The Book of Q (41 page)
It had happened so quickly, Pearse had no time to react. The boy in his arms. The very thing he’d been unable to do himself back in the
apartment now handed to him without a thought. Mendravic had had other things to worry about.
Strangely enough, Pearse couldn’t recall what they were. Not with his son in his arms. For several minutes, he stood, eyes closed, arms wrapped around the sleeping boy, forcing himself not to hold him too tightly, the impulse almost too much. Mind a blank. The smell of sleep from his hair. The sound of breath on his neck. Here was the Teresian moment, felt, not thought, not even fully understood.
At some point, Pearse began to feel a hand on his arm. He turned to see Petra.
“You can let me have him,” she said, her arms outstretched, waiting.
He was about to tell her that it would be easier for him to carry the boy, when he saw the expression on her face. She seemed torn, unsure whether to give in to a moment she had wanted for so long, or to take back what was hers—if, in fact, she could think of Ivo as hers alone anymore.
Pearse suddenly understood why he had been so afraid in the apartment. It was because of this moment. Having held him, and then to give him up. That was the loss.
With a simple nod, he reached up under Ivo’s shoulder and carefully lifted him to his mother. Again, the boy’s body draped awkwardly on hers, but it didn’t seem to register with her at all.
Trying to focus on anything but the last few minutes, Pearse suddenly realized it was taking Mendravic a very long time to get the car they had left just outside the front of the restaurant. Motioning for Petra to stand back in the shadows, he slowly edged his face out into the light. He looked back over his shoulder. “Wait here.”
An eerie quiet filled the street, heightened by the glow of two white lamps at either end. No signs of life as he slowly began to move out along the pavement, head low, his own shadow half a foot in front of him. The air seemed to grow more sterile with each step, a dryness in his throat. Nearing the corner, he heard his own voice begging him to turn back. Still he walked.
The sound of squealing wheels broke through, his first instinct to flatten himself against the wall. The car was coming from behind him, its lights on high beam, blinding him for an instant as it careened down the street. With a sudden choking of the engine, it stopped directly in front of the alley. Pearse pulled himself from the wall and began to run, the only image in his head that of Petra and the boy, his own horror at having
abandoned them. With his hand up to guard against the glare, he saw the driver’s door open, a man begin to emerge. Pearse propelled himself faster, lunging at the figure as he stood.
Mendravic caught him with a quick forearm, locking his throat in a viselike grip.
The two recognized each other instantly. Mendravic released, Pearse gasping for air as he steadied himself against the car.
“What the hell were you …” Mendravic had no time for questions as he moved to the back of the van, opened the trunk, and motioned for Petra to bring Ivo. Mother and son emerged from the alley, Mendravic taking the boy and placing him inside the van. Petra stepped up into the back cabin as well. Mendravic shut the door.
It was only then that Pearse saw the blood on his arm.
“Salko, what—”
“Get in the car,” he barked, racing to the driver’s side. Pearse leapt around to the other. He’d barely pulled the door shut before the car bolted out into the road.
Mendravic reached behind him and slid open a small glass partition to the back.
“Are you all right back there?” he asked.
“We’ll be fine,” Petra answered. “He’s up, though.” A small face suddenly appeared in the opening, eyes wide, a smile equally electric.
“Hello, Salko.”
“Well, look who’s up.” Mendravic continued to glance at his side mirror, his attention more on what lay behind them than on the road ahead. “Hello, little man,” he said. A hand now appeared and tugged at Mendravic’s ear, evidently a game between them. Removing the tiny fingers, Mendravic said, “Can you do me a favor, Ivo? Can you sit back there with Mommy and not make a sound? Can you do that for me?”
“Can I come sit with you?”
“Can you sit with Mommy?”
It was then that Ivo noticed Pearse. “Hello,” he said, his tone no less forthright.
“Hello.” Pearse smiled.
“I really need you to sit with Mommy,” said Mendravic, eyes still on the mirror. “Okay?”
The boy stared for another moment at the stranger, then back to Mendravic. Another quick squeeze, and then gone.
Mendravic slid the glass partition shut.
