Papal Decree (7 page)

‘It must be room service,’ Francesco said. ‘Are you okay, honey?’ He looked at her face and wiped the tears from her eyes. He kissed her on the forehead.

Sarah looked at herself in the mirror, freed herself from Francesco’s embrace, and put her hands on the washbasin, noticing her imperfections, red eyes, livid face.

‘I’m all right, Francesco. Would you get the door, please? I’m going to wash my face,’ she asked, continuing to examine herself in the mirror.

‘Of course,’ Francesco agreed and went to open the door, where someone was knocking again, a little louder.

‘I’m coming,’ he called out in Italian before leaving the bathroom.

Sarah rubbed her eyes with the hope that when she opened them she’d see another woman in front of her. Another color. A new disposition. The will to go forward. That iron will that accompanied her when she left Rafael in the bar six months before, full of anger that softened quickly. He let her pursue her own path in life. He hadn’t called her or looked for her since. The protection Rafael provided her dissolved. She missed him and even his prolonged silences. Sarah missed the times when she looked out the window and didn’t see him, but she knew he was watching out for her like a guardian angel. All this ended six months before, after that one conversation in Walker’s Wine and Ale Bar. Was he in Rome or on a dangerous mission someplace else? She wanted to call him. Find out how he was. If everything was all right in his parish, how his classes at the university were going. Then she’d come back to reality … and the ridiculous situation.
Hi, Rafael. I wanted to know if you’re okay. And the children in your parish, your students. Oh, and I still love you.

All this mental diarrhea stopped when she heard Francesco’s voice from the other room.

‘Oh! I think you better come here, Sarah.’

Sarah wiped her face with water and dried it on a towel. She came out and saw Francesco at the door.

‘What is it?’

She approached the door and saw a young prelate in a black cassock. He had dark skin with a circumspect expression.

‘It’s for you,’ Francesco explained.

‘Good evening,’ Sarah greeted him.

‘Good evening, Miss Sarah. I was asked to pick you up.’

‘You were asked? By whom?’ It was very strange.

‘I am not authorized to say. I’m sorry,’ the young priest apologized.

Her journalistic curiosity overcame her fear. She put on her shoes and grabbed her coat.

‘I’m coming.’

‘Do you want me to go with you?’ Francesco volunteered.

Sarah looked closely at the young cleric and thought about it for a few moments. ‘No. This is fine.’

They took the elevator down to the reception area. It was already night. She looked around and didn’t see anyone. Even at the reception desk, where there was almost always someone behind the counter ready to attend to the most demanding guest. The hotel seemed empty. As if the world had stopped for a few moments and been depleted of people.

Sarah and the cleric didn’t exchange a word. She preferred it that way, and it was a blessing to have an escort who also liked silence. Clearly he followed orders scrupulously and didn’t want to be questioned about things he shouldn’t or couldn’t mention. They went outside. It was cold, but not disagreeable. She could tolerate it. She thought about Rafael. Was he the one calling for her? It couldn’t be anyone else. This was why she felt so carefree. A car was in front of the hotel at the bottom of the steps. A Mercedes with tinted windows.

The young cleric opened the door of the vehicle, and Sarah looked inside. Her jaw dropped. Inside, comfortably seated and smoking a cigar, was a man in scarlet vestments, a gold cross hanging on his chest, his cardinal’s cap on his lap.

‘Good evening, Sarah Monteiro,’ he greeted her. ‘Let’s take a ride, shall we?’

Conversations between friends are continuous. Even if they are years apart, they always resume them, as if they had just seen each other only the day before. And the day before in some friendships could have been three and a half years earlier. Hans Schmidt and Tarcisio enjoyed this kind of friendship.

An immediate embrace followed their handshake. Then two kisses. Tarcisio let his eyes fill with tears, but none dared to spill down his face. Schmidt was not so overcome, but that didn’t mean he had not missed his friend. He was simply less demonstrative. He had always been called ‘the Austrian iceman.’

‘How are you, my friend?’ Tarcisio examined his friend closely with a smile.

‘As God wishes,’ Schmidt replied, looking at his friend.

‘Sit down, sit down.’ Tarcisio pointed to an old brown leather sofa. ‘You must be tired. Did you have a good trip?’

‘Very pleasant,’ Schmidt said, accepting Tarcisio’s invitation to sit and letting his body rest on the sofa. He crossed his legs. ‘Without delays or problems.’

