The Judas Cloth (61 page)

One damp day, when street cobbles were as radiant as prisms, Nicola received a visit. It was from Viterbo, who was in high feather, plumper than in the past, and pleased to report that he owned a business in Bologna, where his people were enjoying freedoms which would soon reach their co-religionaries in Rome.

‘Soon?’

The printer smiled, extinguished his smile then, as if remembering that there was no longer any need to do this, let it blossom with luxurious ease across his face. The Temporal Power, he told Nicola amiably, has as little substance to it now as some old corpse in the catacombs which a breath could disperse. Pff! He blew illustratively, and again his smile unfurled. Nicola was going to say something sharp when Viterbo sighed. ‘Too late for my nephew.’

Edgardo Mortara was now a priest. But his uncle hadn’t come about that. No. He had brought a warning. Contrary to appearances, Count Langrand-Dumonceau’s affairs were in a bad way. ‘The truth is he’s up the spout.’ If the Vatican had an agreement with him, now was the time to back out. He added, ‘I hear he’s to have an audience with the Pope. Today, is it? You’re surprised at my knowing? How do you think our community survives, Monsignore? We have to know things. And what we know about him is that he is paying high interest on secret loans.’

‘You can’t be serious?’

But Viterbo was. ‘He’s a flimflam artist!’ He shrugged, adding that the financier’s new companies had been founded to pay the old ones’ debts, his profits were fictitious and the dividends he was paying were eroding what capital he had left. 1866 had been a bad year for everyone.
Last May had seen a run on the Bank of England and several companies had since closed their doors. ‘Langrand’s creditors, including the Prince von Thurn and Taxis who may yet sue him for fifteen million, are waiting to see whether he will make enough to pay them from the sale of the Church lands. It’s his last throw and his profit on it is to be ten per cent. Now do you believe me?’

Nicola was still half-incredulous – for how believe the count could have been doing something as crude as the three-card trick which was to be seen on any market day on the piazza Montanara? Viterbo, however, swore that Langrand had indeed been moving assets from one company to another, as surreptiously as a trickster moved his card. And maybe those assets had now vanished? Langrand’s company directors had, with the prodigality of desperation, distributed substantial bribes to newspapermen and officials in Vienna, Brussels, Pesth, Florence and here. Did the printer’s sly politeness imply a belief that Nicola’s palm too had been greased? The bribes were a bid to net contracts so as to fill coffers which must, if they were to be netted, seem already full.

‘They’ve secretly raised loans with Jewish financiers. That,’ said Viterbo, ‘is how I know.’

The irony was blatant: the man who was to have rescued capitalism from Protestants and Jews had turned to them for help. An amused – and perhaps pitying – malice shone in Viterbo’s eye.

‘And Flavio?’

‘Gentlemen like the duke sit on boards and lend them prestige, but the less they understand the better pleased is their paymaster.’

On Viterbo’s departure, Nicola rushed to the Treasury where the news from the Vatican was that Count Langrand-Dumonceau, having finished his audience with His Holiness, had gone upstairs to Cardinal Antonelli’s apartment. Nicola was seized with panic and rushed out again. Papa Mastai was notorious for letting charm run away with him and the foxy count, whose own charm was legendary, might have created an irresistible atmosphere. He imagined the two men locked in a magnetic contest so compelling that one or other must succumb. There could be no seduction without some yielding of the self – and the moment of yielding was one of danger. Outside the ministry, a man was loitering purposefully and Nicola recognised a Belgian journalist who had come to Rome in Langrand’s train. Was he on the count’s payroll? Did
he
suppose Nicola was?

‘Monsignore!’ The journalist’s name was Brasseur. ‘A good day for our cause, I think.’

‘Why? Have you heard something?’

‘That was what I had intended asking your lordship.’

‘All I’ve heard is alarming news from Brussels about the count’s affairs.’ Nicola let this sink in. The two men eyed each other.

‘Monsieur le Comte is often slandered.’

Nicola thought: what if Viterbo were an agent for the Rothschilds who might be after the agency themselves?

‘Monsignore, I’d lay money that our affairs are in better train than you think.’

‘Ours?’

