The Dead Man's Brother (5 page)

"I’d bet he’s in Brazil right now, or heading that way."

"We feel that he may not necessarily have left Europe yet. Going directly to his brother would be awfully obvious. Also, it would seem likely that he would want to determine the Church’s reaction to the theft before traveling very far. Had we released the story, his face would have become quite familiar overnight. With our keeping it quiet this way, he knows we can release it whenever we wish, which might serve to ruin his travel plans. I doubt we can keep it buried forever just to keep him in a desperate state of mind, but I think you can see that part of our reasoning, as well as the obvious displeasure the publicity would bring."

"I follow you—and I’m the one elected to find him."

"No, Mr. Wiley. You are one of the ones we would like to have searching for information concerning him."

"Who are the others?" I asked.

He smiled as he said it, and I could not but refrain from a faint smile myself, as it showed me something about the ghetto area of that place we call the community of ideas:

"There is no need for you to know."

I nodded, held the smile, frowned inwardly, as he continued.

"It has been determined that with your background you would be best suited for the job of interviewing a number of his friends and associates."

At this point he passed me four sheets of paper, neatly typed and sketched. The first was a list of five names, followed by their owners’ occupations, whereabouts and apparent relationship to my man. Three of these, however, had no real address. They were clericals located in Vatican City. The other three sheets were maps, indicating the locations of their quarters and approximate times of availability. I’ve never seen why, in a place that size, they have never seen fit to name or number the streets.

"Have these people been interviewed by anyone else yet?" I asked.

"No."

"Would any of them be aware of the theft?"

"Not unless they learned of it from the perpetrator."

"I see. Is there any special cover story you’d like me to use?"

"Cover story?"

"I’m going to have to give them some reason for my asking questions."

"Oh," he said, then, "I am going to have to leave that to your own ingenuity. I cannot, in good conscience, counsel a person to lie."

As I suppressed a chuckle he blushed and dropped his eyes.

"All right," I said, "I’ll manage. Is there anything else?"

"Just do not mention the money or your connection with this office," he said, rising from his chair. "Report any findings you make promptly—to me, personally."

He extended his hand and I took it.

"You’ll be hearing from me."

"Good afternoon."

*

I went off into the good afternoon to find a place to sit, smoke and think, it being still too early to find any of the three listed clericals in their quarters.

One of the names on the list was that of a café owner in Rome—Jacopo Ramaccini. So I decided to taxi to his
Barca d’Oro
for pasta, a glass of wine and maybe some information.

The golden boat was slightly tarnished. In fact, it was a small, windowless basement dive, and poorly lit, I suppose, to conceal some of the dirt. Two men in a far corner had taken time out from their card game and bottle to put their heads down on the table and snore. A fat man in an apron of indeterminate color was the only other occupant. He was seated to my right, holding a newspaper within six inches of his glasses and cursing under his breath.

At my approach he dropped the paper into his lap and snapped his head in my direction, displaying two magnificent scars—one crossing his forehead from eyebrow to hairline and a curving one on his left cheek that might have made for an interesting smile, if he ever smiled.

"Yeah? Yeah?" he said. "What do you want?"

"A glass of white wine," I told him, having reconsidered on the pasta. "Are you Mr. Ramaccini?"

"That’s right," he said, rising and moving to a narrow bar. "Why? Who’re you?"

I did not watch to see from where he got my glass. I did not really want to know.

"I’m Ovid Wiley," I said, moving to the bar.

He set the glass before me and poured.

He regarded me closely—especially my clothes, it seemed.

"Where’re you from?" he asked. "How d’you know me? I never saw you before."

"New York," I answered, glancing from him to the holy pictures tacked to the wall above his left shoulder, then back to him. "I’m in Rome on business. A friend had mentioned your name, so I thought I’d drop in and say hello."

"Ah, New York," he said, smiling for the first time and showing me I had guessed right. The edge of his smile caught the end of his scar, to provide the effect of a clay head being simultaneous squashed and twisted, slowly.

