative?”
“Forgery of the document of provenance. That, too, has happened.”
“Either alternative leads to a very uncomfortable conclusion, does it not?”
“Tell me your conclusion, Mr Colson.”
“That the Holy Father kept in his close personal employ, and shared his most intimate thoughts each day, with a man who abused his trust, invaded his privacy and committed or organised a series of criminal acts for personal gain.”
“Precisely. And if your conclusion is right, Mr Colson, then you, your colleagues and your corporations are all complicitous in crime.”
“And the good judgment of a Pontiff, charged with the universal care of souls, is sadly compromised.”
“That, too, has happened many times in history, Mr Colson. We are a pilgrim Church. We are not a perfect society.”
Colson let him take the point. He, himself, had won enough already. He started on a new line of questions.
“Let’s look now at some of the most significant entries in the diary. You’ve more or less admitted that it’s an authentic document. It will soon be a public one. It’s a unique insight into the mind of a man whose titles are Vicar of Christ, Supreme Pastor of the Universal Church.”
“He is also – in this document, at least – a private man, expressing intimate thoughts.” Angel-Novalis was on the attack now. “He has laid aside the public role and is in discussion with himself and with God.”
“Unless, as you have admitted to be possible, he is pursuing his public role through a post-mortem testament.”
“His role ceases with his death, Mr Colson. His successor is not bound.”
“But the electors may be influenced.”
“Influenced by what?”
“Ambition perhaps. The pressure of their peers, partisan loyalties. It is no secret that there are factions in the Sacred College. I quote from the diaries: ‘I am not blind to the ambitions of certain Cardinals or their capacities for intrigue.’”
Angel-Novalis held up a hand to stay him.
“I think we should stop here, Mr Colson. I am not prepared to offer a commentary on the secret papers of a dead man. I’ll leave that to the historians. I think I’ve given you and your colleagues reasonable value for their lunch-money.”
“You have indeed.”
“May I then ask a small favour in return?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you. I have a short formal statement which I should like you to report verbatim. Will you engage to do that?”
“With pleasure.”
“This is a personal statement: I can say that the Pontiff’s private diaries are admitted as genuine. There is, however, some circumstantial evidence that they were stolen from his dressing-room while he was in a coma, shortly before his death. The letter of donation from the Pontiff is a forgery prepared by one Aldo Carrese, a convicted felon who died two months ago. I make this statement as an open invitation to Claudio Stagni to answer these charges or to sue me for defamation. I am aware that in making it, I am exceeding my brief and exposing myself to censure. None the less, I have a personal duty to protect the reputation of a man whom I admired and respected. What you or your editors choose to do in the circumstances is up to you. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I bid you good day.”
As he strode from the rostrum, the storm of applause, led by Steffi Guillermin, was breaking about him. He deserved every handclap. He had given them a week’s worth of headlines. They understood, too, however dimly, that he had put his career on the line. The Vatican had a long memory and small patience for turbulent priests.
While Angel-Novalis was tasting his sawdust triumph at the Foreign Press Club, the man who had set him up for it was waiting in Conference Room A at the Secretariat of State. His VISitor, Cardinal Matteo Aquino, had telephoned to say that he had been detained at another meeting and would be twenty minutes late.
As a former diplomat – he had served as Nuncio in Buenos Aires and in Washington – Aquino should have known better. On the other hand, Rossini reflected, the man had never known better. He had always been arrogant, proud of his soldier ancestry, his skills as a tennis player, a fencer, and a diplomat who, to use his own words, “had special qualifications to treat with military regimes”.
He was seventy-five years old. He had already tendered his resignation to the deceased Pontiff; but he was still eligible to vote in the conclave and – in theory at least – was still a candidate for election. After a long reign, there was always the chance that the electors might decide on a Pontiff with a short life expectancy.
Now, suddenly, Aquino, that very soldierly fellow, was himself under siege. Those who threatened him were the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo, a group of women who had exposed and ultimately destroyed the dictatorship in Argentina. They were the mothers, widows and sisters and sweethearts of those thousands who had “been disappeared” under the regime of which Rossini himself had been a victim.
