Magnificat (12 page)

“Catholics!” Cardinal Jung exclaimed. “They seek our guidance. They need a Pope, not this wallowing in mysticism that has taken some of the Cardinals over. Don’t you see we’ve put ourselves in an untenable position, and the longer we remain there the less credibility we will have with our own people?” His face had darkened and he forced himself to be calmer. “If we want Catholics to accept the next Pope, we have to elect him without stopping in the middle for a quixotic quest. You’ve seen the television and read the papers—”

“Though neither are very traditional,” Cardinal Hetre murmured.

Cardinal Jung ignored the aside. “Everyone is speculating what kind of deal is being put together, and the more we delay, the stronger their suspicions grow. It looks too much as if we’re bargaining and playing politics.”

“Which never happens?” Cardinal Hetre ventured. “Your Eminence, look at our history. Politics have always been with us. I think the least political thing the College of Cardinals has done in the last two hundred years is to recess in order to learn more about this Chinese woman.” The last was difficult to speak, for he continued to be upset at the thought of her.

“That was the most political thing of all, pandering to the most gullible of our numbers, acting as if everything we have ever learned about reasonable faith was—” He snorted. “This is our opportunity to reassert our proper leadership and guidance of the Pontiff. It is in our power to have a Pope by the end of the week.”

“Really?” he thought of his fellow-Canadian, Victor, Cardinal Mnientek, who was in Winnipeg and had summoned all the Canadian Bishops and Archbishops to meet with him in four days, having already spent five days speaking with priests around the country. “Less than half the Cardinals are in Rome, Your Eminence. We cannot properly issue such a summons; there aren’t enough of us to override our vote of adjournment. If we made such an attempt, we would put the College of Cardinals in a much more questionable light than it is now.” He felt as if his headache was not quite so severe as it had been half an hour ago. Perhaps it would not be so intolerable after all. He wished for the luxury of rubbing his neck, but dared not show such human weakness to Cardinal Jung.

“Cardinal Tokuyu has agreed to come from Kyoto on twelve hours’ notice, Your Eminence,” Cardinal Jung declared. “If he is willing to do that, how can Cardinal Mnientek and the others not do the same?”

“Yes, but what of Jivin, Cardinal Tayibha? Will he come from India as quickly as Cardinal Tokuyu will come from Japan? Will Cardinal Nkomo leave Lagos? Will Cardinal Stevenson leave Melbourne? Will Cardinal Ygnacio leave Buenas Aires?” He flung the names at Cardinal Jung, deliberately choosing those Cardinals who would be least inclined to answer so high-handed an order. “We have agreed that it will be twenty-one days, and so it will.” He stood up, aware that he was speaking too loudly for their setting, and unable to care. “I ask you to forgive me, Eminence, but I fear that if I remain I will give you greater distress than I have already.” He started toward the door, his head feeling engulfed in heat.

Cardinal Jung fumed as he watched Cardinal Hetre depart. Their discussion had not gone the way he had wanted. Had he not been aware of his position, he would have damned Hetre for an arrogant fool. As it was, he promised himself he would pray that God send Hetre some realistic sense, since the Canadian was impervious to wisdom. His eye was caught by the book Hetre had been reading, which annoyed him afresh, being a large, new book on the Church, censorship, and art. Cardinal Jung seized the book and carried it off to the monitor of the section of the library where he demanded an explanation for its presence.

The young monk blinked at the irate Cardinal. “But it was Pope Urban’s policy, to purchase books critical of the Vatican and the Papacy, so that the Church could better answer her critics as well as learn from them. The College of Cardinals advised him to make such a provision—don’t you remember, Eminence?” He smiled tentatively, still confused, and thought it would have been better if someone else had been on duty that afternoon.

* * *

Cardinal Cadini’s great-niece was getting married; with a sigh he donned all his red finery and prepared to officiate, despite the fact that Santissimo Redentore accommodated no more than seventy people in its worn and squeaking pews. He was happy now that he had obtained permission from Celestine before he died, because this was an unusual office for him to celebrate, given his exalted rank. The wedding was a pleasure, as would be the three lectures he had agreed to give in Athens, Budapest, and Riga, all of which would keep him a safe distance from Rome until the conclave resumed. He had done his part for the adjournment and now he desired a little peace before word came from Cardinal Mendosa; he enjoyed giving lectures and knew he was very good at it.