“He takes it all in stride, doesn’t he?” said Pearse.
“What?” Mendravic was concentrating on the road.
“Nothing.” Seeing the blood on Mendravic’s arm, he asked, “What happened?”
“Obviously, our friend in the resistance wasn’t as good as she thought she was.”
“They found you?”
“No. I found them. At the car. Good news, it was only two of them this time. Bad news, I wasn’t as effective.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning we could have company.” He pulled the car around a corner, forcing Pearse up against the door.
“And your arm?”
“Is in pain.”
Pearse said nothing, watching as Mendravic took the road heading up into the mountains. Evidently, Visegrad would have to wait.
After nearly twenty minutes of silence, Mendravic finally seemed to relax behind the wheel.
“We’re not going to Visegrad,” said Pearse.
“Not tonight we’re not.” Mendravic took the car to seventy. “And we’re not taking Ivo anywhere near there.”
Pearse nodded, suddenly angry with himself. It was something he shouldn’t have needed to be told.
“Why did you leave them in the alley?” asked Mendravic.
The question felt like a slap to the face. “I … thought—”
“Next time, don’t. If I tell you to stay someplace, stay there. Do you understand?”
Pearse didn’t need to answer.
“I’ve got some friends,” Mendravic continued. “We’ll stay with them for a day or so until the boys with the boots move on.”
Pearse nodded.
“Just like old times,” said Mendravic, his attempt to lighten the mood ringing hollow.
Pearse looked back through the glass. Ivo was once again asleep in Petra’s lap. Her eyes were shut, as well.
Just like old times
. It was a nostalgia he could have done without.
“…
d
uring or after the election of the new Pontiff, unless explicit authorization is granted by the same Pontiff; and never to lend support or favor to any interference, opposition, or any other form of intervention, whereby secular authorities of whatever order and degree or any group of people or individuals might wish to intervene in the election of the Roman Pontiff.”
The cardinal dean finished reading and began to make his way around the Sistine Chapel. One by one, the cardinal electors rose to acknowledge the oath.
Von Neurath sat with his hands comfortably in his lap. The hard back of the bench seemed to suit his posture, less so the velvet cushion underneath. On his right sat an Englishman; on the other, a South American. Neither had said a word in the last twenty minutes, better that way, since von Neurath couldn’t remember if his Spanish colleague was Brazilian or Argentinian, Escobar de something, if memory served. Cardinal Daly, however, was another matter entirely, well known among the conclave as a
papabile
—a “good prospect”—according to the scuttlebutt that had been circulating over the last few days. Strange that they’d placed two of the prime candidates so close to each other. Or maybe it was simply geography, the Italians on one side of the chapel, the rest of the Catholic world on the other.
Usually brightened by the afternoon sun, the chapel lay under a glow of standing lamps, the gated windows above the Perugino frescoes draped behind thick cloth, a nod to both the solemnity and the secrecy of the conclave. Even in the half-light, the chapel lost none of its grandeur, the plaintive stares from above deepened by the shadows, thick, muscular tones—the pigment having been restored—once again fresh and alive.
Von Neurath stared at one or two of the faces above. He’d never been all that taken with the paintings, far too ornate for his tastes. He much preferred the line of a van Eyck, or a Breu the Elder, or a Lochner, or even a Fra Angelico, if pressed to name an Italian. Now there was the precision of faith. With Michelangelo, everything of value seemed to get lost—hulking, self-indulgent bodies twisting this way and that, no direction, no meaning. Perfect for the Italians, he thought, each of whom continued to gaze up, with self-satisfied grins, as if somehow they were reading a private message, the figures meant for them alone. Von Neurath brought his arms to his chest and waited.
Movement by the altar caught his eye. The Cardinal Camerlengo—his old friend Fabrizzi—began to set the chalice and paten in place, cue for the initiation of the first ballot. Von Neurath looked down at the paper in his hand, the printed Latin a simple reminder of what had brought them all together.
“Eligo in summum pontificem …”
“I elect as supreme Pontiff …”
And next to it, in his own hand, the words “Erich Cardinal von Neurath.”
