The Judas Cloth (58 page)

Perhaps it was partly due to light-headedness after his sleepless night, but Nicola’s jaunt in the Poitevins’ balloon brought a joy such as he remembered only from dreams, and he felt his anxieties melt as the couple took him soaring through sunshot clouds and circular rainbows and over a Bologna which looked as one might imagine it being seen by God. Neat within its pretty walls, it gleamed, after a baptism of rain, like an illuminated miniature of one of the towns of old Christendom, garlanded in Faith’s dicta and vivid with gold leaf. A God looking down at this might suppose it to be easier than it was for His servants to take the long view. Faith, He would imagine, could sustain them.

And in this instance, He would, as it turned out, be right, for there was no move from the Mérodiani, who had other fish to fry. In less than a twinkling – as seen from Eternity – an amazing thing was to happen. On an October day in 1865, Monsignor de Mérode would be sacked quite suddenly and obliged to remove himself bag and baggage from the Arms Ministry on the piazza
della Pilotta. He had, said the usual gossips, been caught stealing funds. No. His subordinates had! Well, anyway, they must have done something reprehensible. No smoke without fire and the Mérodiani, a Curia-within-the-Curia, had been insufferably overweening. Having the Police and the Justice Ministry within their
ranks, they had thought themselves untouchable. Well, they’d learned otherwise. Gaining in colour, the news spread through Rome.

Nicola heard it with a grateful relief. In its way, it was a miracle as unlooked for as the balloon’s return, but his notion of the miraculous was increasingly leery. He was not willing to waste faith on untenable outposts of his creed. Perhaps he had simply grown up? He preferred to think of the once conniving sky as empty. No God looked down with a balloonist’s eye or replaced whatever kind, tutelary face had bent over us in the cradle. Faith was vulnerable and Nicola’s instinctive way of protecting it was to refine it to something interior and abstract which offered less of a target to disillusion.

To his surprise, the abbess agreed. He went to see her in trepidation, fearing that she would want to publicise Sister Paola’s miracle by printing up cards and calendars and maybe even finding some spring whose waters could be bottled. But no. None of that was on her mind. Sister Paola, she said, would not want it either. Though she knew nothing about winds blowing differently on different levels, the abbess had, it appeared, enough experience of truth’s shifts to choose caution over enthusiasm. And sure enough, when news came of the wretched chaplain’s having absconded with the
miraculée,
this caution proved wise. Perhaps she had intuited something? The convent was, it seemed, a web of intuition and Sister Paola, though still in retreat, sent Nicola a message.

‘To me? What had you told her of me?’

‘Nothing,’ said the abbess, ‘though Miss Ella will have described you to her as the devil’s advocate, if not the devil himself. Sister Paola, however, is not easily taken in and has startling perceptions, so listen. She says you need not worry about Miss Ella’s venom but must forgive her because she is unhappy and her revenge will fail. Don’t ask me what she means. It may become clear to yourself. We find that detachment from personal appetites hones the perceptions. Sister Paola, for instance, is an excellent dowser. She found a well here with a hazel rod. We’re not calling that a miracle, as you may imagine. We’d be laughed out of the province, where quite a few people can dowse and tell cards and set bones and prophesy with or without almanacs. That’s why we don’t believe in making claims. After all, as you, his advocate, must know, Monsignore, more magic comes from the devil than from God. God is remote but the devil is close and uses cures and tricks to make people trust him. Her other message to you is that you and she will meet soon.’

And, sure enough, the revenge failed, for Monsignori Pila and
Matteucci soon lost their places, being cast down from their seats by Cardinal Antonelli who, while refraining from gloating or triumphing over Monsignor de Mérode, of whom he spoke everywhere with generous courtesy, ruthlessly crushed former minions of his own who had gone to work for the former Arms Minister and made sure that they would never again get their treacherous hands on the levers of power. Pila and Matteucci, who had cooked up false charges against his friend, Fausti, could, like the fraudulent in Dante’s hell, expect the worst penalties.

In time, details came out about Mérode’s fall. He had not, as vulgar gossips claimed, misappropriated funds. However, he had been highhanded and drawn out monies for his men without bothering to discover whether the Treasury could afford them. Then he had turned the Council of Ministers into a bear-garden, insulted people and even been disrespectful to the Pope. This misconduct had, Nicola noticed with interest, increased markedly after the Diotallevi told Mérode of his responsibility for injustices and fraud. Perhaps, in an expiatory spirit, he had drawn punishment down on his own head?

