The Clowns of God (7 page)

Also he speaks good German, which helps things along. Sonia’s a cheerful gossip with no inhibitions. You’ll enjoy her, Lotte. Then there’s Georg Rainer, who’s the Rome correspondent for Die Welt. He’s a relaxed fellow who talks well. It was Hilde’s idea to invite him because he’s got a new girlfriend whom nobody’s seen yet. A Mexican, I believe, and reputed to be rich! We’ll sit down about nine-thirty. By the way, Carl, there’s a pile of mail for you. I asked the maid to leave it in your room.”

It was the warmest of welcomes and a reminder of happier times before the oil war began, and the Italian miracle turned sour, and all the bright hopes of European unity were tarnished beyond repair. By the time the dinner guests arrived Lotte was completely relaxed and chatting happily with Hilde about a trip to Florence and another to Ischia, while Carl Mendelius outlined, to an enthusiastic Herman, the schema of his discourses to the Evangelicals.

Dinner was a comfortable meal. Utley’s wife was a scandalously entertaining talker. Georg Rainer’s girl, Pia Menendez, was an instant success a stunning beauty who knew how to defer graciously to the matrons. Georg Rainer wanted news;

Utley liked to reminisce; so it was easy for Mendelius to steer the talk to recent events in the Vatican. Utley, the Englishman, who in his mother tongue had elevated obscurity to a fine art, was very precise in German.

“… Even to the outsider it was plain that Gregory XVII had everyone in a panic. The organisation is too big and therefore too fragile to support an innovator or even a too flexible man at the top. It’s like the Russians with their satellites and their comradely governments in Africa and South America. They have to preserve, at any cost, the illusion of unanimity and stability. So Gregory had to go.”

“I’d be interested,” said Carl Mendelius, “to know exactly how they got him to abdicate.”

“Nobody’s prepared to talk about that,” said Utley.

“This was the first time in my experience when there were no real leaks from Monte Vaticano. Obviously there was some very rough bargaining; but one got the impression there were some very uneasy consciences afterwards.”

“They blackmailed him!” said the man from Die Welt flatly.

“I had the evidence; but I couldn’t publish it.”

“Why not?” The question came from Utley.

“Because I got it from a medical man, one of the doctors they called in to examine him. Obviously he was in no position to make a public statement.”

“Did he tell you his findings?”

“He told me what the Curia wanted him to find: that Gregory XVII was mentally incompetent.”

“Did they put it as bluntly as that?” Mendelius was surprised and dubious.

“No. That was the problem. The Curia were very subtle about it. They asked the medicos there were seven in all to establish, beyond reasonable doubt, whether the Pontiff was mentally and physically competent to carry on the duties of his office in this critical time.”

“That’s a catch-all brief,” said Utley.

“Why did Gregory fall for it?”

“He was caught in a trap. If he refused, he was suspect. If he accepted he was subject to the medical consensus.”

“And what was that?” Mendelius asked.

“My man couldn’t tell me. You see, that was the other smart thing they did. They asked each doctor to render an independent opinion in writing.”

“Which left the Curia free to write its own assessment afterwards.” Bill Utley gave a small dry chuckle.

“Very smart! So what was your man’s verdict?”

“Honest, I believe; but not very helpful to the patient. He was suffering from gross fatigue, constant insomnia and elevated, though not necessarily chronic, blood pressure.

There were clear indications of anxiety and alternating moods of cheerfulness and depression. Obviously if these symptoms persisted in a man of sixty-five, there would be reason to fear graver complications.”

“If the other reports were like that …”

“Or,” said Mendelius softly, “if they were less honest and a shade more slanted …”

“The Cardinals had him in checkmate,” said Georg Rainer.

“They picked the choicest bits of the reports, constructed their own final verdict and presented Gregory with an ultimatum: go or be pushed!”

“Loving God!” Mendelius swore softly.

“What choice did he have?”

“A beautiful piece of statecraft though.” Bill Utley chuckled wryly.

“You can’t impeach a Pope. Short of assassination, how do you get rid of him? You’re right, Georg, it was pure blackmail! I wonder who dreamed up the ploy?”

