Acts of Faith (53 page)

“That’s a pity,” Tim commented.

“Indeed, Your Grace.” Hardt grinned cynically. “The city planners thought of everything except the people.” With a glance at Tim he added, “Sounds a little like the Vatican, doesn’t it?”

It was more than half an hour before they turned off the highway down an unpaved road into a sprawling agglomeration of hovels. Some of the structures were of corrugated steel, others of cinder blocks, no doubt borrowed from various city building sites. From the roof of each dwelling, tall TV aerials reached desperately into the evening sky.

The street—if one could call it that—was even narrower and bumpier than the road. Hardt was perpetually sounding his horn to chase chickens and children out of his path.

Hardt’s home was somewhat grander than the others. Even from the outside Tim could hear the electricity generator sputtering and could smell its pungent black exhaust. Though he was nearly twice Tim’s age, Hardt bounded easily from the Land Rover onto the ground and rushed around to help his guest dismount.

“That’s all right,” Tim said good-humoredly, “I can manage without breaking a leg.”

“I know, Dom Timóteo. But I was concerned about the
vinho
!”

At this moment a dark, barefoot boy of about ten, in
shorts and sleeveless undershirt, came rushing up to them shouting, “Papa, Papa!”

Hardt reached down and picked the lad up into his arms, showing him proudly to Timothy.

“This is my son, Alberto.”

Somehow in the dusky light of the squalid
favela
Hardt’s flagrant violation of priestly celibacy did not seem relevant.

Tim glanced around, wondering how human beings could tolerate such conditions, but all he could say was, “This is quite a place.”

“Yes. I think after this, Hell must look like Miami Beach. Do you realize there are …”

Suddenly, they heard a woman’s voice call out.

“Stop your sermons, Ernesto. He’s our guest.”

Tim turned to find a young woman in her early thirties whose smile was accentuated by gleaming black hair and dark skin.

“Also, please forgive his lack of social graces,” she implored her visitor lightheartedly. “I’m afraid a Franciscan education doesn’t include how to introduce your woman.” She held out her hand and said, “I’m Isabella. I hope you’re not too jet-lagged to enjoy the evening.”

“Thank you,” Tim replied cordially, totally enchanted by this woman who was surely young enough to be Hardt’s daughter.

Indeed, the old man seemed to be able to read his mind.

“I suppose you’re thinking how a decrepit
velho
like me came to win such a young gazelle.”

Isabella smiled at Tim. “Don’t indulge him. That’s just a sneaky way of boasting about his machismo. We met as good Brazilian Catholics should—on a picket line. I was reading Law at the university.”

Hardt blithely concluded the anecdote. “And Isabella took pity on a poor bachelor who didn’t know the truth of Proverbs 31, that a good woman is more precious than rubies.”

Tim knew the verse and immediately quoted St. Jerome’s Latin:

“Mulierem fortem quis inveniet.”

This pleased Hardt immensely.

“What a pleasure to hear a Catholic quoting Scripture,” he said mischievously. “They usually confine themselves to quoting other Catholics.”

He looked squarely at Tim with his clear gray eyes, hoping to elicit a smile. At last, he did.

“So,” he said, ushering his guest into the house, “at least they haven’t sent me a dour one this time. Excuse me, Dom Timóteo, may I offer you a drink? Sherry, perhaps?”

“With pleasure,” Tim replied as Hardt placed a hand on his shoulder, leading him toward the study.

Although lit only by a single flickering lamp, the brick and lumber bookshelves held not only books but the latest journals of theology and biblical criticism.

“Were you at the Greg?” Hardt inquired.

Tim nodded.

“Biblical Institute?”

“No, Canon Law.”

“Ah!” said Hardt, disappointed. “A total waste of time! Will you drink to that?”

“Only if I have the right to appeal,” Tim joked.

“Tonight all you can appeal for is another drink,” Hardt replied, pouring two large glasses of amber liquid from a bottle with no label.

After motioning Tim to sit on a well-worn sofa, Hardt sat behind his desk and listened as the young archbishop posed his first serious question.

“Dom Ernesto, you knew I was coming. You recognized me immediately. I’m surprised you didn’t know my whole
curriculum vitae.
”

“Ah, Timóteo, I hope you won’t be offended, but there’s no dossier on you yet. In fact, I think that’s one of the reasons they chose you. Tell me,” he continued, “why do you think the Vatican has wasted so much effort trying to gag pastors in the middle of the Brazilian jungle, eh?”

