God's Favorite (10 page)

No, whatever psychological chemistry was operating in Father Jorge's brain, it was obvious that guilt was heavily in the mix. The Nuncio did not believe that his secretary had some unconfessed sin in his past that was so great that it had pushed him into the priesthood. Sin, in the Nuncio's opinion, rarely worked
like that. Perhaps Jorge was vulnerable to life's disparities in a way that most of us are not. His sensitive nature, combined with the legacy of being orphaned and raised by nuns, explained the whole matter so convincingly that the Nuncio only occasionally wondered about it.

And yet he found himself pondering these questions once again as Manuelito drove him toward Amador, where he was meeting Jorge for dinner. They had planned to ride out together, but the young man had to attend to some pressing business at Our Lady of Fatima and promised to arrive by bus. The necessities of that parish were taking up most of Father Jorge's time, leaving the Nuncio shorthanded and a little jealous, even though he had personally arranged it. The whole scene of the simple parish priest working with the poor made him feel inadequate and nonplussed.

But as soon as he passed through the gates of Fort Clayton and entered the Canal Zone, the Nuncio perceptibly relaxed. Although he hated giving in to the calculated ambience of the place, which reminded him of what he supposed an American theme park must be like, he had to admit that this obsession with order, sanitation, and niceness had a calming effect. Here the door closed on poverty and hopelessness. There was an utter absence of litter, or for that matter, honking. No blaring radios, no smoke-spewing buses. No beggars or prostitutes. Here, with the majestic Panama Canal Administration Building set like a Greek temple on a hilltop, ablaze in the sunset, and a McDonald's on the perfect little nonchaotic American street below, and American high schoolers walking casually on the spotless sidewalks like actors on a movie set, schoolbooks clasped to their chests, the contrast with the city outside the gates seemed pointed and almost mean.

Past the McDonald's was a charming train station where passengers could wait for a train that no longer ran. The railroad was the first part of the zone to be turned over to the Panamanians under the Carter-Torrijos treaties. For more than a century trains
had traversed the country several times a day, like clockwork, until Panamanians assumed control. Now weeds grew through the tracks, and the locomotives rusted in place. By the year 2000 the canal itself would be theirs, a prospect that filled most Panamanians with dread. The Nuncio had never met a people so cynical about their capacity for self-government (and this included an intimate acquaintance with the Italians).

Most of the military bases in the zone still belonged to the Americans. The Nuncio could never understand why there had to be so many of them—thirteen altogether. Those he could remember were Fort Clayton, Fort Gulick, Howard Air Force Base, Rodman Naval Station, and until the treaty, Fort Amador. Together they formed the U.S. Southern Command—or SOUTHCOM, one of those conglomerated military terms that the Nuncio abominated. SOUTHCOM sprawled across Quarry Heights, the volcanic rise where the officers lived. The highest point of Quarry Heights was Ancón Hill, an abrupt little peak that loomed over Chorrillo and the old city. An immense Panamanian flag flew from the mast on its crest, the surface of the hill having reverted to national control. The Americans, however, still operated a vast cave inside Ancón known as the Tunnel. Here the world's most sensitive listening devices monitored conversations all over Central America. When the Nuncio first arrived in Panama, he had had no idea of the sophistication of the equipment or the prurient interest the Americans had in hearing what everybody had to say. Now he simply assumed that they heard everything, the way God is supposed to hear prayers.

Parallel to the railroad tracks was the canal itself, which was merely a dredged-out industrial river until it reached the Miraflores Locks at the foot of Fort Clayton. There the ships ascended the first of those gravity-mocking elevators that caused the waterway to rise above the natural riverbed and made the ships appear to hover giddily above the landscape. They entered the canal from the Caribbean port of Colón, floated over the mountains, and dropped into the Pacific beside Panama City.
The Nuncio rode past the port, which was strongly lit by mercury lights and the slanting rays of the setting sun. There was a long line of lorries parked beside the warehouses, and beyond them were the crowded wharves and the huge cranes cutting tangents across the orange horizon. Manuelito drove so slowly that the workers who were finishing their shift walked casually across the road in front of the embassy Toyota, laughing and smoking, some of them casting curious looks at the yellow-and-white Vatican flag and the Nuncio inside.