“Arnaldo, of course. I do know he was the one who instructed the physicians.”

“And now he’s the Pope,” said Carl Mendelius.

“He’ll probably make a very good one,” said Utley with a grin.

“He knows the rules of the game.”

Reluctantly, Carl Mendelius, the one-time Jesuit, was forced to agree with him. He also thought that Georg Rainer was a very smart journalist and that it would pay to cultivate his acquaintance.

That night he made love with Lotte in a huge baroque bed which, Herman swore on his soul, had belonged to the elegant Cardinal Bernis. Whether it had or it hadn’t made small matter. Their mating was the most joyous in a long time. When it was over, Lotte curled up in the crook of his arm and talked in drowsy contentment.

“It’s been a lovely evening everybody so bright and welcoming! I’m glad you made me come. Tubingen’s a nice town but I’d forgotten there was such a lot of world outside.”

“Then let’s start seeing it together.”

“We will, I promise. I feel happier now about the children.

Katrin was very sweet. She told me what you’d said to her and how Franz had taken the news.”

“I didn’t hear about that.”

“Apparently he said: “Your father’s a big man. I’d like to bring him back one good canvas from Paris.”” “That’s nice to hear.”

“Johann seemed happier, too; though he didn’t say very much.”

“He got a few things off his chest, including the fact that he wasn’t a believer any more.”

“Oh dear! That’s sad.”

“It’s a phase, dear.” Mendelius was sedulously casual.

“He wants to find his own way to the truth.”

“I hope you made him aware that you respected his decision.”

“Of course! You mustn’t worry about Johann and me. It’s just the old bull and the young one sparring with each other.”

“Old bull is right!” Lotte giggled happily in the darkness.

“Which reminds me, if I catch Hilde playing pat-hands with you too often, I’ll scratch her eyes out!”

“Nice to know you’re still jealous.”

“I love you, Carl. I love you so very much.”

“And I love you, darling.”

“That’s all I need to finish a perfect day. Good night, my dear, dear man!”

She rolled away from him, curled herself under the covers and lapsed swiftly into sleep. Carl Mendelius clasped his hands under his head and lay a long time staring up at the ceiling, where amorous nymphs and rapacious demi-gods disported themselves in the darkness. For all the sweet solace of loving, he was still haunted by what he had heard at dinner and by the last letter in the pile which the maid had left on his dressing-table.

It was in Italian, handwritten on heavy note-paper, embossed with the official superscription of the Sacred Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith.

Dear Professor Mendelius, I am informed by our mutual friend the Rector of the Pontifical Biblical Institute that you will shortly be visiting Rome for the purpose of scholastic research, and that you will be delivering some discourses at the German Academy of Fine Arts.

I understand also that you plan to pay a visit to the recently retired Pontiff at the Monastery of Monte Cassino.

Since I have always had the greatest admiration for your scholarly work, it would give me great pleasure to entertain you to coffee one morning in my private apartment in Vatican City.

Perhaps you would be kind enough to call me at the Congregation any evening between four and seven so that we may arrange a mutually convenient day, preferably before you go to Monte Cassino.

I send you my salutations and my best wishes for a pleasant sojourn.

Yours in Christ Jesus, Anton Drexel, Cardinal Prefect It was beautifully done, as always: a courteous gesture and a tart reminder that nothing, but nothing, that went on in the sacred circle escaped the watchdogs of the Lord. In the old days of the Papal States they would have sent a summons and a detachment of gendarmes to enforce it. Now it was coffee and sweet biscuits in the Cardinal’s apartment and sweet seductive talk afterwards.

Well, well! Tempora mutanturl He wondered which the Cardinal Prefect wanted more: information or an assurance of discretion. He wondered also what conditions might be laid down before they would permit him to visit Jean Marie Barette.

Herman Frank had good reason to be proud of his exhibition.

The press had been generous with praise, compliments and illustrations. The galleries of the Academy were thronged with visitors Romans and tourists and there was a quite astonishing number of young people.