Brasseur nodded. So he did think Nicola was on the payroll! Nicola, worrying, must have looked a little frantic for the journalist, clearly a man of quick sympathies, had in no time taken charge, shepherded him to the nearest café and provided a cup of comforting chocolate topped with winking foam.

Affairs like this, he sagely explained, demanded faith. ‘Our motto, Monsignore, is the opposite of Rome’s.
It
starts by saying
non
possumus
and we, on the contrary, say
possumus
:
we can do it, we’ll find a way! We will too! You’ll see. His Holiness will wait to be sure that the Italians accept our deal and then,
ad
removendam
maiorem
calamitatem,
so will he. It’s the choice of the lesser of two evils. It never fails.’

Brasseur now began to rally the monsignore by telling jokes. He had refined the art of friendship until he could slip into the role of friend as fast as an actor into that of Pantaloon.

By the time Nicola had finished his chocolate, colleagues from the Treasury had come by with the latest bulletin: no concessions had been made. They condoled with him whom they expected to find cast down by this and were perplexed by his relief. Then he and Brasseur sat on and argued as amiably and easily as if they had been in school together, which they might as well have been, since the journalist had been taught by Jesuits in Belgium. These, he explained, had only differed from the Roman ones in that they had been more severe. They had to be. In countries where the Church was embattled, they had to turn out men staunch for the faith. Warriors! Men of purpose! Even, said the journalist, men who knew how to be ruthless in a good cause!

‘You in Rome, Monsignore, have no idea how it is for us. That’s why you don’t give your wholehearted backing to the count when he tries to defend you against your enemies. He’s a crusader too!’

In the course of their talk, Nicola pumped his companion about Langrand’s solvency and received such assurances about Turkish railway
contracts in the offing and fat profits to be expected from the resale of Hungarian estates that he began to discount Viterbo’s gossip. Brasseur was untroubled by the reports of Mastai’s and Antonelli’s reluctance to accept Langrand’s plan.

That’s die thesis,’ he said with confidence. ‘Later we’ll get the hypothesis. That’s how it always is in Rome. Principle yields to practice.’

After dinner – they’d repaired to Lepri’s – and more wine, and talk and friendship, Nicola’s confidence in the Langrand enterprises was almost totally restored. In return, the journalist confided that he remembered his days in boarding school at Brugelette as the happiest of his life. People might deride such sentiments, but, Monsignore, where but in such enclaves as those guarded by the rectitude and affection of the Jesuits did a man ever see the Christian virtues in action?

‘I mean humility, obedience, love, meekness and inwardness – am I right, Monsignore? These are our defining virtues? Which, alas, we too rarely practise? These
are
they?’

Nicola agreed that they were.

The journalist nodded. Rome too, he said, was a sacred enclave.

The following week was one of shame and devastation.

An article appeared in a Belgian newspaper in which ‘the
knowledgeable
Monsignor Santi’ was quoted as having revealed that the Langrand plan had the secret approval of the Roman Court which was only denying it for political reasons. ‘Oh, it’s the usual story’, was the statement attributed to the sly monsignore; ‘we have seen the thesis and must await the hypothesis.’ Asked to explain these recondite terms he chose to illustrate rather than define. ‘When a Roman prince says he disapproves of usury, we have the thesis. When he marries a banker’s daughter, we have the hypothesis.’ Nicola’s delivery was described as ‘silky’.

An indignant denial from his pen would – he was sorrowfully advised – undoubtedly make matters worse. He had been branded a hypocrite and his protests must now arouse hilarity or scorn. Let others take over, advised his superiors who accepted his explanations with a pained forbearance.

The
Giornale
di
Roma
promptly denied that the plan had the Pope’s approval and so did the
Civiltà
Cattolica.
And this, though some prelates continued to favour the scheme, made Nicola’s position at the Treasury untenable.

Meanwhile there was trouble in Florence too, where the Italian
parliament – recently moved there from Turin – was equally averse to its government’s agreement with Langrand. Its anti-clerical majority now presented a bill forbidding the Church to own any real property in Italy at all. This, the harshest measure yet, was said to have made the Pope weep.

