A Woman Involved (36 page)

Morgan lit a cigarette, and blew out smoke.

It was a very long shot. He would have a very short time to convince the man, before he was politely told to go away. Dismissed as a nutter.

But it, was worth thinking about. Though it meant waiting until Easter. Almost six months hence.

And then he thought of something else: Does the Secretary of State, Cardinal Pieter Gunter, also hear confession from the public? … 

If Cardinal Gunter heard confession, he would get a very
different reception. Because all he would have to say were the passwords … 

Morgan pulled out the list he had made that morning. ‘The elk is not only a Siberian creature.’ Those were Pieter Gunter’s passwords.

He sat back, thinking.

Go into the confessional, say those words, tell the man you want to see him privately.
He would not dare refuse.
Even if he had found God since being planted in the Church he would not dare refuse for fear I blow the whistle on him. He would have to find out what I want … 

Suddenly somebody was standing at the table. Morgan jerked. It was the waiter. Asking him if he wanted anything before the kitchen closed.

Morgan folded his map, and paid his bill.

He hunched into his raincoat. Okay, this was what he had come to Rome for. He would soon find out if his disguise was effective.

He tried to look like a tourist, his guide book in hand. He walked under the curving colonnades. Then, on the right, was the flight of stone steps leading up into the Prefecture. Two Swiss guards, in their medieval uniforms, stood at the top, armed with lances. Morgan ascended the wide steps.

‘I wish to apply to the Prefecture for a permit.’

The officer waved him through, and pointed at another staircase. Morgan passed the guards’ room. He wondered if there was a cell in there, for people like him. The staircase was baronial. Stone balustrade. A coat of arms. Grey stone walls. Two security guards in dark uniforms on the first floor. ‘Permit, please …’

They waved him through another door. A small office, marble floors, a desk. A grey-haired priest was bent over documents. ‘
Avanti
.’ There was no friendliness in the voice.

‘May I have a permit to visit the tombs, please?’

‘It’ll have to be for tomorrow.’ It was an Australian accent.

‘Thank you.’ Morgan took a breath. ‘Tell me, is it possible to get a permit to visit the Secretariat of State?’

The priest looked at him. ‘No. Why?’

‘You see,’ Morgan said, ‘I’m making a study of the Church, to write a book. This is my first visit to the Vatican, I’m just feeling my way, getting the atmosphere. I’ve come all the way from Australia for this …’

‘Where in Australia?’

‘Sydney.’ He had been there once and stayed with friends in Double Bay. ‘Belleview Road.’

‘You don’t sound Australian.’

‘I’m not yet. Will be in a few years. I’ve immigrated.’

The priest nodded. ‘It would be a great country if they could get rid of the corruption.’

‘
Right
. How long have you been over here?’ Keep the man talking.

The priest sat back. ‘So you want to write a book on the Church? You a Catholic?’

‘I suppose you would call me a lapsed Catholic. Who is finding his way back to the Church.’

‘What brought this on?’

He said, almost truthfully: ‘It’s something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time. And lacked the courage, maybe.’

‘“Oh Lord, make me good, but not yet”?’

Morgan smiled. ‘Saint Augustine. Yes.’ And it was almost true. He went on, while the iron was warm: ‘I wonder if you would be so kind as to refer me to … anybody who could point me in the right direction on certain aspects.’

‘Of?’

‘I’m after general atmosphere at this stage, while I’m in Rome. How the modern Vatican works. Day-to-day. The protocol, the colour, the ceremony … In particular, I’m interested in the political role of the Church.’

‘Well, we’re an open book. The Procurators of the various religious orders may be prepared to give you some time. There’re two English-speaking seminaries, British and American, where students study for the priesthood – somebody there may think it fun to help you.’ He added: ‘To help bring a sheep back into the fold.’

‘Where are they?’

‘Ask the Information Bureau. Which,’ he added, ‘this office is not.’

‘I see. Thank you. One more thing. When does the Pope next
celebrate mass, publicly? When the public can take communion from him.’

‘Christmas week.’

Christmas!
That was only six weeks away!

‘Does he also personally hear confession from the public then?’

‘Yes.’

He almost blurted it: ‘How does one know which confessional box he’s in?’

