Keys of This Blood (117 page)

This was surprising, seeing that no precise information was available about
what
the Holy Father had in mind; and the usually informative in-house Vatican sources could honestly supply only a sincere “Nobody knows” to all the discreet inquiries made beforehand. All anyone knew was what the papal summons said: “This Consistory will be under the protection of the Precious Blood of Our Savior guaranteeing the Keys of the Kingdom.” This appeared to many as the typical language of “Rome” when speaking of subjects as wide-ranging as Peter's Pence, the Vatican budget deficit, papal teaching about the Holy Trinity or in-vitro fertilization techniques. The major world media had described the forthcoming Consistory with the stock explanation that “an imminent reorganization of Vatican finances is expected,” or “consistories have a long and ancient history in the Church of Rome.” The consensus among the anti-Church partisans was definitely minimalist. “Probably another semipublic meditation on the Blessed Virgin according to the Pope's personal devotion”—that was the most pitying guess about the subject on the Holy Father's mind. The soundest reaction came from retired nonagenarian Luis Cardinal Suva, who, with crackling bones, had risen from his invalid's bed in Valparaiso, Chile, muttering to his horrified but helpless nurses: “This is it! I've got to go! It's an ending or it's a beginning. I've got to be there! At last that young man is going to do something! Maybe!”

So, on this July 1, the feast day of the Most Precious Blood of Jesus, just two days after the feast day of Sts. Peter and Paul, the Founding Apostles of the Pope's Roman See, all Valeska's cardinals were present. But from the very moment of their arrival at the Nervi Hall, it was clear that this Consistory was not going to resemble any Consistory in living memory.

First of all, security was at its tightest. The approaches to the Nervi were guarded by Italian police armed with automatic weapons. Around the main doors of the hall, a detachment of stalwart Swiss Guards formed a gauntlet of security through which those entering passed in single file. Without proper documents, Sts. Peter and Paul themselves would not have been admitted past those two checkpoints.

Inside, there was a novelty. The lobbies, the elevators and the stairs were manned by what seemed to be a small army of uniformed and bemedaled military men. True, they carried no visible sidearms. But each one wore a sword, and their seriousness and gravity and formal manners suggested men under strict orders. Upstairs in the auditorium, each cardinal was escorted to his place, where a small printed bulletin carrying the golden embossment of the Crossed Keys and Tiara informed him that the Holy Father would address his cardinals at 9:00
A.M.
The television and radio booths were occupied by those same military types, as was the back landing of the auditorium.

Of course, the cardinals recognized (some more quickly than others) the uniforms and insignia of the Sovereign Order of the Knights of Malta. That solemnizing fact—you couldn't but be impressed by the formality created by the Knights—together with the bareness of the bulletin notice, induced a quietude among the cardinals in which a low whispering was their loudest sound even before Valeska had entered.

The audience of cardinals had been even further muted into quietude by the way Papa Valeska had entered and opened the proceedings. He had been escorted into the auditorium promptly at 8:55
A.M.
without fanfare, without any preceding warning except what that bulletin announced. He carried a single folder, did not look to right or left, took his seat, opened the folder, fingered a few pages thoughtfully, took out a ballpoint pen to make a note or two, put down the pen, and looked up for the first time at his audience. All present realized there was to be no opening hymn to the Holy Spirit, no formal introduction of the Holy Father. Papa Valeska could have been the chairman of the board, come to deliver an annual report.

Only a few popes—and those in modern times—have ever had to face an audience of over one hundred cardinals; and Papa Valeska was the first pope in history who sat down facing 153 of them. He knew them all, of course: about half of them better than the others, and about a dozen quite intimately. With some he had had deeply satisfying conversations, with others more than one head-on collision, with still others a prickly relationship made possible only because of an implicitly accepted cold distance between him and them. He was loved by some, not loved but
all the same respected by some, and cordially disliked by some. Only a few had gone on record as hating him. He never had any real difficulty with those; he knew where he stood with them.

