The Last Western (48 page)

“Who is Benjamin Victor?”

“The one man, the dumb man, is not even a believer in God. Yet the pope gives him Communion.”

Willie heard none of this gossip, or if he heard it, he did not listen. Nor did he listen to the other criticism he was beginning to stir up. Almost everything he said or did caused criticism somewhere.

When Willie told an audience that Christ was coming, the Congregation of Sacred Doctrine complained that the pope spoke as a Jew, as if the Christ had not come many centuries ago.

When he told a group of journalists that whoever had built the Vatican on a circus ground had made a great mistake in judgment because most circuses are holier than most churches, every ecclesiastic in Rome raised an eyebrow.

The next day the eyebrows went up even higher when Willie, joking along in the same vein, said that he had been giving the matter of the circus further thought and had changed his mind. The builders of the Vatican had been right after all—they had taken an old, tired circus ground and built a new perpetual circus where it stood, and he asked the people if they did not agree: had they ever seen such a funny circus as this one, with so many clowns running around, himself being the biggest clown of all? And with that he tilted the tiara he had worn for the occasion and winked at the crowd and did a little jig as the crowd laughed uproariously.

“Disgraceful!” said Cardinal Liderant.

“A travesty!” said Cardinal Profacci.

“A sacrilege!” said Cardinal Picalli, whose hands were always pressed into a thin white cathedral and who was regarded as the most pious man in Rome because he always looked at the floor and let other people go through the door first.

But much as Willie smiled and clowned before the people, he was deeply troubled inside. When he was alone, a look of unutterable sadness came over his face. He could not get his mind off the sufferings of Angola and Etherea and of the people in other places of the world who were sad, starving, in jail, ill, drugged or spirited out of their human ways.

When the learned men who headed the various congregations of the church came to him, Willie would listen to their problems attentively and with a sincere desire to understand.

But their problems, the matters that concerned them, did not seem important compared to the sufferings he knew to exist in the world and he would ask them suddenly, “Yes, but what of Angola?” or, “We have got to help the starving people of Etherea.”

The learned men, whispering among themselves, said the pope did not understand the problems of the church or the ways of the church, that he wanted to talk only of war and starvation and poverty, as if these evils were new in the world and as if they, the learned men, did not also deplore them and as if they were in a position to do anything about them.

One day Willie asked to see Cardinal Liderant, the canon lawyer who had temporarily taken over the chairmanship of the Papal Commission on International Justice after the death of a man who had held the office for thirty years. Monsignor Nervi came with Liderant as the chief writer of past papal documents.

Willie spoke of the conditions in the countries he had recently visited. He told his visitors of the people who were starving everywhere in the world and of the wars that were going on in Africa, the Middle East, Asia, Latin America. They listened to him with a weary air, Nervi making notes. In his briefcase, Liderant had a thousand pages of statistics on poverty, hunger, war and other illnesses of the world.

“I have to do something; we all must do something,” said Willie. “Do you have any suggestions?”

The two men were silent for a moment. Then Liderant said, “An encyclical on these subjects would perhaps do no harm. Monsignor Nervi, the last letter the computer drafted for Felix—you have it with you?”

“Ah yes,
Peace, Joy and Light
,” said Nervi and handed Willie a fifty-page booklet.

Willie slowly read the first paragraph of
Peace, Joy and Light
then put it down.

“Most people wouldn’t understand that,” he said. “I do not understand it, for instance.”

With one blue hand Monsignor Nervi returned the booklet to his briefcase.

“We must remember that the world press received the work of our esteemed and august predecessor with great respect. Our hearts were full of joy,” said Nervi.

“But what difference did it make?” said Willie.

“One can’t expect immediate results, Your Holiness,” said Liderant. “The problems you speak of are very old. And also very complicated.”

“There’s a better way than writing a statement.”

“What is that, Holiness?”

“I don’t know.”

“If our conscience moves us to speak,” said Nervi, “we could, with burning sorrow, begin a new encyclical. Our title might be
War, Sorrow and Darkness
.”