"New York clothes! I guessed, I guessed right," he went on. "What kind of business? What friend knows me?"

"I’m an art dealer," I said. "I come to Rome several times a year to attend art auctions. The friend who mentioned you is named Emil Bretagne."

"Art. Art is good. Art is beautiful and lovely," he said. "I don’t know anybody named Emil Bretagne."

I took another sip. It tasted better than the first.

"I know," I told him. "He lives in Brazil. He never met you. But his brother, Father Claude Bretagne, a Vatican priest, talked of you in his letters many times, always as a good friend."

"That is the truth?" he said.

"That is the truth."

His smile became a grin.

"The priest. Ah, that goddamn priest!" he said. "Yes. The priest, he ate here all the time. Maybe he wanted to be a saint someday—or was doing penance for something. The food is lousy, you know. I always eat across the street myself."

Then he laughed, long and loud. One of the snorers tossed in his sleep and resumed in a different key.

"The priest!" he chuckled. "Always he would come here to eat and always we would argue."

"What about? The food?"

"No, no. Not the food. He would eat the swill and never complain. Mostly religion and politics is what we talked."

"Oh?" I said.

"Yes, he loved to argue. He was Jesuit, you know."

"Yes," I said.

"So, he mentioned me to his brother? That is good. Somebody in South America knows my name—and New York. Imagine!
La Barca
has an international reputation now. Maybe someday
Playboy
will recommend it."

He commenced laughing again. I took another sip, waiting.

Finally, he stopped, sighed, then said, "You have seen his brother the priest yet?"

"No, I just arrived. I thought I’d look him up this evening."

He reached out, clapped a hand on my forearm and drew nearer.

"Listen," he said. "Listen. When you see him, maybe you would say the two of you should come here to dinner, huh? I will make a real good one this time. If he says he is mad at me, tell him this one is on Jacopo. Okay?"

"Why should he be mad at you?"

He sighed, removed his hand and turned away. From somewhere he produced a glass and poured himself some wine. He downed it in a single gulp, then refilled both our glasses.

"Because of our arguments," he said, with a belch. "Maybe I offended him. You will tell him I did not mean to if I did. He has stayed away for several weeks now. You tell him he was my best customer."

"What were you arguing about?"

"Oh, politics and religion, like always. You know. Everybody in Italy argues about the Pope’s shop, even the priests. He has many big ideas about how it could be changed. So we argued about them. Like always."

We each took a small sip.

"Tell me about some of his ideas," I said, accepting a cigarette he offered. "I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot. I never met him before."

I lit both, he drew and exhaled, then said, "Well…You know. He liked the idea of divorce, and a lot of the other stuff—birth control, abortion. He talked about the population exploding and poor people, and I said it was God’s will. But we agree about many things, too. So he should not be mad at me for the things we argue about, should he?"

"I don’t think so," I said. "Since he was so advanced in his thinking I’d imagine he also had ideas on things like papal infallibility, clerical celibacy…" I let my voice trail off.

"Yes." He nodded. "He always said that the Pope was just the Bishop of Rome. He never talked much about the other, though. But I think I mentioned it once and he did agree." He paused to finish his drink, pour himself another. Then, "Yes," he finally said. "He did. But it was not one of the things we argued about. I did not want to talk to a priest about something this personal. So it was not one of the things."

"I see," I said, finishing my drink. "I will be careful how I talk of these matters when I see him."

I glanced at my watch, then raised my drink.

"I must be going now," I said. "Thanks for your help."

"Tell him what I said."

"Yes."

*

After finding a decent place to eat I sorted out the dishes that lay before me, then started on my thoughts.

On the face of it, it seemed I had scored something on my first try. Luck? I shrugged my mental shoulders and examined the apparent facts. It seemed that Father Bretagne was something of a radical and had wanted someone outside the Vatican with whom he could discuss his ideas. Almost too neat a tie-in right away. Brilliant priest becomes disillusioned, disgruntled, decides to take the Church for every dime he can before skipping out. It had happened before in other big outfits. Why not the Church? Payment due for long, cheerless years of service to the wrong cause, etcetera. There was that possibility. Unless Jacopo was a good actor, he was not even aware of the man’s recent departure. I tended to believe him, as he had no apparent reason to supply what amounted to a motive that went deeper than simple venality. I determined to pursue this angle. For the time, though, I dismissed it and turned my mind to other matters.

What was the CIA’s stake in this thing, really? I was supposed to get in touch periodically via the security officer at our embassy. Monsignor Zingales had said I was to report only to him if I found something. At the time, I had assumed he meant for me not to give it to anyone else at the Vatican. But now I wondered. Of course he knew where I came from, and he doubtless was aware that I would tell them everything, eventually. What had Rome and the CIA promised each other, anyway?

Collins’ words returned to me: "I want to plant you in the Vatican." Ridiculous. He had never spoken of it from quite that standpoint afterwards. But he had insisted on those reports, prompt and thorough. I wondered what would happen if I mentioned this to Monsignor Zingales. Then my discretion-driven memory had me in New York again and I knew that I would never find out. Oh well. The hell with them all. One master is too many for me.

*

The next two were dead ends and the third somewhat interesting. I had decided to try calling on all three of the priests on my list that evening. Aware of the Roman habit of dining somewhat later than I usually do, I took the time to return to my hotel for a shower and a short nap.

I did not attempt to phone ahead before I left, as I would not throw a Roman telephone or phone book at a screaming alley cat. They are just not accurate. Also, I did not want to give anyone opportunity to prepare a response.

Lucky and unlucky, depending on how you look at it. I was lucky that the first two priests were in, so that I did not have to call again; the unluck was the results. My first was, I would say, a septuagenarian: stooped shoulders, dark eyes, sparse hair, sandpaper complexion, somewhat hard of hearing. No, he had not seen Father Bretagne for some time, he told me when I finally got the question across. They used to play chess together regularly, once a week ("Very good chess player, that man. Hah!"), until a few months ago when Father Bretagne had gotten too busy to come around much. Did not even know he was gone. Sorry to hear about that. He would pray for him. I should do the same.

The second was younger, heavy, ruddy, watery-eyed, and had a disconcerting habit of tilting his head backward whenever he spoke. Presumably he needed a new prescription and was looking through the bottom halves of his bifocals. Yes, he had heard of Father Bretagne’s leaving. They shared an interest in opera, attending some and listening to recordings of others together. No, he hadn’t the slightest as to where he had gone or why. Had always seemed a good-natured, devoted fellow. Might even say happy. Hadn’t seen him recently. Work pressures and all. He was praying for him, too. Sorry he could not be of more help.

I pounded my way up several streets beneath the grumbling, flashing sky, slick rivulets racing past me now, gurgling, then gone. Reaching the apartment of my final cleric, I shook out my raincoat and umbrella in the hallway.

Finally, "Father Leon Mancini?" I asked the tall, sharp-featured man who had opened his door to my knocking.

"Yes, I am Father Mancini," he said, studying me.

"My name is Ovid Wiley," I told him. "I have been referred to you because I am looking for information concerning Father Claude Bretagne. I am told you are friends."

He cocked his head, raised an eyebrow, squinted slightly. I did not squirm as he scrutinized me, though I wanted to.

Then, "Yes, I suppose you might say that, Mr. Wiley," he replied. "May I ask why you are inquiring?"

"His brother Emil hasn’t heard from him for a time. When he learned that I was coming to Rome he asked me to inquire after him among some of the people he had mentioned in his letters. You were one of them. So if you could spare me a few minutes, I’d appreciate it."

"Well," he said, "I do not really believe that I can be of much assistance to you. But come inside and we’ll find out."

He opened the door fully and stepped aside.

"Let me take your things."

"Thanks."

I stepped into a neat efficiency apartment. He vanished, presumably into the john, with my wet coat and umbrella.