The Pope’s mode of dealing with him was swift. Mérode was dismissed ‘for health reasons’ and given a hundred
scudi
a month while awaiting a new appointment. But, some days later, as scandalous calumnies were being bandied about, Pius asked the sacked minister to walk down the Corso with him so as to show that he, Pius, did not believe them. It was Mérode himself who reported his retort on being told that this was the reason for their walk: ‘But Your Holiness,’ said he, ‘is seen every day in the company of every sort of rogue!’ He was as arrogant as ever and refused to accept an archbishopric
in
partibus,
saying, ‘I didn’t become a priest for such gewgaws.’

Flavio admired him. ‘He’s been driven mad,’ he claimed, ‘like some hero in a Greek tragedy. Like Orestes! Trying to get anything done in Rome could do that. Think of his situation. He brought his old commanding officer, General de la Moricière, here to try and create an army in the teeth of a hostile bureaucracy, lack of money, subterfuges, affable lies, etcetera, etcetera. Mérode felt both impotent and
responsible
. I’m surprised he didn’t kill anyone! Someone will yet!’

But by the time Flavio said this the Papal Loan was an acknowledged fiasco and he, understandably, was sour.

It was the eve of Cesco’s twenty-first birthday and Prospero and Nicola were house guests. Neighbours dropped by and dogs and children were under foot. Smiling with indiscriminate goodwill, the count kept saying, ‘I remember …’

‘What, father?’ Prospero found the old man aged.

‘How
he
came here!’ Airy syllables were released like soap bubbles: ‘
Il
Pa-pa
!’
The old man’s memories were irridescent, for Dottor Pasolini’s medications kept him in a state of bliss. ‘Cesco does too, don’t you, Cesco?’

Cesco and a girl were leafing through an album bright with verses copied in the colours of the
Carbonari
: flame-red, coal-black and
smoky-blue
. Blue was for hope. Marking his place, Cesco’s finger nestled among riffled pages. ‘The Pope’s visit,’ he mocked, ‘is our great pride. One day we’ll erect a plaque!’

The girl laughed. She was so young that she had only just put up her hair. Martelli, her uncle, was now a deputy in the Italian parliament.

‘A breeder,’ thought Prospero, noticing her hips. He felt the unease which was one reason why he rarely came. Another was work. As a consultor for the Congregation of the Index, he had accepted a press of it and brought some with him in a locked leather box.

‘Monsignore!’ Daniele offered sweet wine.

Prospero smiled at Daniele who had once, eight years ago, put him out of the house or anyway refused him admittance. ‘You mustn’t come in,’ he had told Prospero, who had just arrived from Rome. ‘It would revive things! I’m afraid he’s demented.’

This was six months after Anna’s death, and Prospero had had no answer to his letters. After the funeral his father had been too ill to see him. Daniele turned up his palms helplessly.

‘What about the boy?’

‘
I
look after him.’

But the place smelled. The dog’s ear was frilled with ticks and Daniele’s eyes looked as though images of domestic degeneracy were imprinted on them. Did the doctor come? Prospero had asked. Yes, he was told, regularly. So, still covered with travelling dust, he got back into his carriage and drove off. Later, at his insistence, the doctor arranged for Cesco to be sent to the Scolopian Fathers’ boarding school.

Meanwhile, Prospero made his way by taking a degree
in
utroque
jure
and working in a number of capacities – voting prelate, ponent, regent, auditor for various tribunals – and did not try to see his father who had a bee in his bonnet and blamed him for Anna’s death in childbirth.

Then, one day in 1857, Monsignor de Mérode told him that the Pope wanted Prospero with him on a tour of the Romagna. It was, though nobody knew this, to be the last of such touring, for two years later the province would be annexed by Piedmont.

‘He wants to see your father.’

In May the Pope set off, and, in June, Prospero joined the papal party at the Legatine Villa outside Bologna from whence side trips would be made, among them one to the Villa Chiara. Greying wisteria blooms drooped on every wall.

‘My father will torment His Holiness with requests for reforms.’

‘They’ll be refused,’ said Mérode. ‘At most he may lift the state of siege – and maybe not that. This is a disloyal province. Skinflint and unruly! They say this visit is beggaring them. I say think of the loaves and fishes.’ Mérode’s long arms waved. He had a windmill’s silhouette: quixotic and thin in his shaft of black cassock. He had one bad eye.

