Oscar Wilde and the Vatican Murders (16 page)

‘Are we
expected?’ I asked.

‘Have
no fear,’ said Munthe, stepping down from the carriage lightly. ‘Follow me.’

The
moment the Swiss Guards recognised Munthe, they moved aside to let our party
pass.

‘It is
the little black bag that does it,’ said Munthe. ‘It is a doctor’s
passepartout. It allows you to go safely anywhere.’

‘Where
are we going?’ bleated Oscar, eyeing the wide stone stairway that stretched up
before us beyond the gate.

‘To the
Sistine Chapel. It is no more than a hundred steps.’

‘No
wonder the pope insists on being carried everywhere,’ cried Oscar, plaintively.
‘How on earth does Monsignor Felici manage?’

‘With
difficulty,’ said Munthe. ‘I believe he has acolytes to help him. The Swiss
Guard carry the old priest to and fro.’

‘Acolytes
and guardsmen,’ murmured Oscar. ‘It’s the only way.’

‘More
exercise, my friend,’ countered Munthe. ‘That’s the only way.’

Oscar
said nothing more. He could not. His breath was all used up in climbing the
steps.

When we
reached the summit, Munthe did not pause. ‘This way,’ he said, leading us now
along a wide, high-ceilinged and marbled outdoor corridor, lined with ancient
Greek and Roman statuary. ‘Prepare to adjust your eyes, gentlemen,’ he
instructed, as we arrived at a small, unmarked doorway cut into a high,
whitewashed wall. With a heave, he pulled open the door and indicated that we
should step through the narrow aperture ahead of him. I entered first. Oscar,
breathing heavily, followed. Munthe’s warning was well given. From golden
sunlight we were plunged into inky gloom.

As
Munthe pulled the door close to behind us, I asked, ‘Is this the Sistine
Chapel?’

‘Yes,’
said Munthe. ‘This is the private entrance.’

‘We
have come to the most beautifully decorated space on the face of the earth,’
cried Oscar, ‘and we cannot see a thing!’

‘Well,
you’re not ‘ere for the frescoes, are you, Mr Wilde?’

The
question came out of the darkness in a cheery cockney accent. It was followed
almost at once by the appearance of a cheery cockney face, lit by a single wax
candle held up before it in a brass candlestick. Holding the candlestick was
the owner of the face, a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, some forty years of age,
clean-shaven and sallow-skinned, with shiny, black, curly hair and shiny,
black, merry eyes.

‘Good
God,’ exclaimed Oscar. ‘It’s Gus Green!’

‘It
ain’t, Mr Wilde. It’s ‘is brother: Cesare Verdi.’

Oscar
turned to me, laughing. ‘This is Gus Green, Arthur —
maître d’hôtel
at
Willis’s restaurant in King Street, St James’s, and my particular friend.’

‘No, Mr
Wilde. It’s Cesare Verdi, sacristan at the Sistine Chapel, St Peter’s, Rome.
You think I’m my brother, but I’m not.’

‘You
are
Gus,’ insisted Oscar, peering at the man. ‘You must be. I can see the devil
in your eye.’

‘Two
peas from the same pod, Mr Wilde — but I’m the older, by a good hour, and I’m
Italian.
Si, è vero.
I’m my father’s son. Augustus is the English one.
‘E’s ‘is mother’s boy. ‘E’s the one with the devil in ‘is eye. I’ve got the
Archangel Gabriel in mine.’

Oscar
laughed. ‘By all that’s wonderful, can this be true? You’re telling me that you
and Gussy are twins?’ Oscar gazed intently at the man behind the flickering
candle. ‘But I’m sure I’ve met you. You seem
so
familiar.’

‘You
‘ave met me, Mr Wilde — at Willis’s. I come over to London now and then, to see
Augustus and our mother, just for a little ‘oliday, you know. I ‘elps out at
Willis’s when I can. I’ve had the ‘onour of serving you once or twice, sir, and
I’ve ‘eard all about you from Augustus. ‘E’s partial to you, Mr Wilde.’

‘And
I’m partial to him. He’s a good man.’

‘And
what ‘e does for you gents in London, I do for my priests ‘ere in Rome.
Augustus gets to look after Mr Oscar Wilde. I gets to look after ‘is ‘oliness
Pope Leo XIII.’

‘Is
that so?’ Oscar laughed.

The man
laughed too. ‘But we’ll all be one in paradise, Mr Wilde. I’m counting on
that.’

