Dancing in the Dark (33 page)

The mood of the crowd is upbeat. People are laughing, talking, hugging. I don't know if this is the clappy-happy sort of stuff you read about in the papers, or some truly momentous event. I turn to the middle-aged man beside me. ‘Is there always a crowd like this for visiting cardinals?'

‘Not always.' He is American, white hair cut
en brosse
, one of those black macs favoured by tourists from the States.

‘If it's not a rude question, why are you here?'

‘Well, now.' He smiles. ‘How many reasons do you want? First off, I'm a Catholic, a professor of law at Notre Dame. Second, this guy's supposed to be something special.'

‘Is that why there are so many people here?'

‘That and because he's relatively young for a cardinal. Thirdly, the buzz is that he could become pope, one of these years. If so, he'd be the first American to fill the office. I'd like to be able to tell my grandchildren I saw him way back when. My personal audience with the pope.'

‘He's a truly great man.' A woman joins in. ‘We're from Chicago, aren't we, hon?' The man beside her nods. ‘He did an enormous amount for the Church while he was there,' the woman says, while her husband nods again.

‘An American pope,' the law professor says. ‘What an honour. Unbelievable. A man born and raised in the States.'

‘Not because he's ambitious,' the woman from Chicago said, as though reading from a press release, ‘but because he truly wants to do good.'

‘Is ambition so bad?' It's Fergus, of course. ‘If you have great aims, you'd have to be ambitious in order to fulfil them, whether it's world domination you're after or world peace.'

‘I hear what you're saying,' says the law professor, ‘but it's his humility that's been his defining characteristic.'

‘And his compassion,' puts in the woman.

‘The point about Cardinal O'Donnell,' says the Chicago woman's husband, as though sensing a fight in the offing, ‘is that nobody's ever been able to dredge up the slightest hint of scandal about him.'

‘And believe me, with the kind of problems currently plaguing the Church, they're looking,' says the professor. ‘Not just the gutter journalists, but the people in the Vatican. If they're going to back him to the top, the last thing they want is some skeleton coming out of the closet, five years down the line.'

‘What kind of skeleton?'

‘You know: paedophilia, or homosexuality, or illegitimate children or an alcohol problem. But he's absolutely clean.'

‘Being gay is a problem, is it?' Fergus asks aggressively.

‘In a future pope, I'd say it was, yes.'

‘It's splitting the Anglican Church even as we speak,' says the husband.

‘His reputation is spotless,' Chicago Woman says, her tone decisive. ‘He's totally committed to even the lowliest of God's creatures and always has been.'

‘Like worms, do you mean?' says Fergus.

‘Worms?'

‘They're about as lowly as you can get. How concerned is the cardinal about worm welfare? Vermicular rights?'

‘Shut up, Fergus,' I say, squeezing his arm.

‘He's a
saint
,' the woman insists loudly. She turns towards her husband who gives his wife a why-do-the-fruitcakes-always-latch-on-to-us? look and they both edge away.

It's another fifteen minutes before the crowd starts shifting and sighing, gathering itself for the appearance of the cardinal. Through the open doors comes the sound of an organ recessional as a procession of splendidly robed clergy appears. There are altar boys swinging smoking censers, sending up aromatic smoke, and more priests. A lot of lace and gilt, which gleams in the sunlight. The cardinal himself emerges, splendid in cranberry silk robes and mitre and the crowd utters a kind of muted roar. He seems taken aback, as though wondering why they are all there. As he comes towards us, Fergus sinks to his knees, dragging me down with him. We are right at the front of the crowd.

I've always thought that the senior hierarchy of clergymen is, almost by definition, elderly, somewhere on the doddery side of sixty-five. This one can't be much older than his middle fifties. There is vigour in his expression and a spring in his step. His face is serene and beautiful. He turns enquiringly to the crimson-robed prelate walking beside him. The prelate extends his arm, as though to guide him on his way, but instead, the cardinal takes a step towards the crowd. He touches someone, murmurs over them. Moves down, stops again. And then he is in front of me. I've seen him before. Not just someone like him, wearing similar vestments, not the generic priest offering up the Mass, but this man. In Spain, in Hungary, in Mexico, in Rome. I've followed him around the world. Wherever he's been, I've been there, too. I recall my mother's face, the tears on her cheeks while smoke from the swinging thuribles thickened the air, and far away from us, a sonorous voice intoned.