A scrawny young deacon with a prominent adam’s apple assisted him, more trouble than he was worth, fussing and fluttering around the charismatic Cardinal. He recited the various prayers with Cardinal Cadini, his voice cracking from time to time. “The bride is most fortunate,” he said when Cardinal Cadini was almost ready.

“We are all fortunate when God shows us favor,” Vitale, Cardinal Cadini said quietly, wishing the deacon were less in awe of him. “God has been good to this family, for which we thank Him and praise Him. Lionella is as great a treasure from God as any of them.”

“They say it is a good match,” the deacon reported with a nervous cough. “She can be proud.”

“If she is satisfied that she has a man who will love her loyally and respect her for the rest of their lives, then it is a good match, no matter what else happens, or where his father was born.” The elaborate vestments he wore always seemed theatrical to him. He rubbed his fingers down the embroidered silk.

“Isn’t it proper for a bride to honor her husband, rather than the husband accommodate the bride?” asked the deacon, shocked at what Cardinal Cadini had said, for it countered what he had been taught most of his life.

He did not want to be drawn into yet another debate on marriage. “It may say so in our texts, but if there is no parity, I suspect the marriage will not be what God intended.” He looked toward the altar, recalling a time not so long past when even this mild an answer would have brought cries of protest from almost anyone in Orders. “Is everyone ready?”

Santissimo Redentore was a small church in an old village set in the dry folds of the Umbrian hills between Foligno and Assisi; in the last ten years new, aggressively modern apartment buildings had been going up less than ten minutes from the ninth-century gates. The old families watched the encroachment with cynicism and dismay. The priest who usually served at the altar had excused himself from the wedding ceremony. He claimed this was out of respect for Cardinal Cadini, but everyone knew that Padre Teobaldo Davinetto was staunchly conservative on all matters liturgical and regarded Cardinal Cadini as a dangerous and radical scoundrel.

Sparing no expense, Lionella’s family had filled the church with flowers and had imported a small, world-famous chorus that was known for their interpretations of Renaissance church music. As Cardinal Cadini knelt before the altar—the old-fashioned kind, where he could not face the congregation—he smiled at the sweet, sensual harmonies that blended with the scent of flowers.

Lionella and Remo made a handsome couple, Cardinal Cadini decided as he proceeded with the Nuptial Mass. Both bride and groom had that glossy finish of prosperity and favor, and both were surrounded by friends and family of the same sort. They were comfortable with their success, used to it, as confident as many much older families that they were entitled to good things. It amused Cardinal Cadini to remember that his grandfather had been a blacksmith who developed an interest only a century ago in what was then a new and questionable invention: the motorcar. From that beginning came machine tools, aircraft engines, and hydroelectric plants.

The couple saw the Cardinal smile, and misread the reason for it. Both assumed it expressed approval of them, and they took tremendous satisfaction in that assumption. Lionella was now convinced that she had done the right thing in asking her illustrious great-uncle to perform their wedding. Some of her nervousness faded.

Cardinal Cadini decided that there were too many flowers in the church; their odor was stronger and becoming cloying with sweetness. As a child he had suffered terribly from allergies, and a trip to a nursery or florist brought on agonies of sneezing and coughing and itching, with stuffy head and teary eyes. This time it struck him more as a tightness in the chest that made him feel slightly queasy. Asthma? he thought. At my age? He faltered, repeated himself and went on, promising himself he would lie down for a short while before the reception.

The blessings were pronounced, the bride and groom kissed and the wedding was over. Cardinal Cadini watched as his great-niece made her way triumphantly from Santissimo Redentore, her new husband gazing at her in joyous apprehension. He ought to join them shortly, he realized that, but he was not quite up to it. He had to catch his breath a little more, stop wheezing, then he would leave the church. He braced himself on the altar, shocking the two priests who had assisted him and the deacon. It was getting more difficult to breathe.

“Your Eminence?” said the deacon as he approached Cardinal Cadini. “They’re waiting.”

Cardinal Cadini nodded once, twice, and motioned the deacon away. He was panting now, but none of the air seemed to be reaching his lungs or his brain. He could hear the hurtful bray in his throat as he sought oxygen.

