Lazarus Read online

Leo the Pontiff gave a small, unsteady laugh.

  ‘Around Mirandola – that’s where I come from – the peasants say that the dreams we have after midnight are the ones that come true.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’

  ‘Of course not. I was joking. It’s an old wives’ tale.’

  But even as he said it, he knew it was an evasion. What he had dreamed was more than half the truth and what was not yet true might well be prophecy.

  He could not read. He could not sleep. He felt too arid and empty to pray. So, wakeful in the dim light of the night lamp, he gave himself up to contemplation of his very uncertain future.

  The word which he had been chasing through his dreams had become very important in his latter-day thinking. It expressed accurately what he desired to convey to the Church – a penitence for the mistakes of the past, a change for the better, a future openness to the needs of the faithful and to the designs of the Almighty. But the change had to be wrought in himself first of all and he could find no sure ground on which to stand while he made it.

  The whole bent of his mind, the whole thrust of his education, all the transactions of his career, had been to conserve and not to change. No matter that so many historical claims made by the Church were based on forgery and fabrication; no matter that so much canonical legislation was unjust, intrusive and hopelessly loaded against the individual and in favour of the institution; no matter that so much dubious teaching was presented from the pulpit as official doctrine on the flimsiest foundation of scripture or tradition; no matter that the reforms envisaged in the decisions of a great Council were still unrealised four decades later … no matter, no matter! Just so the history remained obscure, the canons unchallenged, the dubious teaching unquestioned, then each generation would make, as it always had, its own accommodation with the paradox. It was better that the unbelievers should be cast out, the sceptics silenced and the disobedient censured, than that any rent should appear in the seamless robe of Roman unity.

  In this frame of reference, theologians and philosophers were a dangerous luxury, biblical scholars a tendentious nuisance, still seeking to establish an historic Jesus instead of offering Jesus Christ yesterday, today and the same for ever. As for the faithful, they were at the best of times a wayward family, easily seduced by passion or by novelty.

  This attitude of magisterial expediency dated far back through the centuries to an epoch when the faithful were illiterate and uncritical and the dispensation of faith, along with the exercise of power, were the prerogatives only of the literate, the clerics who were the natural custodians of knowledge and authority. As for the aberrant ones, the speculators, the too-bold theorists, they were easily dealt with. Error had no right to exist. The errant would repent or be burned.

  In the twentieth century, however, in post-revolutionary, postconciliar societies, these attitudes had no place. They were at worst an unacceptable tyranny, at best a class snobbery that clerics, high or low, could ill-afford to practise. The faithful, up to their necks in the problems of modern living, had the need and the right and the duty to reason with their pastors, and no less a right and a duty to hold them accountable for their exercise of the magisterium, because if magistracy were an autarchic exercise beyond appeal, then at one stride they were back to secret denunciations, witch-hunts, autos-da-fé and automatic excommunications. The faithful would not take that any more. They were Children of God, free agents co-operating with His divine plan. If this liberty were abridged, they would refuse the abridgement and absent themselves from the assembly to await a more propitious time or a more charitable shepherd.

  In the small half-light of the hospital room, whose silence was broken only by the distant sound of a patient’s call-buzzer, Leo the Pontiff saw it all clearly. No matter how bitterly he regretted his own defaults, he saw no easy way to mend them. He lacked the one essential talent which the good Pope John and Jean Marie Barette had both possessed: a sense of humour, a readiness to laugh at themselves and the egregious follies of mankind. There was not one photograph in existence of Leo XIV laughing. Even his rare smile was more like a grimace than an expression of pleasure.

  Yet, in all truth, only part of the blame attached to him. The sheer size and mass of the institution created an inertia like that of a black hole in the galaxies. Enormous energy was sucked into it. The energy that emerged was constantly diminishing. The old Curial cliché. We think in centuries and plan for eternity’ had turned into a doom-saying.