Prospero asked whether, on its way here, the papal party had stayed in the Pope’s family home in Senigallia. Yes, said the chamberlain, and described the house as a large four-storey box full of apartments for hangers-on and poor relations. ‘Tribal and down-at-heel, with coats of arms stuck all over it. The Mastai-Ferretti turn out to be quite small fry. It seems that a not-so-remote ancestor made his living selling combs. Locals were quick to tell such things.’

‘Did he know?’

‘We protect him some of the time.’ Mérode grinned. His rough tongue was notorious.

The coming meeting filled Prospero with apprehension. Though his actions had been those of a dutiful son, his father’s suspicion of him had grounds. Prospero had not wished him well in his marriage.

‘We shall intercede for each other,’ His Holiness had told him when planning the visit. Doubtless, he aimed to catch his old political mentor on the wrong foot. The peace-making between the Stanga father and son could be a useful red herring. Pius had a flair for such wiles and liked to inspire diffidence before dispelling it.

For example, at the start of this audience, he had seemed so immersed in a book that Prospero, having made the three ritual genuflections and kissed the ring abstractedly presented to him, had to remain on his knees for over a minute, until Pius, as though only now realising who was here, snapped the book to, waved away ceremony, and ruffled his kneeling visitor’s hair.

It was Mérode who had – impishly – reminded Mastai of Prospero’s existence. Though not yet Arms Minister, the chamberlain’s presence in the papal household was like a gundog’s in a roomful of cats. His father had been in the running to be Belgium’s king; his motto was ‘honour, not honours’; and, though devoted to this ‘pope-king’ whose ancestor had peddled combs, he reserved his respect for the Pope.

On the appointed day, Prospero reached his father’s villa in a separate carriage from the Pope and waited while the old men reviewed the incompatibility of their hopes. They were of an age: sixty-five, but relegation to provincial idleness had eroded Count Stanga’s vigour, whereas Pius, though often ailing and despaired of, had the stamina of power. When Prospero joined them, the Pope displayed his charm. He throve on conviviality and it was known that his ministers had often to retract concessions made in its glow. Now, however, it was he who extracted one from the Stangas. Father and son embraced and the embrace received a papal blessing. He, alas, could not reciprocate, said Mastai, handing back the list of requests which the count had drawn up. Being answerable to God, he was not free to say ‘yes’. Then he beamed the full force of his personality on them. How describe this? Manliness plus godliness? Belief in his mandate? Yes, both of these plus a rush of energy which Prospero, later, would not be able to explain. He heard the Pope’s words as clues through which a fuller meaning seemed spasmodically to flash. A radiance transfigured them, as flames will a dish of – say
–
flambé
kidneys which seconds later will be no more than singed meat. In the same way the Pope’s words could, in retrospect, seem flat. But then, was a pained flatness perhaps Mastai’s message?

‘The world, old friend,’ he lamented, ‘is not so much divided between
conservatives and the other sort as between men who do and do not believe what they say.’

Following him down dim corridors, they saw light catch the nap of his soutane and halo his silhouette. The count, as they emerged, held his rejected petition with a tender triumph, and it was clear to Prospero that he believed he had received satisfaction. Tomorrow, he would have trouble explaining this to lucid friends.

Outside, a convoy of carriages awaited and the household was on its knees on the gravel as the white sleeve semaphored a blessing. Then the convoy shook itself into motion and departed with snorts, equine tremors and a whirr of reedy wheels.

Prospero and his father walked back indoors.

‘I challenged him,’ said the count whom age was thinning like an old broom. ‘“Trust your people, Holiness,” I said, “take a risk!” Maybe he’ll think about it.’ For a moment his eyes brightened. But then he startled Prospero by asking: ‘Do I know you? Forgive me. My mind slips. It’s why I prefer not to meet many people any more. It can be embarrassing.’

Now, seven more years had passed. ‘
Il
Pa-pa
!’
The count, repeating his trick, released imaginary soap bubbles from playful lips.

More than bubbles had collapsed since that visit of 1857, and a prime casualty had been peace at the papal court, where some put their trust in the French Emperor’s garrison, and others could not see why Louis Napoleon sent men to fight Liberalism in Mexico while, here in Rome, he let it threaten the head of Christendom.

Even at the Villa Chiara such matters had their impact, having caused Prospero and Cardinal Amandi to quarrel. This was why His Eminence would not be attending Cesco’s party. The disappointed family held Prospero to blame, and discomfort lent momentum to a skirmish over the guest list.

