Prince of Peace (35 page)

But his mind tricked him. Joan of Arc! He veered toward the image of that saint. He pictured her, saw her exactly, that warrior-woman. But Joan of Arc was someone else to Michael. Wouldn't he have pictured her walking toward him across a lawn? Wouldn't he have remembered her asking, "Can I tell you who I remind myself of?"

Anne. No, Carolyn. In her simple bathing suit, the simple perfect body of a saint. With her short blond hair, like Joan's, with her long, elegant limbs, her flaring breasts, walking toward him. Then, in the trick of his mind, she was raising his fingers to her mouth and biting him just sharply enough to cause him pain.

"The bodies of the saints," he'd have repeated to himself, "lie buried in peace, but their names—Oh, Carolyn!" He'd have considered himself free of this. He wouldn't have been able to think of her without feeling again the intense pain of his humiliation ... live on forever."

 

By the time the Solemn Mass of Dedication was over the rain had stopped and the noon sun shimmered gloriously. The reception for dignitaries was held at the Governor's Palace, and it spilled out into the minutely designed Japanese garden. Steam rose from the broad green leaves and from the glassy surfaces of ponds. The white pebbles of the pathways glistened. The guests hovered in the shade of trees and gazebos.

Michael watched the Vietnamese with a certain detachment. By and large he was ignored, and that was fine with him. He was trying to decipher his feelings. He wanted to understand what he was seeing. The men were like mandarins, though dressed in dark Western suits and ties. They carried themselves with that combination of swagger and subservience characteristic of those who know their exact place in the structure of power. In Vietnam that place was determined, even for Christians, by the fates of heaven. But, like his equivalents everywhere, the mandarin lives to hold sway over many more people than hold it over him. They ignored Michael and even O'Shea because only Spellman of the Americans had a defined place in the structure of their world. He was its patron. Every male present owed his position and probably his life to the ruddy, bald, jovial prelate, and each one knew it. And now Michael knew it. The man who made princes of the Church made princes of the world as well! Michael felt like an initiate in secrets, and even to be a junior associate of the cardinal gave him a sense of power. His Roman collar had never seemed more magical.

Spellman was the one Westerner toward whom the Vietnamese elite felt none of their habitual ambivalence. They waited patiently in line to kiss his ring, a gesture that came more naturally to them, with their sweeping bow, than to Americans. It occurred to Michael that perhaps another reason they took so warmly to the archbishop of New York was that, unlike most Caucasians, he was as short and doll-like as they were.

Monsignor O'Shea caught Michael's eye. He raised a finger toward him, and Michael crossed the room promptly. O'Shea had just lit his cigar at last, and was standing by the doors to the garden, to blow the smoke outside so Spellman wouldn't whiff it. "So what do you think?" O'Shea asked.

"Of what?"

"Of our president."

Diem's toast had been a rambling monologue that made no sense, but Michael said, "Seems like a good man."

"We're damn lucky to have him. If it wasn't for him Ho Chi Minh would have this whole country by now and where would these lovelies be?" He jerked his thumb at the elegant Vietnamese.

"At reeducation meetings."

"Well, you of all people should know what that means." Michael lit a cigarette. Chain-smoking was something he had in common with Diem. He and the short man in the white suit both reeked of tobacco, but Diem's olive-skinned fingers didn't show the nicotine stain like Michael's did. Michael sensed that the president made O'Shea uneasy and he wondered why. What did O'Shea know? Obviously he knew a lot. Michael looked around the room at the prosperous Vietnamese. "Well, you have to give him credit. He feeds the sheep." Michael smiled at O'Shea. "'If you love me, feed my sheep.' I guess that's what we help with, eh?"

"We'll have our work cut out for us when we get home."

"I gather. Thuc has his cut out for him too."

O'Shea nodded. "Now that he knows Spelly will be watching he'll perform. The man runs a very tight ship."

"But obviously he's dedicated to his brother."

"But these guys are old-fashioned Catholics, Michael. He's the bishop. In his area, they leave him alone. They want the people fed more than anyone. Nothing improves here until the people eat. Diem and Nhu know that. So does Kennedy. That's the point."

O'Shea stopped talking when he saw approaching a tall, thin American with angular features. He was wearing a white suit as were most of the Vietnamese. "Monsignor O'Shea?" he said. He seemed worried. He ignored Michael.