And now, standing on the steps behind him, is another familiar figure. Unlike the other attending clerics in their lace surplices and scarlet silk, he is black-robed. His sinister reptile eyes flicker across the crowd, searching for something. For someone. Who . . . my mother? Me?

I shrink back but too late. He has seen me. In a controlled but rapid movement, he has run down on to the paved concourse and towards me. There is murder in his face, his mouth says words I cannot hear, one hand reaches into his robes as though he has a gun concealed there, or a knife.

Before I can stand and melt away into the crowd, the cardinal is laying his fingers along my forehead. ‘
In nomine Patri, Filii et Spiritus Sancti,
' he murmurs softly. ‘Bless you. Bless you, my daughter.'

The longing to announce myself, to ask him if he is my father, is almost overwhelming, but the black presence of the abbot, standing almost at his shoulder, ready to strike like a snake, kills the urge stone dead. But imagine it. The consternation, the stepping away, memory winding back thirty years while the crowd heaves and surges, the puzzled look, the final realization . . .

Do I feel anything at his touch? Do I feel that I am in the presence of holiness, sanctity, whatever you want to call it? I feel an interior shift, as though one half of my heart is grating against the other. There is a stillness, a serenity inside this man which is almost palpable. I could lie down in it, feel safe for aeons as his tranquil soul wraps itself round me.
My soul there is a country, far beyond the stars
, we used to sing at school and I am there now, swinging from a thousand sparkling silver points, as his ice-grey eyes embrace me. His Icelandic eyes, exactly like my own. I am pulled towards him. Is this what they call charisma? Is this the quality which has taken him to the College of Cardinals, which causes people to announce that he is a saint, a possible pope?

I look up at him and for a moment, his smile falters. How many million people does he see a year? How many does he touch with his saintly fingers, offering them hope? Although I recognize him, he can't possibly have recognized me. I want to seize his sleeve, make him stop, but after the briefest hesitation, he has already moved on to someone else in the crowd. Dom Francis follows in his wake, turning his head to watch me, ready to move like a bodyguard between me and his charge.

Around me, people are holding up crucifixes, fingering rosaries. As I get to my feet, a woman reverently touches my shoulder, as though the force of the cardinal's blessing might pass from me to her.

My forehead sweats. Is this how Christ himself recruited his disciples? Is this what my mother felt, all those years ago? Is this why she and I wandered the earth, followed unknown in his footsteps? What I want more than anything else at this moment is to ask her if it was worth it.

I turn and start pushing through the crowd towards the road. Before I can get clear of people, someone catches me by the sleeve. Fingers dig into my arm. I feel a cold satanic breath against my cheek.

‘Should a momentary lapse be allowed to jeopardize the hope and salvation of millions?' a voice murmurs in my ear.

I say nothing.

The fingers tighten abruptly. ‘One word, Theodora. Say one word, and I swear that I will kill you. And then your mother.'

I sway, the pain of the abbot's grip almost makes me reel. ‘That's not . . . not very Ch . . . Christian,' I gasp.

‘I have to do this,' he continues tensely. ‘For the sake of the Church. And then I will kill myself, to pay for my sin.'

‘Two mortal sins, Father Francis?' My arm aches and throbs. ‘Let me go, please.'

‘If you speak out, he will feel compelled to resign and the world will lose a man who can change it. I cannot allow this to happen.'

Around us the crowds push and swirl, oblivious to the drama taking place in their midst. I try to prise his fingers off but they bite even harder into my flesh. ‘I shall . . . not speak,' I manage.

‘If only I could rely on that, Theodora.' His voice is soft, sibilant, and infinitely ruthless.

‘Rest assured, you can.' But as he turns to catch up with the cardinal and his retinue, I wonder if I shall ever feel safe again or am doomed to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.