Willie said, “Something new is called for—a certain way of living—a way of being, I don’t have the words for it,” and he made the little circles with his hands. “It is not enough to only write and speak; I know that much.”

“Writing and speaking are what a pope does,” said Liderant, wiping his forehead. “Practically
all
that a pope can do. You must remember, Holiness, the nature of the office.”

“Jesus wrote nothing but a few words in sand,” Willie replied. “And after all he didn’t say so very much.”

Willie, going to the window, looked down at the fountains bubbling in the piazza.

“We are supposed to bring abundant life,” he said, “not words.”

Liderant said, “The recent council proposed various courses of action. But I am told those documents are being delayed. The computers work on other things.”

“The council’s proposals are only—principles,” said Willie. “Like what we had in the seminary. Cardinal Tisch showed me the outline of what the documents will say. Brother Herman Felder then asked to use the computers to form a new strategy—a design he calls it.” He turned from the window. “I have great faith in Brother Herman. He is a good organizer. I do not believe much in computers, but we must be patient and try all things. As we wait though, the children starve. Will you pray tonight that our hearts be ready to attempt completely new things?”

They went away, Nervi like a wisp of smoke, Liderant like a frustrated tutor.

“He doesn’t know anything about anything,” Liderant told Profacci that evening. “An absolute simpleton.”

“We are proceeding with our investigation of the Society,” said Profacci. “Meanwhile, perhaps we should investigate other possibilities?”

“Like what?”

“A pope judged mentally inadequate could be brought to retire.”

“Talk sense, Ernesto.”

“If he scandalizes souls—”

“Stop it, please. Be a little reasonable. There is no question of scandal. It is just the prospect of years of disorganization and nonsense.”

“I do not think you appreciate the influence he has upon people. Tisch is beginning to come under the sway of Felder. Then there is Taroni.”

“What about Taroni?”

“He was in my office this morning,” Profacci said. “He said that the pope had told him that if people had greater love for one another, the problems of the world would not be so bad.”

“So?”

“Why, it is such a stupid statement! Don’t we all agree and understand that indeed it would be a fine idea if the nations of the world loved one another? Who can fault that? A pope must show some sophistication. A pope is a figure of world—respect.”

“How does this concern Taroni?” said Liderant.

“Taroni said to me with a ludicrous expression on his face, ‘He’s right too, when you think about it. That’s what really matters after all.’ And Taroni is a man of the world.”

“Ah well, there is something touching about the fellow.”

“Don’t tell me he’s getting to you, Henri.”

“Touching, I mean, to certain types of people. Simple people. I’ll have another strega.”

The lights
of the RevCon office burned on, night after night.

At first the Vatican specialists distrusted Herman Felder, but soon they gave way to his obvious administrative gifts.

Even Cardinal Tisch, still the titular head of the office, admitted grudgingly, “He has a genius for directing a complicated operation.”

Each morning Willie met with Felder, whose reports he did not usually understand. But Felder gave him the feeling of a great enterprise soon to be launched.

One morning Felder showed him a printout map of the world that had been prepared by one of the computers.

The map showed the global distribution of food and mineral and other resources, what Felder called the real productive wealth of the world.

The real wealth, concentrated in the northern JERCUS countries, appeared in red on the map.

The lower sections of the map were pink, shading into white.

“We’ve got seventeen, eighteen percent of the world using almost ninety percent of the goodies,” Felder explained. “What we have to do is spread it around,” his hand swept over the non-JERCUS nations, “through new economic strategies.”

“How?” Willie asked.

“Not through any of the aid programs, which amount to only a fraction of one percent of GNP and come back to the rich countries anyway. We need big-push outlays—tremendous capital investment from the north, so that the twelfth century countries can get on their feet. We have the machinery for redistribution in the old World Bank. Long-term, low-interest loans—”

“Let’s do it, Brother Herman, let’s do it right now!” Willie cried.

“Whoa!” said Felder. “It isn’t that simple, young pope. How do you convince the rich countries to give disinterestedly?”

“Why, it’s only justice,” said Willie.

