The Night of Rome Page 3

  In the pew where he’d taken a seat, Giardino was conversing animatedly with Malgradi. Who, after a nod of understanding with Sebastiano, moved over to greet him.

  “Mamma mia, what an earache this German . . . This morning I just can’t take him . . . ”

  He raised one hand to his mouth, unable to repress an acid belch.

  “Why is he so excited?”

  “He says that . . . ”

  He belched again. This time he was unable to restrain the blast of hot breath, and it popped the bubble of citron fragrance wafting around Sebastiano’s face.

  “Temistocle, a little self-control, we’re in St. Peter’s!”

  “Sorry, it’s because of the fritters I ate at the party in the club.”

  “What club?”

  “Yesterday evening I inaugurated the Democratic Party club in Parioli. You wouldn’t believe the quantity of pussy. It’s clear that we’ve become the governing party.”

  “So am I going to be able to find out what the mayor has to say?”

  “He says that he’s heard there’s big news.”

  “About what?”

  “Apparently the pope is going to make an announcement.”

  “What, is this pope going to resign, too?”

  “If only God were so kind . . . We’d finally get this Tupamaro out from underfoot.”

  “The Tupamaros were Uruguayan. The pope is Argentine.”

  “Whatever, they’re both still Communists.”

  “Temistocle, you’re seeing Communists in too many places.”

  “That’s why I joined the DP. Come on, let’s go hear what’s going on . . . ”

  Sebastiano nodded. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the hasty step of the late arrival who was just making his way to the front pews of the mother church of Christendom. Jabba, with his hunchbacked posture and pallbearer’s face, formerly the bagman and treasurer of the former majority and the ex-mayor, was oozing with sweat and obsequiousness. Sure, because the right wing had still been included in the coalition. No one had ever dreamed of doing without it. Much less he and Samurai. And not because of the Idea. The Idea was dead, bullshit from the last century. The question was a much simpler one. There were still too many mouths to feed. Too high a risk of finding themselves surrounded and besieged. If they wanted to do business, it was necessary for everyone to have a seat at the table. As the saying goes: One hand washes the other, and both hands wash the face.

  The organ pipes started vibrating with deep bass notes, annihilating the buzz of waiting people. The odor of incense and the voices of the choir announced the pope’s entrance.

  In the name of the Father,

  the Son,

  and the Holy Spirit.

  In the solemnity of his liturgical vestments, Pope Francis brushed for a moment the white woolen pallium wrapped around his shoulders. The sheep on the shoulders of the Shepherd of Souls. Then he made the sign of the cross on his forehead and opened the Book of Holy Scripture.

  “From the Gospel according to Luke . . .

  “A Pharisee invited him to dine with him, and he entered the Pharisee’s house and reclined at table . . . ”

  Sebastiano soberly listened to the words of the pope. But when Francis mentioned loving one’s fellow man, he clutched the seat of the pew with both hands until his knuckles turned white.

  “And forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors. Love your neighbor and you will be loved in return.”

  No one had shown mercy to his father. And after all, what is mercy, anyway? You only show mercy to those you fear. That was the law of men he had learned to understand. And if men were the children of God, then that too must be the law of God.

  Francis bowed before the Book. He brushed it with his lips in a kiss. He gestured for the congregation to be seated. He approached the microphone on the altar.

  “This year, once again, on the eve of the Fourth Sunday of Lent, we have come together to celebrate the penitential liturgy. Confession is a gift from God . . . ”

  Sebastiano’s smartphone vibrated. A text message from Danilo Mariani. With all the mess he’d brought down on himself and others, he still felt like cracking wise.

  “Sure, confession! This guy’s been smoking something! I’m going nowhere without my lawyer. Let’s hear it for Saint Denial!”

  Sebastiano slowly swiveled at the waist, looking behind him for Danilo’s silhouette. He was at the far end of the nave, near the colonnade. Not far from Monsignor Mariano Tempesta.

  Strange, he thought. Why does the bishop seem as if he’s trying not to be seen?

  Francis went on speaking, his arms extended outward slightly, as if trying to clutch close to him those who were listening, unraveling the meaning of the parable of the Pharisee and the prostitute.

  What would he have thought, if he’d had any idea of how little his flock gave a damn about the words he said? His flock, in those solemn moments, was losing all restraint.

  Another vibration. Another text message. Malgradi.

  “Love is fine with me. Judgment though, no, just look at this Tupamaro!”

  Jabba had stirred from his slumber. He typed a text for Malgradi.

  “The sinful woman and the Lord. If I think about that power drill of a brother of yours, I have to laugh. Come on!”

  Malgradi scanned Jabba’s text message and, smiling broadly, decided to take his revenge on Sebastiano.

  “Hey Sebastia’, whose side are you on? With the fat cat Pharisee or with the slut?”

  Sebastiano turned off his cell phone. Malgradi and his people: a filthy crew, but necessary.

  Francis paused, a pause that stretched out. Sebastiano understood.

