The Clowns of God (8 page)

“I hadn’t heard from him in months.” Mendelius hedged his answer.

“I imagine he had little time for private correspondence. ” “But you’ll be seeing him while you’re here?”

“It’s been arranged. Yes.”

The answer was a shade too curt. Herman Frank was too tactful a man to press the matter. There was an awkward moment of silence; then he said quietly: “Something’s been puzzling me, Carl. I’d like your opinion on it.”

“Tell me, Herman.”

“About a month ago I was called to our embassy. The ambassador wanted to see me. He showed me a letter from Bonn: a circular instruction to all academies and institutes abroad. Many of them, as you know, have valuable material on loan from the Republic: sculptures, pictures, historic manuscripts, that sort of thing. All directors were told to arrange secret safe-deposits in the host countries where these things could be stored in the event of civil disorder or international conflict. We were all given a budget, available immediately, to buy or lease suitable storage.”

“It sounds like a reasonable precaution,” said Mendelius mildly.

“Especially since you can’t insure against war or civil violence.”

“You miss the point.” Herman Frank was emphatic.

“It was the tone of the document that worried me. There was a note of real urgency, and a threat of stringent penalties for neglect. I got the impression our people are genuinely worried that some terrible thing may happen very soon.”

“Do you have a copy of the instruction?”

“No. The ambassador was very firm that it must not leave the embassy. Oh, and that’s another thing. Only most senior staff were to know its contents. I thought that was rather sinister. I still do. I know I’m a worrier; but all the time I think of Hilde and what might happen to her if we were separated in some emergency. I’d like your honest opinion, Carl.”

For a moment, Mendelius was tempted to put him off with some facile encouragement; then he decided against it. Herman Frank was a good man, too soft for a rough world. He deserved a sober and honest answer.

“Things are bad, Herman. We’re not at panic stations yet;

but very soon we may be. Everything points that way: public disorder the breakdown of political confidence, the huge recession and the fools in high places who think they can solve the problem by a well-timed but limited war. You’re right to be concerned. What you can do about it is another matter. Once the first missiles are launched there’s no safe hiding place anywhere. Have you talked to Hilde about it?”

“Yes. She doesn’t want to go back to Germany, but she agrees we ought to consider moving out of Rome. We’ve got that little farmhouse in the Tuscan hills. It’s isolated; but there’s fertile ground around it. I suppose we could survive just on what we grew ourselves. But it seems an act of despair even to contemplate such a thing.”

“Or an act of hope,” said Mendelius gently.

“I think your Hilde’s a very wise girl and you shouldn’t worry about her as much as you do. Women are much better at survival than we are.”

“I suppose they are. I’ve never thought about it that way.

Don’t you wish sometimes we could find a great man to take control and lead us out of the filthy mess?”

“Never!” said Carl Mendelius sombrely.

“Great men are dangerous. When their dreams fail, they bury them under the rubble of cities, where simple folk once lived in peace!”

“I want to be open with you, Mendelius. I want you to be open with me.”

“How open, Eminence? And on what subject?”

The courtesies were over now. The sweet biscuits were all eaten. The coffee was cold. His Eminence, Anton Cardinal Drexel, grey-haired, straight as a grenadier, stood with his back to his visitor, looking out on the sunlit gardens of the Vatican. He turned slowly and stood a moment longer, a faceless silhouette against the light. Mendelius said:

“Please, Eminence, why don’t you sit down? I’d like to see your face while we talk.”

“Forgive me.” Drexel gave a deep growling chuckle.

“It’s an old trick and not very polite. Would you prefer we speak German?”

In spite of his name, Drexel was Italian, born in Bolzano, long a territory in dispute between Austria and the Italian Republic. Mendelius shrugged.

“As your Eminence pleases.”

“Italian then. I speak German like a Tyrolese. You might find it comical.”

“The mother tongue is the best one to be honest in,” said Mendelius drily.

“If my Italian fails me, I’ll speak German.”