“Are you all right, Eminence?” the deacon persisted. “If you’ll forgive me for mentioning it, your color is pasty, and I—” He stopped as Cardinal Cadini collapsed.

* * *

All through the night he had seen the same thing, over and over: the luminous Asian face under the Papal tiara, and the light, preternatural light everywhere. A joy that was so intense it surpassed pain held him in that eternal moment when the world suffused with light, and when it faded from his sleeping sight he longed for it. Cardinal Mendosa woke earlier than his usual early hour, his body slick with sweat. He sponged himself off, drew on a simple dark robe and spent forty minutes on his knees praying, hoping that the things he had seen would vanish, would fracture or thaw or fade, or that the tremendous light would return. The images remained as they had been from the start, as sharp as the best photography. Only a dozen times in his life had he had visions, but each had been so specific, so utterly clear that it was unmistakable for dreaming, and of the dozen, this was far and away the clearest, most complete of all. It would be a simple thing to know in Hongya if this widow was the woman they were seeking: he would know the instant he saw her, as he had been seeing her face every night for months.

“You awake, Charles?” called Willie Foot from the hall. “We’ve got to get moving. Nigel wants to be off in half an hour. He’s arranging for breakfast.”

“Good,” said Cardinal Mendosa as he hurried to dress, pulling on his controversial cowboy boots just before he picked up his bag and left the room. He caught a glimpse of luminous green in the garden beyond the blind-covered windows, and for an instant wanted to have a walk through it, for the beauty and tranquility he always found in gardens.

“Charles?” Willie persisted.

He stepped into the hall, and replying in his broadest Texas accent, said, “Stop hollering, boy, before you bring the Comanches down on us,” and was relieved when Willie laughed.

* * *

Behind the reporter was a panorama of Saint Peter’s. In front of him, Marc-Luc, Cardinal Gemme listened to him courteously, then answered, “No, I don’t think Cardinal Cadini’s health will be an issue in the conclave when we resume in a week. From what I have been told, he will be sufficiently recovered by then to be able to attend all functions. Of course his physician will be constantly available, if it is necessary for him to receive any treatment.” In his dark street clothes, he looked very much like a successful industrialist; he wore his Cardinal’s lapel pin discreetly.

Gordon Mennell looked to his other guest on the right side of the table. “Reverend Williamson, you have been highly critical of the Catholic Church for a number of years. With these recent developments, what is your view on the forthcoming resumption of the conclave?” Mennell’s smile, vulpine and smug, anticipated carnage.

Reverend Williamson was sleek with success and his manner was as gracious as a high-ticket jeweler. “I am certain,” he said, looking Mennell straight in the eye, “that Christians everywhere are aware that these proceedings are political in nature, as has been the case for centuries. I am certain,” he went on with a slight nod to the camera, “that all but the most blindly devout can see that the purpose of these delays is to permit the Cardinals to poll their Bishops and priests before resuming the conclave, in order to make the most publicly acceptable man Pope. And I am also certain,” he said, winding up for his main point, “that no matter what the choice of the College of Cardinals may be, the Christians of the world will recognize it for the political decision it is.” He turned to Cardinal Gemme with a smile as insincere as his teeth were white.

Cardinal Gemme could not match Reverend Williamson’s high gloss, but he was an experienced media hand in his own right; he remained unflustered. “I’m the first to agree that the Church has been influenced by politics; history is full of such incidents. Politics is the way of the world, and the Church operates in the world for the Glory of God. We have an obligation to respond to the needs of the world, as Our Lord commanded us to do. We Cardinals would not be in a position to advise the Pope—this Pope—if we were not aware of politics, and if we made such an attempt our advice would not be well-considered. We are men, living in the world, but we are Cardinals for God’s Holy Roman Catholic Church: in matters of faith and the spirit, we are required by our holy vows to place God above all other considerations in our lives. With this new Pope, we are as newborn lambs.” He could see that Reverend Williamson wanted to interrupt, so he spoke more quickly. “When we meet in conclave, we, as men, consider the political implications of the election of the Pope. We would be irresponsible not to do so. Then we pray the Holy Spirit will reveal to us the one chosen by God to lead His Church. That is the very essence of our duty, not only to God, but to Catholics the world over, for if they are not guided by God’s choice, we have failed ourselves and them utterly.”