‘You’ll have to keep your eyes open. You and the thousands of other people who think it would be nice to say your confession to the Pope himself. That is hardly the attitude to adopt to confession.’

‘“Nice” is not my attitude,’ Morgan said.

‘Good,’ he said unsmilingly.

‘It would have a special spiritual significance for me.’ He added, ‘Can you tell me, do senior cardinals, like the Secretary of State, hear confession from the public, too?’

‘All priests perform religious duties. But Secretaries of State usually have more pressing things to do.’

‘How can I find out details like that?’

‘Not from this office, I’m afraid. Try the Procurators.’

Morgan knew he was pushing his luck. ‘But would you be so kind … if I telephoned you, would you tell me whether the Pope has scheduled a public mass and confession before Christmas?’

‘I’m afraid not. If you want a friend in court, you’ll have to look elsewhere.’

Morgan put on his most charming smile. ‘Not even to bring an errant sheep back into the fold?’

The Australian almost smiled for the first time.

‘Ah, you think you’ve got me there. Yes, saving souls is still my business even if I’m a pen-pusher. But if you’re serious about your soul, there’re better people for the job than me.’ He sloughed over that one. ‘All right, I’ll say goodbye now.’ He lowered his head over his papers.

It had stopped raining, but it was freezing after the warm Prefecture. He pulled up his collar and walked briskly up the wide stone steps into the portico of the basilica.

There were many tourists, wet and discommoded, huddled around guides. He walked through the great bronze doors, into Saint Peter’s.

He intended going straight to the southern side of the great cathedral, to the elevator which takes tourists up onto the rooftop. But he just had to stop for a moment, and look at the majesty of the holy place.

The majesty of it
. He stood, taking it in, feeling. And, oh yes, he knew he was a Catholic, in his bones, that this was the very heart of Christianity, the supreme temple. And with all his heart he wanted to do the right thing by this place and all it stood for. And, oh God, he wanted to pray for that.

But he did not have time. He turned, and strode through the vast cathedral, to the elevator.

He paid, and rode up to the top with half a dozen tourists. He walked out, onto the red-tile rooftop.

The dome rising up; and all around lay Rome, misty in the grey afternoon.

He walked to the front, to the statues of Christ and the apostles: and looked down onto Saint Peter’s Square. The tiny people down there. He wondered which of them were looking for him. He looked to the left. The papal palace … 

He studied it. Five storeys high, built around a courtyard. Brown stucco in colour, a red-tile roof. He knew from his map which were the windows of the Pope’s apartment – the top right-hand corner. The second-last window was the one he appeared at to give his blessing to the masses. Three floors below was the apartment of the Secretary of State, Cardinal Pieter Gunter.

The rooftop. Part of it, the northern side, was flat.

Morgan walked slowly past the row of saints. To the corner, closest to the palace. He ran his eye slowly along the connecting rooftop. Then looked at his map.

Yes, the roof of the palace was connected to the rooftops of the
Loggias
, from there to the Court of the Pappagalli, and from there, by other roofs, to the very wall of Saint Peter’s, where he now stood. He could lower himself by rope down onto the rooftop below. And with a bit of courage, make it all the way to the Pope’s rooftop.

All right. It could be done. That’s all he wanted to know.

He rode down in the elevator. Back into the mighty cathedral.

He went to the holy-water stoup. It was held by two marble cherubims bigger than himself. He dipped his finger in the water, and crossed himself. Then he walked down the vast, marble-floored nave, towards the Confessio. The very heart of the temple, the sunken tomb of Saint Peter himself.

Morgan walked slowly towards it, feeling the majesty of the holy place. Between the great twisted pillars of the baldachin canopy he could see the throne of Saint Peter at the very apex of the apse. The light of the stained-glass windows glowing down upon it, like the Holy Spirit. Morgan stood beside the tomb, in the flickering lamplights, and he looked up at the mighty dome above him, reaching up, up, the mosaics depicting Paradise aglow in the light coming in from the windows up there: and inscribed around the base the holy words, in Latin: ‘
Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I build my church, and the gates of Hades shall not prevail against it.’

He turned away. He walked into the southern pier of the nave. He began to count the confessional boxes.

