ELEVEN

On Christmas Eve we received a note from the Spanish Embassy confirming that the Holy Father was granting us the audience we had requested. Enclosed with the note was the invitation from the Pontifical Antechamber, in the following terms.

‘It is hereby announced that His Holiness Pope Leo XIII will be pleased to receive the Lord Don Antoni de Bearn and his Lady, as well as his chaplain and secretary, Don Joan Mayol, on the 31st day of this month at eleven in the morning. Formal dress. Presentation of this invitation at the entrance of the antechamber is kindly requested.’

I proposed to the Senyors that we devote that week to the deepest contemplation and begin our retreat in preparation for the grace we were about to be granted. Dona Maria Antònia was in agreement; the Senyor had some objections.

‘I believe,’ he said, ‘that spiritual contemplation is very appropriate, but we don’t all see it the same way. What the Senyora and you are most interested in is the Pope’s benediction.’

‘Tonet,’ Dona Maria Antònia replied, ‘you know that as a child I was taught that nothing can be more rude than interrupting, and I hate to do so, but I’m afraid this time I must. I wonder what can you expect from the Pope other than His benediction? Answer me, I’m interested in hearing what you have to say.’

Her eyes stared at him with intense curiosity.

The Senyor took her hand in his and caressed one of her nails with his index finger. Finally, he said: ‘I believe the habit of interrupting dates back to the times of the Republic. It’s a romantic vice, even anarchic if you wish, typical of undisciplined people. I must admit that people used to be more polite. Your grandfather, Maria Antònia, who was also mine, used to tell me that when they were young…’

‘Yes, I know the story about the cane,’ Dona Maria Antònia interrupted a second time.

The Senyor stared at her sternly and let go of her hand.

‘Joan may not have heard it, Maria Antònia.’

And turning to me, he explained: ‘There were six children in our grandfather’s family. Their father, Don Ramon, made them sit in the drawing room for an hour every day with their mother, their aunts and the chaplain. The Senyora began the conversation by discussing the weather. The priest followed, drawing some sort of moral conclusion.’ At that moment the Senyor looked at me. ‘Their aunts participated and invited the adults to do so, too. Don Ramon presided over the act with a cane in his hand. Whenever one of the children interrupted, he hit them on the head.’

‘That’s right,’ said Dona Maria Antònia. ‘Don Ramon was a very strict man.’

‘It’s a pity,’ her husband added, ‘that in his old age he started to lose his wits like the kings of the Bible…’

‘Goodness me, Tonet, why do you have to bring up the kings of the Bible? Leave the dead in peace. Interrupting,’ she continued, ‘is a nasty habit and I’ve just done it twice, but despite the story about the cane—which Joan already knew, by the way; you’d already told it to him more than once—and since you yourself dragged in The Kings of The Bible, I know very well why I interrupted you: you said the Pope’s blessing is not the main purpose of our trip, and I asked you to tell us how we’re expected to interpret that statement. I know you find a way out of everything and that if you wish to do so you’ll muddle me up, but I would like to hear your explanation.’

The Senyor took her hand again. Unable to dodge the matter, he began with a good grace.

‘First of all,’ he said, setting his speech in order, as in the times prior to the Republic, ‘you’re forgiven for interrupting, which you did only once and not twice, I think.’ He knew perfectly well that Dona Maria-Antoia had interrupted twice, but he was sorry that she had caught his reasons for letting go of her hand and ceasing to caress her index finger. ‘Secondly,’ he continued, ‘I have not said that the Pope’s blessing is not the main purpose or even the only purpose of Joan’s trip as well as yours. But in addition to being a Pope, Leo XIII is an illustrious personality and a skilful politician. I must write something about the man who has just opened the secret archives of the Vatican to the wise men of the world. I would like to meet him personally, and since he won’t be able to grant us many hours, I must devote much thought to the questions I will ask. That is why I told you that the spiritual contemplation proposed by Joan can be interpreted in many different ways, Maria Antònia. You should pray, above all, because your creed is of a more magical nature, whereas mine, albeit within the boundaries of orthodoxy [at that point I looked at the Senyor, who met my stare] is more rational.’

‘Until now, Tonet, everything was going very well, but I don’t know why you have to drag magic into your argument. Neither Joan nor I have ever done any sorcery,’ said Dona Maria Antònia.

And we tactfully changed the subject.

During the days preceding the audience, the Senyor wrote notes and seemed absorbed in his thoughts. I said mass at Santa Maria dei Miracoli and, as at Saint Roch in Paris, Dona Maria Antònia was usually the only member of my congregation. After mass, we walked around the sunny square a few times while we said our rosaries and then returned to the albergo, from which we would not move until it was dark and we returned to the church. We saw the Senyor only at mealtimes. Dona Maria Antònia made no comment. The day before the audience, as we left the church, she revealed her decision to me.