They had come to Rome with evidence compiled over twenty years on Aquino’s alleged complicity in the reign of terror, in acts of betrayal, kidnapping, torture and execution which the Government tallied at nine thousand, but the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo declared to be nearer to thirty thousand. The purpose of their visit to Rome was to petition the Pontiff to waive Aquino’s immunity as a citizen of Vatican City State, and thus allow his indictment under the laws of the Republic of Italy. Many of the victims of the terror were migrants from Italy and some, it appeared, had resident status only in Argentina, while remaining still Italian nationals. Now that the Pontiff was dead, the women had announced their intention of waiting to present their formal petition to the new Pontiff.
The substance of their material evidence was familiar to Rossini. The files of the Secretariat of State were also open to him: one slim folder chosen from many lay before him on the table. For a brief span Aquino himself had been a familiar figure in his life: taciturn and withdrawn, unwilling messenger delivering an unsavoury package of damaged goods from Argentina to Rome. As Rossini rose in Papal favour, they had met rarely and their greetings on formal occasions were brief and cold. Now Aquino was a suppliant for Rossini’s public advocacy against the white-veiled furies of the Plaza de Mayo. For Rossini, he was a figure from the nightmare years and his shadow would lie over the meeting that same evening with Isabel.
There was a knock at the door and, in response to Rossini’s summons, a young cleric ushered Aquino into the room. Rossini stood to greet him. He bowed but did not offer a handshake. Aquino also bowed and made a brusque apology. Rossini motioned him to a chair. He sat, straight-backed, unsmiling, until Rossini prompted him.
“You asked to see me, Eminence.”
“Yes. I am, as you know, in a difficult situation.”
“What is this difficult situation?”
“These women, the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo. They have come here to mount a campaign against me. They want to bring me before a civil court in Rome. They want a waiver of my immunity as a citizen of Vatican City State. They propose to wait in Rome until a new Pontiff is elected. It’s all most embarrassing, most distressing.”
“I imagine it must be,” said Rossini mildly. “Of course, what these women suffered, what their sons, brothers, husbands suffered, was also very distressing.”
“I know that.”
“Of course, you had to know – it was your job. Though, on several occasions, you did publicly disclaim that knowledge.”
“That was a necessary diplomatic gambit.”
“I’ve seen your reports.” Rossini’s manner was still mild. He tapped the file on his desk. “They belong to a very painful period of my life, which even now I find difficult to deal with. For that reason, I have been given other assignments in other areas. I am still too vulnerable to the traumas of twenty years ago. Still, in preparation for our meeting today, I did go through several key files. I note that your minutes were always judicious, carefully balanced even on the most controversial subjects.”
“Thank you. That is a diplomat’s duty – never to exaggerate or overemphasise. He must penetrate to the root causes of events.”
“Even when men and women are being tortured with cattle prods and stifled in shit-buckets in the Navy School? Even when they are being flogged and sodomised with broom handles and castrated and blinded then tossed out of aeroplanes over the ocean?”
“I protested these things constantly.”
“To whom? And how publicly?”
“Everything I knew was reported to the Secretariat of State.”
“But you still played tennis with the men who ordered atrocities. You still sought, what did you call it?” He lifted the cover of the manila folder and laid his fingers on a line. “Ah, yes, ‘sound theological advice on the moral limits of torture which may be necessary to extract information from enemies of the State, and in many cases, of the Church as well’. You got your advice and you passed it along at tennis with the generals: ‘Extreme measures may be used provided they do not exceed humane limits, have non-terminal consequences, non-crippling effects, and a duration not exceeding forty-eight hours in all.’ Who wrote that garbage for you?”
“It was written by a reputable moral theologian.”
“Reputable! God Almighty!”
“To provide some basis of reconciliation for men in the armed services who were obliged by force majeure to undertake brutal tasks.”
“And how did you propose to reconcile the families of the dead and the disappeared ones?”
“I did not come here to be abused!”
“This is not abuse. This is truth. Why did you come here? What did you expect from me? Silence? A gloss on all that filthy history?”
“Did it never occur to you,” Aquino was still in control of himself, “that I might come to seek understanding and help?”
“If that’s what you want, talk to the women! Plead for their understanding. Confess to them, beg their forgiveness. They will listen, I promise you! They are accustomed to silence. They waited every day, veiled in white, silent accusers outside the presidential palace. Their disappeared ones are silent for ever.”