  Now maybe we’ll find out why you made us get up at dawn today, Your Holiness.

  “Beloved brothers and sisters, I have thought long and hard about how the Church can make it more evident that its chief mission is to bear witness to mercy. This is a journey that begins with a spiritual conversion; and we must all make this journey. That is why I have chosen to announce an extraordinary jubilee that is focused primarily on God’s mercy. This will be a Holy Year of Mercy. We want to live this year in the light of the Lord’s words: ‘Be merciful, even as your Father is merciful.’ And this applies especially to the father confessor! So much mercy! This Holy Year will begin with the upcoming solemnity of the Immaculate Conception and will conclude on November 20, 2016, the Sunday of Our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe, and the living face of the Father’s Mercy. I entrust the logistics and organization of this jubilee to the Pontifical Council for Promoting the New Evangelization, so that it can be set forth as a new step along the journey that the Church is taking in its mission to bring the Gospel of Mercy to one and all.”

  The mayor was excited. Malgradi had finally turned serious, asshole that he was. Even Jabba was now fully awake.

  Well, well, Sebastiano said to himself. How very nice.

  The Jubilee of Mercy.

  Our Jubilee.

  Pontifical Council for Promoting the New Evangelization. Sebastiano furrowed his brow.

  What about Tempesta?

  Amen.

  Francis’s solemn benediction came with the liturgical formula of dismissal.

  The Mass has ended, go in peace.

  The mayor grabbed Malgradi hastily.

  “Come on, Temistocle. Come on! We need to put together a brief press release immediately, for the wire services. I want to be the one who wakes the city up with the news!”

  Malgradi shook his head, holding up his smartphone with a sardonic smile.

  “What is it? What do you want me to look at?”

  “Twitter, Mayor. Twitter.”

  “Well?”

  “The pope. Pope Francis, @Pontifex_it. He already announced the news twenty minutes ago.
”

  “But he was saying Mass . . . ”

  “I’d post a nice selfie right here in the basilica,” his deputy observed sardonically.

  Malgradi shot an ironic glance at Sebastiano, who disengaged without giving it a second thought. He was still nauseated by those irreverent text messages and, what’s more important, he had better things to do. And they were urgent.

  Tempesta was waiting for him in the most out-of-view corner of the nave. Sebastiano walked toward him, gesturing as if to kiss his ring. The monsignor skipped the preliminaries. They wouldn’t be necessary. Both of them knew that.

  “I’m out of the running, Sebastiano. The pope informed me last night that on Monday I’m going to be on a plane to Washington. He’s sending me to the Apostolic Nunciature. More or less a latter-day Saint Helena. So forget about the 2000 Jubilee. This is going to be a horse of a different color. This is a very different pope.”

  “You’re kidding, aren’t you? You know, don’t you, that unless we control that herd of cardinals of the Pontifical Council on the jubilee, nothing doing. We won’t be able to install so much as a park bench. Do you at least know who’s going to be taking your place?”

  The monsignor joined both hands as if in prayer and raised them to his lips.

  “He chose the worst replacement he could have, as far as we’re concerned.”

  “Who?”

  “Officially I will have no successor. Officially. In reality I’ve been informed by a reliable source, let’s say, an intimate source, that my ‘shadow’ successor will be Monsignor Giovanni Daré.”

  “The youngest bishop in Rome? The one who was appointed a few months ago and is at St. John Lateran?”

  “Exactly. A Communist.”

  Here was another one who was obsessed with Communists, thought Sebastiano. As if there were still any of them around . . . Tempesta went on, with a sigh.

  “It’s all the church’s fault, Sebastiano. We’ve become too tolerant. Anyway, don’t waste time on Daré. He’s unapproachable. Or rather: he’s a true convert. The worst kind. He took his vows later in life. They use him for the real Missions Impossible, like cleaning house, moralizing, and all that stuff . . . Oh, by the way, he’s hand in glove with the Community of Sant’Egidio.”

  “Worrisome.”

  “You can say that again. Francis elevated him from the exile to which he’d been relegated under Pope Benedict, some low-end borgata diocese. And now he owes everything to this pope. Unfortunately, the two of them get along famously. They’re on a first-name basis. Why do you think I’m to be shipped off across the ocean? And what’s worse, I have to pretend I’m a personal envoy of Francis, so I can’t even complain.”

  “I never thought the South American could be so pitiless.”

  “He knows how to be ruthless when it comes to redesigning the Curia. I’ll tell you, I’ve even thought of throwing in the towel.”

  “If you tell me you’re giving up on the divine mission, I might believe you. But not on life.”

  Tempesta pulled out from under his cassock a velvet bag that contained a visibly oblong object.

  “Yesterday evening, while going through my things, look what I found. I thought of giving it to you. Maybe you can use it, sooner or later. And anyway, it’s the Year of Mercy.”

  Sebastiano undid the silk cords that fastened the top of the sack. He looked inside. A magnificent silver stiletto with an inlaid handle.

  Tempesta smiled.

