The Accidental Pope (48 page)

“Colonel, His Holiness has not eaten all day. Now that he has conducted Mass, he and his group from the Vatican deserve a quiet dinner before returning to their hotel in Luanda.”

Motupu winked at the pope making Bill understand that the less people who knew he was staying out here, the better.

“Of course,” the colonel agreed. “I and my men will wait until your meal is over and then provide the proper escort back to the capital. After dark, godless UNITA rebels strike anywhere. Even the pope is not safe in these times.”

“Colonel, thank you,” Pope Peter said in Portuguese. “We appreciate your consideration.”

“It is a supreme honor, Your Holiness,” the colonel replied. “We shall be at your service when you are ready to return.”

True to his promise, Motupu's dinner of roast pig and yams was hearty and tasty, and the Portuguese red wine pronounced “excellent” by the meticulous Monsignor Cippolini. After dinner the group discussed the next day's schedule.

“This trip was never designed to be ceremonial,” the pope remarked. “I want to see what I can firsthand. Do what we came here to do and get back to the Vatican, where I shall report to the world on my Internet site, and perhaps to the UN, on what I have seen and the actions I intend to take.”

“Tomorrow we have arranged to fly to Kigali, the capital of Rwanda,” Motupu announced. “The dominant tribe, the Tutsi, has control of the military and mercantile pursuits. But the rival Hutu tribe has reestablished itself as the dominant party of laborers. They are short and bulky; the Tutsis tend to be taller, more ascetic looking. They hate each other from centuries past, and although both are Catholic they have traditionally massacred each other. Only in this year of the third millennium have they stopped the gratuitous slaughter.

“Next,” the cardinal said, “we will visit Uganda and, if time permits, have a look at southern Sudan, where Christian Africans are still starving in their never-ending civil war against the Islamic extremists to the north. Pope John Paul II himself told Kirby and the U.S. president that the situation in Sudan is the worst he has ever seen or experienced.”

“Quite an eye-opening statement coming from a man who, when he was young, lived under Nazi oppression and then under Communism in his native Poland,” Tim Shanahan observed.

Despite the untoward haste in planning and executing the trip to Africa, the Vatican had chartered the newest and fastest jet designed and built for the twenty-first century. Because of the size of the area to be covered in the few days allowed for the pope's African survey, speed was a necessity.

This latest-model supersonic jet took off from Luanda the next morning after the pope and Motupu arrived at the airport from the cardinal's “country estate.” En route everyone was handed a bottle of water to carry. “Don't drink or eat anything on the ground,” Cippolini cautioned them. “The water is polluted everywhere.”

Less than two hours later they were landing at the airport in Kigali. They were met by a nondescript collection of vehicles and one five-year-old black sedan for the pope and Motupu to ride in with Cardinal Bellotti and Monsignor Shanahan. Each man carried a full water bottle, Monsignor Cippolini carrying his and the pope's.

“Now, Bill, you will see firsthand what we have been able to do around here despite the tribal strife and”—Motupu paused and smiled slyly—“the lack of sufficient funds.”

The first stop was a wooden building that looked like a military barracks. The motorcade came to a halt and Motupu led the pope out of the car and into the structure. “Yes, it is our hospital, Bill, run by Concern, the international humanitarian organization out of Dublin. Brian Comiskey can tell you about it. This Irish Catholic group of dedicated people reaches out to the desperate people of Africa. The nursing nuns who work here are saints, as you will soon see.”

A sister welcomed Motupu, kneeling before the pope and reaching for his hand to kiss the ring. “Your Holiness, it means everything to this mission to have you visit us.”

“Sister Winnie O'Brien here is superintendent of our nursing staff, Your Holiness.” Motupu reached for the nun's hand and helped her to her feet. “Tell me, Sister, how are our sick sisters doing?”

“Oh, poor dears. Sister Martha … we fear she may go the way of the others who served in Rakai.”

