The Road to Gandolfo (25 page)

“What the hell is that?” Sam could hardly speak.

“ ‘The feasts were brought among the unbelieving infidels and no longer were they unbelieving.’ ”

“Does that mean we eat?”

“It does. The god of all khans has ordered his favorite: boiled testicle of camel braised with the stomach of desert rat.”

“
Aiyeeeeee!
” Devereaux blanched and leaped up from the floor of the eagle’s tent. The spring had been sprung; there was nothing left but self-annihilation. The end was at hand; the forces of destruction called for his finish in an explosion of violence.

So be it. He would meet it swiftly. Surely. Without thought, only blinding fury. He ran around the pillows and over the rugs and out onto the sand. It was sundown; his end would come with the orange sun descending over the desert horizon.

Boiled testicles! Stomach of rat!

“Madge!
Madge!
”

If he could only reach her! She could bring back news of his demise to his mother and Aaron Pinkus. Let them know he died bravely.

“
Madge!
Where are you?!”

When the words came he felt stirrings of bewilderment that were contradictory to the last thoughts of those who were about to perish.

“Hi, sweetie! Come on over. Look what I’ve got
here
. It’s a
gas
!”

Sam turned, his ankles deep in sand, his caked lips trembling. Fifty yards away a group of Arabs were gathered around the front of the helicopter, all peering into the pilot’s cabin.

In a trance of confusion, Devereaux staggered toward the bewildering sight. The Arabs squealed and grumbled but let him through. He gripped the ledge of the window and peered inside. It was easy; the aircraft had sunk into the dune upon landing.

It was not his eyes, however, that were assaulted. It was his ears.

There was a continuous, deafening crackle of static from the helicopter’s panel that filled the small enclosure like jack hammers in a wind tunnel. Madge was in the copilot’s seat, her blouse neckline lowered another several buttons.

Then he heard the words riding through the static and Sam froze, his hunger and exhaustion replaced momentarily by a kind of hypnotic terror.

“Midgey! Midgey, girl! You still there?”

“Yes, Mac, still here. It’s just Sam. He’s finished with what’s-his-name.”

“
Goddamn!
How is he?”

“Hungry. He’s a very hungry boy,” said Madge, expertly manipulating switches and dials on the radio panel.

“There’ll be plenty of time for rations later. An army travels on its stomach, but first it’s got to evacuate the fire zone! Before it gets its ass shot off! Does he have the papers?”

“They’re sticking out of his pocket—–”

“He’s a fine young attorney, that boy! He’ll go far! Now,
get out of there, Midgey. Get him to Dar el Beida and on that plane for Zermatt. Confirm, and over and out!”

“Roger—confirm, Mac. Out.” Madge whipped through several dozen switches as though she were a computer programmer. She turned her face to Devereaux and beamed. “You’re going to have a nice rest, Sam. Mac says you really deserve a vacation.”

“Who? Where … ?”

“Zermatt, sweetie. It’s in Switzerland.”

Cardinal Ignatio Quartze, his thin, aristocratic features bespeaking generations of
noblesse oblige
, stormed across the rugs of his Vatican office to the large balconied window overlooking St. Peter’s Square. He spoke in fury, his lips compressed in anger, his nasal voice searing like the screech of a bullet.

“The Bombalini peasant goes too far! I tell you he is a disgrace to the college which—God help us all—elevated him!”

The cardinal’s audience was a plump, boyish-looking priest who sat, as languorously as his habit allowed, in a purple velvet chair in the center of the room. His pink cheeks and pursed, thick lips bespoke, perhaps, a less aristocratic background than his superior but not less a love of luxury. His speech was more a purr than a voice.

“He was and remains only a compromise, Cardinal. You were assured his health would not permit an extended reign.”

“Every
day
is an extension beyond endurance!”

“He has certain … humilities that serve us. He has quieted much hostile press. The people look upon him warmly; our worldwide contributions are nearly as high as they were with Roncalli.”

“Please! Not that name! What good is a treasury that expands and contracts like a thousand concertinas because the Holy See subsidizes everything he can put his fat peasant hands on! And we don’t need a friendly press. Division is far better to solidify our own! Nobody understands.”

