Rancid Pansies (16 page)

In pursuit of background information for my nascent opera I have just paid a mental visit to the Vatican, specifically to that administrative area around the Cortile del Triangolo. Here is the sixteenth-century palazzo jocularly known as Castel
Birbone
whose ground floor houses a large office with ‘De Reliquiis Sanctis’ on the door. These days it is generally
pandemonium
, being full of short-tempered American novelists of no great literary talent. They are trying to track down that Holy Grail of the popular American novel, the Holy Grail. They have, however, scarcely a word of Latin or even Italian between them, so are reliant on official interpreters with whom they soon run out of patience. The booming voices demanding access to archival evidence spill out into the hall and pursue one’s hurrying heels as they mount the glorious staircase (by Baldassare Bernucci) to the first floor’s
comparative
hush. There, at the end of a corridor, is a heavy wooden door marked ‘De S. S. Manifestis’.

This is the office that deals with holy apparitions, mostly of the Virgin. Time was when it was regularly besieged by Irish, Portuguese and French peasants dressed in rusty black, staking their claims to a personal visitation. But as their countries’ economies improved and folk acquired a rudimentary
education
, the numbers of supplicants coming to this room fell off sharply. It was almost as if the Mother of God, whose own education had stuck at counting to five and learning
mnemonic
rhymes for knowing when to plant olives and mate sheep, was nervous that She might be asked her opinions on gender theory or economics. Of late, therefore, those to whom She had appeared were almost exclusively children from the remaining wilds of Catholic credulousness: Poles, Bosnia-
Herzegovinans, Voynovians and the like, hailing from villages where oxcarts still have solid wooden wheels and suspected homosexuals are periodically burned. Here the Virgin can alight with complete intellectual safety, surprising children on hillsides as they go about their humble tasks of watching olives grow and sheep tup.

On the day of my visit, however, there was no one in the high, beamed room except a young priest with remarkable curled eyelashes. He was sitting behind a desk playing
Grand Theft Auto:
Vice City
when I entered after a respectful knock. The priest zapped the game with a guilty look and as 1980s Miami faded from the screen he sprang to his feet, offering me a chair. His screensaver, I noticed, was a stately swirl of
golden
Paschal Lambs with their shouldered banners of St George revolving against a velvety blue background.

‘You have come to report a vision, signore?’ he enquired. The attractive thing about robes is they always make one wonder what’s under them, something modern secular clothing
practically
never does. One day couturiers will wake up to this.

‘In a way,’ I said. ‘That’s to say, it’s more of a second-hand report.’

‘I see. And the individual who saw the vision is still too overwhelmed to testify in person? That is often the case. It was of our Blessed Queen of Heaven?’

‘More a princess. It was of Diana, the wife of –’

‘–
il Principe Carlo
? Yes. Remarkable. Only a few days ago in this very room I had a visit from a British couple who
likewise
reported a visitation by
la Principessa
, although again it was not a first-hand account.’

‘Signori Baghi e Dampi?’ I exclaimed in surprise. ‘Or rather, Signor e Signora Barrington?’ It was strange enough meeting them again as they were dressing the shrine at Le Roccie; but their already having paid a visit to the Vatican was downright disturbing. What possible motive could they have?

‘Ah yes. Yes – countrymen of yours, if I may presume? But they didn’t enjoy your excellent fluency in our language, alas.
They were accompanied by an Italian friend who I gather is intent on establishing a shrine on the spot where the
apparition
occurred. Unfortunately I had to tell them what I have to tell you, too, signore. You want Room 21.’

‘I do?’

‘Room 21 deals with applications for non-Catholics to be considered officially as having lived
vitae sanctae
or holy lives. As the wife of a man who might one day become head of the Church of England, the Princess was surely of the Protestant faith? No one here doubts that over the centuries several Protestants may have lived quite saintly lives, but that is
unfortunately
not the same as being eligible for inclusion in the Catholic Calendar.’

‘Surely a bona fide apparition carries some weight?’

