The Accidental Pope (35 page)

But the excitement was anything but over. Halfway through lunch, Fabio, one of the ambassador's security guards, proceeded to the head table to tell Ed Kirby that there was an important telephone call. Fabio had a message from the switchboard operator saying that Ed was to expect a call from the president in ten minutes at Villa Richardson. Kirby told Kathy that he would be back shortly. The North American College was only two minutes from the residence. A few minutes after arriving, the call from the president came through.

“Ed, Prime Minister Bob Mulval of Haiti and his wife are on their way to Rome. He wants to meet the pope and his Vatican officials and talk about the new crisis situation in Haiti. He needs the Church's help. Take care of him. I want to settle this Haiti thing once and for all. The Black Caucus is on my case, driving me crazy. Please pick him up at the airport and bring him over for dinner to your house, OK?”

“Sure, Mr. President,” Ed assured his boss.

His driver got him back to the college just as lunch was ending. Ed told Kathy and his daughters what had happened. Mrs. Kirby had given the residence staff the holiday off. The Kirbys themselves were scheduled to attend a party at the Spanish ambassador's house at Piazza di Spagna, the Spanish Steps. The pope went there each year to crown the Virgin Mary with roses. It was always a big event and several thousand attended. After the ceremony, the pope lingered to greet people.

“I don't know what we can do,” Kathy Kirby despaired. “All the stores are closed and we have no food in the house. It is always bought fresh daily. We don't even have bread or a good bottle of wine.”

“Look, Mom, don't you worry. We'll take care of everything. Just be there with your guests for dinner at eight,” Katie said.

Kathy and Ed trusted the look of determination in her eyes and the resolute expressions on their other daughters' faces also. Acceding to long-tested family resourcefulness, Ed and Kathy shrugged and went on with their schedule for the rest of the day. They attended the Spanish ambassador's reception. They chatted with the pope, introducing several Americans who were at the ceremony.

It was now time to pick up the prime minister of Haiti and his wife at da Vinci Airport and check them into the Grand Hotel, and then bring them to the residence for dinner. When they arrived at the hotel, several media people had already heard about the Haitian visitors and began hitting the ambassador with questions about their mission, the chronically unstable situation in Haiti, and if the prime minister was going to meet the pope. “Is the U.S. sending troops to Haiti again?” shouted one reporter.

The prime minister dodged these queries about as well as anyone could. He was not a politician but a prominent businessman, a neutral currently acceptable to all sides in the never-ending Haitian political struggle among strongmen for power and for the concept of a democratically elected government.

Finally the nearly exhausted prime minister, his wife, Kathy, and Ed arrived at Villa Richardson. The first thing he said when he walked into the Nancy Reagan Sun Room and saw the bar all set up was, “Great, a drink. This is exactly what I need.” He asked the young lady behind the bar if she spoke English or French, and she nodded.
“Oui, Monsieur. Tous les deux.”
The prime minister requested a double scotch and water and had finished it before Mrs. Mulval and Kathy Kirby had completed their brief inspection of the residence.

When the two couples were finished with a tour of the garden, Mrs. Kirby was informed that dinner was ready. The men spoke mostly about politics and of Bob Mulval's recent visit with the president at the White House. Kirby had already instructed his DCM to work on setting up appointments the following day for Prime Minister Mulval with the cardinal secretary of state and other ranking Vatican officials. At the end of the evening the prime minister and Mrs. Mulval thanked the ambassador and his wife for their hospitality and for a wonderful dinner.

Kathy looked at Ed and smiled. “Should we tell them?”

“Why not,” the ambassador agreed.

“Tell us what?” the Mulvals wanted to know.

“Well, when the president called today and asked us to do everything we could to assist your mission, we were caught off guard. We were attending an important luncheon at the North American College and, following that, we had to attend a reception at the Spanish ambassador's palace to meet the pope. When we found out you were coming and the president wanted us to invite you over to dinner tonight, well … today is a holiday. We had given our staff the day off, and they have no telephones. The stores were closed. The staff shops daily for groceries, so we had no food in the house. When our daughters heard of our dilemma, they said, ‘Don't worry about it.' They told us to continue on, and they would take care of everything. So it is they who did all the work and preparation.”