‘You
are the sacristan here?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’
he replied, winking at me. (It was a genial wink, not furtive or
conspiratorial.) ‘As my father was before me. And as ‘is father was before
that. It runs in the family.’ He held his candlestick up above his head and
turned to indicate the vastness of the chapel all about us. ‘Welcome to my
world,’ he said.

My eyes
were gradually becoming accustomed to the gloom. I now saw that we were
standing in a corner of the chapel, immediately adjacent to the high altar.
Michelangelo’s triumphal
Second Coming on the Day of Judgement
was just
discernible above us.

‘Come
through to the sacristy,’ said Cesare Verdi, still chuckling. ‘We’ll get you
some tea.’

‘And
cucumber sandwiches?’ asked Oscar.

‘Not
today, Mr Wilde. We do an English tea ‘ere —muffins, crumpets, anchovy toast
and all — but not on a Friday.’

‘I
believe Monsignor Breakspear is expecting us.’

‘Not
today, Mr Wilde. ‘E’s not ‘ere.’

‘But he
said …’

Cesare
Verdi cocked his head to one side and looked at Oscar with an amused air.
‘Monsignor Breakspear is a Jesuit, Mr Wilde. And a Jesuit doesn’t always
mean
what ‘e
says.’

Oscar
did not rise to this sally. ‘Where is Monsignor Breakspear then?’ he asked.

‘With
the ‘oly Father. The Monsignor is ‘earing the pope’s confession. It’s ‘is day
for it.’

‘I
thought the Holy Father was on his summer retreat, ‘I ventured, somewhat
confused.’

“E is,
in the summerhouse at the far end of the Vatican gardens. The pope does not
leave the ‘oly City — ever.’

‘He
chooses to be a prisoner here,’ explained Axel Munthe. ‘It is part of the
Vatican’s ongoing struggle with the Italian state. It’s a territorial dispute.’

“Is
‘oliness will win in the end,’ said Cesare Verdi. “E ‘as God on ‘is side.’

‘I like
your lively sense of humour, too, Signor Verdi,’ said Oscar.

‘It’s ,”Cesare”,
Mr Wilde, and you’ll like my tea, too, sir. Darjeeling from Fortnum and Mason.
Served in cups lately bequeathed us by Cardinal Newman. Fortified with a little
Italian brandy, should you be so inclined. We aim for the best of both worlds
‘ere.’

The
curly-headed cockney turned and led us just a few steps towards another
unmarked door, as narrow and obscure as the one we had entered by. He opened it
and we stepped back into the afternoon sunlight.

‘This
is the sacristy,’ he said. ‘This is my domain.’

We had
entered the first of what appeared to be a series of simple stone-built
chambers located immediately behind the high altar of the Sistine Chapel. To
our left was a wide window overlooking the rooftops of the basilica of St
Peter’s; to our right were two separate sets of stone steps leading up to the
rooms beyond. The walls of this first chamber were lined with dark-red damask.
On the wall immediately facing us was a simply framed depiction of the Last
Supper, painted in startlingly bright colours in something like the early style
of Edward Burne-Jones. Below the painting, ranged against the wall, stood an
elegant gilt chaise longue covered in deep-red velvet.

‘That
is the seat of tears,’ said our host.

‘The
seat of tears?’ repeated Oscar, looking down at it.

‘The
Sacred College of Cardinals meets in conclave to elect a new pope in the
Sistine Chapel. That much you know. The Sistine Chapel was built by Sixtus IV
for the purpose.’

‘That
much we know, also,’ said Oscar.

‘But
you may not know this, Mr Wilde. When the new pope’s been chosen — the
moment
‘e’s chosen — even as the ballot papers are being burnt and before ‘is name
is given to the world, ‘e comes in ‘ere, alone. ‘E sits on that chaise, alone,
and ‘e weeps. Alone. ‘E weeps for the world — and for ‘isself. Some is so
miserable, they say they weeps tears of blood. Look there, you can see the mark
— the stigmata.’

The man
pointed to small brown smudge on the deep-red velvet. It was no larger than a
thumbprint.

‘It’s a
responsibility,’ I said, ‘becoming pope.

‘And
that’s why I gives ‘im a nip of brandy and then ‘e gets ‘is change of clothes.
Out of the cardinal red, into the pontifical white. Of course, we don’t know
for certain beforehand who’s going to be elected so we ‘as to prepare papal
robes in assorted sizes. Popes tend to go fat, thin, fat, thin — that’s the
general rule, but you can’t depend on it. Pio Nono and Pope Leo were both
pretty scrawny.

