Acts of Faith

  “Well,” Tim responded warily, “He might have pleaded His case with Pontius Pilate in the Roman language. Certainly, Eusebius records a conversation between the Emperor Domitian and some of Jesus’s relatives.”

  “So he does!” cried the old man with relish, “Historia Ecclesiastica 3:20. You have a good point there, Timothy,” he exclaimed, adding cordially, “We must talk again.”

  “I look forward to it,” Tim replied with equal warmth.

  “In that case,” said Ascarelli, “I’d like to leave you with a token of our little chat.” He placed his wrinkled hands on the table and pulled himself wearily to his feet. “Take it,” he said.

  “What?” Tim reacted with astonishment. The scribe was pointing to the very bottle of tablets he had given him.

  “They were all yours to keep,” Tim protested.

  “I know, I know,” the old man said with a grin. “But if you take them back, I’ll have an excuse to send for you so we can chat some more. Thank you. I feel much better. Pray for me.”

  Before a bewildered Timothy could respond with, “And you for me,” the old priest had vanished.

  As the months passed, Father Ascarelli’s headaches seemed to increase, necessitating more and more of Timothy’s visits to his apartment in the Governatorio, a large rambling building inside the Vatican.

  Now and then, the old man would ask Tim to make a clean copy of whatever document he had just rendered. It was not long, however, before he casually added, “And if you see a rhetorical lapse here and there, don’t hesitate to correct it. Remember,” he said with a wink, “only popes are infallible.”

  By the spring of the year, the two had established a rapport that transcended not only aspirin but Latin as well. It was the closest thing to a father-son relationship that Tim had ever known. There was nothing he would not do for the papal scribe, and, perhaps more important, the feeling was mutual.

  “I’m too old for this job, Timothy,” he complained one afternoon, in his usual cranky tones. “But His Holiness trusts no one but me to latinize his words. It’s too great a burden, so I had to offer my resignation.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t accepted, of course. I wouldn’t have done it if I had thought there was the slightest chance. But I did receive a concession, namely permission—and stipend—to hire an assistant. Do you have any notion whom I should select?”

  The two men smiled at each other.

  “I have a thesis to finish,” Tim answered shyly.

  “Yes, but you are young and you can work on it at night, when fossils like myself are buried in their beds. Trust me, my boy. If you live up to the advance reputation I’ve given you, you’ll fulfill your greatest earthly ambitions.”

  “And what do you think those might be?” Timothy asked warily.

  Without directly answering his question, Ascarelli replied, “As I see it, the greatest pleasure on earth is dining at the pontiff’s table.” Mysteriously, he added, “They’re not your usual vulgar Italian sort.”

  “What, Father?” Tim asked, genuinely puzzled.

  “The wines, of course. They’re French. Naturally, as an Italian I deplore the defection of Pope Clement the Fifth. But when the papacy finally returned from Avignon to its rightful home in 1377, it brought back barrels of the finest Burgundy. And pontiffs have continued to look north for God’s most blessed grapes. Experto crede, they’re worth working for. Good night, my son.”

  Despite his mentor’s encouragement, on his way back to the Via dell’Umiltà, Tim lingered in the Piazza Navona, contemplating the extravaganza of song, women’s laughter, and the clinking of glasses. He looked at the perennially festive Romans, and wondered if all he had sworn to forsake was worth the sacrifice.

  47

  Timothy

  PONTIFICIA UNIVERSITAS GREGORIANA ROMAE

  AD DOCTORATUM CONSEQUENDUM IN FACULTATE IURIS CANONICI

  (Cum specializatione in Iurisprudentia)

  R. P. TIMOTHY HOGAN

  PUBLICE DEFENDET DISSERTATIONEM DE IMPEDIMENTIS MATRIMONII CLERICORUM

  (Director R.D. Prof. Patrizio di Crescenza)

  DIE VENERIS 26 MAIAS 1978, HORA 16 IN AULA MAGNA

  In a matter of months—de facto if not de jure—Tim had become the papal Latin Scribe, and Father Ascarelli, the nominal holder of that office, served merely as his editor.

  But when his manuscripts were handed back without even the slightest grammatical or critical notations, Tim began to wonder whether the scribe was reading them at all.

  He finally worked up the courage to ask his mentor.