“You know I can’t confront them.”
“Why not?”
“They would tear me to pieces.”
“That would depend, would it not, on how you presented yourself to them?”
“That too.” A small humourless smile twitched at the corners of Aquino’s lips. “What did you have in mind? A shirt of sackcloth, a halter round my neck?”
“You have another idea, perhaps?”
“I had hoped you might speak for me and with me, since you, too, were a victim.”
Rossini let out a whispered blasphemy.
“Sweet suffering Jesus! What sort of man are you?”
“I’m a survivor,” said Aquino calmly. “I need your help to survive this – this infamy!”
“What infamy?”
“These charges of conspiracy and collaboration.”
“The best way to survive is to answer the charges!” In spite of himself Rossini was drawn into argument. “Look! Our late colleague, Bernardin in Chicago, was accused by a former seminarian of sexual abuse. He didn’t hide behind the Church or his high office, he challenged his accuser to meet him in court. The charge was withdrawn. Bernardin met with the man and treated him with compassion and charity. Unfortunately, Bernardin did not survive, but he died with honour and the people bless his memory.”
“Everyone blesses a good pastor! Nobody blesses diplomats! You’ve seen what the Italian press has done already. Imagine what they’d do with a full court hearing! It’s impossible!”
“Why impossible?”
“I refuse to be arraigned like a criminal. I helped many families of the victims. Now these women pursue me with unproven allegations.”
“Then take them to court. Let the evidence be tabled and examined. If it’s false, you will be vindicated. If it’s true – then may God have mercy on your soul.”
“You’re playing a cruel game, Rossini. I came to you for help as a colleague and a Christian. Remember you owe me a debt. I got you out of Argentina.”
“I know that. Thousands of others were not so fortunate. But I’m not playing a game. I’m trying to assess your situation and decide how and under what conditions I can help you.”
“Conditions?”
“Of course. You’re a diplomat. Conditions, terms, bargains, these are your stock-in-trade.”
“Very well, let’s have the deal on the table. What will you do to help me?”
“First I will contact the women’s delegation. I will engage to present you to them privately. I will ask them to give you, in my presence, a summary of their evidence. I will persuade them, if I can, to hear your rebuttal and at least discuss an arbitrated solution.”
“And if arbitration is unsatisfactory to either party?”
“You will offer to waive your immunity and volunteer an appearance in court. If you do that, I will work with Angel-Novalis to secure the best possible interpretation of your situation by the world press.”
“You ask too much, Rossini. You offer too little.”
“It’s the best I can do.”
Aquino stared at him with cold and hostile eyes, then he stood up.
“You did better for Raul Ortega. You recommended him as Ambassador to the Holy See so that you could bring your own mistress to Rome.”
When Rossini did not answer, he added a contemptuous little post-script:
“You seem to have forgotten something. I need permission from the Pontiff before I go to law on any matter. Therefore, I can do nothing until the new Pope is elected. You, however, are free to intervene informally on my behalf. So, if you want to revise your offer of help, call me. There isn’t much time left before the conclave. After that, as the Americans say, it will be a whole new ball-game.”
It was then that the light dawned on Rossini. He let out a long exhalation of surprise, then shook his head in total incredulity.
“You’re right, of course. I was a fool not to see it. You’re not looking for a vindication. All you want is a reprieve – a truce!”
“Precisely. And you’re the best man in Rome to negotiate it!”
“Suppose – just suppose – you were elected Pontiff, what then?”
“Then, as I said, there’s a whole new ball-game. The Pontiff is head of a sovereign State. He is also the leader of a billion believers. He is not answerable to any court on earth. Plenitudo potestatis. The fullness of power. It’s an old concept, but it’s been growing again during this reign. There is much support for it in the electoral college. Think about it, Rossini. But don’t delay. Time’s running out.”
He turned away and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Ten minutes later, a very angry Rossini made his report to the Secretary of State.
“It was a mistake, Turi! I should never have agreed to take the meeting. I can’t stomach the man!”
“No matter.” The Secretary of State shrugged. “He asked for the meeting. We arranged it. You attended! Basta!”
