Magnificat (35 page)

By the time he had filled his bath, he heard the clock chime the half hour. “Now, if I only knew the rest,” he confided to the walls of the bathroom as he put his robe and pyjamas aside. He could always return to his bedroom and look at the clock on the east wall, or his watch on his nightstand, but neither notion seemed practical. He slid into the tub and reached for the soap and brush.

It was almost four in the morning when he at last climbed out of the bath and toweled himself off. Slowly he put on his pyjamas again, the thin cotton feeling heavy and stiff, as if made of poster board. He had shaken off most of his vision; the jitteriness had left him without sinking him into mild depression, as had so often happened in the past. He went to the mirror and inspected his chin. No point in shaving now, he decided. His beard could wait a couple more hours. He compromised by brushing his teeth, then picked up his robe and toddled back to his bedroom.

“I’ll make a deal with you,” he said as he lay down once more, not at all certain whom he addressed. “I won’t get mad at that old fart Jung, and you won’t give me any more visions tonight, okay?”

He drifted back to sleep with occasional flashes of Zhuang’s face suffused with light.

* * *

Rufus Greene hung up the telephone and sat ruminating for several minutes. Outside the first of London’s morning rush was thrumming through the streets, but in Mister Greene’s elegant condominium there was only the sound of the Georgian mantle clock to distract him. Finally he picked up a pencil and made a few cryptic notes to himself before dialing a number in Tennessee. He rang through over the answering machine, then waited while Reverend Williamson woke.

“This better be important,” snarled a husky voice.

“It’s me, Reverend,” said Greene in his most deferential manner. “I am sorry to call you so early but it is urgent.”

“Greene.” There was hesitation and the sound of blankets moving. “All right. What’s the matter?”

“You heard that they’ve set the date for the coronation?” he asked, knowing the answer already.

“August 15th.” Reverend Williamson sounded annoyed. “Is that all this is about?”

“No, it’s not,” said Greene. “I had a conversation with…one of our gentlemen from the Vatican. His report is not encouraging. There is growing dissatisfaction in the ranks, but it appears there is no solid core of resistance, as we had hoped. So I would like your permission to engage Clancy McEllton to resolve the matter for us.”

“Without Vatican help?” Reverend Williamson asked, sounding more awake. “Do you want to do this independently?”

“Yes,” said Greene, his eyes blank. “I am afraid we will need—”

“I don’t like it,” Reverend Williamson interrupted. “We agreed we’d do this with Vatican participation. That way we’d keep our plausible deniability. If we don’t have that, how are we going to—”

“Reverend Williamson,” said Greene quietly, “I don’t think you want me to answer that, do you?”

There was a longer pause from Tennessee. “No. I guess not.” He cleared his throat. “But you better get someone from the Vatican to cover your ass, or we might have to answer for all kinds of shit. You hear me, Greene?”

“Yes, Reverend Williamson,” said Greene, his tone resigned. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Damn right,” said Reverend Williamson. “You know there’s a Cardinal who’s willing to give you the go-ahead. You have Clancy McEllton get ahold of his uncle again. I bet he can pick up leads that way.”

“His uncle has taken a vow of silence, he tells me. I don’t think we can learn much more from that source, Reverend.” He coughed diplomatically. The traffic outside snarled once, and banged. Greene cocked his head, listening for the two-toned sirens. There were none. Sirens always made him nervous. “I haven’t had any more contact with the gentleman from the Vatican. I have left occasional messages, but there has been no direct response. It’s too bad; I was hoping we might have heard something but so far, nothing. Under the circumstances, I don’t think we should put too much stock in the gentleman’s complaints.”

“Chickenshit pansies, every one of them. Greene, tell me something I want to hear.” His voice was stern, accepting no excuses.

“Clancy McEllton’s willing to work for us. He has quoted a reasonable fee, given the difficulties of the assignment. I doubt we could find anyone more competent on such short notice.” Greene was growing distressed and this turned his words to a whine. “I believe we ought to proceed before the 15th. Once they make her Pope, she’s the head of the Vatican state as well as head of the Catholic Church. That makes it a bigger problem, having her recognized officially. It isn’t a good idea to wait much longer. We want to make our point before the coronation takes place. Afterward the damage will have been done. Right now we can still interrupt the process, I’m convinced that—”

“For Chrissake, Greene, watch what you’re saying.” Reverend Williamson was more awake now, and more acerbic. “You don’t know who’s listening or what they could make of this. Jesus! You’re acting like a fucking amateur.” The American evangelist took a deep breath. “Now you listen to me, and you listen good. I want a report from you by noon, your time, tomorrow. I want to hear that you’ve made some progress with those Vatican cunts, and I don’t want to hear any more bullshit about us going on without a Cardinal to take the fall. You call back those faggots until one of them talks to you. They’ll have to take the heat for this. If anyone points a finger about her after it’s over, it ain’t gonna be at us, that’s for fucking certain. We have to get that Vatican support or we’re not going to be able to move. Do you hear what I’m saying to you?”