“ ‘Gag’ is a bit brutal, Dom Ernesto.”

Hardt leaned over his desk and said with unconcealed anger, “So is ‘penitential silence.’ And that’s how your von Jakob muzzled my dear friend and brother, Leonardo Boff. When you next see His Eminence Cardinal von Jakob, tell him that he’s forgotten the Gospel of John, chapter eight, verse thirty-two.”

Tim immediately quoted, “ ‘And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.’ ”

“Bravo, Dom Timóteo. And do you believe it as well as remember it?”

“Of course,” Tim responded.

“Then why don’t you spend your energies on something worthwhile?”

“Like what?” Tim inquired.

Hardt leaned across the desk and with an expression almost devoid of a smile said sternly, “Like getting my book published in English.”

Before Tim could respond, Isabella poked her head in and said, “It’s ready and it’s hot. You can continue your dialectic at the table.”

The dining room was actually a long, narrow wooden table in the corner of the kitchen, warmed by the same wood-burning stove that was used for cooking. Two children were already seated—the boy Tim had seen and a younger girl who was introduced as Anita.

“I hope you don’t mind eating with the family,” Isabella remarked. “But Ernesto is on the road so much that he rarely gets to see them.”

“Not at all,” Tim assured her. “I enjoy talking to children.”

“Yes,” Hardt agreed. “The younger the better. Before they learn how to lie.”

The host took a massive stewpot from the stove and placed it on a corrugated tin tray at the center of the table. He then sat down, and the rest of the family followed his lead in bowing their heads as he said grace in their dialect. Hardt looked at the “Pope’s Man.”

“Dom Timóteo. You’re our honored guest. Would His Grace like to say his grace?”

The children giggled, suggesting that they knew more English than Tim had supposed.

Tim felt it was time to assert his orthodoxy and took the opportunity to pronounce,
“Benedicat dominus et panem et pietatem nostram, amen.”

With a big ladle, Hardt placed some stew on Tim’s dish, explaining it was called
xinxim de galinha.
As Tim tasted what, despite its exotic name, was more like watered soup, Hardt produced the two green bottles and opened them with gusto.

During the meal, Tim talked to Isabella, whom he found to be well informed on matters both ecclesiastical and secular. She explained that she used her law degree to work three days a week for an agency providing legal aid for the Indians.

The company of these lively children—although he did not speak a word of their dialect—pierced Tim’s heart.

Still, he was wary, knowing he was the focus of a brainwashing exercise, which he was determined to resist.

After dinner the two men retired to the study. Hardt opened the bottom drawer of his desk cabinet and withdrew a treasure—
ginjinha
, a potent liqueur derived from morello cherries. He poured each of them a glass and then sat down.

“Timothy,” Hardt began a new chapter of their dialogue. “Why does von Jakob think that even if I burn my manuscript my ideas will die? You saw that lecture room. There were at least four hundred people taking notes. I even saw a few with tape recorders. Did Jesus give out pamphlets?” he asked, fixing Tim with his piercing gray eyes. “And I don’t mean that disrespectfully. He preached the Word. He preached Mosaic law cast in a new dimension, crowned with love. Hasn’t von Jakob learned from history that you can burn old books—even suppress new ones—but you can’t kill the Word?”

Tim thought for a moment, then asked softly, “Just precisely what do you have against the Catholic Church?”

“I can only tell you what’s wrong in Brasilia, Tim. Have you seen our cathedral? It’s one of the most beautiful churches ever built. It looks like a supplication cast in stone.” He slammed his desk. “But it’s
empty
, Timothy! It’s all ceremony and no substance!

“How could I as a priest celebrate the Eucharist and put a wafer in the mouth of a man who doesn’t have a piece of bread? I ask you, Tim. Do those starving people have to wait for the Messiah to return before they have enough to eat?”

The priest stretched his legs out before him and leaned back in his creaking chair.

“Do you know, Timóteo, half the land in Brazil is owned by only five thousand individuals. Imagine, Tim. Imagine if all the territory between New York and Chicago belonged to fewer people than fill one section of Yankee Stadium. Meanwhile, seventy million of our people suffer from malnutrition, and in Africa—the Ivory Coast, where the people are just as hungry—they’re building a cathedral
twice
the size of St. Peter’s. It’s monstrous!”