But with about half a dozen he always felt profoundly uneasy: those who never violated any rules of conventional respect, papal protocol and ordinary civility but who behind an artful mask of good behavior—even of ecclesiastical bonhomie—could not wait to see his pontificate over and done with. That form of contempt hurt Valeska profoundly.

“May Jesus be praised,” Papa Valeska started, his voice low-toned, his pace deliberate. He glanced at his notes, reading a text he obviously knew very well, because he continually lifted his eyes to look at the cardinals while continuing uninterruptedly with his flow of words.

“Those were the first words I addressed to the Church and the world on the night of my election. May they be fulfilled in us today at this Consistory.” His whole manner bespoke some terrible deliberacy of mind; and the hint of that maintained the tension in his listeners.

“What I have to say to you today will not take much time. We will be short in words but hopefully long and deep in our understanding.

“There can be no genuine doubt in anybody's mind about two aspects of the Church Universal today.” The closed-circuit television cameras panned over the faces of the cardinals, all of them, willy-nilly, hanging on what this one man, the Pope, had to say.

“Since the end of the Second Vatican Council in 1965, there has been a radical change effected in liturgy, theology, piety, morals and ecclesial government—in barely thirty years!” Valeska himself could feel the sudden tension among whole groups of cardinals at these words. He went on calmly. “The Roman Catholic institutional organization of the forties and fifties of this century resembled the Roman Catholic institutional organization of the 1500s—even that of the 1300s—far more closely than the current ‘Conciliar Church' resembles that of the forties and fifties. So great a chasm of difference in such a short time! So violently rapid a change!

“Second, throughout every region and in every department of Roman Catholic life today there is an inescapable and continuous slippage into disorder, disunity, confusion, unfaith and open apostasy. It is a rampant decadence everywhere, sparing nobody and no element—seminaries, diocesan and Roman chanceries, religious orders, male and female, schools, colleges, universities, families, our liturgy, our theology, our morality, our devotions, our missions in Africa and Asia, our personal standards. Everything about us has been affected by this slippage.

“At the beginning of my pontificate, in full recognition of these two
vital aspects, my general policy was one of waiting, of patience, of forbearance, of encouragement. The gargantuan changeover consequent on the Second Vatican Council had, I reasoned, produced a temporary imbalance. Church members, both clergy and laity, would in time recover their Roman Catholic balance, I argued with myself. There would be a turnaround, I forecast, a moment when the organization would be set aright again. I was sure of it.

“Above all, I was thinking of you, Venerable Brothers. You form my papal subsidiarity; through you, I am supposed to guide and govern the Church. That action of rebalancing matters in the Church must, therefore, come primarily from you, under my papal authority, and thus filter down the ranks and echelons of the hierarchy to the level of the ordinary clergy and the people.

“This was my understanding. That was my policy. This understanding was inaccurate. That policy was faulty. There has been no turnaround, no sign of any rebalancing. I know it. You know it.

“Look at what we together have wrought—this ‘Conciliar Church' of ours. Look at it in the broad view, not concentrating on the individual debilitating agencies now corroding its vitals. Leave all details aside, and see the big picture.

“In our laissez-faire management, we have nourished an institutional organization of people and material which every year becomes less and less recognizable as Roman Catholic. Overall, the pressure on us has been to fuse with the ever-changing backgrounds of human cultures; to accept the modern attitude that, in the words of one neopagan philosopher, ‘Our brains are stargates, our bodies cells of mystery' to be explored, to thus attain ‘citizenship in a world larger than our aspirations, more complex than all our dreams.' In sum, to mix into the world around us to the point of invisibility for Catholicism.

“This is what we have wrought. This is our ‘Conciliar Church' today. Look, please, in the mirror I am holding up for us all to gaze in, for you as my bishops and prelates, for me as your Pope, so that once, just this once, we acknowledge the truth of our situation to ourselves and to our God.

“In the Gospel of the love of Jesus Christ, there is one terrible scene that has struck fear into my soul. Share it with me, because it concerns you as my bishops and me as your Pope.” Valeska pulled a small copy of the New Testament from his pocket, and stood up while rummaging through the pages. “It's described in Luke … yes, Luke … here it is!” By this time he had strolled to one end of the dais.