‘Tomorrow I shall not go to visit the Holy Father with you, Joan.’

I was shattered by her words.

‘Are you absolutely sure?’

She smiled faintly to herself, because she had already been thinking it over for days, and I should have guessed so. Instead of answering my question, she replied: ‘The day after tomorrow there’s a public benediction, and since that’s all I’m really interested in, I’ll go to Saint Peter’s. For you and the Senyor, it’s different.’

I understood that I was not to press her. The plural, ‘you and the Senyor,’ was a mere concession so as not to make even more blatant what was already perfectly clear. It was not on account of me that the Senyora refused to see the Pope. The Senyor must have also understood, because he refrained from inquiring as to her motives.

I tossed and turned all night long. The Neapolitans went to bed late. They were merry as could be when they arrived and I heard them laughing through the wall. They were not alone: I thought I heard women’s voices, too. I was not as easily shocked as some years before, but this was more than I could bear, so I resolved that the following day I would let the Senyors know. I heard falsetto voices followed by their salacious laughter. The thought of those boys being lost in a city full of vices such as Rome made me uneasy. Suddenly I understood my mistake: they were alone, acting out some sort of play. The discovery would have been a relief had the idea that they were completely alone laughing like that not been perhaps more painful to me than the assumption that they had company. Certain that I would be unable to sleep, I decided to knock on their door. They fell silent and opened right away. Standing on the bed was one of the students, wrapped in a pink bedspread, his face and eyes outrageously painted. The one who had opened the door was dressed as a Roman soldier. I begged them not to make so much noise and they burst out laughing uncontrollably.

‘I would like you to meet Madame Angot,’ said the boy dressed as a soldier. ‘I’m her husband, and she runs off with every other man she meets.’

Madame Angot kicked and screamed on the bed with his hair full of feathers like a horse drawing a funeral carriage.

‘Io non la inganno que trois fois par settimana, signore Bartolo. E tutto normale in France, tutto normale, tutto normale!’

I tried to restore order in that madhouse, reminding them that they were old enough to know better. The soldier pulled over a chair for me. His friend kept on screaming. The soldier grabbed one of his legs and made him collapse on the bed; then they both rolled onto the floor. I realized that they were drunk and I retired. For a few minutes I heard the sounds of a fight and some giggles through the wall. Then there was silence. I turned out the light and filled the silence and darkness with absurd scenes fired by my imagination.

When the following day we stepped into the carriage to go to the Vatican, I felt deeply uneasy. Like Dona Maria Antònia, I too would have preferred not to attend the audience. The Senyor told me: ‘Look, Joan, I don’t know how this interview will go nor how much time we’ll have. You know I would like to speak with the Pope alone…’

The carriage made its way through the cobbled streets of Rome and I saw the old palaces parade by as if I were floating on a cloud. The Senyor’s last words snapped me out of my reverie. I told him I would not attend the audience and that I would wait for him at Saint Peter’s. He gave me a slap on the back of my head that shocked me rigid, because it was an open carriage.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. We took this trip for your sake, so you could meet Leo XIII in person. All I’m asking is that if you see a chance to leave us alone…I don’t know whether it will be possible. You’re a smart boy and you’ll do as you see fit.’

He fell silent and we arrived at the Vatican. At the foot of the Scala Regia decorated by Bernini was the Swiss Guard in their colourful Raphaelesque uniforms. Upstairs all the servants were ecclesiastics and wore long purple robes. We crossed sumptuous rooms full of important-looking people. After having shown our invitation several times, we were asked to enter a large golden room where a servant called us after a short while and took us to yet another room covered in red damask. There we waited for a while longer, and when the clock struck eleven, a priest walked over with a piece of paper in his hand and said politely: ‘Would you be so kind as to come in? His Holiness is expecting you.’ And he opened a door.

I will not describe my emotion. The Senyor, who walked ahead of us, stuck his head in and said in Mallorcan, with the same aplomb as if he had been in the courtyard of Bearn: ‘I don’t see anything resembling a Pope in here.’

The priest smiled and with a wave of his hand invited us to enter, closing the door after us. Then, behind a table that had been hidden by the door, we discovered Leo XIII; he was giving us our blessing. Despite my excitement, I was deeply struck by the resemblance between the Pontiff and Don Toni. Because that resemblance, Miquel, reminded me of another one I never would have suspected, one that has been mentioned with varying intentions in certain newspapers: that of the most saintly and illustrious man of our century and a certain sculpture by Houdon that stands in the hall of the Théâtre Français.