Motupu turned to the pope. “That's Uganda, just north of us here, where we have another mission hospital. Remember Ed Kirby telling us about his visit here? Over seventy-five percent of the young people studying at our mission school have lost one or both parents to a virus. If it isn't HIV, then it's something we can't diagnose. But people are dying so fast from disease that in this part of Africa, at least, half the population will die in the next two years.” Then, to Sister Winnie, “Is she able to see His Holiness?”

“Oh, bless you, Your Eminence. She can leave us, if she must, in happiness.”

“How many people are being treated here?” the pope asked.

“About fifty to seventy-five any given day. As fast as they die, or in some few cases, walk out cured or in remission, others are waiting to take their place.”

“Lead me through, Gus.”

The nun opened a door into a long ward lined with cotlike beds on both sides of the room. Many types of sanitizing fluids and floor washers failed to override the stench of infectious disease. Men, women, and children lay passively in the beds, eyes shut or rolled back in their heads so only the whites showed between fluttering lids.

“What do most of them suffer from?” the pope asked.

“The HIV virus, which develops into full-blown AIDS, is the biggest killer in Africa today. Half our babies are born with it,” Motupu replied somberly. “While there was still time to prevent what you are seeing a thousand times over, I begged everyone to let us distribute birth control information and give some counseling on prevention of disease and, frankly, bringing diseased children into the world. We believe in the dignity and respect of everyone and we are pro-life from conception to natural death, but what do we do for these people? You have to be part of this tragedy every day and see it all around you to realize that God wants us to help alleviate this scourge. But the real issue is that there is nowhere near enough food or medicine. What you see in here is the most desperately sick. For every patient here there are two more who should be, but there is no room until one dies and is replaced by the next one. Of course condoms are not the only solution, but rather clean water, food, and medicine.”

“Do any ever get cured?” the pope asked.

“Sometimes. More likely they go into remission. Here in Rwanda things aren't as bad as elsewhere. Of course that is partly because of the massacres which have wiped out many of the disease-carrying tribesmen.”

They reached the end of the ward and stood a minute looking back over the dying patients. The pope sighed. “How much of this disease is sexually transmitted?”

“Much of it is STD, although many people get sick through skin breaks, cuts, puncture wounds, work accidents,” Sister Winnie replied. “And then there are other diseases with symptoms similar to those of the deadly Ebola fever and the Nile Virus. And just this month in Kenya over two hundred died from an unknown disease in flooded villages on the Somalia border.”

In reflective silence the pope followed Motupu and the sister down the aisle between the beds of shriveled, desperately sick patients. Cardinal Bellotti and the rest of the Vatican group turned around and left the ward through the door they had entered. The pope, followed by a silent Tim Shanahan, walked through a second door into a much smaller, cleaner ward.

Sister Winnie turned to face them. “In here are our own people, white volunteers who became infected while treating patients in hospitals run by Concern.” She led them to a partitioned-off bed. “This is Sister Martha. Let me see if she is awake.” The pope and Motupu waited while Sister Winnie slipped into the space between the side of the bed and the screen. “Martha, the Holy Father himself is here to see you. All the way from the Vatican he's come to help us.”

They heard a faint response, and then Sister Winnie slipped away from the bed and came around to the pope. “For the first time she smiled. Please, come see her.”

Bill Kelly felt humble and inadequate as he followed the sister back into the partitioned space and saw the wizened little face and the sticks of arms as Sister Martha reached upward. The pope took her hands in his and felt the last resurgence of strength within the nun as she pulled his hand down to her lips and kissed the ring on his finger.

“We are praying for you, Sister Martha.”

“Thank you, Holy Father,” she said faintly. “And please pray for all who do so much, but especially for the African souls here. They don't have a chance. Without God, they have nothing. You must witness what's happening here.”

“I will go out to Rakai myself and see.”

A look of alarm crossed her face. “Be careful, Holy Father!” With that her eyes closed and she sank back into a comalike sleep.