  The great tree of the Gospel parable, in which all the birds of the air could nest, was dying back from the tips of its spreading branches. The trunk was still solid, the great mass of foliage seemed intact; but at the outer edges there were dead twigs and sere leaves, and the nourishment from the taproot flowed more and more sluggishly.

  The slow curse of centralism was working in the Church, as it had worked in every empire since Alexander’s. The British had succumbed to it, the Russians and the Americans were the latest to be forced into divestment of their territories and spheres of influence. The symptoms of malaise were always the same; disaffection in the outer marches, disenchantment with bureaucracy, alienation and indifference on the part of the people and, on the part of government, a growing impulse towards reaction and repression.

  In religious terms, the numen of the papacy was fading, as its aura of mystery was dissipated by constant exposure on television and in the Press. Government by fiat brought small joy to folk in crisis, who yearned for compassion and for understanding of the God abiding among them. They did not reject the pastoral office. They paid ritual homage to the man who held it, but they asked how he mediated for them in the double mystery of the creative Godhead and confused humanity. For Leo the Pontiff the question was personal and immediate; but it was still unanswered when sleep claimed him again. This time, mercifully, he did not dream at all. He woke at first light to find Salviati standing beside the bed, with the night nurse a pace behind him. Salviati was counting his pulse rate.

  ‘Nurse tells me you had a rough night.’

  ‘I was having nightmares. However, I’ve just had a couple of hours’ good rest. How is your patient?’

  ‘Which patient are you talking about?’

  ‘The cardiac arrest. You and Mr Morrison went off in a great hurry last night.’

  ‘Oh, that one …’ Salviati shook his head. ‘We lost her. She’d already had two heart attacks before they brought her to see me. Her case was always a long shot. Sad though; she leaves a husband and two young children … If I’ve got the story right, the husband’s one of your people.’

  ‘Mine?’

  ‘A priest, one of the Roman clergy. Apparently he fell in love, got the girl pregnant and walked out of the ministry to marry her. He’s spent the last five years trying to have his position regularised by the Vatican – which, they tell me, isn’t as easy as it used to be.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Leo the Pontiff. ‘It isn’t easy. Disciplines have been tightened.’

  ‘Well, it’s beyond mending now. The girl’s dead. He’s got two kids to care for. If he’s wise, he’ll try to find ’em a stepmother. So the situation repeats itself; yes?’

  ‘If you’d give me his name, I could perhaps …’

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend it.’ Salviati was studiously offhand. ‘I’m a Jew, so I don’t understand how you Christians reason about these things; but the boy’s very bitter and your intervention may be unwelcome.’

  ‘I’d still like to have his name.’

  ‘Your life is complicated enough. As from tomorrow, you begin a minimalist existence. So start now to be grateful – and let the Almighty run His own world. Open your pyjamas, please. I want to listen to your chest. Give me deep breaths now.’ After a few minutes of auscultation, he seemed to be satisfied. ‘You’ll do! It’s going to be a beautiful day. You should take a little stroll in the garden, get some clean air into your lungs. Don’t forget to tell the nurse when you’re going. You can’t get lost, but
we like to know where all our patients are.’

  I’ll take your advice. Thank you … I’d still like to have that young man’s name.’

  ‘You’re feeling guilty about him.’ It was more an accusation than a question.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You gave the reason yourself. He’s one of mine. He broke the law. I set the penalties he incurred. When he wanted to come back, the way was barred to him by rules I made … I’d like to be reconciled with him, help him, too, if he’ll permit me.’

  ‘Tove Lundberg will give you his name and address. But not today, not until I say you’re ready to occupy yourself with affairs other than your own survival. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Abundantly,’ said Leo the Pontiff. ‘I wish my mind were half as clear as yours.’

  To which Sergio Salviati answered with a proverb, ‘Every wolf must die in his own skin.’

  ‘If you want to swap proverbs,’ said Leo the Pontiff, ‘I’ll give you one from my home place: “It’s a hard winter when one wolf eats another.”’

  For a moment Salviati seemed to withdraw into some dark recess of himself; then he laughed, a deep happy rumbling that went on for a long time. Finally, he dabbed at his streaming eyes and turned to the night nurse.