Fergus catches up with me. He takes my hand and holds it against his heart. ‘Theodora, this father thing really doesn't matter. You are who you are.'

‘I know.' I bite my lip.

‘Remember that I love you.'

‘I know that, too.'

We gaze at each other and I see the years ahead in his eyes. The two of us walking the earth, rootless yet grounded. My worries drop away. As he says, whether or not Cardinal John O'Donnell is my father doesn't matter. What matters is Fergus and me, a couple, a partnership. What matters is that after all the wandering, the two of us have found a home in each other.

And then, on the other side of the square, I see my mother. She is staring at me, her mouth open. She has seen it all, the cardinal stooped over me, the confrontation with the abbot. Alarm, terror, despair, are written all over the prominent bones of her face. The streaks of white in her hair blaze in the sunshine. She looks ephemeral, as though one whisper would waft her up into the air. Her eyes are sunk deep into their sockets. But it's not really my mother, I tell myself, it's her ghost, her essence, it's a woman with the same cast of features or a similar way of holding her head. If I push my way towards her through the procession and the crowds, if I reach her, touch her on the arm, catch her attention, I will find that I am backing away from a stranger, apologizing for the intrusion.

Stop that, Theodora, I tell myself. You
know
it's her. As it has so often been. It's your mother, watching over you in her wounded, awkward way. Your mother, who didn't know how to be a mother, never really learned. Who wanted you to be safe from whatever demons surrounded her. Safe from Dom Francis. Because I see at last that
he
was the danger we fled. And realizing that, I understand what this has all been about.

All her adult life she has been pulled by two kinds of love. One for me, helpless in her arms, unplanned, not really wanted on voyage but taken along because to leave me behind was unthinkable, because she loved me. And the other for the man who is my father, who is as far away from me in this moment as he had always been, even though at last I know who he is. I
think
I know.

My mother is in pain, I can tell. One hand is pressed to her side. All my pretences drop away. My sense of self is crumbling, falling from me like a rotten branch. It is time to start being a daughter. It is time to relearn my mother.

The procession of robed clerics moves slowly between us, croziers glinting, mitres gleaming, a shiny tide of religion, she on one side, me on the other, as if we stand on opposite shores of a vast ocean.

Fergus is saying something but I don't want to listen. I want to be with my mother, who is moving away, who is disappearing. I can only see the top of her head now, where the dragonfly clasp in her hair catches the light. I've let her go too often; this time I shan't give up until I reach her. I start pushing after her through the crowd, moving so rapidly that Fergus falls behind.

‘Theodora,' he calls, plaintive.

‘I'm sorry, Fergus, my darling Fergus,' I say over my shoulder. ‘I have to go.'

‘Where?'

‘I don't know yet.' I remember then that if it weren't for Fergus, I wouldn't be here now. ‘I'll ring you,' I call, across the heads which divide us. ‘I love you.' And I blow him a kiss, which falls like a moth into his outstretched hand.

I'm only a few yards behind my mother when suddenly she steps into the street and flags down a taxi. Although I shout her name, she doesn't hear me – or chooses not to. Before I can reach her, she is gone. I rush to the kerb, my arm raised, but she seems to have found the only empty taxi in London. Long after it's far too late to catch up with her, I stand at the side of the road, tears running down my cheeks as I wait for a cab which never comes to carry me to my mother's side.

‘W
here is she?' I demand, as soon as Hugo opens the door.

‘Where is who?'

‘Luna . . . Mother. My mother.'

‘Ah.' He starts to murmur something non-committal but I push past him into the hallway. A gilt mirror hangs on the wall above a Sheraton table, and in it I can see the reflection of a crazy woman, my mother,
me
, features slanted out of the true, mouth twisted, eyes full of wildness. ‘Is she here?'

‘No.'

‘Then where? I need to know.' I'm shouting.

‘I can't tell you.' His shoulders sag. He seems defeated.

I take a step closer. ‘But you do know, don't you?'

‘She asked me not to say.' He backs away and if I didn't know myself to be unscary, I would almost think he is frightened of me.