Drexel moved away from the window and sat down facing Mendelius. He arranged the folds of his cassock carefully across his knees. His seamed face, still handsome, might have been carved from wood. Only his eyes were alive, vivid blue, amused yet appraising. He said, “You always were a tough customer.” He used the colloquial phrase: ‘un tipo rohusto’.

Mendelius smiled at the left-handed compliment.

“Now, tell me. How much do you know about what happened here recently?”

“Before I answer that, Eminence, I should like an answer from you. Do you intend to set any impediment to my contact with Jean Marie?”

“I? None at all.”

“Does anyone else, to your knowledge?”

“To the best of my knowledge, no one; though there is obviously an interest in the encounter.”

“Thank you, Eminence. Now, the answer to your question: I know that Pope Gregory was forced to abdicate. I know the means that were used to exact his decision.”

“Which were?”

“A series of seven independent medical reports, which were then consolidated by the Curia into a final document designed to cast grave doubts upon the mental competence of His Holiness. Is that accurate?”

Drexel hesitated a moment and then nodded assent.

“Yes, it’s accurate. What do you know of my own role in the matter?”

“It is my understanding, Eminence, that while dissenting from the decision of the Sacred College you agreed to convey it to the Pontiff.”

“Do you know why they reached their decision?”

“Yes.”

There was a flicker of doubt in DrexePs eyes; but he went on without hesitation.

“Do you agree with it or not?”

“I think the means of enforcing it were base: flat blackmail.

As to the decision itself, I find myself in a dilemma.”

“And how would you express that dilemma, my friend?”

“The Pope is elected as Supreme Pastor and Custodian of the Deposit of Faith. Can that office be reconciled with the role of prophet proclaiming a private revelation, even if that revelation be true?”

“So you do know!” said the Cardinal Prefect softly.

“And, fortunately, you understand.”

“So where does that leave us, Eminence?” asked Mendelius.

“Facing the second dilemma: how do we prove whether the revelation is true or false?”

“Your colleagues have already resolved that one,” said Mendelius tartly.

“They judged him a madman.”

“Not I,” said Anton Cardinal Drexel firmly.

“I believed, I still believe, his position as Pontiff was untenable. There was no way he could have functioned in the face of so much opposition. But mad? Never!”

“A lying prophet, then?”

For the first time Drexel’s mask-like visage betrayed his emotion.

“That’s a terrible thought!”

“He asked me to judge him, Eminence. I had to consider every possible verdict.”

“He is not a liar.”

“Do you think he is deluded?”

“I would like to believe it. Everything would be so much simpler. But I cannot; I simply cannot!”

Suddenly he looked exactly what he was: an old lion with the strength ebbing out of him. Mendelius felt a surge of sympathy for the anguish scored in his face. Still he could not relent in his own inquisition. He asked firmly, “How have you tested him, Eminence? By what criteria?”

“By the only ones I know: his speech, his conduct, his writings, the tenor of his spiritual life.”

Mendelius chuckled.

“There speaks the Hound of God.”

Drexel smiled grimly.

“The wounds still smart, eh? I admit we gave you a rough time. At least we taught you to understand the method. What do you want to know first?”

“It was the writing that finally damned him. I have a copy of the encyclical. How did you read it, Eminence?”

“With great misgiving, obviously. I had not a doubt in the world that it must be suppressed. But I agree it contains nothing, absolutely nothing, that is contrary to traditional doctrine. There are interpretations that might be considered extreme, but they are certainly not heterodox. Even the question of an elective ministry, when ordination by a Bishop is totally impossible, is a very open one if rather delicate for Roman ears.”

“Which brings us to the tenor of his spiritual life.” There was a faint hint of irony in Mendelius’ tone.

“How did you judge that, Eminence?”

For the first time, Drexel’s harsh face softened into a smile.

“It measured better than yours, my dear Mendelius. He remained faithful to his vocation as a priest. He was a totally unselfish man, all of whose thoughts were directed to the good of the-Church and of human souls. His passions were under control. In high office he was humble and kind. His anger was always against malice and never against frailty.

Even at the end he did not rail against his accusers, but went with dignity and accepted the role of a subject without complaint. I am told by the Abbot that his life in Monte Cassino is a model of religious simplicity.”

