God's Favorite (34 page)

Tony's eyes narrowed. He liked the Nuncio, but he knew that behind those silken vestments there was a skilled manipulator whose cleverly chosen words could prod a man along a path he might not have chosen. “I'm a creature of the jungle, Monseñor. We'll see who is more suited to combat in the tropics.”

“I sincerely hope it doesn't come to that!”

“You know what Machiavelli said about the Prince? War should be his only profession.”

“Ah, Machiavelli,” the Nuncio said in disgust. “I used to read him in seminary. Under the bedsheets. The pornographer of power.”

Tony laughed. “Yes—‘the pornographer of power.' I like that! It's very good. Of course, you and I may disagree on the merits of pornography, but on the subject of power, I believe we have a common understanding. And so I am surprised that you condemn Machiavelli.”

“I don't see what you get from him.”

“Mainly, that the secret of success is to imitate the great ones of the past.”

“That's useful, yes,” said the Nuncio. “And who, General, do you model your own life after?”

“Omar Torrijos and Jesus of Nazareth.”

The Nuncio arched his brow. “Once again, I see we have something in common.”

“You priests simply don't understand that Jesus wasn't just a religious figure. He was profoundly political.”

“The-brown-skinned-Third-Worlder-standing-against-the-imperial-power sort of thing?”

“Exactly.”

The Nuncio sniffed. “The Marxists held a similar view.”

“And you don't approve of it.”

“I'm reluctant to see Jesus depicted as a political leader. He told us himself that his kingdom was not of this world.”

“Revisionism,” said Tony. “Look at his actual life—it was an unrelenting struggle against Roman occupation. The Romans were not satisfied until he was crucified.”

“In your case, I don't think it needs to go that far,” said the Nuncio as he handed the General the latest American proposal. He tried to keep a neutral tone in his voice, but it was difficult,
given the significance of the breakthrough. As the General read the document, the Nuncio uncorked the sherry and poured them each a handsome dollop.

The first few pages were reworkings of previous agreements, with new language designed to make the General's abdication appear to be more like a routine retirement package, permitting nominal health benefits and pension contributions. Tony paused over this section, then turned to the key clause, in which the Americans agreed to drop all charges in exchange for his immediate departure from Panama. He read it through quickly and set it aside.

“The principle remains unacceptable,” said Tony. “They want me to leave power. This is the one point I cannot concede.”

“But what else are we negotiating?” the Nuncio asked, unable to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “I tell you in all seriousness, this offer is the last one that the Americans will put on the table. If you do not accept it, you are inviting a devastating response. We are talking not just about pension contributions but about your very existence.”

Tony sipped the sherry and weighed the Nuncio's words. “Tell me, Monseñor,” he said after a moment, “would there have been a Christian church if Jesus had not been martyred?”

The Nuncio stared at him, dumbfounded. “Well, other great religions have been established by leaders who lived long lives and died natural deaths,” he said cautiously. “Muhammad and Gautama Buddha did not have to be sacrificed in order for their doctrines to be spread. The difference is that Christ's death is meaningful. He suffered for the sins of all mankind. Through his sacrifice, we are redeemed. That's the basic Christian message, and it is sealed in his blood.”

“I would like to believe that. But to me, the crucifixion is a favor God gave to Jesus because he loved him above all others. Without becoming a martyr, Jesus would have been just another Old Testament prophet, like Hosea or Joshua. But because God loved him more, he allowed Jesus to be sacrificed. By this action
a whole new religion arose that worships the death of a single man.” Tony selected one of the biscuits from the tray. “Death is a high price to pay, but I would say that Jesus got a good bargain, wouldn't you?”

“Is that your object—to be worshiped?”

“Of course, this is the fundamental appeal of politics, Monseñor. I don't deny it. One wants to be loved.” Tony looked past the Nuncio to a dreamy portrait of Jesus on the library wall. Jesus was wearing a gleaming blue robe and was placing his hand on the head of a leper. There was a halo above his golden hair. “Do you really think Jesus was so pretty? I see all these calendars and stained-glass paintings, and he looks gorgeous. But is it historically accurate?”