On arriving, he had asked, ‘Aren’t you inviting the parish priest?’ But several guests, including the girl whom Cesco was to marry, belonged to families with whom the
parocco
would not wish to break bread. A number of convents had been expropriated. Deputies who had voted for the measures were excommunicated; the girl’s uncle was one of these and the
parocco
had denounced him from the pulpit. Well …

Prospero let the matter drop. However, just before the birthday, a guest fell ill, leaving the party at thirteen, an unlucky number. There
had been thirteen diners at the Last Supper. Thirteen at table heralded a death, and with the reputation the villa already had … Prospero, reluctantly, picked up the allusion. Deaths came in threes and a girl thinking of marrying Cesco might fear to be the third Contessa Stanga to die young.

‘I’ll stay in my room.’

‘No, not you!’

Prospero was an ornament to the family. So was Nicola. Guests would be impressed by their purple and would have been more so by the cardinal’s red
zucchetto.
Being to blame for its absence, Prospero felt unable to protest when his relatives combined disrespect for the cloth with a profane pride in it. When asked: ‘Is it too late to invite the
parocco
?’,
he meekly agreed to present the last-minute invitation.

But the
parocco
was less susceptible to Roman charm than might have been hoped. Just last week, he complained, Liberals had thrown a maggoty, dead dog into his well and he had suffered other
disgusti
which made it seem wiser to stand on principle. He spoke under correction, being a mere rural priest.

Prospero asked, ‘Should we not leave the door open for the lost sheep?’

The
parocco
said that, around here, Monsignore, what came in through open doors were wolves. ‘It’s money they’re after,’ he said. ‘That’s why they closed the covents and sold up what was in them. Money to pay the soldiers who expropriate us. That’s what it comes down to. Robbery! I had two sisters in a convent that’s been sold. Now they’re like lost souls!’

Prospero, imagining his sisters and the trouble he was having with them, felt ashamed of his errand.

‘Don’t come,’ he blurted.

The
parocco
looked down at his hands. ‘I know how to hold my tongue,’ he said with dignity. ‘I took the liberty of telling Your Excellency how things are here. But I wouldn’t do so at Your Excellency’s father’s table.’

‘Please call me Monsignore. I’m not an Excellency.’

‘Do you think I should come, Monsignore?’

By now Prospero had doubts. Was the priest sure it was
Liberals
who threw the dog in his well? What about brigands? But the priest said, ‘Brigands don’t waste time like that. They chop your fingers off if you denounce them. Else they leave you alone.’

‘Well, you’ll be welcome if you’d care to honour us. But I must be
frank with you. A man whom you denounced will be there. I won’t persuade you to come against your own judgment.’

‘May I think about it?’ asked the priest. ‘Say my mass tomorrow morning, then decide?’

Prospero agreed, accepted a cup of something which tasted of poverty – ‘coffee’ made from roasted barley? – and walked back to the villa.

‘Is he coming?’ asked Cesco.

Prospero had to say he didn’t know.

‘
Merda
,’
cried Cesco rowdily. ‘Someone else has dropped out now, so if he
does
come we’ll be thirteen! You couldn’t discourage him, I suppose?’ Wheedling charmingly, Cesco looked, Prospero feared, very like himself.

‘No.’

‘Well, if he’d just
say
now, we could still ask the Orsini to bring their tutor. Tomorrow may be too late.’

Keeping his temper, Prospero said that could not be helped.

At dinner there was a tiff about salt. There was too much in the soup, said Cesco. Could not the cook use less? ‘After all,’ he told his father, ‘I can’t take it out, but you could put more in!’

But his father said that the cook had been following Prospero’s mother’s recipe.

Cesco poured wine into his bowl. ‘Well, Papa, when I get married you’ll have to put up with
my
wife’s recipes! Tit for tat!’

‘Ha! So will you!’

The two laughed and Prospero saw that what upset them was the strain of his presence. Whenever he came here, he grew stiff and became a strain to himself.

Retiring early, he locked his door before taking out the keys to a box he had brought with him. He opened it, selected a pamphlet from the stack inside and settled down to read. Outside his window, crickets kept up their churr which, he had been told, was made by a rubbing of the limbs. Their monotony irritated him. It was like that of the hack writers whose products he must assess so as to decide whether to recommend fulminating an anathema against them. A distasteful duty. Akin to sewage control. Last March he had seen foreigners look amused by the book-burning taking place on the steps of San Carlo al Corso as part of the Lenten ceremonies. Braziers had been erected and the burning was done by priests and gendarmes: an unfortunate conjunction. Seeing it
with strangers’ eyes, he had wished that the books had simply been ignored. There would be a risk, of course. He did see this. Sighing, he read: