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  MORRIS LANGLO WEST was born in St Kilda, Melbourne, in 1916. At the age of fourteen, he entered the Christian Brothers seminary ‘as a kind of refuge’ from a difficult childhood. He attended the University of Melbourne and worked as a teacher. In 1941 he left the Christian Brothers without taking final vows. During World War II West worked as a code breaker, and for a time he was private secretary to former prime minister Billy Hughes.

  After the war, West became a successful writer and producer of radio serials. In 1955 he left Australia to build an international career as a writer and lived with his family in Austria, Italy, England and the USA. West also worked for a time as the Vatican correspondent for the British newspaper, the Daily Mail. He returned to Australia in 1982.

  Morris West wrote 30 books and many plays, and several of his novels were adapted for film. His books were published in 28 languages and sold more than 70 million copies worldwide. Each new book he wrote after he became an established writer sold more than one million copies.

  West received many awards and accolades over his long writing career, including the James Tait Black Memorial Prize and the W.H. Heinemann Award of the Royal Society of Literature for The Devil’s Advocate. In 1978 he was elected a fellow of the World Academy of Art and Science. He was appointed a Member of the Order of Australia (AM) in 1985, and was made an Officer of the Order (AO) in 1997.

  Morris West died at his desk in 1999.

  THE MORRIS WEST COLLECTION

  FICTION

  Moon in My Pocket (1945, as Julian Morris)

  Gallows on the Sand (1956)

  Kundu (1957)

  The Big Story (US title: The Crooked Road) (1957)

  The Concubine (US title: McCreary Moves In) (1958)

  The Second Victory (US title: Backlash) (1958)

  The Devil’s Advocate (1959)

  The Naked Country (1960)

  Daughter of Silence (1961)

  The Shoes of the Fisherman (1963)

  The Ambassador (1965)

  The Tower of Babel (1968)

  Summer of the Red Wolf (1971)

  The Salamander (1973)

  Harlequin (1974)

  The Navigator (1976)

  Proteus (1979)

  The Clowns of God (1981)

  The World is Made of Glass (1983)

  Cassidy (1986)

  Masterclass (1988)

  Lazarus (1990)

  The Ringmaster (1991)

  The Lovers (1993)

  Vanishing Point (1996)

  Eminence (1998)

  The Last Confession (2000, published posthumously)

  PLAYS

  The Illusionists (1955)

  The Devil’s Advocate (1961)

  Daughter of Silence (1962)

  The Heretic (1969)

  The World is Made of Glass (1982)

  NON-FICTION

  Children of the Sun (US title: Children of the Shadows) (1957)

  Scandal in the Assembly (1970, with Richard Frances)

  A View from the Ridge (1996, autobiography)

  Images and Inscriptions (1997, selected by Beryl Barraclough)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Terms used in the text do not always reflect current usage.

  This edition published by Allen & Unwin in 2017

  First published in Great Britain in 1979 by William Collins Sons and Co. Ltd

  Copyright © The Morris West Collection 1979

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available

  from the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  Cover design: Julia Eim

  Cover image: Luanne/Pixabay

  ISBN 978 1 76029 766 4 (pbk)

  ISBN 978 1 76063 837 5 (ebook)

  For

  The Prisoners of Conscience

  of whom

  to our shame

  there are far too many

  It is becoming more and more obvious that it is not starvation, not microbes, not cancer, but man himself who is mankind’s greatest danger because he has no adequate protection against psychic epidemics, which are infinitely more devastating in their effect than the greatest natural catastrophes.

  C. G. Jung

  Modern Man in Search of a Soul

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER ONE

  He was a man who travelled much and always in singular comfort, so that he had little of the curiosity of the tourist and much of the impatience of the executive who must despatch his business and be gone again.

  However, this Easter Sunday in Rome was different. It was a family feast, a tribal occasion, to which all else – the ancient splendours of the city, the press of pilgrims, the Papal Mass in Saint Peter’s, even the Pontiff’s proclamation to the City and to the World – was backdrop and panoply. It was the one day in his life when he wanted to puff out his chest and shout aloud: ‘Look at me! Look at John Spada who, today, is fifty-five years old and grateful for every hour of it! Look at my Anna who is still as beautiful as the day I met her! Look at Teresa and the man she has married – a brave one, a good one, who will breed me a grandson to inherit the Spada Empire. I am so proud, so happy, I could embrace the whole crazy, wonderful world!’

  He said none of it, of course. He was too controlled for that. Even here in the land of his fathers he was half an alien: John Spada from New York, President of a multinational enterprise, a merchant prince among the old nobility and the new restless commons of this city of Emperors and Popes. But Anna knew, without his telling, how happy he was. She clung to him, flushed and excited, as he pushed through the crowds in St Peter’s Square towards the alley behind the Borgo Santo Spirito, where Uncle Andrea’s chauffeur was waiting for them.