They were heavy, elaborately carved kiosks. On one side, behind a stable door, sat the priest-confessor: on the other side the penitent knelt and whispered his confession. There were eight such boxes in the first pier of the apse, and each had a notice over the door indicating the language which the priest spoke: Italian, English, French, Dutch, German.

Morgan walked down the side of the nave, counting all the way back to the entrance; then down the other side of the nave, back to the northern pier.

He counted over twenty-four confessional boxes in all.

He walked away, towards the black, bronze statue of Saint Peter. He looked at it. The toe of the statue’s foot was worn away, from people kissing it. He reached out and touched the toe, and then crossed himself again. But he was not thinking about Saint Peter.

In which confessional would Pope John Paul sit on that day in Christmas week?

He walked slowly back up the centre of the nave.

In Christmas week this vast nave would be chock-a-block with pews. If he were sitting here, in the approximate centre, how many confessional boxes would he see?

Only about four. And would he recognize the Pope from that distance? In the gloom?

What robes would he be wearing?

He had to find out these details. Or he wouldn’t stand a chance.

He walked slowly back towards Saint Peter’s sunken tomb, trying to evaluate the best place from which he could keep watch on the maximum number of confessionals. From here, six. From here, eight.

From here, almost in front of the sunken tomb of Saint Peter, twelve.

Okay … He had reduced the odds significantly. But they were still long.

Which entrance does the Pope enter by? … That would narrow the odds again.

Does he sneak in by a side entrance, and go to any confessional? Or does he come down the centre of the nave, with fanfare? And what language would he hear confession in? … If he knew that he would narrow the odds further.

But it was still hit or miss.

It was raining again. He put up his umbrella. He walked back across Saint Peter’s Square. Down the back streets, to a public telephone. He dialled the Tourist Bureau again.

‘I’m a journalist from England, visiting Rome. Can you please give me the address of the Press Club?’

Press clubs are similar the world over: the members are hard-bitten, hard-drinking, hard-working (or so they say), hard-talking, and friendly. And evidently, in Rome, hard of hearing. There was a babble of voices, in half a dozen languages, pressmen loudly arguing, telling stories, complaining, laughing. Nobody challenged him when he walked in, but he had an alibi ready. He found a place at the bar and ordered a beer.

‘Excuse me,’ he said to the man next to him. ‘Do you know Cyril Wilkinson?’

‘Who?’

‘Cy Wilkinson. He’s a BBC man, told me to meet him here.’

‘Can’t rely on the BBC,’ the man said jovially.

‘I hope I haven’t missed him, he’s only in Rome for one day. He was going to introduce me to some Vatican-watchers.’

‘Plenty of them around here.’

‘But I’m not a member, he was going to sign me in.’

‘I’ll sign you in if he doesn’t show. Why you want to meet Vatican-watchers?’

‘I’m trying to write a book.’

‘Nice man,’ Tony Watson said. ‘A really
nice
man.’

‘Superstar,’ Whacker Ball growled. ‘Thinks he’s a superstar.’

‘Have you met him?’ Morgan said to Tony.

‘I’ve been to his press conferences. And you can
see
his charm. You can feel his presence across a crowded room.’

‘Some
enchanted
evening,’ Whacker crooned.

‘And when he speaks, he’s so good.
Clever
is the only word. He commands attention. And charming. Have you read his book,
Letters to the Mighty
?’

Morgan shook his head. ‘But I will.’

‘He is an excellent Secretary of State. In fact, with Pope John Paul running around the world so much he virtually runs the whole Church as Carmalengo – sort of deputy Pope.’

Morgan said, ‘Does a man like that ever actually hear confession? – from the public?’

Tony shrugged. ‘I don’t know. The Pope sometimes does.’

‘Yes,’ Morgan said. ‘When he does, is it known which confession box he’s going to use?’

‘No. Otherwise there’d be a queue a mile long.’

‘Which is another thing,’ Whacker complained. ‘Why does the Pope do it so seldom? What happened to the good old days when the apostles were approachable by all? Fishermen and carpenters. Nowadays, if you want to see God’s vicar you have got to be an ambassador at least.’ He turned to Morgan. ‘Do you know what his papal jet tours cost last year? Over a hundred and thirty
million
dollars. Meanwhile people are starving in Africa.’