Listening to all this while serving after-dinner cordials was daughter Julie.

“This is Julie,” Kathy said.

“Very happy to meet you, Julie,” said the prime minister. “Thank you for dinner. It was wonderful. Where are your sisters? Do you think my wife and I could meet you all?”

“Of course. I'll go get them. They are down in the kitchen celebrating the achievement with Fabio and Gerry.”

“Fabio and Gerry? Who are they?”

“Oh, the Italian security officers who helped us with the cooking and actually getting the food.”

“Let's get them up here as well, then,” said the prime minister.

As Julie was running down the stairs to the kitchen, Bob Mulval said, “We have a saying in Haiti, ‘Never let more than one person in the kitchen at a time.' I'm curious, since I've already counted six cooks.”

Just then four lovely young ladies and two older gentlemen walked self-effacingly into the capacious living room. The prime minister and his wife greeted them.

“This was a wonderful dinner and evening for us here in Rome. We thank you.” Mulval applauded. “We didn't expect such
de la coeur
or ‘from the heart' hospitality. But I am curious to know—if, as your mother said, you had no food in the house and the stores were closed, how did you manage to create such a superlative dinner?”

They all looked at the youngest daughter, Maureen, who in her last year at Marymount International School in Rome had become the true Italian connoisseur. “Well, Mr. Prime Minister, it's something like this. We borrowed the chicken and veal cutlets from the U.S. Marine House. The tomatoes and lettuce we got from the Benedictine nuns just up the street. You can always find potatoes in the Irish ambassador's house, just down the street. The Russian ambassador gave us fruit and a bottle of vodka, and said ‘Compliments of Boris.'”

“The Russian ambassador is a former press secretary and close friend of former President Yeltsin,” Ed explained. “In writing his biography of Yeltsin, which was very critical of the Russian Duma, a draft copy prematurely leaked out. Boris had to get his friend out of Moscow quickly.”

“The wine was easy,” Maureen went on. “The older Italian men down the street who play bocci leave the wine in a big wooden cask in the shed where they play cards.”

“This is fascinating. Perhaps we should make a movie,” the prime minister laughed. “The only problem is nobody would believe it.”

“But the sauce for the veal was delicious. I never tasted anything so good. How did you make that?” Mrs. Mulval enthused.

The girls looked at Fabio and had a hard time holding back their laughter. “Maybe he could tell you.”

Fabio, who was satisfied standing in the background, nervously explained in broken English. “I don't speak good English.”

“He just doesn't want to tell where we got the sauce,” Maureen chuckled. “It came from his Italian coworkers guarding Oscar Luigi Scalfaro, who lives three streets away. He's the president of the Republic of Italy.”

“Maybe the president not have too much sauce with dinner tonight.” Fabio laughed with the Kirbys' dinner guests as the latter headed back to their hotel.

The next morning a giant fruit basket and a plant were delivered to the ambassador's residence with a handwritten note from the prime minister of Haiti and his wife.

It was nice to discover firsthand why America is so great. It's the creativity of its young people. Thanks for the lovely evening.

Bob Mulval.

A few months later Kirby was attending a function at the White House when the president grabbed him by the hand and said, “I meant to drop your girls a note. That was a great thing they did for our country. The Haitian prime minister felt very positive about his visit to Rome and has been very cooperative to deal with ever since.”

30

PAPAL AUDIENCE

Pope Peter II was all smiles as he knocked on his oldest daughter's door within the papal apartment. “Colleen, are you alive in there?” He winked at Monsignor Cippolini, standing close at hand, proud of his accomplishment soon to be revealed.

“Perhaps she is out, Your Holiness. It is ten-thirty.”

Bill grinned and gave a loud bang on the door. Muffled sounds of movement on the other side of the door, fumbling fingers on the knob, and finally a sleepy-eyed Colleen opened the door a crack, her hair a total wreck, her face like mashed potatoes. Limited night attire drew a cough from the shy monsignor as he turned his head about to look at nothing in particular.