“Well, we really don't know what Jesus looked like,” the Nuncio replied. “Isaiah, of course, prophesied that the Christ would be despised by all men, he would be without comeliness, his complexion marred—”

“I knew it!”

“Of course, we can only speculate,” the Nuncio quickly added. This whole conversation left him deeply unsettled.

L
OYALTY
D
AY MARKED
the anniversary of Torrijos's return to Panama in 1969 following a failed coup attempt. In fact, it was a tribute to Noriega more than Torrijos, since it was Tony who had thwarted the overthrow. He had arranged to smuggle Torrijos back into the country by a private plane, which landed in a jungle airstrip in Chiriquí that was lit by the headlights of jeeps and trucks. By this daring action, Tony had made himself the only man that Omar Torrijos really trusted.

Just like Moisés Giroldi.

That was the danger in letting people get too close, Tony thought as he finished tying his necktie and adjusting his ski-slope hat. He could not allow himself to make that mistake again. He was in a country now without maps, one in which his friends were more dangerous than his enemies.

The troops were awaiting his inspection in the courtyard. Tony stuck his pearl-handled pistol into his holster and took a final look in the mirror. He snapped off a salute to himself, then marched out to see his men.

There they were, a thousand men frozen at attention. It was
like being in a museum by himself, walking among statues. He looked closely into their faces, but they did not blink or return his stare. They looked fixedly into space, frozen by duty and terror. Since the coup attempt, Tony had ordered the executions of more than seventy officers.

As closely as he looked, however, he could not see into their souls. He could not see if loyalty was really there.

He put a finger on the cheek of a handsome corporal. The man's skin flinched.

“You need a shave, Corporal,” said Tony.

“Sir, yes, sir!”

Tony smiled. He might have some fun with this one. But some other time. He turned to the garrison commander, a small, wiry officer with a narrow face and a rodent's mustache. “Colonel Macías, assemble the five ranking officers. We are going across the street to visit an old friend.”

F
ATHER
J
ORGE WALKED
in a daze through Chorrillo, led by forces he did not want to acknowledge but could no longer resist. How could he have been so naive?” He asked himself furiously. The more he considered his behavior in the last year, the more he concluded that he was a failure as a priest—a dangerous one at that. When Father Jorge was in this black mood, there was no end to his self-loathing. He placed himself in the witness seat and prosecuted his actions remorselessly. He had fooled himself into believing that he could help the people of Panama through political action, but so far the protests against Noriega had led only to repression, murder, and economic collapse. People were poorer and more desperate than ever before—thanks, in part, to Father Jorge! He had joined the movement and then betrayed it—completely! Naming every name! And yet in the morally reversed world he was living in, he had become a hero because of his “resistance”! He was far too great a coward to admit his betrayal. Even worse, he had fooled himself into believing that he
understood God's will. He had persuaded Giroldi that God would not demand violence. But what did he know of God's intentions?

His despair filled him with defiance and a longing for annihilation. And every step took him closer to the object of his buried obsession. The landmarks that he passed—the Marlboro Man, the graffiti fence, the New and Slightly Used Tires store, were warning signs that he was drawing nearer to his own moral destruction. In his shame he could think only of the promise of consolation offered in the apartment of Gloria Sánchez.

Her face registered surprise and pleasure. “I'm just getting Renata fitted for her Communion dress,” she said as she invited the priest in. Renata was standing on a stool looking angelic as a Chinese seamstress hemmed her white organdy dress.

“Oh, Father, it's you!” Renata said delightedly.

“Be still, child,” the seamstress fussed as she expertly looped the thread around the bottom of the dress.