Greene sighed, not quite audibly. “Yes, sir.” There was a distant siren now. Perhaps the accident was serious after all.

“One of those Cardinals has to come in with us and be the decoy. We won’t be able to get close enough without that, and we won’t have any way to keep out of the flak afterward unless there’s a Cardinal or two standing around with powder burns on his hands. You got that, Greene?”

“No action without a Cardinal for cover,” said Greene dutifully.

“Exactly, Mister Greene,” said Reverend Williamson, and hung up.

As he put his receiver back onto the telephone cradle, Greene bit his lower lip, either in worry or concentration.

Chapter 19

“But, Your Holiness,” protested Bishop Flanders, who had been given the task of coordinating the Coronation Mass, “it is essential that you wear the tiara at all times.” He had got up from the couch in the small sitting room of the quarters she had been assigned. There were nuns billeted on both sides of her, and a Swiss Guard in the hall, to prevent any sort of scandal. There was also an unobtrusive security camera in the northwest corner of the room.

“Do not call me Your Holiness,” said Zhuang, motioning to Willie Foot to assist her. “If you insist on such a name, it must wait until the ceremony is concluded.”

“If you wish,” Bishop Flanders muttered, glancing at Willie Foot as the journalist translated.

She studied Bishop Flanders’ face, aware of his disapprobation. “I do not like the tiara. It is heavy and ostentatious. If you must put it on my head, then take it off as soon as possible.”

Bishop Flanders had been a bad-tempered little boy and at his confirmation had sworn to conquer his occasional rages, as proof of his worthiness and piety. While he was young the task was often too much for him. For most of his twenty-nine years since ordination he had been able to rise above his fits of anger. Now he was sorely tested. His blocky face reddened. “If you are to be Pope, you must wear the tiara.”

“Why?” she asked in English, then continued in Chinese, pausing occasionally to allow Willie to catch up with her. “I have been reading your texts and I see no reference to any tiara ever worn by Jesus. I do not recall anything he said that indicated he wanted one, or required his followers to wear one, or to aspire to wear one. The only crown I recall was the one made of thorns, which was intended as a disgrace, or so I am told. Therefore it is not because of what Jesus taught that the tiara is worn, but because of the rules established by the Church in a display of importance and power. For the sake of tradition you may place it on my head if you must, but then you will remove it, or I will take it off myself.”

“He’s not going to like that last bit,” Willie warned Zhuang in Chinese before he translated it for Bishop Flanders.

“That is unfortunate,” said Zhuang with no sign of relenting.

“The tiara is necessary,” Bishop Flanders persisted. He tried to console himself with the reflection that Cardinal Mendosa was back in Houston for the week and not here to plague him.

Zhuang sighed and stared out the window; she could just make out part of Saint Peter’s dome. “It is not respectful for me to wear such…adornment. You in the Church may have good reason for your finery, although I notice that many of the Cardinals prefer secular garments most of the time. You have set yourselves apart from your people through such display, which distinguishes you more than it honors your Jesus. Had I been one of you, I might sense the need you do, and seek to—” She stopped, for she had castigated Bishop Flanders about privilege and abuse of power only two days before.

Willie waited, anticipating another lecture, then realized that she was not going to continue. “What is it, Worthy Magistrate?”

She shook her head. “Nothing important,” she answered. “Mendosa cautioned me, and I realize I should have heeded him more closely than I did.” She turned away from the window. “It is very disturbing, this demand for luxury. I suppose I should be satisfied with the concessions I have been granted, but I am not.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Willie with an understanding smile.

“I had not anticipated the pressure that would be put on me. I’ve had some protection from it. And I admit that I miss Mendosa. This morning I had another dispute with Cardinal Fiorivi about Father Zirhendakru. The rest of the Cardinals would prefer he translate for me because he is a priest. But I still prefer you, Willie, because you are
not
.” She chose a simple armchair and sat down, indicating Bishop Flanders as she did. “Tell that officious martinet that he cannot bully me. It is not acceptable to me to wear the tiara beyond the actual crowning. I will consent to wear the tiara for the crucial parts of the ceremony, but after that it must be removed.”

Willie did as he as told, adding, “I don’t think she’s going to change her mind, Bishop.”