The pope and his group visited several other sick nuns and volunteers and then gathered outside the hospital facility near another roughly constructed wooden building. “This is an office building of International Concern,” Motupu explained when they had all seated themselves in wooden chairs, thirstily taking long gulps from their water bottles. “This is just a rear-echelon view of the battle we are fighting against disease out here. But making it more difficult is the constant conflict between rival tribal groups, most frequently Hutu or Tutsi. Still, we are the dominant religious organization helping to curb disease and tribal infighting.”

“What is the patriarch doing to get the Russian Church into this struggle?” the pope asked.

“No medical efforts like Concern or Doctors without Borders or the Red Cross. They have credibility with tribal leaders because of military and business interests, but they are doing nothing to help salve the wounds from the ravages of AIDS and other diseases. In the Congo, Russian Orthodox priests act as middlemen between arms dealers and buyers and sellers of diamonds. The African leaders get their share of guns and put their money in Swiss banks. In return the people are harangued by such as Bishop Yussotov without interference. The Russians also assure African countries there will be no terrorist activities sponsored in the states they control. The Islamic fundamentalists use terror to force their religion on victim nations. All we do is excel in humanitarian relief. It doesn't mean much to these African dictators.” Motupu shrugged helplessly. “They simply don't care about their own people. They control them and they are ‘da boss.' If the Russian Church can help them run the people and Russian traders can give them guns and money for diamonds and oil, that's what they want. They do not see the AIDS explosion happening before their eyes.”

“I'd like to take a look at our people in Uganda, specifically Rakai, which I see as a typical breeding ground of disease,” the pope said.

“I do not advise it, Your Holiness,” Shanahan said quickly. “You can't imagine how bad it is. I'm told that one hundred percent of the population has an immediate member of the family dead or infected with HIV or some other virus that hasn't even got a name.”

The pope looked at Motupu. “How many of our people, missionaries and medical workers, do we have there?”

“Maybe a dozen nuns and laypeople from Concern and Trocare,” Motupu replied.

“Well, get transportation. I want to be there and see for myself. It just may be that certain Catholic prohibitions will have to be changed.”

“We can make Entebbe in an hour. Rakai in another hour.” As though shocked to expose the pope to all the vicissitudes Africa offered, Motupu quickly added a caveat, “But Your Holiness, it is too dangerous for you to go there.”

“I am obviously not going to contract an STD!”

“Sister Martha and others of the mission contracted whatever it is,” Shanahan argued.

“Make the arrangements,” the pope commanded without thought of the
avviso
's warnings.

“If you are certain, Your Holiness…” Motupu's voice trailed off.

“I'm certain, Gus.”

Motupu's white-toothed smile cracked across his face. “Okay, Pope Bill. I had it arranged before we left this morning—just in case.”

A shocked expression came across the face of Tim Shanahan, standing next to the pope. “You are a rascal, Eminence. Playing with the pope's life.”

Cardinal Bellotti and the others were not close enough to hear the repartee.

Innocently, Motupu stared back at the man who had become the pope's closest adviser. “I only wanted to be ready to respond to the wishes of His Holiness.”

“You were right, Gus.” The pope's tone was vehement. “This entire trip was carried out against any and all Vatican protocol. If it is to mean anything it will have to proceed that way. No one need go with me.”

Cardinal Bellotti, meanwhile, was horrified when he heard about the sudden apparent change in plans. With Monsignor Cippolini and the others he declined the opportunity to visit Rakai.

“Well, Gus,” the pope boomed, “it looks like we'll only need one vehicle waiting at Entebbe.”

“We'll be bringing a Concern nun and a medical missionary with us,” Motupu replied grimly.

The pope stood firm against Cardinal Bellotti's remonstrances as he tried to get Cardinal Robitelli on his satellite phone. Finally, before taking off for Entebbe, Pope Peter came up with a suggestion that quieted Bellotti. “The worst thing that can happen,
Eminenza,
is that you or Robitelli will be
camerlengo
at another conclave sooner than expected.”

Bellotti couldn't hide his sly smile of sudden cognizance as the pope clapped him on a shoulder cheerfully. With Tim Shanahan and Motupu flanking him, Bill Kelly turned away from the makeshift hospital toward the vehicles that had transported them from Kigali.