“Good news, baby,” Bill greeted her cheerfully. “Monsignor Cippolini has found you the perfect room for meditation. Want to see it?”

The zombie came to life. She flew back inside, leaving her father caught between smiles of helpfulness for his daughter and of embarrassment for Cippolini.

“Too bad you weren't watching, Al. You would have seen what we might look like when we rise from the dead. I can safely predict she will be ready in ten minutes or less. I suspect she had a big night with Maureen Kirby and their friends at Oliphant's, the American sports bar, and maybe they then went to Ned Kelly's.” Bill clucked his tongue. “The culture here is so different. Many of the places these kids go to socialize don't open until eleven
P.M.
If they get home by two in the morning their parents are lucky. Ed warned me, but I couldn't believe it until I had to experience it for myself. Some night I'll have to go out in disguise to see what it's all about.”

“I'll escort you. It's quite a sight.”

“I'll bet. Let's finish our coffee.”

Not at all interested in coffee, nevertheless the befuddled monsignor had an excuse to remove himself from the scene of his confusion. Just nine minutes later Colleen strode into the family room. Al glanced up in amazement as she made her entrance wearing a long, free-flowing sari covering her from neck to ankles. Her hair was swept back, held by a large clip that matched the dress.

“Oh, Alonso, do you have a room for me? Dad said you could do anything!” Her enthusiasm engendered a big hug, rekindling the blush he had tried to deny. Bill Kelly grinned widely, enjoying his friend's innocent confusion.

“
Après vous,
Alonso. We'll have a look at the room you've located for this brat.”

Within five minutes they were in another set of the myriad Vatican hallways. As they reached the halfway point in the corridor, a Swiss guard standing at one of the doors snapped to attention.

“This is the one, Bill. I trust Colleen will like it.”

Al Cippolini opened the door and stepped back. Colleen's eyes flashed instant approval. It was evident Alonso had done more than merely find a spare room. A window at the far end was dressed with a multicolored film to give the impression of a stained-glass window. A large round Oriental rug covered the marble floor in the middle of the room. The high ceiling with ancient frescoes rose above the small study once used by Church leaders waiting to meet the pope. The only furniture was a small wooden desk and chair pushed back out of the way against the front wall, which was decorated in cheerful paper depicting birds in flight.

Bill watched his daughter slowly walk to the center of the rug. She paused, and then seemed to float down into a lotus position. The pope gave his friend the thumbs-up sign as they backed out, closing the door.

“Al, you really know how to do things correctly. You hit the nail on the head.” The pope looked at the young guard, standing like a statue beside the door.

“Please be at ease, young man. Your name?”

The previous pope had evidently never questioned the startled guard. He struggled to speak, but the words seemed frozen. Bill waved his hand in front of his face and broke the spell. “Why, my name is Jan, Jan Christensen, Your Holiness.” He resumed his imitation of a statue.

Bill could only smile at the poor boy with amusement. “Jan Christensen, my daughter Colleen will be using this room, perhaps on a daily basis, for … ah, meditation, I guess. I hope you will be sure no one disturbs her. OK?” He noticed a hint of pain, or perhaps frustration, on the young man's face. As always he felt the necessity to investigate its meaning. Bill Kelly always felt uncomfortable making others uncomfortable. Hence dig deeper, press on: “Speak up, young man. What's the problem?”

This assault from the commander-in-chief was too much for even the inculcated discipline of a Swiss guard. He lowered his eyes and commenced fidgeting with his belt. “Well, er, I'm sorry, Your Holiness. I, er, well…” Then suddenly he seemed to find the power that lay hidden within and straightened up. “To tell the truth, I was wondering if I could sometime perhaps ask your daughter to go out on a date with me?” He then let out a loud exhalation like someone who had surfaced from a twenty-foot dive.

The pope grinned. Now it was clear. “Popes are supposed to have spiritual power, young Jan. I'm not sure fathers have any power at all. Here, why not give me that blade, and you ask her yourself.” He reached for the battle-ax, which the guard immediately released. Then the pope turned the knob on the door and motioned for the stunned guard to enter, closing the door behind him and looking at Al Cippolini, who gasped at the proceedings.