  “They called it the Mercy. They used it on the field of battle to administer a quick death to those gravely wounded. Those who couldn’t be transported. To eliminate the excess ballast of disfigured humanity. Of course, only after receiving orders direct from the bishop. To make sure that death was administered in God’s name. To ensure it was . . . merciful. A single blow. Amen.”

  OFFICES OF THE VICARIATE OF ROME. SIX IN THE EVENING.

  Padre Giovanni Daré was afraid.

  Francis had appointed him the sole supervisor of the Jubilee.

  Giovanni had objected, argued, done his best to get out of it.

  “But why me of all people?”

  “Because we need the right shepherd to guard the flock, hermano. A shepherd who knows how to keep the wolves away from the fold.”

  He’d obey, of course.

  But he was afraid.

  Pope Francis had alerted him that he would receive a visit from a young brother. A young priest about age thirty did in fact show up. Don Paolo. Sky-blue eyes, ruddy skin all over, small, fragile looking. Soft as a young girl, Monsignor Daré decided; he was well aware of certain rumors that circulated. Impossible not to be if you worked in those Vatican palaces. And yet, his unquestionable physical beauty caught him by surprise, when he saw him come toward him where he stood at the front entrance to the Vicariate.

  “I’ve counted the minutes, Your Eminence . . . ”

  “Let’s not exaggerate. Don Giovanni will do fine. Come with me.”

  They walked along an airy corridor. The young man trotted along next to him. He emanated a faint wake of flowery scent.

  “His Holiness asked me to look after you. Apparently I’m supposed to . . . protect you. I don’t know from what, but you’ll be the one to tell me that.”

  “Your Excellency . . . ”

  “Don Giovanni.”

  “Don Giovanni, I need to confess.”

  Sebastiano Laurenti was sitting in the waiting room. He’d arrived a few minutes early. It had just been a few hours since the announcement of the jubilee, and already the big maneuvers were under way in Rome. From the haste with which the appointment had been arranged, Giovanni understood that the guy must be a person of a certain importance. In any case, he had good connections. Let’s see what we have here, he told himself, while the other person, a wiry young man who gave the impression of being perfectly comfortable in his fine tailored suit, leapt to his feet and prepared to kiss the prelate’s ring. Annoyed, Giovanni reached out and gripped the young man’s hand, giving it a vigorous shake. Young Laurenti smiled and returned the handshake. Well, if nothing else, the young man was receptive.

  The bishop threw open the doors to his office and gestured for him to enter before him.

  “We’ll see each other later,” he said, turning to say goodbye to Don Paolo.

  The young priest stood there, ashen and pale, in the center of the waiting room, swaying on his legs, a lost expression on his face.

  “You understand? Wait for me here.”

  Don Paolo pirouetted and, without a word, hurried off. Giovanni stood, for a moment on the threshold, perplexed. The sudden turmoil in the young priest’s face could only be connected to the presence of young Laurenti. Those two knew each other. And was Don Paolo . . . was Don Paolo possibly afraid of that guy?

  He walked into the office. Laurenti had remained standing, in a respectful pose.

  “Make yourself comfortable. Shall I have an espresso brought up for you, or would you rather have something stronger?”

  “Thank you kindly, I’m fine.”

  They sat down on opposite ends of a large mahogany desk.

  “You asked to see me. I’m all ears.”

  Sebastiano took a moment to size up that man; he saw a mild-mannered but determined expression. He wore civilian clothing, sober shades of gray, a turtleneck sweater, an athletic physique. Earlier that afternoon, he’d done some research, spoken to some reliable sources. The judgements ranged from ethical to inflexible, with hints and references to an unsettling propensity for mysticism. Another pure soul in a reform church led by the purest of all popes.

  A serious pain in the ass.

  Even though history abounds with mystics perfectly capable of understanding more wordly languages.

  In any case, he needed to get his hooks into the bishop immediately. This mess with Mariani offered an
excellent pretext.

  “My company provides consulting for large-scale projects and many other endeavors. In the context of the work I do, I work with one of the oldest and most respected companies in Rome, Mariani Construction . . . Mariani renovated the apartments of the former Vatican Cardinal Secretary of State. It was responsible for the recent reinforcement and consolidation of Bernini’s colonnade. It worked on the rebuilding of the Papal Offices on Piazza di Spagna . . . ”

  Talking about the Mariani company was like talking about Roman History. And doing so in the headquarters of those who had made Rome great, for the last couple of millennia, anyway. Sebastiano started getting worked up. The setting was getting him stoked. The bishop’s icy calm, as he sat there with his eyes resting levelly on the other man, toying with a cheap rollerball pen, laid down a clear challenge. Sebastiano turned back into the boy from Prati he’d once been, educated at the finest boarding schools, and for a fleeting moment he reappropriated his old identity, long since deleted by life on the street. He forgot the blood and the violence. He rose to the heights to which he’d originally been destined and which had even once belonged to him, if for ever so brief a moment. Without fear, and with great pride.