The Accidental Pope (46 page)

The pope stared down thoughtfully. “Looks like tough terrain for missionaries.”

“It's even worse in many other parts of the country,” Tim said. “But Cardinal Motupu, operating out of Angola, is doing his best to get the Congo natives into the fold.”

Finally the jet began losing altitude as it approached Luanda, the capital of Angola.

“Gus Motupu told me to tell you not to be surprised at anything you may see when we land. He will be heading the reception committee. Extensive TV coverage will be carried out to the natives in the far reaches of this part of Africa. Many villages still have only one TV set for the entire population to watch. That's why we arranged to land here at dusk, so the people can get to their sets and see a clear picture in at least partial darkness.”

The plane circled out over the Atlantic and came in for landing at the coastal capital city. “When the Communists engineered their revolution in Portugal, they turned over Angola to a native population which was ready to follow Communist leaders. The only vestige of capitalism left was the Catholic Church. If the atheist leaders in Moscow had backed the patriarch as staunchly up to the fall of Communism in 1991 as they do now, we would have a hard time surviving a new onslaught of Communism here. Today it is getting more difficult to hang on to the majority of Christians still here, to say nothing of creating new Roman Catholics.”

After landing, the Alitalia charter plane taxied up to the huge crowd of people waiting to greet the pope and came to a stop with its boarding door facing the crowd. Tim Shanahan led the papal entourage from the rear entrance of the plane, followed by several Church dignitaries, including Cardinal Bellotti, whom Robitelli had insisted be included on the trip. They walked through the door of the plane into a restful twilight, which was immediately punctured by TV lights.

Pope Peter II appeared at the front door. The first thing he noticed, waiting at the foot of the steps below, was what appeared to be a native chief, carrying a long spear and dressed in native loincloth, a mantle of feathers around his shoulders and a Roman collar around his neck. As the strange figure approached the steps up to the plane's door, Bill Kelly, in a sudden shock wave of recognition, realized that the native apparition was none other than Augustine Cardinal Motupu. It was he who now walked up the steps to the doorway and greeted the pope.

“Your humble spear chucker welcomes you to Africa, Bill!”

The pope could not contain his tears of laughter as he slowly recovered from his surprise. They walked down the steps together to greet other religious and political figures and then strode across the tarmac. Monsignor Cippolini and Cardinal Bellotti, with Tim Shanahan alongside them, followed the pope and Motupu into the glare of the camera lights.

“I'm sorry to startle you, Bill,” Moputu chuckled. “But this scene on TV shown around this part of Africa will get the Church perhaps a hundred thousand new parishioners. Oh, the president will be furious, but he doesn't have to worry about losing his flock as I do.” Several dignitaries in formal diplomatic attire approached the pope. “Go with them, Bill. By the time you've been introduced and made your speech I'll be in my Vatican gold and reds again and up there with you. But wait until you see what this little charade does for my Church attendance.”

Monsignor Cippolini and Cardinal Bellotti stared in awe as they watched the pope and Motupu greet each other. The cardinal turned to the smirking monsignor. “Forget it, Cippolini. I'll die before I walk around in a jockstrap. Let's go see what else this nut has in store for us.” Almost instantly he found out.

A large group of young women, perhaps two dozen, danced to a throbbing drumbeat of tom-toms, enthusiastically, suggestively gyrating as they bent supple bodies back and forth, waving horsehair pompoms at the Vatican entourage in a show of hospitality.

A mischievous grin split Cippolini's face. “Your Eminence, I think these young ladies are indeed planning to offer you a kind of hospitality we of the Vatican are not permitted to dream of. But, of course, it is part of our mission to effect some compromises between Rome and Africa.”

“Your confessor will assign you ten Hail Marys and ten Our Fathers as penance for what you are thinking!” Bellotti growled, unamused.

The pope and his entourage were escorted onto a raised platform and introduced to the new president of Angola, a plump black man who represented the masses now that Portugal had totally relinquished the colony. The pope accepted his welcome and delivered a speech in Portuguese, which was vigorously applauded. He told the people of his experience giving religious instruction to Portuguese children as well as children from the Azores. Pope Peter seemed off to a great start. He even told one TV reporter that he was looking forward to eating some good Portuguese home cooking,
bacalhau cozido com grão e batata,
once again.