Just past the port lay the Amador peninsula. The military base there was now home to the Panama Defense Forces. As he rode through the base, the Nuncio mused that the clerical life was a near cousin to the military one. He, too, had spent most of his life in the company of men, living in comparatively spartan quarters not much different from the barracks that these young soldiers occupied. He wondered how his rank would translate into military terms. He supposed that as an archbishop he would be the equivalent of a colonel—at least he hoped he wasn't lower on the chain of command than that.

The peninsula narrowed into a spit of land not much wider than the palm-lined causeway. The canal lay on one side and the Bay of Panama on the other. Absorbing this inspiring view were several of the choicest houses in the entire country. Once they had been the quarters for senior American military personnel. Now that Fort Amador had reverted to the PDF, the houses served as homes for Carlos Lehder, the Ochoa brothers, and Pablo Escobar, the fugitive leaders of the Medellín drug cartel. More than a hundred other Colombian lawyers, accountants, bodyguards, and personal trainers were living in the best hotels in the country. The cartel's business was now run from the lobby of the Caesar Park Marriott. Since Noriega took power, Panama had become a safe haven for the worst people in the world.

There was a little outdoor bistro at the tip of Amador that the Nuncio favored, more for the view than the food. He sat under one of the Cinzano umbrellas, which lent a nostalgic Roman ambience
to the spot. An endless wavering line of running lights of the great ships, queued to enter the canal, stretched far out into the Pacific. Closer at hand, the catalpa trees were filling up with chattering parakeets, which were settling in for the night. Across the bay, the wicked city was getting dressed for the evening.

Father Jorge finally appeared, trailing apologies.

“Perhaps we should go ahead and order,” the Nuncio said. “I can recommend the grilled corvina, only because there is so little that can go wrong with such a dish. With a taste of garlic and lime, it's quite reliable.”

“I'm not at all hungry.”

The Nuncio looked at his secretary with open exasperation. He had been looking forward to this dinner all day. Moreover, the young man's asceticism was becoming annoying. “Look at you, your watchband is sliding nearly to your elbow,” the Nuncio chided. “You do yourself no merit by starving yourself.”

“I'm not starving, I'm just not hungry. But I'll watch you eat.”

“At least get a bowl of bouillabaisse,” the Nuncio pleaded. “Otherwise, I'll feel like a glutton on display.”

When the waiter came, the Nuncio ordered the
pescado alcaparrado,
a striped bass in caper sauce. “I recall that it's prepared with minced carrots and something odd that I can't bring to mind.”

“Turnips,” said the waiter.

“Ah,” the Nuncio said appreciatively. “The turnips are a surprise. So then you must have something a little bitter to balance the flavors.”

“It's garnished with almonds.”

“Of course,” the Nuncio said. He sensed Father Jorge's amusement. Well, it was his loss that he didn't appreciate the soulfulness of food. The Nuncio never felt more in tune with the glory of creation than he did at the dinner table.

Father Jorge obediently ordered the bouillabaisse.

“So, what pressing business at the parish detained you?” the Nuncio inquired testily. Part of his displeasure was that he
missed seeing Father Jorge, who had gotten so involved with the parish, and he simply felt neglected. He was surprised when the priest averted his eyes.

“In fact, I was not at the parish,” Father Jorge confessed.

“Really? I thought you said you were tied up in Chorrillo.”

“That was a lie,” Father Jorge said.

The Nuncio stared at him speechlessly.

“I was told not to let anyone know where I was,” Father Jorge said, stammering in embarrassment. “I hope you'll forgive me. I can't allow myself to deceive you.”

The waiter poured a sip of wine, and the Nuncio pretended to taste it.

“A few citizens have formed a group,” Father Jorge said in a low voice when the waiter had gone. “We are studying nonviolent ways to resist the tyranny. Right now it's important that we meet in secret.”