“I suppose not,” said Bishop Flanders, his voice surly. Reluctantly he assigned himself ten minutes of extra prayers for his behavior; his temper had very nearly got the better of him. “But it will not be easy to explain her decision to the faithful.”

“An example of humility, perhaps?” Willie grinned. “I think explaining Zhuang is the least of your difficulties.”

Bishop Flanders glowered at Willie, wishing that the British journalist had remained Catholic so he could have the pleasure of excommunicating him. “You’re not amusing, Foot.”

“Sorry,” Willie responded with stunning insincerity, adding, “I stay where Magistrate Zhuang requires me. I am at her service.”

Bishop Flanders determined to ignore the interloper. “In that case, increase your magnanimity. I have to announce to the Curia what name the Pope will take. This is an irregular request, but it is in response to a most irregular situation. It is essential that her name be…appropriate. You have explained that to her, haven’t you? Or does she have some objection to that as well?”

“Yes,” said Willie. “Cardinal Mendosa had discussed that with her at length. They settled on one before he left.” He saw Bishop Flanders wince at the mention of Cardinal Mendosa. “And they have arrived at a name I believe all of you will find wholly unexceptionable.” He paused to relay to Zhuang what they were saying, and then remarked, “Magistrate Zhuang has chosen the name An. As in the mother of the Virgin Mary and the woman in the Temple.” He gave this a second or two to sink in. “She is staying with the Latin form, instead of using the Judean Hannah. That’s An. Just one n: a-n.”

Bishop Flanders was rigid with conflicting emotions. Finally he asked “How much of this was Cardinal Mendosa’s idea?” He knew he had erred again, and added another ten minutes of prayers to his assignment.

“Cardinal Mendosa merely advised her. He told her of the holy women in the New Testament and permitted her to choose.” Willie relished the scowl of disapproval that marked Bishop Flander’s features. “It really is all he’s entitled to do.”

“At least he grasps that much,” Bishop Flanders said grudgingly.

Willie said nothing but there was a mischievous look in his eyes. He translated for Zhuang. “I think he won’t object to the name you’ve chosen. He doesn’t have to know it has special meaning in Chinese.”

“That priest they want to take your place could tell him,” she said with a trace of concern. “If they know about the Chinese meaning, might they not protest?”

“Only if they understand in which context you intend
an
, and they don’t. If they should ask, tell them it is short for
an-pu chui-pan
. Father Zirhendakru will tell them that means to go step by step or carry out a sequence of duties. How can they object to that? You need not say that you intend
an-liu
instead, which are secrets against doctrine. Let them assume what they wish.” It was difficult to find synonyms for the two versions of
an
he used, but he managed it as best he could.

“I dislike clandestine things,” she said, using
an
again, in
an-chung;
she smiled at her own pun.

“I suspect you dislike the constraints of the Church rather more,” said Willie, then addressed Bishop Flanders, who was getting restive. “I would recommend you tell Father Zirhendakru that Magistrate Zhuang has also chosen An for its significance in Chinese. The phrase is
an-pu chiu-pan
, and I am sure he can provide an adequate translation.

“I’ll ask you to write that down for me,” said Bishop Flanders stiffly.

“Of course,” said Willie, smiling broadly. “In English transliteration or in Chinese characters?”

Bishop Flanders decided he had to leave at once if he did not want to spend the entire night on his knees.

* * *

Even for Texas it was hot. The bloated sun sizzled overhead, and the air hung sodden beneath. In front of the Cathedral of the Four Evangelists the members of the press sweated as they faced Charles, Cardinal Mendosa, the weather making them snappish.

“The Papal coronation is next week,” said the man from INS, his perfectly cut hair limp on his brow. “Do you expect any difficulties?”

“Of course I expect difficulties,” said Cardinal Mendosa, turning slightly to indicate the riot damage to the cathedral. He was in secular dress, his dark grey suit of tropical weight wool, his shirt of fine linen, his tie dark burgundy silk. Instead of his cowboy boots, he wore black Italian loafers. “I’d be a fool not to expect them. This whole election has been filled with difficulties, from the very beginning.”

“In what ways?” asked a youngster from Fort Worth.

Cardinal Mendosa gave him a long, tolerant look. “How many times has a Chinese woman been elected Pope?”

A few of the newspeople laughed, but the sound was polite and half-hearted. One or two of the reporters shook their heads, too aggravated by heat and inconvenience to indulge the Cardinal.

“You return to Rome tomorrow?” The question came from the CBS correspondent assigned to Austin. He held up a press release that had been given out earlier. “It says you’re leaving at five in the morning.”

“Yes.” Cardinal Mendosa was not in the mood for obvious questions.