It was an odd sensation to see the name in front of him. The Italians might have their art, but he would have their throne. Looking up, he had to suppress a smile.
The dean approached him. Von Neurath stood.
“And I, Erich Cardinal von Neurath, do so promise, pledge, and swear.” He placed his hand on the Gospels held out in front of him. “So help me God and these Holy Gospels which I touch with my hand.”
Twenty minutes later, each of the 109 had sworn their troth. The voting began.
As the first of the cardinals moved toward the altar—always one by one—von Neurath scanned the faces across from him. How many of them were thinking of grandnieces and grandnephews? he wondered. Kleist had made over sixty tapes. He’d sent out fewer than twenty of them, but it was more than enough to encourage the crucial swing votes necessary to take him past the two-thirds majority for election.
The procession continued, at last his own turn. With a deep breath, he folded the paper in his hand, stood, and slowly walked toward the altar. Reaching the table, he turned back to the conclave, raised his ballot high for all to see, then placed it on the paten. He watched as the Cardinal Camerlengo lifted the gold plate and slid the ballot into the chalice. As simple as that.
Forty minutes passed before all the votes had been cast, time spent in silence. Some prayed, some stared longingly at the pictures. After all, it was the Divine Spirit who chose a Pope, not men. They could take the time to enjoy their surroundings—God’s will, not theirs, managing this most pressing of matters.
Von Neurath thought of the “Hodoporia.” He’d heard nothing from Kleist in over five days, the last message from Athos, confirmation that the priest had yet to get hold of the actual parchment. Some sort of book. One more step removed. Assurances that everything was close at hand.
Without the “Hodoporia,” though, von Neurath knew the papacy would mean nothing, infallibility or not. Two hundred and fifty million Catholics at his disposal, and no way to convince them to follow a new path. No way to justify the shifts to come with a divine authority.
He had no choice but to trust Kleist, trust that he would deliver what he had promised.
“Peretti.”
The sound of a voice brought his focus back to the altar. One of Fabrizzi’s three assistants—the scrutineers—was reading out the first ballot. He then passed it to the next cardinal, who likewise read it aloud. So, too, the third, who then ran a needle and thread through the paper.
“Daly.”
Von Neurath exchanged a moment’s smile with the Englishman as his name was echoed twice more. No need to worry. Two votes. One hundred and seven to go.
Eighteen minutes later, von Neurath sat stunned. By his own count, he had fallen six short of the majority, Peretti having taken forty of the remaining forty-two.
Evidently, several of the swing votes had decided not to swing.
The cardinals sat silently as one of Fabrizzi’s assistants gathered the twined ballots and notes and retreated to the small stove whose chimney had become so famous over time.
Black smoke.
Two more votes tomorrow morning, one tomorrow afternoon, if need be. For as long as it took.
The cardinals rose. Filing out, von Neurath noticed that Peretti was staring at him. The hint of a smile. He did his best to return it.
Kleist would have to make certain he wasn’t put in so embarrassing a position again.
Pearse had slept on and off for over twelve hours, his body finally giving out after more than a week of neglect. They had arrived in the village sometime after two, twenty miles west of Novi-Pazar, less than an hour from the Kosovar border, somewhere up in the hills. That they’d crossed back into Yugoslavia hadn’t occurred to him until he’d seen the signs for Belgrade. No border post, no guards. Evidently, when he wanted to, Mendravic could avoid such inconveniences.
Pulling up along one more dirt road—a smattering of houses spread out along the surrounding hills—they’d stopped at the only hovel still showing some signs of life. Ivo had been quickly carted away to a bed while Mendravic had made the introductions.
Much as Pearse had expected, the men and women of the KLA proved to be none-too-distant cousins of the Irish Provisionals, less concerned with practical objectives than with the grand design. He’d talked with them for over an hour, stories of recent escapades, all dismissed with a fanatic’s rationale. As it turned out, these were a new breed of KLA, taking their fight “beyond the borders,” as they had explained. The rest of Serbia/Yugoslavia would learn to leave Kosovo alone.