“Oh, but I do, Cardinal. I really do—–”

“Did you see him today?” continued Quartze as if the
priest had not spoken. “He openly humiliated me! In audience! He questioned my African allocations.”

“A patently obvious ploy to appease that terrible black man. He’s forever complaining.”

“And afterward he tells jokes—
jokes
, mind you—to the Vatican guard! And waddles into the museum crowds and eats an ice—
eats
an
ice
, mind you—offered by some Sicilian brood mare! Next he’ll drop lira in the men’s room and all the toilet seats will be stolen! Such indignities! What he does to the bones of St. Peter! They will turn to dust!”

“It cannot be very long, my dear Cardinal.”

“Long enough! He’ll deplete the treasury and fill the Curia with wild-eyed radicals!”

“You are the next pontiff. The negative reactions of the broad middle hierarchy support you. They are silent, but resentments run deep.”

The cardinal paused; his mouth curved slightly downward as he stared out into the square, his jaw jutted forward below the dark hollows of his deep-set eyes. “I do believe we have the delegates. Ronaldo, get me the plans for my villa at San Vincente. It calms my nerves to study them.”

“Of course,” said the priest, rising from the purple chair. “You must remain calm. And when summer comes you will be rid of the Bombalini peasant. He will stay at Castel Gandolfo for at least six weeks.”

“The
plans
, Ronaldo! I’m very upset. Yet in the midst of chaos, I remain the most controlled man in the Vatican—–The plans, you transvestite!” screamed the cardinal.

The moment the papal aide with the ever present clipboard left the room, Pope Francesco I got out of the elevated, high-backed, white velvet chair (a repository that would have frightened Saint Sebastian) and sat next to the lady from
Viva Gourmet
on the couch. He was struck immediately by the beauty of her voice; it was warm and lilting. Very lovely. It befitted such a healthy looking woman.

The aide had suggested that the interview be limited to twenty minutes. The pontiff had suggested that it should
end when concluded. The lady journalist had reddened slightly with embarrassment, so Giovanni put her at ease by switching to English and asking her if she thought there was a market for clipboards with crucifixes painted on the undersides. She had laughed while the aide, who did not understand English, stood by the door, the clipboard clutched to his breast like a plastic stigmata.

The aide would have to be replaced, thought the pope. He was another young prelate seduced by the pretensions of Ignatio Quartze. The cardinal was too obvious; he was moving his charges into the papal apartments before the papal funeral was arranged. But Francesco had made up his mind. The Church was not going to be left in the pontifical hands of Ignatio Quartze. To begin with, they held the chalice at Mass as though wringing the neck of a chicken.

The interview with
Viva Gourmet
’s Lillian von Schnabe was productive and pleasant. Giovanni expounded on two of his favorite subjects: that good, substantial meals could be created from inexpensive stock and flavored with simple, spiced sauces; and that in these difficult days of high prices it was a mark of distinction—to say nothing of Christian brotherhood—to share one’s table with one’s neighbor.

Mrs. von Schnabe saw immediately what he was trying to communicate. “Is this a form of ‘the loaves and the fishes,’ Your Holiness?”

“Let us say He was not preaching to the wealthier sections of Nazareth. A number of His miracles were based in sound psychological principles, my dear. I open my basket of fruit, you open your basket of pasta; we have fruit
and
pasta. The simple addition alone gives variety. Variety we rightfully equate with more rather than less.”

“And the diet’s improved,” agreed Lillian, nodding.

“
Perfetto
. You see? Two
principios:
reduce the cost and share the supply.”

“That sounds almost socialistic, though, doesn’t it?”

“When stomachs are empty and prices are high, labels are foolish. In the
Borsa Valori
—the stock exchange, you call it—they are not prone to open baskets; they sell them. It is fitting that they do so, considering the nature of their
labors. But I do not address such people. They eat at the Grand Hotel, on each other’s expense accounts. I believe that, too, is a derivative of the ‘loaves and fishes’ principle.”

