Marcinkus stared at him with hate in his eyes.
‘I knew that sooner or later you’d throw that in my face. I admitted the error when it happened.’
‘And why don’t you admit it now?’
‘The Holy Father is popular all over the world. The most popular pope in history. Who do you think makes that possible? Who finances your trips, the luxury in which you live?’ he asked angrily.
‘The faithful,’ Wojtyla replied.
‘Don’t make me laugh,’ Marcinkus joked with a sour smile. ‘It’s thanks to people like me who wisely administer the goods of the Church over the centuries. The Holy Father wouldn’t exist without me. I’m the true pope of all this. And if you intend to prosecute me, something can always happen,’ he threatened.
The pope walked around the desk and picked up the piece of paper with the seal. He sighed deeply.
‘Effective immediately, the archbishop is removed from all the functions that occupy the Holy See. He will return to his archdiocese, from which he will not return again.’
‘You can’t do that to me,’ he shouted.
Wojtyla ignored his tone.
‘You’ll be taken by helicopter directly to the Fiumicino airport, where you’ll continue on a flight that will take you to the United States.’
‘You’re playing with fire.’
‘The press will be told of your voluntary retirement because of fatigue and homesickness. It’s my wish that this case be closed immediately without scandal. The proof will be deposited in the Secret Archives of the Vatican without more investigation. If this decision doesn’t please you, I’ll be happy to hand you over to the Italian authorities, who are eager to charge you. The choice is yours,’ Wojtyla concluded peremptorily, turning his back.
Marcinkus let himself sink in the chair. Tears of rage welled up in his eyes and ran down his face. He sat there for several minutes, breathing in the oppressive silence. He had come to Rome in 1950 and had never left. Living in the United States was unthinkable, like a prison sentence. He decided to get up and walk toward the office door. He opened it and remained without moving, defeated, old.
Karol Wojtyla looked out at the plaza, hidden by the white curtains.
‘Ten o’clock tonight at the heliport. Don’t be late.’
66
Istanbul had as much movement at night as during the day. Life swirled through the streets and alleys, allied to the nocturnal mysteries that fill this enigmatic city.
The group led by the old man with the cane, whose handle formed the gold head of a lion, mingled with the thousands of tourists who crammed the tourist spots. An old man with a married couple and another man — they could easily pass for close family members, if it was in their interest to create that image.
They passed through the Hippodrome, whose obelisks still survived, although the amphitheater that seated a hundred thousand people had to be imagined. They went into Hagia Sophia, the cathedral converted into a mosque and then into a museum, where emperors and sultans were once crowned. It served Greeks and Ottomans, survived Constantinople, and remained a symbol of the city and Turkey. They dined at Cati in Beyogolu, at a table next to a window with views of the Bosporus. They began with corbasi, yogurt soup, with vegetables; then, as the main course, had hunkar begendili kofte, meatballs with eggplant puree, mixed with cheese, and a variety of kebabs.
Raul and Elizabeth had many questions, but didn’t ask any. They were astonished at the way JC delighted over the food he was serving.
‘Turkish Palace cooking,’ he said. ‘Delicious.’
The couple scarcely tasted the food. They picked at it more out of courtesy and sympathy than hunger, even though they hadn’t eaten well for days.
The cripple maintained his cool pose. He ate, but not like a savage. He was always the same. Polite, silent, he ate to survive, no other reason, and looked around from time to time to assure himself of the old man’s safety. That was his only preoccupation; everything else was secondary.
‘What time is our meeting?’ the old man asked him.
‘He’ll call us as soon as he arrives.’
‘Tell him to come here.’
‘All right.’
The cripple got up and left with his cell phone in his hand. A private call away from the chaos of the restaurant.
‘Who’s coming?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘Another friend?’ Raul added.
‘An ally… I hope,’ he replied, not paying attention, bringing a meatball to his mouth. ‘Hmm… delicious.’
‘How can you live like this?’ Elizabeth asked, scandalized.
‘How do you mean, my dear?’
‘Like this.’ She didn’t know how to explain it. ‘Walking a tightrope.’
‘Don’t be fooled, Mrs. Monteiro. Politicians are the ones who live on a tightrope. Presidents, prime ministers, senators, representatives walk a tightrope. They know that living at the will of the electorate is thankless. No matter what they do the public is never grateful. That’s why they sell themselves to corporations and lobbies. In short, they take care of their future. People like you also walk a tightrope. I don’t.’
‘Do you call this a life of peace and quiet?’ Raul put in.
‘What more could you desire? Dining at the finest restaurant in Istanbul after a guided tour. Tomorrow, who knows, Amsterdam, Bangkok.’
‘Don’t be funny,’ Raul exclaimed.
JC drank a little visne suyu, cherry juice, to moisten his words. ‘My life was very quiet until last year. Your friend is the one who stirred things up. Don’t forget it.’
‘I know that perfectly well. That’s another story.’
‘In any case this year reminded me of my adventurous youth. I’m old. I’ve been old a long time. My appearance doesn’t deceive. I was retired in my villa, making decisions over the telephone, with a glass of whisky in hand, reading the Corriere and La Repubblica, to keep up with the stupidities they publish. For the first time in fifteen years, I feel alive. For someone whose active military, political, and clandestine life began in the Second World War and continued to the end of the Cold War, to be physically inactive is frustrating. Now I’m in the field again, and no price can be put on that.’
He’s human, after all, the Monteiros thought.
‘As I see it, this is all a game for you,’ Raul commented.
‘In a way. A game with grave consequences for whoever loses.’
‘Things aren’t black or white, isn’t that so?’ Elizabeth asked, more depressed every minute. Time was passing, and she urgently needed news about her daughter.
‘Things are black and white, but not for the common person,’ he said, taking a little more puree.
‘This pope has secrets, too?’ Raul inquired.
‘Who doesn’t?’ He wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin. ‘As your Messiah said, He who is without sin… Not even the saints that the Holy Mother Church canonizes are without stains. No one passes through life without sin… even if only in thought. It’s not evil. It’s intrinsic to being human.’
‘That scares me,’ Elizabeth confessed.
‘There’s a Brazilian writer, whose name I don’t remember, who said something about this. If we could look through the doors of our neighbors, no one would shake hands with anyone. That’s more or less so.’
‘Nelson Rodrigues,’ Raul added.
‘That’s right,’ JC confirmed, remembering the name of the author.
‘Do you have any news of my daughter?’ Raul asked a question that hadn’t crossed Elizabeth’s lips for a long time.
‘Not yet.’
‘Is that really true? You’re not trying to avoid telling us bad news in any way?’ Her worry as a mother loosened her tongue.
‘Look me in the eye.’ He waited for her to do it. ‘Do you believe I’d have any problem telling you that the worst has happened to your daughter, if that were the case? After all that you’ve heard?’
Elizabeth lowered her eyes. Bad news travels fast; good news at a snail’s pace.