"Yes?"

"I'm John Howe."

"Mister Howe! Nice to meet you." They shook hands. O'Shea turned to Michael. "Mister Howe and I have had correspondence. Mister Howe is an AID officer at the embassy in Saigon. What, the 'Commercial Import Program,' is that what you call it?" O'Shea smiled, and then said to Michael, "He's been a big help." He said to the embassy man, "This is Father Michael Maguire, Mister Howe. Father Maguire is my new assistant in New York."

Michael and the man shook hands. There was something about him that Michael experienced as utterly new. He didn't know what it was but it drew him in. He watched carefully as Howe turned back to O'Shea. "Monsignor, I'm glad to have a chance to chat with you," he said smoothly. "When I heard the cardinal was coming I hoped you'd be with him."

O'Shea smiled. "It's nice to see you too."

Howe was holding a tall drink and he sipped it then, as he looked out across the crowd. For a moment Michael thought that was it—two men who'd exchanged letters but never met, greeting each other. Howe glanced at Michael and they nodded awkwardly. "How do you like Vietnam, Father?"

"I've only been here a day." Why did Michael feel wary? What was it about the man that unsettled him? He was almost as tall as Michael. He was fair, but he was no newcomer to the tropics and his skin was a tawny red. He was Michael's age, not quite thirty, but little lines, like spokes, creased his face, as if he worried a lot or grimaced.

Howe said to O'Shea, "When you're in Saigon, I'd love to show you around."

"Thanks, Mister Howe. I'm afraid our schedule is full up though."

Howe stared at him. "I was hoping you might have time to stop by the embassy."

Despite the suppliant statement, there was a hint of the imperial in it and Michael caught it whether O'Shea did or not.

O'Shea simply shook his head and smiled. "Sorry."

Howe glanced at some nearby Vietnamese, then let his eyes drift across the crowd again. Suddenly Michael recognized him as a figure out of a magazine, an advertisement. He should have been wearing a dinner jacket, and this should have been a country club dance. His handsomeness, his poise, his grace were part of a package and Michael realized it was one he himself, despite his kind of handsomeness and poise, did not possess. John Howe was a man from a different world. It was a world Michael's people only read about, or, if they gained access to it, it was as servants.

Howe said brusquely, "But you got the letter I sent you two weeks ago?"

"No," O'Shea answered. "We've been in Manila."

"Well, that's all the more reason I'd appreciate some time, Monsignor." Something in Howe's voice was familiar too.

"What's your problem, Mister Howe?" Good old Tim, right to the point, if gruffly.

But Michael noted that Howe didn't flinch. "I've been led to believe that once the new Vietnam assistance appropriation passes the Congress, Cardinal Spellman expeas the major share of funds, food and supplies to be distributed through your agency."

O'Shea shrugged. "We've helped out here and there in the past."

"Indeed so. You've done wonderful work. CRS is the best private agency in Vietnam. But it's
private.
U.S. government relief should come under U.S. government auspices."

"Through
your
office."

"In point of fact, yes."

The two men stared at each other. Michael waited for one or the other to yield, but neither did. Michael sensed but did not understand the depth of their antagonism. This Irish priest. This highborn American diplomat. Unlike each other in every way, but at that moment they were twins in their disdain.

Michael sensed also, though, that Howe, unlike O'Shea, would never make his resentment explicit. Howe veered smoothly and said, "We share the same objective, Monsignor."

"That's right. But we don't share the same structure. There are nearly a thousand Catholic parishes in this country, all
over
this country, not just in cities. Those parishes are what the experts call 'indigenous institutions,' Mister Howe, and local people
already
look to them for assistance What could your office possibly hope to set up to match that?"

"But Monsignor..." Howe reined something. Michael couldn't decide whether it was his impatience, his anger or his condescension. "The point of U.S. government relief is to help
all
the people of this country, not just the Catholics."

"Wait a minute, Mister Howe! Wait a damn minute! If you're saying the Catholic Relief Service and Caritas International benefit only Catholics, then I take strong exception, do you hear? Strong exception!"

Howe put his hand up. "I'm not saying that, Monsignor. I'm not talking about your agency. I'm talking about Vietnam." He smiled suddenly and said quite warmly, "You and I are on the same side. The last thing I want to do is offend you."