In one corner of the room there was a small Christmas tree decorated with colorful paper cutouts and garlands of aluminum foil. An Advent calendar filled with candies hung on the wall, marking five days till the blessed event. The small room smelled of freshly made bread pudding. Father Jorge patted Renata on the head. She had a red Christmas bow in her hair, and she looked at him so adoringly that he felt deeply abashed. Strangely, everyone accepted his presence as being completely natural, as if this moment of heightened religious feeling had somehow summoned him up, rather than his own loneliness and sexual longing.

“Do you know your catechism, Renata?” he asked dutifully.

She laughed charmingly. “You know I do, Father.”

“It's true, you are a clever young lady.”

She hugged him. How ironic that she called him “Father,” when he would never know the true meaning of that word! A wave of recognition washed over him, presenting him with a vision of himself surrounded by the sounds and smells of children—his children—and the comforts of physical love. Ordinary
happiness could have been mine, he realized—not for the first time, but never so intensely as now. The Church often called itself a family, but it was really more like a multinational company, with colleagues and bosses rather than siblings and parents. The clergy were tied together not by blood and familial love but by an idea. All of a sudden he knew with absolute heartbreaking clarity the joy that would have been his if he had not made such a radical choice of profession. He wondered if he had ever really acknowledged, until now, the depth of his sacrifice. And for what? To serve a God he didn't understand!

Within minutes, the Chinese seamstress had finished her task and taken the new dress away to be pressed. Gloria sent Renata to the convent school to help package groceries for the poor. Despite her protests that she wanted to stay, Renata skipped away singing a carol.

“Do you want some pudding, Father? It's still hot.”

She came and sat beside him on the futon. One bite of the rum-soaked pudding and his eyes filled with tears.

Gloria took his hand. “If there's something wrong, you can tell me.” Then she laughed and said, “I've never actually received a confession from a priest.”

Father Jorge smiled ruefully. “I'm afraid that I am not much of a priest.”

“You've been very good to us, Father.”

He looked at her and then looked away. “I wish, for once, that you wouldn't call me ‘Father.' ”

Gloria was silent, but she seemed to be reading his thoughts. He felt the uncertainty in her hand. Although he was ashamed, he was also desperate for her to simply understand. He wished that words did not have to be exchanged. His longing was so great and so unlimited that to explain it would be like trying to capture the air in buckets.

“I guess everybody has times they want to be someone else,” Gloria finally said. “It's okay, but it is a little hard for me to think of you as an ordinary man.”

“Just because I'm a priest doesn't mean I am not weak and filled with natural human desires. In fact, I am even weaker than other men, but until recently I have been able to hide this knowledge from myself. To be ordinary—this is what I want more than anything in the world! That would be a promotion from the life I now live. It is such a farce! People think of me as some kind of hero or a saint, but I'm a coward and the worst kind of sinner—the kind who does not even allow himself the pleasure of enjoying his sin.”

“But there's nothing wrong with desire, Father.” Gloria stopped herself and said, “Jorge.” Then she giggled.

“Is my name so funny?”

“No, I'm a little nervous,” she admitted.

“Tell me something. What do you desire?”

“I want my children to be safe.”

“That's not the same thing as desire,” said the priest. “God also wants this. When I talk about desire, I mean selfish things, things that you want for yourself that maybe are not right or not deserved.”

Gloria's face emptied and she looked away. “I don't have desires any longer, not the way I used to. Of course, I understand what men want of me, but I don't have the same feelings for them. Physically, I mean. Sometimes I long for a man, but what I really want from him is that he talk to me, that he take me seriously as a person. This thought excites me more than sex. I know that I am not worthy of respect. Men will never want to just talk to me. Let's be truthful, it is not what you came for.”

“I just want to be with you, an ordinary man with an ordinary woman.”

Gloria pushed a lock of hair away from the priest's eyes and studied him for a moment, then she kissed him cautiously on the lips. “I don't want you to break your vows,” she said before he could kiss her back. “It makes me feel like a criminal or something.”