The CBS correspondent was not through. “You’ve had more direct contact with the incoming Pope than any other Cardinal. What is your opinion of her?”

“My opinion is not important,” said Cardinal Mendosa curtly. “She has been chosen by the Holy Spirit to lead the Church, and no man’s opinion matters in the face of that fact.”

“But,” protested a well-groomed woman from the St. Louis Dispatch-Enterprise, “you’ve spent time with her, more than any of the other Cardinals. You must have an opinion of her.”

Cardinal Mendosa sighed, wishing he could avoid an answer. “You mean, what is my assessment of her personally? That’s not appropriate for me to discuss. Why must you always reduce it to personalities?” he asked, not expecting an answer. He ignored a volley of questions in the same vein, choosing his words with great care. “All right, let’s get it over with. For the record, Zhuang Renxin is a very capable woman, concerned with justice and fairness. Her record as a Magistrate is laudable. I have an abiding respect for her, and a profound regard for her abilities.”

“Do you like her?” demanded the anchorwoman from the local newsteam.

“I don’t think that has any bearing on the situation,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “The Papacy isn’t a popularity contest.” He bit back a joke about how unpopular Zhuang’s election was.

“Do you think she’ll make a good Pope?” asked a reporter from Atlanta.

“I doesn’t matter what I think: the Holy Spirit thinks she will.” Cardinal Mendosa felt sweat on the back of his neck and forehead, and wished the cameras were not on him, so he could swab it away. He could not afford to do anything that would make him appear nervous or uncertain.

The handsome African-American anchorman for Turner-Marshall raised his voice over the babble. “What about the threat she poses to the Church?”

“Because of Zhuang?” Cardinal Mendosa asked. “Is that what you’re asking about?”

Several newspeople seconded the question.

“I deplore attacks on any religion: Catholic, Protestant, Moslem, Jewish, Hindu, Taoist, or any of the others.” He planted his feet more firmly on the wide, shallow step. “To those people who stormed this cathedral, I say that they have erred. Their intentions may have been excellent, but what they did was inexcusable. I would say that if any house of worship was treated the way Four Evangelists has been treated. Jesus spoke against violence, and as His follower, I cannot condone violence of any sort.”

“Do you expect the police to find the ones behind it?” shouted a reporter from New Orleans.

“If it is possible, I suppose they will. If it isn’t, then they won’t. I can’t speak for the police.” Cardinal Mendosa had been baited on this subject before and was growing tired of it.

“Have you given any instructions to Catholics about the Chinese woman?” called out a red-faced reporter from Boston’s PBS newsmagazine. “Cardinal Bradeston has issued instructions for—”

“Cardinal Bradeston’s op-ed piece was very well-presented and timely,” Cardinal Mendosa interrupted. “And given current circumstances in New England, I believe he has done the wisest thing for his flock. But Texas and the Southwest are not Boston. The demographics are different, the social issues are different, and the traditions are different. I wholly approve of what he has done, but I would not do the same thing here. Op-ed won’t cut it in Texas. I doubt it would be successful.” He wanted a shower and a change of clothes. He hated the way his shirt was sticking to his back. Giving this news conference on the steps of the cathedral might not have been a bad idea, but three-thirty in the afternoon was the wrong time, whether or not they made the early news.

“What instructions
do
you have for Catholics about the new Pope?” called out a reporter from Mexico City.

Once again Cardinal Mendosa stopped himself from giving a sharp answer. “Every Catholic knows the authority of the Pope. It is no different for Zhuang than it is for any other Pope. She is the choice of the Holy Spirit. As such, she is due the reverence and respect accorded to the Pope, no matter how much unlike our previous Popes she may be.” He hesitated, then decided what the hell and went on. “I know there are those of you who call themselves Christians, who have accused Zhuang of being a tool of Satan, the Whore of Babylon, the Antichrist, and other, less flattering things. Those who make such accusations speak without knowledge; they sow doubt and dissention and confusion, which is not Christian of them. These are people who wrap themselves in the Testaments for the purposes of serving their own ends. They are distressed that God has chosen a woman to lead them, and that the woman is not of their race, nor their faith, and they intend to exploit the fear and novelty of her election in order to impugn her and the Roman Catholic Church. But what better way can God show that we are all His children, or remind us of Jesus’ new commandment, that we love one another, than to raise such a woman as Zhuang Renxin to the Papacy? Before any Christian—Catholic or Protestant—decides that this Chinese woman must be the tool of the Devil, let me suggest that he or she reread Scripture, and remember that Jesus would not cast the first stone. If He would not, how dare anyone calling himself or herself a Christian do so?” That ought to put Reverend Williamson and his ilk in their place, thought Cardinal Mendosa as he finished.