*   *   *

So far everything that had been quickly though efficiently planned by Tim Shanahan was on schedule. The trip was far from the carefully laid-out expeditions entailing six months of research required by the meticulous Jesuit Roberto Tucci. There just hadn't been time.

Somewhere a few hundred miles to the north of where the pope's plane had landed, Russian Patriarch Alexis and Bishop Yussotov were consolidating the gains the Orthodox Church had made in the Republic of the Congo after the bloody revolt of 1998 when the Hutu and Tutsi massacred each other.

In the Sudan, famine perennially raged in the wake of battles between the Islamic fundamentalists in the north and the somewhat Christianized tribesmen in the south, the latter seeking autonomy if not independence from Islam. Already half the population had starved to death since troops from both sides stole all the people's food they could get at gunpoint.

And in Angola, Jonas Savimbi, the old antigovernment revolutionary, was still alive, lurking in the jungles to the south with an army of boys. These children stole food from their homes and families and were willing to die fighting the ruling government forces. At one time, Savimbi had been well regarded by the Church and the Western nations as a force against the Communists, mostly Cubans, who had taken over when Portugal relinquished control, but now he was nothing but another rebel trying to gain control.

*   *   *

The journey from the airport in the convoy of cars organized by Motupu took two hours to reach its destination, paved roads turning to dust at the outskirts of the city. Cardinal Bellotti registered his dismay and shock as the convoy pulled up before a large, thatched, circular hut, very neatly kept, with a lawn surrounding it. Crowds of ragged natives singing and chattering away peered from a distance at the pope's party.

“These are local tribesmen, all good Catholics, who are swelling the population out here, away from the two warring factions fighting to control the country. Jonas Savimbi's UNITA party, out in the jungles, is constantly attempting to surge into the main cities, like the capital, Luanda, where you landed. For a time we had peace here after the Communists so suddenly fell in 1991.”

Motupu led the way into the large, primitive structure. Even the dirt floor seemed to have been polished for the occasion. As they entered what seemed to be the reception room, the pope, trying to appear casual, found his curiosity getting the better of him. “Is this your usual residence, Gus? Or are you pulling my leg just a bit?”

Motupu was obviously enjoying the moment as he watched the pope's immediate entourage staring at these unusual surroundings with undisguised apprehension. Only Monsignor Shanahan seemed to understand and approve of this first African stop.

A wide grin cracked Motupu's face. “To tell the truth, I do have a rather large and nice residence in the city, Pope Bill. But after I was made a cardinal, and wore the only red hat in this part of Africa, I served three countries—Angola, the Congo Republic, and Namibia, which is mostly Protestant.” Motupu winked. “So wherever I could spread God's word as taught to us by Jesus, I began to feel a bit guilty in my high estate. I started inviting a few poor street people in to share my evening meal. Then, somehow, they showed up for lunch, and finally for breakfast. The next thing I knew, there were those who had no place to sleep and I ended up with a dormitory. As my family increased, I made acolytes of them and sent them out to bring more into our Catholic fold. Meanwhile I was traveling constantly to see the three bishops I am allowed in Congo, Namibia, and here in Angola.” He gave Bellotti a furtive glance. “And I was creating numerous lay ministers to take care of my growing flock. I had so many they took over my house and left me little room to work, live, and even sleep. My family seemed to increase until I found I had no place left to do any work without ten people looking over my shoulder.”

Motupu smiled ruefully and shrugged. “So I decided to come back here. This was my rectory when I was a priest. I sent the new pastor to live in my comparatively sumptuous place in the capital and had my things sent back here where I feel comfortable. I do all my paperwork here and only go to the city for solemn occasions or for meetings with visiting bishops and priests.”

“And do you appear at these meetings in the habit in which you greeted us?” Cardinal Bellotti asked.

“No, Your Eminence. That was for the cameras. It does wonders for my priests and deacons out in the villages to see their cardinal appear sometimes as one of them as well as in his grand Italianate robes.”