They discussed numerous recipes based on the village dishes from the pope’s past. Giovanni could see that the nice lady with the lovely voice was impressed. He had done his nutritional homework; carbohydrates, proteins, starch, calories, iron, and all kinds of vitamins were to be found in his recipes.

Lillian filled half a notebook, writing as rapidly as the pope spoke, stopping him occasionally to clarify a word or a phrase. After nearly an hour had passed, she paused and asked a question Giovanni did not understand.

“What about your own
personal
requirements, Your Holiness? Are there any restrictions or specific necessities called for in the meals brought to you?”

“
Che cosa?
What do you mean?”

“We are what we eat, you know.”

“I sincerely hope not. I am in my seventh decade, my dear. An excess of onion or olive or pimento.… But such information is not needed for your article. People my age quite naturally gravitate to and regulate their personal needs in this area.”

Lillian put her pencil down. “I didn’t mean to pry, but you’re so fascinating a man—and I
am
considered one of the best nutritional experts in America. I suppose I just wanted to approve of the way your kitchen treats you.”

Ahh
, thought Giovanni Bombalini,
how many years it has been since a lovely person of the opposite gender has been concerned about him! He could not remember, it was so long ago! Pinched-faced nuns and officious nurses, yes. But so attractive a lady, with such a lovely voice
.…

“Well, my dear, these outrageous doctors
do
insist on certain foods.…”

Lillian picked up her pencil.

And they talked for another fifteen minutes.

At the end of which time there was a knock on the door of the papal apartment. Francesco rose from the couch and returned to the elevated, high-backed, white velvet chair
that belonged in one of those Cinecitta biblical spectaculars.

An agitated Cardinal Ignatio Quartze stood in the doorway, a handkerchief dabbing his aquiline nose, noises emerging from his throat. “I am sorry to interrupt, Holy Father,” he said in both Italian and high dudgeon, giving the word “holy” a rather profane but eminently courteous connotation, “but I’ve just been informed that Your Holiness has seen fit to disagree with my instructions regarding the convocation of the Bankers for Christ.”

“ ‘Disagree’ is too strong a term. I merely suggested that the convocation committee reconsider. To occupy the Sistine Chapel for two days at the height of the spring tourist season seems unwarranted.”

“If you will forgive my contrary observation, the Sistine is the most favored
and
frequented site we possess. All convocations of merit convene there.”

“Thus denying thousands every year of its beauty. I’m not sure there’s merit in that.”

“We are
not
an amusement park, Pope Francesco.” Strange noises continued to come from the area of the cardinal’s throat; he blew his nose with aristocratic vigor.

“I sometimes wonder,” replied Giovanni. “We sell such a diversity of baubles everywhere. Did you know there’s a stand featuring rhinestone rosary beads?”

“
Please
, Your Holiness. The Bankers for Christ. They
expect
the Sistine. We are finalizing extremely important matters.”

“Yes, my dear Cardinal, I received the memorandum. ‘Accruals for Jesus’ is somewhat labored, I think, but I suppose these are certain tax advantages.” Giovanni’s attention was suddenly drawn to Lillian. She had closed her notebook politely but firmly; she was anxious to leave.
Ahh
, it had been such a pleasant interlude! And Quartze was not going to spoil it; he could wait. He addressed the attractive lady with the lovely voice. In English, of course; a language only barely understood by Quartze. “How rude we are. Do forgive us. The agitated cardinal with the propellers in his nasal passages has once again found my judgments lacking.”

“Then I would have to say
his
judgment left much to be desired,” said Lillian, rising from the couch and placing her notebook in her purse. She looked into Giovanni’s eyes and spoke softly with feeling. “I suppose this isn’t a proper thing to say but since I’m not Catholic, I’ll say it anyway. You’re one of the most attractive men I’ve ever met. I hope you’re not offended.”

Giovanni Bombalini, Pope Francesco, Vicar of Christ felt the stirrings of memories of fifty years ago. And they were good. In a profoundly sacred sense—for which he was grateful. “And you, my dear, possess an honesty—however erroneous your present opinion—that walks in the warm light of God.”