  Teresa and Rodolfo were thrusting ahead, and he watched them with pride and affection. She was small and dark like her mother. He, tall and slim, the scion of an old family of ranchers and horse-breeders from the pampas of Argentina. He was ten years older than Teresa, which Spada approved, because a man should have his career made before he settled down to raise a family. Rodolfo Vallenilla, at thirty-eight, was one of the best editors in Buenos Aires whose opinions on South American politics were read with respect around the world.

  Spada’s small regret, and Anna’s constant complaint, was that the families must live so far apart; the seniors in New York, the juniors in Argentina; but – what the devil! – with jet travel, telephones and telex, distance was a nominal factor anyway. When the children came, arrangements could be made for more regular contact . . . Besides, speaking for
himself – and always in a low voice when Anna was around – he would prefer Teresa to practise a little at being a wife before becoming a mother. He did not want to see her child-bound too early.

  Still, that was all in the future. Today was full and good. They would drive out to lunch with Uncle Andrea at his villa in Frascati, talk family and business and politics, drowsily, in the warm, spring sunshine. This was the thing he missed in New York; the sense of proportion, of continuity, of ultimate inconsequence in all but family matters. It was hard to be too concerned about the Dow-Jones index, when you walked to the office over the bones of dead legions.

  As they crossed the river, Spada asked the driver to take the Appia Antica as far as the Catacombs of San Callisto and then cut across to the Via Ardeatina. Rodolfo should see the remains of the old funerary monuments; while he himself had a small act of piety to perform. As a prelude to the act he asked the driver to stop while he bought a bunch of violets from a flower-seller at the kerbside. The flowers were small, their fragrance was faint and the price he paid was exorbitant. Teresa protested; but Anna patted her arm and admonished her, smiling.

  ‘It’s Papa’s birthday. Today he does whatever he wants.’

  ‘Doesn’t he always?’

  ‘At work, perhaps,’ said Anna calmly. ‘At home there are other rules.’

  ‘I believe I have heard that before.’ Rodolfo Vallenilla chuckled. ‘My mother used to tell my father he was the best horse-trainer in the Argentine, but he should not bring the manners of the stable into the house.’

  ‘Today,’ said John Spada, ‘I am a saint. I’ve confessed. I’ve been to Mass. I’ve had a blessing from the Pope. I demand to be treated with respect – especially by married women!’

  ‘Who’s coming to lunch at Uncle Andrea’s?’

  ‘Who isn’t?’ There was a touch of Roman malice in Anna’s tone. ‘The moment they know your father’s coming, they start rounding up the guests. There’ll be someone from the Quirinal, always one or two from the Vatican, Carlo Magnoli from Turin, certainly Fonseca from the Bank of Rome . . . Count on a dozen, at least, with wives and families as well. Eh! . . . I’m out of practice for this sort of event.’

  ‘So, relax, Anna mia!’ Spada waved aside her complaint. ‘Let your daughter take some of the strain. As the newly married one she has to be initiated into the circle of the matriarchs.’

  ‘I could cheerfully murder you, Papa!’

  ‘Why? You’ve been a hard-nosed professional lady long enough. You have dues to pay at the matrons’ club. Today will be good practice.’

  ‘You talk like a male chauvinist. I’m a physician, not a gossipmonger.’

  ‘But if you want to be a successful physician, you need a good bedside manner. The gossip comes in handy for that.’

  ‘Rodo, you’re supposed to defend your wife.’

  ‘Against big John Spada? I’m an editor, not a tank commander!’

  ‘We stop here.’ Spada pointed out of the window to the black gates that enclosed the sombre enclave of the Fosse Ardeatine, the quarry-caves where the Germans had machine-gunned three hundred hostages in reprisal for a partisan raid in the Via Rasella.

  ‘I’ll wait in the car.’ Anna Spada shivered and huddled herself in the corner of the seat.

  ‘I’ll stay with Mama,’ said Teresa.

  Spada, carrying the posy of violets, walked into the enclosure with Rodolfo Vallenilla at his side. He explained to Vallenilla the meaning of the memorial and then led him into the dim chamber where the three hundred sarcophagi were laid row on row. He said quietly:

  ‘I was in Italy when it happened. We were slogging our way up towards Rome, through the passes of the Abruzzi. I didn’t know then that my Uncle Eduardo, who was my father’s brother, was one of the victims. When I made contact with his family and heard the news, I had to write and tell my father . . . He was heartbroken. Before he died I promised him that, whenever I came to Rome, I would make a remembrance for him and for me . . .’

  He laid the violets on the stone lid of the sarcophagus and stood, for a long moment, head bowed in silent recollection. Then he straightened up, faced his son-in-law, and said soberly:

  ‘I get scared, Rodo. I’m an old navigator and I smell the wind. This could happen again. Not exactly in the same way, but yes, it may happen.’

  ‘I know.’ Vallenilla nodded. ‘It’s already started.’

  ‘I’ve wanted to talk to you. There hasn’t been much time – and I didn’t want to spoil the women’s holiday.’

  ‘We don’t really know each other very well, do we, John?’