By three, he’d had his fill, the brandy having taken its toll, as well. Hoisting himself up from the table, he’d found a bed and slept.
No dreams. Not even a hint of movement. Just sleep.
Now, at almost three in the afternoon, he emerged from his room to find Petra alone at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee in her hands.
Pearse found a cup and joined her.
“So, he finally appears,” she said as he sat. “What time did you make it to bed?”
Small talk. He could manage that. “A little bit after you. Not much of a conversation. Where is everyone?”
“Gone by the time I got up.” She took a sip, then glanced around the room. “This seems strangely familiar, eight years removed.”
He nodded, memories of Slitna hard to ignore, especially during last night’s diatribes. Pearse wondered if he and Petra had sounded as rabid, all those years ago. Probably, although he hoped not. They’d certainly never had rolls like the ones now beckoning to him from a dish at the center of the table. Better bread, greater mania, he thought. It seemed a logical enough connection.
He took a roll and tore off a piece, dunking the wedge in his coffee and quickly tossing it down.
“That, too,” she added.
“Saves time on the digestion. You knew that.” The second piece received a healthy slathering of butter. “Is Salko up?”
“Ivo wanted to go exploring. Mommy wouldn’t do. He pulled him out of bed about an hour ago.”
Pearse nodded, another sip of the coffee. “This doesn’t faze him at all, does it?”
“Ivo? No. I’m sure it’s like a game for him.”
“That’s quite a game.”
“Not when you’ve played it before.”
Pearse hesitated, then asked, “Ivo?”
“We were in a village like this for about three months in ’97.” Seeing his confusion, she explained, “When NATO pulled out? The trouble in Mostar?” Still nothing. “You do have newspapers in the United States, don’t you?” she added.
Pearse grinned. “I think we have a couple. I suppose you have to remember to read them.”
“I suppose you do. Although,” she added more pointedly, “I’m sure we stopped being front-page news once Mr. Clinton got reelected.”
No bitterness in what she said, just pragmatism. The same way she could talk about a seven-year-old being trundled from his bed in the middle of the night as part of some familiar game.
“He really takes to Salko, doesn’t he?”
“Didn’t you?”
Pearse nodded to himself, then rolled a piece of the buttered roll into a ball and popped it into his mouth. “Do they get to see a lot of each other?”
“About once a month. Maybe more, if something comes up.”
“Something … like what?”
“I don’t know. Little-boy things that a father would be—” She stopped herself. “Not really that often.”
She was trying to be kind. Even if he’d known what to say, he knew he wouldn’t have been able to find the words. He’d make her laugh, or put her in a position where she’d have to tell him to stop, just as he had last night. For some reason, he thought of the Ribadeneyra entries. The alchemy so manageable there. Here, impossible. Then again, better to leave unsaid what he couldn’t say.
“It’s good Ivo has him,” he finally said.
“It’s good they have each other,” she echoed. “Salko probably needs the fix more than Ivo does.”
Another ball of bread for him as she stared into her cup.
After a time, she said, “There are days, you know, when they disappear for hours. Just the two of them. Their ‘little adventures.’” She was letting him in, if only for a moment. “It’s funny. Ivo always comes back with this adorable look in his eyes, as if they’ve got some great secret. Something just the two of them know. The men.” She smiled to herself. “I remember when Salko taught him how to whistle. The great event. And Ivo came running in, and he waited and waited while Salko told me where they’d been, the two of them passing each other little winks and nods. I pretended not to notice. And then, all of a sudden, he started to whistle. This sweet little chirpy thing through the giggles. And we all started laughing. He was so proud of himself.” It was as if she were looking directly at them. “You should have seen his face when I whistled back. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t say a thing. Somehow, I knew the magic secret.” She laughed. “That’s when he told me I had a girl’s whistle. It wasn’t like Salko’s or his.” She stopped, eyes even more distant. “I wasn’t Mom. I was just a girl.”
Pearse took a sip of the coffee, then said. “Did Salko tell you why I’m here?”
She turned back to her cup. “Some of it.” She reached for a piece of bread, something to keep her hands busy. “I don’t think he’s that clear on it himself.”