“Only justice,” sighed Felder. “But suppose people don’t Relieve in justice. Suppose they never have.”

“Brother Herman, you don’t think that.”

“Many of your predecessors tried to preach justice.”

“It isn’t a question of preaching.”

Felder looked at him a long time. Then he said, “Would you be willing to speak to the people on Telstar TV on this subject?”

“I would be willing, Brother Herman. But you know I don’t know anything about economic matters. Besides, haven’t there been enough words and encyclical letters?”

“Not the right kind,” said Felder. He picked up the phone and asked Tisch, Nervi and Liderant to come into the papal office. Ten minutes later they filed in carrying thick attache cases.

“Gentlemen,” Felder said, “the pope is willing to address the world on the economic situation on TV. Cardinal Tisch, can we put the A computer to work on a talk developing the theme of the material we worked up yesterday—three percent of GNP, no political strings?”

“It would be a difficult paper, Herr Felder, but—well, we can attempt it.”

“Thank you. Monsignor Nervi, will you deal with the diplomatic corps—you and Cardinal Profacci?”

Monsignor Nervi, who had seen the rough notes Felder had worked up the day before, said, “Even our most socialist predecessor-never went beyond a gift of one percent, Signor Felder.”

“We’re going to feed survival factors into the computer, Monsignor,” Felder said. “The world now stands or falls as a whole, so we’re hardly speaking of gifts. Cardinal Liderant, you have the hardest job of all. You’ll have to deal with the church.”

Liderant said, “When is the talk?”

“Let’s make it a week from today.”

They all said that was impossible.

“
Trés bien
,” said Felder, “let’s make it three days from now.”

“You are joking, Herr Felder.”

“The computer can write the paper in ninety minutes, once we feed it. It will take us a day or so to translate it for the pope. Gentlemen, we are dealing with urgencies here that man has never faced before. Every day we delay adds to the toll of misery.”

They went away, grumbling. But three hours later, computer A began writing the paper.

Felder met Willie after the four o’clock audience.

Willie looked at the twenty pages of dense text, showing it to Benjamin, then to Truman.

“I do not understand any of it,” Willie said. “What does GNP mean?”

“Sit down, my brother,” Felder said. “We’re going to have a short course in economics. It isn’t really a science so much as hunches and guesswork—and nobody expects you to be an expert.”

“A pope deals with moral truths,” Benjamin said.

Felder, waving the paper, replied, “This is moral truth now, Father Benjamin.”

Three nights later Willie gave the talk from the Vatican studio. The diplomatic corps, the officials of the Vatican and many other distinguished guests sat in the live audience.

He was nervous with the words, tripping over them, trying to understand them as he spoke. Felder had broken down every sentence in the speech, but still Willie did not understand.

When he came to the heart of the message—redistribution of the world’s wealth through JERCUS capital investment in the non-JERCUS community, using the facilities of the World Bank—there was an audible snickering in the audience.

Felder’s face flushed.

“Who are these hyenas?” he whispered to the man standing next to him.

Cardinal Profacci said in an amused tone, “Those hyenas, Signor Felder, are the ranking diplomats of the world. The ones you blackmailed on Etherea.”

“Who invited them?”

“I invited them, Signor Felder.”

“They defile this place,” said Felder, and went to the other side of the studio.

When Willie was off the air, there was a polite applause among the tuxedos and satin evening gowns.

Felder shook Willie’s hands, which were wet.

“Where is Father Benjamin?” Willie asked.

“With Joto and Truman in the slums,” Felder said.

“That’s where I should be,” said Willie.

The ambassador from Australia knelt at Willie’s feet, then stood, smiling under an enormous mustache.

“Lovely, Holiness, actually
quite
lovely.”

Willie went out to find his brothers.

The speech drew little attention on the telenews or in the other press media of the JERCUS nations. The
New York Times
in a five-sentence editorial called it a venture in triviality.
The Wall Street Journal
said that the pope had a sophomoric grasp of economic realities. The European press devoted more space to the diplomatic function held in connection with the speech than to the speech itself.