“Do you think he could be elected – with his record?”
“The question’s improper, Luca, but I’ll answer it. His record is clean until he is convicted of misdeeds. He has a small faction of powerful supporters in the Curia. Yes, he could be elected, if only as a stop-gap candidate. There are historic precedents for that. However, don’t ask me to give you betting odds.”
“Another question, Turi. How did Aquino know that I had given you a recommendation on the appointment of Raul Ortega?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t hear it from me. In fact, I haven’t discussed it with anyone. I haven’t shown it to anyone. It’s still locked in my private file. Still, knowing that the Argentinians had made the recommendation, he could easily have guessed that I would refer it to you.”
“So, he still has close ties in Argentina?”
“In Argentina, in Washington, wherever he has served. That’s a merit in a diplomat.”
“There was a threat in his remark about Isabel.”
“And you will be wise to remember it, Luca, now that Señora Ortega is in town. I should tell you that Aquino is aware of her arrival.”
“How the devil would he know that?”
“Again, from the Embassy. He’s been in constant touch with them over the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo. He also suggested to me that there might be a connection between this group and the sudden arrival of Señora Ortega. Is there a connection?”
“I don’t know. I’ll certainly ask Isabel. We’re dining together tonight, with her daughter.”
“I trust you have a pleasant evening.”
“Thank you.”
“I wish you nothing but good, Luca. You know that.”
“I do.”
“So, before you meet, calm down. Get rid of your anger. Enjoy your reunion.”
“Thank you, Turi.”
“Now, I have another job for you. Tomorrow I’d like you to attend a meeting with half-a-dozen elderly members of the College of Cardinals who will not be able to vote because of their age. They want to communicate their views to you and other voting members.”
“I’d like to be excused, Turi. I have reserved tomorrow for private business.”
The Secretary of State was annoyed. He demanded curtly:
“More important than the service you owe here – at this time?”
“I believe it is, yes.” Suddenly, he was a different man, open and passionate. “Listen to me, Turi, try to understand! What our older colleagues want is what Paul VI denied them – a voice in the conclave, at least a hearing for their own lifetime’s experience. I understand that. I believe they are entitled to it. But for me, Turi, it’s another question altogether. I am in crisis, a desperate darkness. My meeting with Aquino plunged me deeper into it. I’m not sure that I should enter the conclave at all. I am tempted to resign before it begins.”
“Why, Luca? Why?”
“Because I’m not sure I’m a believer anymore. Suddenly, I am bereft. The God I once believed in is a stranger to me. The Church in which I have spent my life – in which I hold, like you, high and honourable office – is a city of strangers. I’m not explaining myself very well, but you understand, I hope, why I need a small space of silence. I am what I was in the beginning – an empty man, a hollow man, with his head full of clear arctic light, and a lump of ice where his heart should be.”
“Both excellent qualifications for a conclavist!” The Secretary of State leaned back in his chair and toyed with a paper-knife. “A clear head and a cold heart. I will not demean you with sympathy. If you decide to resign, I shall regret it, but I beg you to defer your decision until after the conclave. The judgment of an unbeliever, delivered without fear or favour, might help us all.”
“How would that sit with your own conscience, Turi?”
“Perfectly well. I take what you have told me as a confessional confidence. I do not accept your present disposition as in any way final. The dark night of the soul is a familiar phenomenon in spiritual life – indeed it is for some a necessary halting place on the road to Sanctity. In the absence of a formal rejection of faith, I accept you still as a brother in Christ, a colleague in the government of the Church. Does that answer your question?”
“In part, at least. Thank you.”
“Then may I suggest you suspend judgment on our colleague, Aquino. He, like you, has problems of conscience. We should not presume to adjudicate them.”
Rossini bent his head respectfully under the rebuke. Then he grinned. “You’re right, Turi. I’m sorry. Now, please may I have a free day tomorrow?”
“By all means. We have your mobile number. We’ll try to leave you in peace. And, Luca?”
“Walk warily. Aquino and his friends are a powerful group. Some unkind people call them the Emilian Mafia.”
“What can they do to a man who has nothing to lose?”
“They can rob you of your power to do some good in the Church which, in spite of your personal problems, is greater than you know. Enjoy your evening.”