Timothy was appalled. “Is that what’s in your book?” he whispered.

“Be serious, this information is in every World Almanac.”

“Then what can you possibly say that would be more outrageous?”

“Nothing, really,” Hardt said quietly. “It’s just that instead of merely printing statistics like an almanac, I pin the blame squarely on the Church.”

Suddenly, Hardt glanced at his watch.

“My God, it’s nearly one. You must be absolutely exhausted from your journey and my tirades.”

“No, not at all,” Tim protested. “But I do think I should be getting back to the hotel.”

“Fine,” said Hardt. “I’d be glad to drive you.”

“No, no. There’s no need. I can—”

“—Call a cab?” His host laughed. “We don’t have a phone. And the next bus leaves at five
A.M.
loaded with laborers. Your only choice is myself as your chauffeur or the couch you’re sitting on, which doubles as a bed. Considering the amount of alcohol I’ve consumed, I suggest you accept the latter.”

“I’ll settle for the couch,” said Tim good-humoredly.

“Fine. Let me get you something to sleep in.” Hardt left the room and quickly reappeared with a track suit in the colors of Brazil’s international soccer team.

“This was the only contribution to our cause by the right wing—Jose Madeiros, the team captain, to be specific,” he explained, adding, “I’m going to auction it, so try and make it look as if nobody slept in it. Can I get you anything else?”

“No,” Timothy said, his lids growing heavy. “I’m fine.”

“Oh, yes,” Hardt said in parting. “What you Americans call the little boys’ room is at the end of the back garden. Or if you feel in a populist mood, the communal latrine is down the road to the right. There’s a flashlight on my desk—you won’t need to ask directions!”

At last Tim was alone. He undressed and carefully folded his clothing on the chair behind the desk. It was now cold, and he was glad that Brazil provided its athletes with the finest Adidas garments.

He looked around the room and suddenly thought to himself, I could find that manuscript in no time. Even if it’s hidden behind the books I could just take that flashlight he so generously offered me and …

He stopped himself. He was a priest, not an undercover agent. Besides, he already knew that he wanted to see the book for selfish reasons. To read it and learn Hardt’s secret thoughts.

T
he first kettle of boiling water next morning was for coffee, the second to enable the men to shave.

“Do you have anything planned for today, Dom Timóteo?” Hardt asked as the two of them shared a single metal mirror.

“Not really. The ambassador gave me an open invitation for dinner but I can skip that. I’m due to celebrate eleven o’clock Mass on Sunday.”

“Well, you can make up your mind about that after this morning,” Hardt commented in a cautionary tone. “What I show you today may make you lose a little fervor.”

No, Tim thought to himself, this glib heretic will not dissuade me from celebrating the Eucharist.

The entire Hardt family once again gathered around the table for a breakfast of fried bananas, and, of course, more coffee.

Young Alberto pointed at Tim’s sweat suit and giggled.

“Futebol, futebol.”

“Sim,”
Tim replied with a grin.
“Te gosta de futebol?”

“
Sim, senhor.
Are you coming to the game today?”

“I don’t know what your father has planned for me today.” Tim turned to his host. “Ernesto?”

“Don’t worry,” the priest said affably. “That’s going to be part of your grand tour of the slums.”

After the two men had helped clear the table, Isabella began to give a squealing Anita a thorough hair-wash in the sink, and they returned to the table for their third cup of coffee—and Hardt’s third cigarette of the day.

“You ought to give up smoking, Dom Ernesto,” Tim suggested. “It can kill you.”

“And you ought to give up celibacy,” the priest retorted. “It’ll kill you even faster.”

“Why do you say that?” Tim asked uncomfortably.

“I saw your face when you were talking to Alberto.” Suddenly, he shifted gears. “And by the way, he’ll be angry as hell with me if I’m late to watch him play. Let’s go.”

Tim rose and followed Hardt out into the muddy streets, sinking into the puddles of dirty water in his highly polished black leather shoes.

As they began their tour of the
favela
, Tim realized how much of the utter squalor of the place had previously been shrouded in darkness. It was noisy, dilapidated, foul-smelling, and unsanitary.