‘Even if it did you would still be in the wrong room.
Regrettably
,’ the priest added gently, as though lamenting some
undefined
pleasure for ever forbidden us. He may have been itching to get back to his computer game but if so he betrayed no hint of it. ‘Here in “De Sancto Spirito Manifestis”, as our name implies, we deal exclusively with instances of the Holy Spirit made manifest as apparitions. Under a ruling of 1889 this is understood to refer only to saints, the Apostles, members of the Holy Family and individuals of the Trinity itself. No one else falls into this category. Candidates for some kind of
ecumenical
canonisation, such as
la Principessa
may conceivably be, would still be as it were in an anteroom of sanctity. Their apparitions would likewise be accorded a slightly lower status in hierarchical terms but not, I stress, in terms of miraculous value. If in the distant, unforeseeable future a Holy Father were to grant the late Princess sainthood, then her apparitions before that will acquire, retroactively, the same significance as if they had occurred after canonisation. That of course also goes for anything she might say, any message she might impart during a vision. Did she in fact leave a message?’

‘I believe so. “Get out.”’

‘“Get out”?’

‘She was supposedly warning some people to leave a house that was in imminent danger of collapse.’

‘Ah yes, I remember, your compatriots mentioned it. Not a very spiritual saying, on the face of it, but as it narrowly saved lives it would surely count as a miraculous utterance.’

I was not, unfortunately, in a position to tell my curly-lashed informant that mine was one of the lives saved by this timely but quite imaginary command. ‘So – informally speaking, of course – what would you say her chances were? I mean, in the distant, unforeseeable future?’

‘I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly say. The first step, of course, is to be considered a Servant of God, and on a Papal decree of heroicity or martyrdom the subject is pronounced Venerable. Only then can beatification follow when His Holiness declares that she is blessed in Heaven. The basic procedures were all laid down quite clearly in Benedict XIV’s
De Servorum Dei beatificatione et beatorum canonizatione
. I’m sure you’re familiar with them. First, the life of the candidate is examined. Only if this is found worthy are the miracles then assessed. At least two miracles are essential. The event you allege would undoubtedly qualify as one of them, theoretically speaking. The majority of miracles involve cures, of course. The
paralysed
being enabled to walk, that sort of thing.’

At the dinner party on the night in question we had been as close to paralysis as leglessness entails, what with alcohol and hallucinogens, but I decided to spare this charming young priest’s sensibilities.

‘Then there is a systematic examination of the candidate’s virtues. It used to involve a quasi-legal process with a “
prosecution
”, the
promotor justitiae
popularly known as the Devil’s Advocate. However, that office was abolished by the late Pope John Paul II in 1983 when he streamlined the whole process, enabling him to achieve four hundred and eighty-two canonisations during his Papacy. These days, opponents of the candidate are simply called in to give any negative
testimony
. Against these voices a defence is mounted in which the
candidate’s writings and the testimony of sworn witnesses are put forward as evidence of his or her consistent virtue.’

The candidate’s
writings
? It was already beginning to sound like a pretty long shot. The evidence, inevitably thin, might include a school essay, ‘What I did in my summer holidays’, plus several postcards from places like Biarritz and Klosters. But then I reflected that there must be plenty of saints who hadn’t left behind any writings whatever, who might not even have been
literate
. There was hope yet.

‘I can tell you,’ the young priest added, ‘the Vatican does occasionally receive proposals for recognising a Protestant as a saint. Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s name is quite frequently put
forward
. I believe he was technically a Lutheran pastor. He may indeed have been a remarkably saintly man but in my
personal
view he could not under any circumstances be eligible for canonisation. I’m afraid any opponent would easily win the case against his being deemed a martyr for the faith. The Nazis hanged him in 1945 not for religious reasons but for high
treason
since he had taken part in plans to assassinate Hitler. My Church considers that plotting to kill people, for whatever
reason
, is an insuperable impediment to canonisation.’

‘Oh, well, bang go my own chances,’ I said lightly. ‘Anyway, you’ve been most helpful.’

‘Not at all. I’m only sorry to disappoint you. Incidentally, I’m afraid I did make a slightly whimsical suggestion to your compatriots when they were here last week. I told them they might find the Princess’s chances for recognition better in the Russian Orthodox Church, which also creates saints. In fact, not long ago I believe it canonised Tsar Nicholas the Second’s family. Since there are blood ties between the British and the former Russian royal families, might it not be possible to argue a kind of honorary Russian Orthodoxy for the Princess as the basis for a plea? Failing that, there are always the Greeks and much the same reasoning.’