Tarcisio sat down next to him. They were in his office, which Schmidt had never been inside before. Very spacious, a large oak desk next to one of the wide closed windows that separated them from the Roman night outside.

A tense silence settled in. The small talk was almost exhausted.

‘Did you have dinner? Do you want something to eat?’ Tarcisio offered.

‘I’m fine, Tarcisio, thank you.’

Schmidt rarely felt hungry. Often during the time he was assigned to Rome, which seemed like ages past, he forgot to eat. He would faint from weakness. Schmidt was obstinate and dedicated himself completely to the tasks he was given, whether they were his studies or, later, his pastoral functions. For some years he was removed from these duties that gave him so much pleasure, helping Tarcisio with the more administrative and episcopal duties he knew were necessary, but didn’t fulfill him. Whether he liked them or not, he performed them proficiently. Tarcisio had enormous appreciation for him as a man, a cleric, and above all a friend.

‘Are we going to talk about your problem?’ Schmidt inquired. His approach to problems was simple and direct; he didn’t avoid them or turn his back to them. If they existed, they had to be solved at once, so that they did not return to defeat him. God protects the audacious.

Tarcisio looked at the floor to find the right words, but feared words were fleeing him like water through his fingers. He decided to be direct, like his friend. Schmidt would not permit any other way.

‘The Status Quo was broken.’ He got it off his chest, and lifted his gaze to an indefinite point on the wall where there was a large portrait of the Supreme Pontiff, his face with a neutral expression. He waited for Schmidt’s reaction.

‘Lay it all out’ was the only reply, with a German accent to his Italian, normally flawless.

Tarcisio needed his friend’s sharp, lucid mind. No solution presented itself unless all the facts were at hand. Tarcisio opted again for the concise, cold recounting of the elements, no matter the cost.

‘They killed Aragones and Zafer, and Sigfried has disappeared; so have Ben Isaac and his son.’ He threw out the names and facts point-blank, as if mentioning them freed him from them or transferred them to Schmidt. He felt selfish for a moment, but it passed.

‘When did they die?’ Schmidt questioned him without emotion. If he felt anything, he didn’t show it.

‘During the week. Aragones on Sunday, Zafer on Tuesday, and Sigfried disappeared on Wednesday. We don’t know when the Isaacs disappeared.’

‘Did the entire family disappear?’ Schmidt wanted to know.

‘Yes, the wife and the son also,’ Tarcisio concluded.

‘Who’s going to handle this?’

‘Our liaison officer with SISMI and a special agent.’

‘Who?’

‘Father Rafael. Do you remember him?’

‘Of course. Very competent. You don’t need me,’ Schmidt remarked. ‘The situation is in good hands.’

Tarcisio did not seem convinced, to the contrary. He was nervous and agitated, tapping his foot on the floor.

‘If this explodes in our face …’

‘The church always survives everything and everyone,’ Schmidt offered. ‘I don’t see any reason it shouldn’t survive now.’

‘You don’t see? They’re after documents that prove –’

‘That don’t prove anything,’ Schmidt deliberated. ‘No one knows who wrote them or with what motives. They’re only words.’

‘An order in words wounds and kills,’ Tarcisio objected.

‘Words only have the power we give them,’ Schmidt disagreed without altering the tone of his voice.

‘Is this your defense now?’

‘Nothing needs my defense. Much less the church.’

‘Tarcisio got up, irritated, and began to pace back and forth with his hands behind him.

‘We’re at war, Hans.’

‘We’ve been at war for two thousand years. I’ve always heard this war talked about, and we don’t even have an army,’ Schmidt said ironically.

‘Can’t you see what will happen if these documents fall into the wrong hands?’

‘If I remember well, Pope Roncalli took steps to avoid that scenario. The agreement –’

‘The agreement expired,’ Tarcisio interrupted, raising his hands in the air. ‘It ran for fifty years. It ended a few days ago.’

‘I know, Tarcisio. Personally I don’t believe that Ben Isaac would have appropriated the docu –’

‘Why not? The contract had expired.’

For the first time Schmidt looked at him apprehensively. ‘Because I knew Isaac when he was renewing the agreement. Ben Isaac could be a victim, but not a villain.’

‘That was twenty-five years ago. You saw him two or three times. Let’s not forget that he is … Jewish.’ He said it as if it were a grave fault.

‘He’s not a Jew, he’s a banker. And we also pray to a Jew, Tarcisio.’

‘It’s not the same thing,’ the cardinal said, excusing himself.