The works of Caspar Van Wittel, a seventeenth-century Dutchman from Amersfoort, were little known to the Italian public. Most of them had been jealously preserved in the private collections of the Colonna, the Sacchetti, the Pallavicini and other noble families. To assemble them had taken two years of patient research and months of delicate negotiation. The provenance of many was still a closely guarded secret witness the large number still denominated ‘raccolta privata’. Together they constituted an extraordinarily vivid pictorial and architectural record of seventeenth-century Italy. Herman Frank’s enthusiasm had the rare and touching innocence of childhood.

“Just look at that ! So delicate yet so precise! Almost a Japanese quality in the colour. A magnificent draughts man a complete master of the most intricate perspective… Study these sketches. Notice how patiently he builds the composition. Strange! He lived in a dark little villa out on the Appia Antica. It’s still there. Terribly claustrophobic. Mind you, it was all meadowland in those days, so probably he had all the space and light he needed.” He broke off, suddenly embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, I’m talking too much; but I love these things!”

Mendelius laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“My friend, it’s a delight to listen to you! Look at all these young people! You’ve lifted them out of their resentments and confusions and set them down in another world, simpler, more beautiful, with all its ugliness forgotten. You have to be proud of that!”

“I am, Carl. I confess it. But I’m also scared of the day when all these canvases are down, and the packers arrive to ship them back to their owners. I’m getting old. I’m not sure whether I’ll have the time, or the energy the luck for that matter! to do anything like this again.”

“But you’ll still be trying. That’s the important thing.”

“Not for long, I’m afraid. I retire next year. I won’t know what to do with myself. We can’t afford to go on living here;

and yet I hate the idea of going back to Germany.”

“You could take up writing as a full-time occupation.

You’ve already got an established reputation as an art historian. I’m sure you could get a better publishing deal than you’ve had. Why don’t you let me talk to my agent and see what he can set up for you?”

“Would you?” He was almost pathetically grateful.

“I’m not very good at business and I worry about Hilde.”

“I’ll call him as soon as we get home. Which reminds me, can I use your telephone now? There is a call I must make before midday.”

“Come to my office. I’ll have some coffee sent in. Oh, before you go you simply must look at this view of the Tiber.

There are three versions of it: one from the Pallavicini collection, one from the National Gallery and this one came from an old engineer who bought it for a song in the flea market…”

It was another fifteen minutes before Mendelius was free to make his call to the Monastery of Monte Cassino. It took an unconscionable time to find the Abbot and bring him to the telephone. Mendelius fumed and fretted and then reminded himself that monasteries were designed to separate men from the world, not to keep them in touch with it.

The Abbot was cordial, if not exactly effusive.

“Professor Mendelius? This is Abbot Andrew. Kind of you to call so promptly. Would you be able to arrange your visit for Wednesday next? It’s a feast-day for us, and so we shall be.

able to offer you a little more generous hospitality. I suggest you arrive about three-thirty and stay to dinner. It’s a long drive from Rome; so if you care to remain overnight we’ll be happy to accommodate you.”

“That’s very kind. I’ll stay then and drive back on Thursday morning. How is my friend Jean?”

“He’s been unwell; but I hope he will be recovered in time for your visit. He looks forward to seeing you.”

“Please give him my most affectionate greetings and say that my wife asks to be remembered to him.”

“I’ll do that with pleasure. Until Wednesday then, Professor.”

“Thank you, Father Abbot.”

Mendelius put down the receiver and sat a moment lost in thought. There it was again: the courteous response, the veiled caution. Wednesday was a week ahead more than enough time to cancel the invitation, should circumstances change or authority intervene. Jean Marie’s illness, real or diplomatic, would provide an adequate excuse.

“Something wrong, Carl?” Herman set down the coffee tray and began pouring.

“I’m not sure. It seems the Vatican is more than a little interested in my activities.”

“I would have thought that was natural enough. You’ve given them a few headaches in the past; and every new book causes a flutter in the pigeon-loft. Milk and sugar?”

“No sugar. I’m trying to lose weight.”

“I’ve noticed. I noticed also you were pushing a little last night, for information on Gregory XVII.”

“Did it show that much?”

“Only to me, I think. Was there any special reason?”

“He was my friend. You know that. I wanted to find out what really happened to him.”

“Didn’t he tell you himself?”