  ‘You’re witnessing history, my girl! Write it down and tell it to your grandchildren. Here’s a Jew from Venice disputing with the Pope of Rome in his own city.’

  ‘Write this down also …’ The Pontiff laughed as he said it. ‘The Pope is listening very carefully, because this time the Jew is the one with the knife in his hands! He can kill me or cure me!’

  ‘There’s a proverb for that, too,’ said Sergio Salviati. ‘“You’ve got a wolf by the ears. You can’t hang on and you can’t let go …

  On that fine spring morning there were other folk, too, who found themselves hanging on to a wolf’s ears. The Secretariat of State was swamped with enquiries from all quarters of the globe, from legates and nuncios and metropolitan bishops, from cardinals and patriarchs, from diplomats and intelligence agencies of one colour or another. The burden of their questions was always the same: how serious was the Pontiff’s illness; what were the odds on his recovery; what would happen if … ?

  The Secretariat, under Matteo Cardinal Agostini, normally conducted its business with an air of Olympian detachment. Its officials were a select tribe of polyglots who maintained diplomatic – and undiplomatic – relations with every region under the sun, from Zaire to Tananarive, from Seoul to St Andrews, from Ecuador to Alexandria of the Copts. Their communications were the most modern and the most ancient: satellites, safe-hand couriers, whispers at fashionable gatherings. They had a passion for secrecy and a talent for casuistry and discretion.

  How could they be otherwise, since their competence, defined by Apostolic Constitution, was the widest of any organisation in the Church: ‘to help from close at hand (da vicino) the Supreme Pontiff, both in the care of the Universal Church and in his relations with the dicasteries of the Roman Curia.’ The which, as cynics pointed out, put the job of managing the Curia on a par with the care of a billion human souls!

  The word dicastery had its own Byzantine coloration. It signified a tribunal, a court and, by extension, a ministry or department. It suggested a complicated protocol, an intricate web of interests, an ancient subtlety in the conduct of affairs. So when the diplomats of the Secretariat of State dealt with their secular peers or with the Dicasts of the Sacred Congregations, they were required to be quick on their feet, nimble of tongue and very, very wide awake.

  Their replies to the questions that poured into their offices were bland, but not too bland. They were, after all, dealers in the marts of power. They were, for the moment, the spokesmen for the Holy See. They must make it clear that Rome was never taken by surprise. What the Holy Ghost did not reveal they supplied from their own refined intelligence services.

  Yes, the medical bulletins on His Holiness could and should be taken at face value. The Holy Father had decreed an open information policy. No, the Electoral College had not been summoned, nor would it be until the Camerlengo declared that the throne of Peter was vacant. In fact, the Secretariat was actively discouraging visits to Rome by cardinals and archbishops from abroad. The Holy Father understood and commended their desire to offer support and loyalty but, frankly, he would prefer them to be about God’s business in their own vineyards.

  Questions about the future competence of the Pontiff were dealt with curtly. They were inopportune and unfruitful. Common decency demanded that public speculation on this delicate matter be discouraged.

  Time elements? The doctors advised a period of three months’ convalescence before the Pontiff resumed his normal schedules. In fact, this pointed to his return after the usual summer vacation, perhaps a month or so later than Ferragosto … Most certainly, Excellency! His Holiness will be informed of your call. He will no doubt wish to acknowledge it in person after his recovery. Meanwhile, our compliments to Your Excellency and his family …

  All of which was sound enough, but hardly sufficient for the hinge-men of the Church, the Papal Princes who would have to decide upon the competence of the living pope or the successor to a dead one. In the context of the third millennium, total secrecy was an impossibility and the leisure for informed decision was an antique luxury. They had to be prepared at every moment. Their groupings had to be stable, their alliances tested, the terms of their bargainings and the price-tags on their votes had to be agreed in advance. So, there was a great mass of traffic – by telephone, by fax, by safe-hand courier – which bypassed Rome altogether. Chicago talked to Buenos Aires, Seoul talked to Westminster, Bangkok talked to Sydney. Some of the talk was blunt and pragmatic: ‘Are we agreed …?’; ‘Can we afford … ?’ Some of it was in sfumature, hints and nuances and careful allusions which could be disclaimed or reinterpreted with any shift of events.