“So! It was the night before he died … the Last Supper … all the
disciples around him”—scanning the text as he spoke. “The traitor Judas had left the Supper Room: Satan, Luke says, had entered into Judas' heart, even though he was one of the Twelve Apostles, and he leaves on the nefarious business of betraying the Lord Jesus.” Valeska raised his eyes and looked at the cardinals nearest him. “Even though he was one of the Twelve Apostles.” He repeated the words with a look of astonishment on his face.

Scanning the Gospel text again: “Then our Lord consecrated the bread and the wine … all the Apostles received it from his hands … and then they had a dispute—the Apostles—as to which of them was really the greatest…. Jesus rebuked them, assuring them that they all would be important personages in his Kingdom … then, answering their question about who would be or was the leader and the greatest among them, he indicated Simon Peter and … yes, here he speaks to them all, putting Simon Peter first: ‘Simon, Simon, look. Satan has desired to sieve all of you like wheat.' Jesus says that to all of the Apostles listening to him, just as Jesus now says it to all of you listening to me.” Now Valeska was looking around the tiers.

“All of you. Satan wanted to separate you all away from the golden grain, the Bread of Life, turn you into worthless chaff, have you thrown into the fires of the eternal furnace.” There was no sound from that audience. One Eminence wet his lips. Another Eminence ran his index finger around his collar to free it from the perspiration on his neck.

Valeska looked down at his text. “‘But,' Jesus went on, now speaking exclusively to Simon Peter, ‘I have prayed for you.'” Valeska's voice slowed and thickened with feeling. “‘I have prayed for you that you not lose your faith.'” Valeska choked on those last three words. He stood there, head bowed, for some seconds; then, laying his little New Testament on the counter, he sank slowly to his knees. This action produced consternation among the cardinals.

Most of them did not know what to do. Here and there around the tiers, a sprinkling of figures rose to their feet, scarlet exclamation points. Then one after the other, and in twos and threes, the generality stood up. About forty or fifty remained frozen in their seats, shooting glares—nervous, resentful, questioning—at each other. Those standing could not kneel. Those sitting could not bring themselves to stand once they had obviously refused to imitate the generality. Frankevic, the papal secretary, and an irascible papal aide, Father O'Donnell, viewing the event on closed-circuit television upstairs in Valeska's study, quickly scribbled down the names of the seated cardinals.

“The idiots,” O'Donnell said in his nervy way. “They've shown their hand!”

“No, Father Joe.” Frankevic was smiling grimly. “They were caught off balance. He caught them. Their hatred was stronger than their prudence. Evil will out!”

Valeska found his voice. “Those words, Venerable Brothers, are addressed to me, not to you. For I am Peter today.” The words came out of that bowed kneeling figure as if marinated in some deep inner anguish. “The Lord Jesus prayed for me that I not lose my faith.” There was a slight pause. “I have a confession to make, Venerable Brothers, and a pardon to ask.” The image of kneeling Pope and listening cardinals coming to Frankevic and O'Donnell on the closed circuit might as well have been a still photograph in color, and not a live transmission, so immobile were all the figures for about twenty seconds. No standing cardinal swayed on his feet. No seated cardinal stirred.

“Satan, the Enemy, tried to sieve me like chaff, whether in India or in Italy or in the U.S.A. or in Africa or in Latin America or back home here beside the Tomb of the Apostles. He sieved me. He shook me. He confused me. He led me to commit errors of practical judgment. He made me deaf to the protests of the faithful. He made me vulnerable to the half-lies, the wheedling half-truths, the pleas of hypocrites, the soft talk of those who hated me as Peter's successor.

“
Mea culpa! Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa!
” Valeska struck his breast with his fist. “It was my own fault. It was my weakness. It was my own fault, my own fault.” The voice trailed away into the silence of a few moments. Then, not abruptly, but slowly, he rose to his feet, one hand grazing across his eyes to brush away the tears that blinded him, and muttered almost inaudibly, “At times, only tears … only tears, Lord, will suffice … only tears.”