‘Were
you here for Pope Leo’s election?’

‘I was,
Mr Wilde. My father was sacristan, but I was ‘ere. And, God willing, I’ll be on
‘and to see the next one in, too. Pope Leo is an old man, but it’ll be a few
years yet. Monsignor Breakspear is in with a chance — not much of a chance, not
as much of a chance as ‘e thinks, God bless ‘im, but a chance all the same.
‘E’ll be a cardinal soon, that we can be sure of.’

‘How is
Father Bechetti?’ asked Axel Munthe. The Swedish doctor was standing behind us,
looking over our shoulders, studying the painting of the Last Supper.

‘Much
as usual, Doctor. Brother Matteo’s with ‘im. ‘E’s in ‘is cell. They’re
expecting you.’

‘I’ll
go and see him now,’ said Munthe. ‘I know the way.’

With
precise steps, the doctor, still clutching his black bag, slipped quietly out
of the chamber up the right-hand set of stairs.

‘Is
this one of Father Bechetti’s paintings?’ asked Oscar, indicating the Last
Supper.

‘It
is,’ said Cesare Verdi. ‘We’ve got ‘is paintings everywhere. Look.’ He turned
and pointed to another large canvas on the wall behind us. It was a double
portrait of an old man and a young girl. ‘Pio Nono and the Blessed Virgin Mary.
What do you make of that?’

‘It is
only an auctioneer who can equally and impartially admire all schools of art,’
said Oscar.

‘I’d
‘ave thought the bright colours would’ve been to your liking, Mr Wilde — the
vibrancy,
if you knows what I mean.’

‘I know
what you mean, Cesare,’ replied Oscar, as he considered the picture.

‘Your
English is remarkable, sir,’ I added, looking at our curly-headed host. The
man’s black eyes and oily hair suggested a Venetian fisherman painted by
Bellini, but his way of speaking was pure Billingsgate.

He
laughed. ‘Remarkable — for an Italian.’

‘Are
you Italian?’ asked Oscar.

‘Completamente,’
replied the sacristan. His Italian accent was as
impeccable as his cockney. ‘But I was born by London Bridge, within the sound
of Bow Bells. And I lived in London until I was eleven. My mother’s a cockney —
and a cook.’

‘And
the best of both, I’m sure,’ said Oscar, ingratiatingly.

‘She
met my father just nine months before I was born.’

‘Your
father was Italian?’

‘Assolutamente,
del tutto
— ‘e was Roman, to the core.’

‘And
why was he in England?’

“E was
sent there with Cardinal Wiseman, in 1850, when the Roman ‘ierarchy was
re-established and the cardinal was appointed first Archbishop of Westminster.
My dad was part of the retinue — deputy sacristan in charge of vestments and
the silver and gold plate. ‘E’d never been abroad. ‘E was in London only for a
week or two, but it was long enough. ‘E was young and ‘ot-blooded.’

‘And
Italian.’

‘Yes,
Mr Wilde. By all accounts my conception was merry, if not immaculate, and my
old dad, if not exactly a gentleman, did have the decency give my mother ‘is
name and address — and when ‘e ‘eard about ‘er babies ‘e sent ‘er a few lire
when ‘e could. And when I was eleven, and
‘is
dad died, and
‘e
became
sacristan ‘ere, ‘e came to London to fetch me to join ‘im.’

‘And
did your mother not object?’ enquired Oscar.

‘She
‘ad Augustus. Augustus was always ‘er favourite. And because we’re twins and we
look alike, she says it doesn’t matter so much. When she sees Augustus, she
sees me too. That’s what she says.’

‘She is
a philosopher,’ said Oscar.

‘Does
she still live by London Bridge?’ I asked.

‘No,
she’s moved up west. She ‘elps out in the kitchens at Willis’s most nights —
not for the money, but because she likes it. She’s ‘appiest in a kitchen. She
lives in Bloomsbury now, so she can walk ‘ome. She’s got a nice ‘ouse, two-up,
two-down. I’ve done my best to look after ‘er. It’s what Italian sons are
supposed to do, you know — look after their mothers.’

He
clapped his hands noiselessly and rubbed them together with filial
satisfaction. As he did so, I noticed for the first time that he was wearing
the rose-gold ring.