‘H’m. Rather scraping the bottom of the barrel of sanctity, I’m afraid.’

‘Well, do urge the Princess’s supporters not to give up hope. The restrictions I’ve been quoting are, after all, very worldly. It’s the fragrance of the life itself that rises furthest,’ said the young priest with an encouraging smile of intangible sultry import. ‘One must never despair.’

‘I never do. Something always comes up. Room 21?’

‘Room 21.’

As I closed the heavy door I thought I could hear the streets of Miami burst back into life behind me.

Such is the imaginary scene I am now toying with for an important episode towards the end of my opera. I see it as an exalted version of a courtroom drama, taking place in a
Vatican
office where the merits of a potential saint’s case for canonisation are thrashed out. These will start in the normal way, with testimony from Diana’s family, friends, African AIDS victims, etc., being read out. And then –
coup de théâtre!
– Diana herself appears in order to answer her own case. Consternation! This is unheard-of in the annals of the Vatican: an actual apparition of a soul on day-release from Purgatory to answer her critics in person! News of this drama quickly spreads and people crowd in from the rest of the building. So beautiful is her visionary appearance that
everyone
is instantly swayed, and cries of ‘A saint! A saint!’ can be heard, while her prosecutor, sticking to his guns, tries to make his voice rise above the din, appealing for caution and
scepticism
. (I have just the heroic bass in mind for his role.) And as the unerring Mozart showed in
Don Giovanni
, tragedy may mysteriously be intensified by a pinch of comedy so there is even a walk-on part for a lost American novelist (‘Your Blessed Majesty, all hail! / Just tell me, where’s the Holy Grail? / I gotta deadline I must meet and / Gee! Your hair looks real neat!’). For as you can see, I have begun serious work on the libretto at last. If the impression I’ve given so far is of something between
Parsifal
and
South Pacific
, I beg you to suspend judgement. These are early days yet. Trust me: this is going to be
grand
.

Elsewhere, other matters have been moving quite briskly and Samper’s life is fast regaining some of its former
purposeful
shape. First, Benedetti found me a small flat in town that I’m renting on a short-term lease. It belongs to a Belgian
sociologist
who is apparently studying voting irregularities in
Italian
local elections and has disappeared. But Benedetti says he has the man’s authority to let the flat when he’s not there, so here I am amid furniture that causes me severe anguish, in
particular
the shade of the bed linen, a sort of Zsa Zsa Gabor peach. It’s no fun being an aesthete; one’s sensibilities are
constantly
being outraged. But I shall have to put up with it. At least the place is quiet, being over the back-street annexe of a nuns’ retirement home. When I meet them on the stairs – midget creatures like worn-out bats – I look in vain for signs of grace and serenity. They have rumpled little grey faces like unironed school laundry and I reckon they could do with a
visitation
from the Blessed Diana to cheer them up, poor dears. A lifetime’s service to Mother Church has left them looking sour and battered. But maybe their presence below me is beneficial to my muse since I am making progress with the opera and getting back to work is doing wonders for my spirits.

I needed the flat also because after several more inspections and much wrestling I have decided to take that house
Benedetti
showed me. Well, of
course
the seller dropped his price, what did you think? We have agreed on three hundred and ten thousand euros. It’s still an absurd sum but one has to be
realistic
, the house being in an area estate agents describe as ‘exclusive’ rather than merely ‘much sought-after’. But for me the clincher is the site. Benedetti’s right: I’m never going to
better
the position, not in this region and hardly anywhere else. It’s not as dramatically panoramic as Le Roccie, which
provided
more of a cockpit view, but it’s more authentically ‘Tuscan’, with forested foothills folding and unfolding on either side and pines and villas sprouting half-hidden among them. From a bathroom window there is even a dramatic prospect of Monte Prana, its rocky peak topped by a cross. At the front of the
house the partial view of the town’s distant roofs and towers beyond the olives’ headlong plunge manages to suggest both apartness and inclusion, which I think will suit very well the life I am hoping to lead here.