“He is also silent. How does that conform with the obligation, which he says he has, to spread the news of the Parousia?”

“Before I answer that,” said Drexel, “I think we should clear up one question of fact. Obviously he wrote to you and sent you a copy of the suppressed encyclical. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“Was this before or after his abdication?”

“He wrote it before. I received it after the event.”

“Good! Now let me tell you something which you do not know. When my brother Cardinals had secured Gregory’s consent to abdication, they were sure they had broken him, that he would do whatever they wanted. First they tried to write into the instrument of abdication a promise of perpetual silence on any issue affecting the public life of the Church. I told them that they had neither a moral nor a legal right to do so. If they persisted I would fight them to the death. I would resign my office and make a full public statement on the whole sorry affair. Then they tried another tack. His Holiness had agreed to enter the order of Saint Benedict and live the life of a simple monk. Therefore, he would be bound to obey his religious superior. Therefore, said my clever colleagues, the Abbot would be instructed to bind him to silence under the vow.”

“I know that one,” said Carl Mendelius with cold anger.

“Obedience of the spirit! The worst agony you can impose on an honest man. We’ve taught it to every tyranny in the world.”

“So,” said Drexel quietly, “I was determined they should not impose it on our friend. I pointed out that this was an intolerable usurpation of the right of a man to act freely in the light of his private conscience, that the most stringent vow could not bind him to commit a wrong, or to stifle his conscience in the name of good. Once again I threatened exposure. I bargained with my vote in the coming conclave and I instructed Abbot Andrew that he, too, was bound under moral sanction to protect the free conscience of his new subject.”

“I’m happy to hear it, Eminence.” Mendelius was grave and respectful.

“It’s the first light I’ve seen in this dark affair.

But it still doesn’t answer my question. Why is Jean Marie still silent? Both in his letter to me and in the encyclical, he speaks of his obligation to proclaim the news that he claims has been revealed to him.”

Drexel did not answer immediately. Slowly, almost painfully, he rose from his chair, walked to the window and stood again, staring out into the garden. When he turned finally, his face was in shadow as before; but Mendelius made no protest.

The man’s distress was all too evident in his voice.

“The reason, I think, is because he is now undergoing the experience of all the great mystics, which is called ‘the dark night of the soul’. It is a period of utter darkness, of howling confusion, of near despair, when the spirit seems bereft of every support, human or divine. It is a replica of that terrible moment when Christ Himself cried out: “My God! Why have you abandoned me?” .. . This is the news I hear from Abbot Andrew. This is why he, and I, wanted to speak with you before you see Jean Marie. The fact is, Mendelius, I think I failed him, because I tried to compromise between the promptings of the Spirit and the demands of the System to which I have been committed for a lifetime. I hope, I pray, you may prove a better friend than I.”

“You talk of him as a mystic, Eminence. That seems to predicate a belief in his mystical experience,” said Carl Mendelius.

“I’m not ready for that yet, much as I love him.”

“I hope you will tell him that first and ask your questions afterwards. Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to call me after you’ve seen him?”

“You have my promise, Eminence.” Mendelius stood up.

“Thank you for inviting me here. I hope you’ll forgive me if I seemed rude at the beginning.”

“Not rude, just robust.”

The Cardinal smiled and held out his hand.

“You were much less reasonable in the old days. Marriage must be good for you.”

*

Lotte and Hilde had driven out to Tivoli for lunch, so he was treating himself to a solitary meal in the Piazza Navona.

When he left the Vatican it was a quarter to midday; so he decided to walk. Halfway down the Via-della Conciliazione he stopped and turned back to look at the great basilica of San Pietro, with the encircling colonnades that symbolised the all embracing mission of Mother Church.

For half a billion believers this was the centre of the world, the dwelling-place of Christ’s vicar, the burial-place of Peter the Fisherman. When the I.B.M.s were launched from the Soviet perimeters, it would be obliterated in the first blast.

What would happen to the half-billion faithful once this visible symbol of unity, authority and permanence were destroyed?