In the light of all this, Nicola’s indiscretion was bitterly deplored and he was obliged to leave the Treasury. Nobody, in his hearing,
pronounced
the word bribe, but he saw with savage mortification that his choice lay between being taken for an intriguer or an innocent – to put it mildly – who should never have been let loose! Rome now became hateful to him and his self-esteem did not improve when he read that Langrand’s shares had soared sharply after the publication of the mendacious article. A man as inept as he at wordly intrigue should, he told himself furiously, become a monk. As it was, he skulked in his apartment, saw nobody, inflicted various penances on himself, and only when advised by his confessor that the greatest penance would be to show himself, reluctantly emerged to join the leisurely, gossipy, hateful and reproachful social round of semi-idle Roman prelates.

He was all the more moved to receive a warm note from Prospero commiserating on his troubles at the hands of ‘that pest of our times, journalism’. He wrote back gratefully and, within days, received an intimation that the post of coadjutor to Cardinal Amandi was his for the asking. His Eminence’s health – often a euphemism for ‘opinions’ – was giving cause for concern and it was thought that his diocesan duties were proving onerous. The prospect of a pastoral retreat was balm to Nicola. Moreover, if poor Amandi was being forced to accept a coadjutor, it was surely better for this to be a friend. Accordingly, having intimated a readiness to accept, he was summoned for a chat with a representative of the Congregation of Bishops who warned that the task might be thorny. Amandi’s diocese had not recovered from its vacancy during the sullen years when the Pope’s realm and that of Italy had been unable to bring themselves to communicate. As a result, many dioceses were in a deplorable state. Children had remained unbaptized or were given defiant names like ‘Atheist’. Priests kept concubines. Churches were in disrepair. In Amandi’s particular case … The prelate paused. Had Monsignore Santi heard? No? Well … With distaste he revealed a scandal. A nursing convent containing less than the statutory six nuns was to have been closed down in accordance with the Italian law of last July. On this occasion, however, an odd thing had occurred. Locals had seized it, declaring that they did not want the nuns dispersed, since they
did more good than anyone else, and that the people had not voted to escape the tyranny of a Pope-King only to be saddled with that of a King-Pope.

The prelate from the Congregation raised a monitory palm. ‘Don’t take this for loyalty to us, Monsignore! It is, alas, an example of the sort of folk-religion which escapes our control. There have been clashes with the police which we, to be sure, are accused of having fomented and a rumour has gained ground that one nun is an abortionist. Her name,’ the prelate looked at his notes, ‘is Sister Paola’.

When Nicola asked what was the attitude of the cardinal, the prelate looked forbearingly at the ceiling.

Cardinal Amandi’s appearance was a shock. When Nicola arrived, he was staring at a blank wall and, when asked how he was, merely waved a limp hand. His Vicar-General, a friendly, shrewd-eyed man, whispered that, to avoid scandal, he had been doing his best to keep people away. ‘He speaks only to his cat.’

Nicola remembered the creature: a white pedigree Persian with paw pads the colour of camellias and enormous amber eyes. It had been a gift from an Eastern patriarch and the cardinal’s cassock was often veined with its long hairs.

‘He says,’ murmured the Vicar General behind his hand, ‘that it, like himself, shows its wisdom by hiding under his hat!’ He pointed to a chair on which the cardinal’s biretta lay rakishly aslant. Beneath it, a frilly, frivolous tail emerged with the impropriety of an ostrich plume. ‘Also,’ the Vicar General sounded weary, ‘that many red hats cover less brains! All this started after he returned from a visit to Lourdes and received a letter from the Holy Father.’

Nicola sighed. ‘A reprimand?’ he guessed. ‘For trying to restrain the visionary?’

The other man nodded. ‘His Holiness told him to stop meddling. That’s why he’s refusing to do anything about our latest trouble.’

‘Get me a spoon,’ Amandi directed and pointed to a silver one lying on a side table. Nicola handed it to him and the cardinal began to wave it about as though conducting an imaginary orchestra. The Vicar General closed exasperated eyes.

And now the cat, attracted by the patch of reflected sunlight which the spoon was bouncing on the floor, jumped down and began to chase it. The cardinal had a practised hand. A puppeteer without glove or
strings, he made the creature curl and uncurl, then leap, spin and roll on its spine, as the light haloing its head enticed it this way and that.