The Nuncio was so alarmed by this news that for a moment he could not manage a response. Father Jorge had never expressed a single political opinion that the Nuncio was aware of, and now he was engaging in an activity of surpassing dangerousness. The Nuncio tugged nervously at his tangled eyebrows. “There is nothing secret in this country,” he warned.

“I'm sure you are right, and it is my belief that we should be open about our goals and methods. We are talking about a peaceful transition to democracy—marches and strikes, that sort of thing, not some kind of armed insurrection.”

“Still, if such actions are even being discussed, then you are signing your death sentence,” said the Nuncio. “Moreover, I should warn you that the Church also condemns involvement in such movements. I'm sure I don't have to remind you of its abhorrence of liberation theology and its determination to remove the clergy from politics. You will not find support from your superiors if you pursue this course of action.”

“You are my superior.”

“I am your superior, yes, in both age and rank, if not in wisdom.
And whatever you think of me, I hope that you do not believe I am an enemy of justice. It is a laudable pursuit, God knows. I am certainly not an apologist for the status quo.”

“Silence is also a statement, Monseñor,” Father Jorge said evenly.

Never in their relationship had the younger man questioned the Nuncio's judgment or authority. Certainly his secretary knew how perilous his actions might prove to be. Central America was a graveyard for idealists. Even if General Noriega spared him, his promising career in the Church would be ruined. Unwelcome memories of priests whose careers he personally had crushed flooded in on the Nuncio. Like Father Jorge, they had been earnest, pious men, committed but naive. Those who survived the repression they fought against were destroyed by the institution they served. One day a man would come, a man like the Nuncio—canny and hard—and the ideals of the priest would mean nothing to him.

“You must be careful that you don't stir up too much wrath,” the Nuncio warned. “I would not presume to lecture you on morality. But on tactics—this is an area of expertise that I hope you would grant me. To navigate these difficult waters, you need to have a clear plan and a knowledge of what lies ahead. You can't go sailing into the storm heedless of the consequences.”

“Tactics are important. But more important is public pressure. The people should be marching in the streets, not strategizing in the coffeehouses. Noriega will not be outmaneuvered. He must be overthrown.”

“If that is what you are talking about, then I beg you to disband immediately,” the Nuncio pleaded. “Be certain that you have already been marked by Noriega's men. We should find you another post out of the country as quickly as possible.”

“That may be your choice, Monseñor, but if it is my decision, I prefer to stay.”

The Nuncio held his chilled wineglass in both hands. How much easier it is, he thought bitterly, to be young and defiant
than to be old and cautious. The rebel who is fighting for a change is so much more appealing than the old man who only wants to survive. “There was a young priest I met when I first arrived in this country,” he said. “Father Gallego—he held a small parish in the countryside. Probably you would not think of him as a radical. I know he did not think of himself that way. He attempted only a few simple, decent things, such as organizing peasants for housing and setting up agricultural cooperatives. But somehow he offended a relative of Torrijos. He was arrested and then disappeared. Of course, you've heard this story hundreds of times in Salvador, but it was unusual in Panama. No one thought that he had committed such a great offense. Later, we heard he was beaten into a coma, then taken into a helicopter over the Pacific. The name of the soldier who pushed him out of the helicopter was Noriega. For many of us, it was the first time we had heard that name.”

“I know about his capacity for violence,” said Father Jorge. “I promise you I am not that naive.”

“I didn't say that. The point about poor Father Gallego is that he did not become the martyr he deserved to be, either to the people of Panama or to the Church. He became a joke. People laughed about why, if he was so holy, he couldn't fly. His reputed killer became the ruler of the country, the confidant of American presidents. Even the pope receives him. So what is the lesson one draws from this?”

“If you are suggesting that the righteous suffer and evil is rewarded—well, this does not come as a surprise to me,” said Father Jorge. “Our actions still must be based on what we know is right. One only hopes that God will judge us more fairly.”

The Nuncio saw the hopelessness of changing his secretary's mind. “Well, then, allow me to become involved,” he said.