Michael believed him, and, despite himself, he was drawn to him. For one thing, he'd recognized what was familiar in his voice. Howe had a subtler version of the New England-Harvard accent that made Jack Kennedy's speech so appealing. Michael wanted to hear him out. "What's your point, Mister Howe?"

Howe turned to Michael. "What percentage of people in this country are Catholic, do you think?"

"Quite a large percentage," O'Shea put in, but Howe ignored him.

Michael calculated. The population of South Vietnam was seventeen million. More than a million Catholics had fled the North. They must have joined at least three or four million others. The French were there a long time. He said, "A third. Thirty to forty percent."

Howe nodded dismissively. "Less than ten percent, Father. Including the refugees. Yet every governor of every province is a Catholic. Every senior officer in the army is a Catholic. The farmers who receive favored treatment in the land reform are Catholic. The students in the schools ... the diplomats abroad, all Catholic. No offense, but where are the Buddhists? Where are the Confucians?"

"And where is the Church of England?" O'Shea asked bitterly. "Right, Mister Howe?"

"Hey, Tim." Michael took his elbow. O'Shea's tribal sensitivity embarrassed Michael.

But O'Shea didn't give a shit about embarrassment. He leaned toward Howe. "If your nice liberal American sensibilities are offended by the primitive practices of the natives here, perhaps you're in the wrong country. Why don't you put in for Italy? I'd be glad to ask the cardinal to say a word for you when he meets with Mister Rusk next week." O'Shea pulled on his cigar, satisfied with himself.

Howe smiled thinly. This immigrant shaman had no power over him, whatever his illusions. "Monsignor, you've taken what I said personally. That's not how I meant it."

"You've slurred the Catholic Church, Mister Howe. That may not be a 'personal' matter in your religion but it is in ours."

Howe nodded. His resignation was evident. He would withdraw now. His dignity, his self-esteem, would be intact. O'Shea, of course, and his assistant, would feel shabby. Howe said, "I look forward to cooperating with the relief effort however it is set up. "Who will your representative in this country be?"

"Archbishop Thuc."

"I mean day to day, Monsignor. Who's going to handle logistics?"

"One of the archbishop's priests, Mister Howe. I'm sure you can find out from him."

"I assumed you'd have an American here."

"We don't work that way in the Catholic Church. We're a transnational institution." Unlike some I could name, was implied. "As I said, the structure is in place. And it's reliable."

"I'm sure it is." Howe shook hands with O'Shea. When he turned to Michael, wasn't there a hint of pleading in his eye? Can you help me with this character? Michael shook his hand noncommittally. Howe said, "Good luck, Father." Then he raised his drink in a mock toast and left.

O'Shea snorted and said to Michael under his breath, "Goddamn Prod! Typical! Trying to make religion the issue when it's just a run-of-the-mill turf fight. Shops all around him in that embassy are gearing up, military and agricultural development, health and sanitation. But he's just trickling along at the same old rate, surplus rice and CARE packages. He sees the boom coming and is afraid he'll be left out. He wants his hand on the spigot instead of mine. That's all."

O'Shea was ranting, it seemed to Michael. He'd rarely seemed so agitated. Michael said, mainly out of loyalty, "You stopped him cold when you said Spelly would be meeting with Rusk."

O'Shea nodded. "These guys are all alike. An eye forever cocked on that next promotion. I'll tell you something funny—he'd
love
to get shipped to Italy. Those Episcopalians just swoon for Italy." O'Shea slapped Michael's shoulder as if celebrating a victory over the old enemy, but Michael knew that Howe held them both in contempt. Michael was perplexed by his own inability to simply sweep the man aside, as O'Shea had. Was that because Howe was right? Or was it something else? Why did Howe appeal to him?

O'Shea was still jabbering. "It's people like him who worry that Kennedy's going to put holy water in White House commodes. If you ask him what a commode is, he looks down his Brahmin nose and says, 'I don't know. I'm not a Catholic.'"

"But he had a point, Tim."

O'Shea stiffened. "Is that so?"

"Only about wanting an American. It might make sense to have an American on the spot. You said yourself, Thuc has to know Spelly's watching. An American priest might keep him honest."