‘I don’t see the difference. He never knew any other religion.’

‘Jesus founded the Catholic Church.’

‘Tarcisio, please. You are the most influential cardinal in the Roman Catholic Apostolic Church today. Jesus never knew the Catholic Church or any other inheritor of His name. He never founded it or, much less, asked that we construct it.’

The subject disturbed Tarcisio. It was a point of friction between the two men. This freethinking of Schmidt’s exasperated him and only gave trouble to his friend. He remembered just then that this was the principal reason that his friend found himself in Rome tonight. He sat down again and let the silence spread through the office. Hans remained immobile, his legs crossed, the Austrian iceman, imperturbable.

‘Are you prepared for tomorrow?’ Tarcisio finally asked.

‘I’ll see when tomorrow comes.’

‘I’m not going to be able to help you in front of the congregation, Hans. I’m sorry,’ he said awkwardly. He was genuinely sorry.

‘I’m not asking for your help, Tarcisio, nor would I accept it. Don’t be sorry, don’t worry about it. The congregation will make their decision. If they think my opinions fit with the church, fine. If not, fine as well. Either way serves me, and none will affect me.’

The confidence with which Schmidt offered these words impressed Tarcisio. They came from deep within him; they were sincere, without any presumption or perfidy. Schmidt had changed much in the last years.

‘I hope it goes for the best. As Our Lord desires,’ he wished.

‘Our Lord doesn’t have anything to do with this,’ Schmidt concluded.

‘Do you also think Ben Isaac has nothing to do with this?’ Tarcisio returned to the previous subject.

‘I suggest you try to find him, if it’s not too late.’

‘How?’

‘Think a little, Tarcisio. They killed Zafer and Aragones. We can very well fear for the fate of Sigfried and the Isaac family.’

‘But who’s behind all this?’ Tarcisio asked. ‘What’s their intention?’

‘I don’t know, but whoever it is doesn’t stop at half measures.’ He stopped talking and thought about it. ‘Hm. Interesting.’

‘What?’

‘The participants in the Status Quo are all being eliminated,’ he said with a thoughtful expression.

‘And?’

‘Two are left.’

History tends to write itself with deep chisel marks that disappear only with the passage of time, dissolving in oblivious rain. Insignificant people will never be remembered on bronze plaques that record their birth, the place they lived, or their achievements. They remain only in the memory of those who lost them, until they, too, disappear under a forgotten gravestone.

No one would remember Yaman Zafer’s deeds, not because there weren’t any, but because he spent his life trying to conceal them. The last hours of his life proved that his best efforts were not enough.

Rafael leaned over the greasy, disgusting stained floor, examining it in silence, as if hoping that the place would speak for itself. He was sad. He had known Zafer and his sons for more than twenty years. Not that he saw them often. Sometimes years passed, but they felt together at every moment. This had been eliminated.

‘I still don’t see what you think you’ll find here,’ Jacopo grumbled, standing up, looking at the priest.

‘I still don’t see what you’re doing here,’ the other replied.

‘You know perfectly well why I’m here.’

They had arrived in Paris around midnight. The flight had been smooth, covering the miles in the darkness. Jacopo had used the time to talk about his theory about the lack of proof for the stories in the Bible. Rafael listened to him without paying attention.

‘Until the end of the nineteenth century the truth of the Bible was never put into question. The Evangelists were inspired by God. The truth is that, as much as it could, the church didn’t allow its faithful to read the sacred book in their language. It was a crime, punished by death.’ His theatrical gestures didn’t impress Rafael. ‘It was Pope Paul the Fifth, in the seventeenth century, who said, “Don’t you know that much reading of the Bible harms the church?” ’ he quoted sarcastically. ‘Now, think about it. What church, especially one called a religion of the book, bases its dogmas on the book but prohibits its believers from reading the sacred book that gives credibility to everything it proclaims?’ He paused dramatically. ‘The nineteenth century initiated a feverish archaeological search for proof of the “facts” ’ – he sketched quotation marks in the air when he said this word – ‘narrated in the Bible. They excavated everywhere there was a site. Palestine, Egypt, Mesopotamia, a host of sites in the Near and Middle East. They wanted to find Solomon’s temple, the remains of Noah’s ark, anything to confirm the facts of the Bible. Paul Emile Botta, the French consul in Mosul, began the race, Austen Henry Layard, an English diplomat, was next, then another Englishman, also named Henry, embarked on the search.’