  ‘I’d like to change that, Rodo. Next time I come down to Buenos Aires, let’s make some private time, eh?’

  ‘It will be my pleasure.’

  ‘I know you don’t entirely approve of me, or the way I operate my business . . .’

  ‘Teresa, I know, loves you very much.’ Vallenilla was curiously formal. ‘I have respect for you, much respect. That’s a good beginning. The understanding should follow. Here, in this place, I have understood a little more.’

  ‘You’re a thinker,’ said John Spada. ‘I’m a doer. I dig minerals out of the ground. I make things and sell things. I trade in money and commodities and political realities . . . The bigger the scale, the simpler it gets.’

  ‘Or does it just look simple? Like pulling the pin out of a grenade – or killing three hundred hostages with a machine-gun?’

  ‘Maybe even like that; but don’t judge me too quickly, Rodo. Let’s be patient with each other, eh?’

  ‘Of course.’ Vallenilla shrugged and grinned. ‘Happy birthday, father-in-law!’

  He laid a hand on John Spada’s arm and steered him out into the sunlight. Before they reached the gate, Spada halted again and pointed to the mouths of the caves, inside which the bodies of the dead had been found.

  ‘I used to dream about those, and what happened inside. Funny thing, though, I was never part of the event. I was always standing up there on the ridge, looking down. I’d see the German trucks arrive, the captives bundled out and pushed towards the entrance. The next moment, I’d be standing here, on this spot, looking inside, watching the gunners take aim, and shoot, seeing the victims fall… I never spoke. I never moved. Nobody ever saw me. I was still there when the caves were sealed and the last German marched away . . . I always felt ashamed, as if I myself were to blame for the slaughter . . . I haven’t had the dream for a long time now.’

  ‘So you’ve purged your devils, whatever they were?’

  Spada gave him a wry grin and an off-hand answer.

  ‘Or perhaps I’ve got used to having them around.’

  ‘I’ve seen that happen too.’ Vallenilla was suddenly tense. There was an undertone of anger in his voice. ‘It’s not pretty. It’s like – like blind children playing in a slaughter yard!’

  Spada was startled by his vehemence. He gave him a long, searching look and said evenly:

  ‘Maybe we should have that talk now.’

  ‘There’s no time.’ Vallenilla was very definite. ‘If we rush into discussion we’re bound to quarrel. Besides, you can’t spoil the party. Teresa and I fly out in the morning. I’ll write to you, try to give you a balanced survey of the situation and the part America is playing in it. If things get bad, I’d like to use the telex facilities at the Spada offices in Buenos Aires.’

  ‘Any time. This is family now.’

  ‘I know. I should be . . . I am grateful.’

  There was an apology on the tip of his tongue, but Spada cut him off with brusque good humour.

  ‘In this family you don’t always have to be polite. We should go now. The women will be getting impatient.’

  Forty minutes later they were received with full tribal honours at the villa of Uncle Andrea who, at seventy-five, was the acknowledged patriarch of the Spada clan, father of ten children, grandfather of twenty-two, a former Minister of Justice, still a member of the Hunt Club, a fancier of orchids and pretty women. H
e was also a notable negotiator; and the villa, secluded among its vineyards and olive groves, had been the scene of many a classic manoeuvre between left and centre. In today’s exercise the family was the pivot piece, a solid phalanx of elderly aunts, junior cousins and their children, all of whom must be recognised, embraced, complimented, made to feel loved and honoured by their American relatives. Then the new son-in-law must be presented and appraised for blood lines, manners and virility, while his bride was covertly inspected for signs of pregnancy. Spada and Uncle Andrea watched the ceremony with faintly malicious amusement; finally the old man grinned and nodded approval.

  ‘Good! He has fire in his belly and brains in his head. I think you should be happy.’

  ‘I am, Uncle. I am also afraid.’

  ‘Of him?’

  ‘For him and for Teresa. Do you follow what is happening in the South Americas?’

  ‘I follow everything, Giovanni . . . What time is it?’

  ‘Nearly two o’clock. Why?’

  ‘I thought it best to get the family part over first; so I invited our other guests for two-fifteen. We sit down at three. Afterwards we can have our talk in the library.’

  ‘Who’s coming?’

  ‘Magnoli, Frantisek, Fonseca . . . all the names you know; but this time there are two new ones.’ He hesitated a moment and then added, almost apologetically, ‘Times change. We have to change too. One is Castagna of the PCI. He is very close to Berlinguer.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘Hugo Von Kalbach.’

  ‘Why him?’

  ‘Because he’s one of the great thinkers of our time. He’s just finishing a major work which he calls “The Phenomena and Epidemiology of Violence”. I think he may have something of value for us all.’

  ‘And Castagna?’

  ‘The Communists took thirty-eight per cent of the votes at the last election. We have to co-operate with them to keep the country going. Castagna is a sceptic and afraid of the fanatics . . . Which reminds me.’ He gestured towards Vallenilla who was spending charm and patience on the most elderly of all the aunts. ‘Have you told him?’