“You have a good memory,” Tibor said. “Mélanie was not kind when told of the pope’s reaction. ‘This secret ought to give pleasure to the pope,’ she said, ‘a pope should love to suffer.’ ”
Michener recalled Church decrees issued at the time that commanded the faithful to refrain from discussing La Salette in any form on threat of sanctions. “Father Tibor, La Salette was never given the credence of Fatima.”
“Because the original texts of the seers’ messages are gone. All we have is speculation. There’s been no discussion of the subject because the church forbade it. Right after the apparition, Maxim said that the announcement the Virgin told them would be fortunate for some, unfortunate for others. Lucia uttered those same words seventy years later at Fatima. ‘Good for some. For others bad.’ ” The priest drained his mug. He seemed to enjoy alcohol. “Maxim and Lucia were both right. Good for some, bad for others. It is time the Madonna’s words not be ignored.”
“What are you saying?” Michener asked, frustrated.
“At Fatima heaven’s desires were made perfectly clear. I haven’t read the La Salette secret, but I can well imagine what it says.”
Michener was sick of riddles, but decided to let this old priest have his say. “I’m aware of what the Virgin said at Fatima in the second secret, about the consecration of Russia and what would happen if that wasn’t done. I agree, that’s a specific instruction—”
“Yet no pope,” Tibor said, “ever performed the consecration until John Paul II. All the bishops of the world, in conjunction with Rome, never consecrated Russia until 1984. And look what happened from 1917 to 1984. Communism flourished. Millions died. Romania was raped and pillaged by monsters. What did the Virgin say? The good will be martyred, the Holy Father will have much to suffer, various nations will be annihilated. All because popes chose their own course instead of heaven’s.” The anger was clear, no attempt being made to conceal it. “Yet within six years of the consecration, communism fell.” Tibor massaged his brow. “Never once has Rome formally recognized a Marian apparition. The most it will ever do is deem the occurrence worthy of assent. The Church refuses to accept that visionaries have anything important to say.”
“But that’s only prudent,” Michener said.
“How so? The Church acknowledges that the Virgin appeared, encourages the faithful to believe in the event, then discredits whatever the seers say? You don’t see a contradiction?”
Michener did not answer.
“Reason it out,” Tibor said. “Since 1870 and the Vatican I council, the pope has been deemed infallible when he speaks of doctrine. What do you believe would happen to that concept if the words of a simple peasant child were made more important?”
Michener had never viewed the issue that way before.
“The teaching authority of the Church would end,” Tibor said. “The faithful would turn somewhere else for guidance. Rome would cease to be the center. And that could never be allowed to happen. The Curia survives, no matter what. That’s always been the case.”
“But, Father Tibor,” Katerina said, “the secrets from Fatima are precise on places, dates, and times. They talk about Russia and popes by name. They speak of papal assassinations. Isn’t the Church just being cautious? These so-called secrets are so different from the gospels that each could be deemed suspicious.”
“A good point. We humans have a tendency to ignore that which we do not agree with. But maybe heaven thought more specific instruction was needed. Those details you speak about.”
Michener could see the agitation on Tibor’s face and the nervousness in the hands that wrapped the empty beer stein. A few moments of strained silence passed, then the old man slouched forward and motioned to the envelope.
“Tell the Holy Father to do as the Madonna said. Not to argue or ignore it, just do as she said.” The voice was flat and emotionless. “If not, tell him that he and I will soon be in heaven, and I expect him to take all the blame.”
TWENTY
10:00 P.M.
Michener and Katerina stepped off the metro train and made their way out of the subway station into a frosty night. The former Romanian royal palace, its battered stone façade awash in a sodium vapor glow, stood before them. The Pia¸ta Revolu¸tiei fanned out in all directions, the damp cobbles dotted with people bundled in heavy wool coats. Traffic crawled by on the streets beyond. The cold air stained his throat with a taste of carbon.
He watched Katerina as she studied the plaza. Her eyes settled on the old communist headquarters, a Stalinist monolith, and he saw her focus on the building’s balcony.
“That was where Ceau¸sescu made his speech that night.” She pointed off toward the north. “I stood over there. It was something. That pompous ass just stood there in the lights and proclaimed himself loved by all.” The building loomed dark, apparently no longer important enough to be illuminated. “Television cameras sent the speech all over the country. He was so proud of himself until we all started chanting, ‘Timi¸soara, Timi¸soara.’ ”
He knew about Timi¸soara, a town in western Romania where a lone priest had finally spoke out against Ceau¸sescu. When the government-controlled Reformed Orthodox Church removed him, riots broke out across the country. Six days later the square before him erupted in violence.
“You should have seen Ceau¸sescu’s face, Colin. It was his indecision, that moment of shock, that we took as a call to act. We broke through the police lines and . . . there was no turning back.” Her voice lowered. “The tanks eventually came, then the fire hoses, then bullets. I lost many friends that night.”
He stood with his hands stuffed in his coat pockets and watched his breath evaporate before his eyes, letting her remember, knowing she was proud of what she’d done. He was, too.
“It’s good to have you back,” he said.
She turned toward him. A few other couples strolled the square arm in arm. “I’ve missed you, Colin.”
He’d read once that in everyone’s life there was somebody who touched a spot so deep, so precious, that the mind always retreated, in time of need, to that cherished place, seeking comfort within memories that never seemed to disappoint. Katerina was that for him. And why the Church, or his God, couldn’t provide the same satisfaction was troubling.
She inched close. “What Father Tibor said, about doing as the Madonna said. What did he mean?”
“I wish I knew.”
“You could learn.”
He knew what she meant and withdrew from his pocket the envelope that contained Father Tibor’s response. “I can’t open it. You know that.”
“Why not? We can find another envelope. Clement would never know.”
He’d succumbed to enough dishonesty for one day by reading Clement’s first note. “I would know.” He knew how hollow that denial sounded, but he slipped the envelope back in his pocket.
“Clement created a loyal servant,” Katerina said. “I’ll give the old bird that.”
“He’s my pope. I owe him respect.”
Her lips and cheeks twisted into a look he’d seen before. “Is your life to be in the service of popes? What of you, Colin Michener?”
He’d wondered the same thing many times over the past few years. What of him? Was a cardinal’s hat to be the extent of his life? Doing little more than basking in the prestige of a scarlet robe? Men like Father Tibor were doing what priests were meant to do. He felt again the caress of the children from earlier, and smelled the stench of their despair.
A surge of guilt swept through him.
“I want you to know, Colin, I won’t mention a word of this to anyone.”