Monsignor Cippolini looked around the spacious thatched building, a dubious expression on his face. Motupu chuckled. “I thought you would prefer the quiet surroundings out here where we are closer to the outlying parishes. I want you to visit some of them before we go on to the Republic of Congo and its restless neighboring states where the serious problems lie.”

“As you know, we have over twenty people with us, Gus,” Al said. “I thought we were all staying on a floor of the new hotel in Luanda.”

“Oh a floor of the new hotel is reserved for all of you,” Motupu assured the papal housekeeper. “I just wanted everyone to see the real Africa, where we have the bulk of our work to do.”

“Good thinking, Gus,” the pope complimented him. “I, for one, will stay out here with you and work the territory.”

A worried look came over Tim Shanahan's wide, usually cheerful features. “Your Eminence,” he addressed the African cardinal, “while we know that for the moment this area is safe, between power struggles for a time, at least, do you think it safe or even dignified for His Holiness to be ‘camping out,' so to speak?”

“Ninety-nine percent of the African population would consider this luxurious beyond compare.” Motupu swept the round structure with a gesture. “I am trying to give you a feel for what the Church faces on this continent.”

“Gus, you're right,” the pope agreed. Then to Shanahan and a shocked Bellotti he avowed, “I'll stay out here with our cardinal and start trying to comprehend the problems we have to contend with. I'm just sorry Ed Kirby isn't with us.”

“The U.S. State Department would finally have managed to fire him if he had come along,” Tim said. “The situation is so volatile here, with one dictator overturning the next and competition among the great powers so intense for a piece of the mineral wealth here that the U.S. does not want to officially support this expedition.”

Several servants came into the reception hall bearing bowls of tiny, tender-looking morsels and wine. “Try some of these good things,” Motupu said.

The pope approached a bowl on the table full of roasted delicacies and smelling somewhat nutty. He delicately pinched a few from the bowl and nibbled cautiously. Then with a grunt of pleasure he plunged a hand into the bowl and came up with his fingers full of the nutlike morsels and chewed on them. The others followed the pope's lead and as they munched were each handed glasses of wine by the crisply clothed servants.

“This is really a sophisticated household.” Cippolini gratefully sipped his wine.

“You must all be hungry after seven hours in the air,” Motupu said. “We shall have a meal after Mass for the people out there and then we can decide last-minute scheduling. There are a few changes and additions I would like to make to the final schedule Monsignor Shanahan sent me by satellite last night. And let me say at the outset that only to this unique pope whom we are fortunate enough to have on the throne of St. Peter would I even attempt to make such a presentation as I have planned for his Holiness Pope Peter II.” Motupu lifted his glass. “For his Holiness Pope Peter II.”

“We will be attentive, Gus,” Al Cippolini assured their host.

“I hope Your Eminence has not veered too far from the schedule Father Tucci and I worked out with Secretary of State Robitelli,” Cardinal Bellotti intoned. The black pupils of his eyes gleamed in the lean face, a peak of black hair protruding almost between his eyes. “Never in the recorded history of the papacy has so”—he paused, considering his words—“impetuous a foreign tour been embarked upon.”

“As I said, Your Eminence,” Motupu replied, “the uniqueness of this pope to recognize and help to overcome these vast problems is indeed heaven sent. ‘God's joke' turned out to be ‘God's call' for sure!” He gestured toward the table set for the meal. “Shall we sit down? Your Holiness, please sit at the head of the table. I'll sit at the foot and everyone else can take any seat they wish.”

When all of Motupu's guests were seated and the wine poured, they continued to reach into the bowls before them and chew on the tasty morsels while they sipped wine, waiting for the first course.

Cardinal Bellotti, seated to Motupu's right, reached for the bowl and popped a few more morsels into his mouth, drinking from his wineglass. He looked at Monsignor Cippolini, who was swallowing a long draft from his glass. A servant immediately filled it. Bellotti gave Cippolini an avuncular smile. “You better have some of these nuts to fill your belly, Alonso, if you are going to drink more of this Portuguese wine.”