  The question which required the greatest delicacy in discussion was the one whose answer was the least evident: How far could an ailing pontiff be trusted to direct the affairs of a global community in crisis?

  Tradition, established by long-dead papal dynasts, determined that a pontiff served until he dropped. History, on the other hand, proved beyond all doubt that one who outlived his usefulness became a liability to the community of the faithful – an instant liability, because in the modern world time telescoped itself, because act and consequence were immediately conjoined. There was sound argument for a term of service fixed by canonical statute, as it was in the case of cardinals and other prelates; but the man who raised the argument might well find his own career suddenly ended.

  However, the subject was touched in an early morning telephone conversation between Anton Drexel and his old friend Manfred Cardinal Kaltenborn, Archbishop of Rio de Janeiro. Each was German-born, the one in Brasilia, the other in the Rhineland. They spoke in their mother tongue and their conversation was cryptic and good-humoured. They were old friends and sturdy campaigners who knew how to spell all the words in the book.

  ‘Can we talk freely, Anton?’

  ‘Never quite as freely as we’d like.’ Drexel had a healthy respect for satellite technology and the possibilities of espionage. ‘But let me give you some background. Our friend is already in care. I have it on the best authority that the odds are all in favour of recovery.’

  ‘To full competence?’

  ‘Yes; but in my view that will not be the issue.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘It seems to have escaped most of our colleagues that our friend is undergoing a Gewissenskrise, a crisis of conscience. He has tried to reform the Church. Instead, he has created a wasteland. He sees no way to make it fruitful again. He has few confidants, no emotional supports, and a spiritual life based wholly on orthopraxis … right conduct, according to his limited lights. He will not risk beyond that, or reason beyond it either. So he is desperately lonely and afraid.’

  ‘How have the
others missed this? They’re all intelligent observers.’

  ‘Most are afraid of him. They spend their lives either avoiding or managing him. I’m too old to care. He knows that. He doesn’t try to intimidate me.’

  ‘So what will he do?’

  ‘He will break or he will change. If he breaks, my guess is that he will simply surrender his hold on the office and possibly on life itself. If he is to change, he will need the experience of a charity he has never known in his life.’

  ‘We can’t endow him with that. It’s something we have to pray for.’

  ‘I’m proposing to work on it as well. I’m inviting him to spend part of his convalescence at my villa. It’s only a stone’s throw from Castel Gandolfo and an hour’s drive from the Vatican … He’s a farmer’s son, he might appreciate a change to country manners. He can also meet my little tribe and see how they handle their lives.’

  There was a brief silence and then His Eminence from Rio de Janeiro murmured a warning.

  ‘Some of our colleagues might not understand your intentions, Anton. They mistrust kingmakers and grey eminences.’

  ‘Then they will say so.’ Anton Drexel’s tone was testy. ‘And His Holiness will decide for himself. Charity may bend that stubborn will of his. Opposition will only stiffen it.’

  ‘So, let’s go one step further, Anton. Our master has his second Pentecost – tongues of fire, an infusion of the Spirit, a rush of charity like the flush of spring. What next? What does he do about it? How does he retreat from the trenches he’s dug for himself – for us all? You know the way it works in Rome. Never explain, never make excuses. Never appear to hurry a decision.’

  ‘I’ve talked about this at length with his physician, who is as concerned as I, though for other reasons. He’s a Jew. He lost relatives in the Holocaust and the Black Sabbath in Rome … For him, this is a moment of extraordinary irony. He holds the life of the Roman Pontiff in his hands. You see the implications?’

  ‘Some at least I see very clearly. But how does he answer my question? What does the Holy Father do – afterwards?’