  “Timotheus, my dear boy,” Ascarelli replied, “why should I waste my failing eyesight studying a letter of appointment to a new bishop in Texas, when he won’t understand anything but the fact that he’s changing his ten-gallon hat—petasus decem congiorum capax—for a miter? I’d rather spend the time composing an article for Latinitas on my strategies for the game of American football—pila pede pulsanda americana.”

  Sending various important papal communications to every part of the world had a twofold effect on Tim. First, it made him appreciate the longitude, latitude, and magnitude of the Catholic population. It also offered a taste of what it felt like to send commands to a place like, say, Sri Lanka, and know they would be obeyed without the slightest equivocation. The pope’s pen could alter the destiny of millions with a single stroke.

  Somewhere between encyclicals and letters of appointment, Tim managed to study for his exams, and to pass them all with distinction. When he and Ascarelli were topping off an evening of work—that is to say, his work—with a glass or two of grappa, Tim would be careful not to overindulge, for he would still have to bicycle back to the Via dell’Umiltà to study and write, while Ascarelli—and presumably the rest of the Vatican—slept.

  Though the college building itself was a converted seventeenth-century convent, some evidence of modernity could be found in its small but well-equipped gymnasium. And since no amount of hard work rid Timothy of all his energies, he could sometimes be found at two or three in the morning at the rowing machine. To distract himself from other preoccupations, he had created a challenge: an imaginary trip from Italy to New York. Each evening he would log the number of miles he had rowed, hoping to reach two thousand by the end of his first year.

  One night, as Tim was sweating his way toward the Azores, a voice from the not-too-distant past broke the spell of his athletic self-hypnosis.

  “God, Hogan, what are you doing, trying to give yourself a heart attack?”

  It was George Cavanagh, who had long ago on one hot afternoon in Perugia confided in Tim his fall from grace. Now he seemed transformed by the clerical collar he wore into a strangely imposing figure. Tim nonetheless groaned inwardly. He had been relieved not to see George for more than a year. Cavanagh was a painful reminder of his final afternoon with Deborah long ago.

  “You should be asleep,” Tim retorted with a gasp.

  “How can I possibly sleep when my role model is still awake?” George smiled as he seated himself on one of the padded benches, picked up a dumbbell, and desultorily began to curl his arm in an approximation of exercise. “Really,” he continued, “I’m not being sarcastic. I do admire you, Hogan. You’re some kind of tactical genius. I mean, I’ve heard you praised as a champion of the left, the right, the conservatives, and the avant-garde. You’re a real master of romanità.”

  Tim accelerated his stroke and began to breathe heavily, sucking in the air with a pulmonary wheeze.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know what romanità is, Hogan,” Cavanagh continued. “It’s the secret of success in Vatican society. The ability to sugar-coat enigma with charm. If Machiavelli were alive today, he’d probably write a book about you.”

  Tim glared at him.

  “Come on,” George said, his tone now one of candid admiration. “Word has it that Fortunato’s invited you to teach a seminar in Canon Law.”

  Tim rowed on without comment
as George continued to probe.

  “Word also has it that you’ve turned him down. What exactly are you going to do?”

  “Why don’t you tell me, Father Cavanagh? You seem to know everything already.”

  “Well, all I’ve heard is that you’ve asked for a pastoral post back in the States. I know that ‘work in the field’ looks good on your C.V. But are you sure it’s the right move to leave Rome just when your star is rising?”

  “I’m a priest, not a politician,” Tim said angrily.

  George rose. “Sorry, Hogan,” he said with undisguised exasperation, “I’m just lousy at romanità, otherwise known as artful groveling. Pax tecum.”

  In late spring, Tim concluded his thesis. The Defense was set for the fourth week in May, under the aegis of Father Angelo Fortunato, the Dean of the Faculty himself.

  “It’s a great honor,” Ascarelli assured Tim. “I, of course, will be in attendance. Which reminds me, I haven’t received my invitation.”

  “To the Defense?” Tim inquired with surprise.

  “Of course not. That is open to the public. I meant the reception in your honor.”

  “I’m afraid there isn’t one,” Tim replied.

  “Are you mad, figlio mio?” Ascarelli scolded. “Or are you just trying to keep an old man from a decent meal?”

  “Truly, Father, there’s no party—”

  “Aha,” the scribe retorted, shaking an admonitory finger. “They just haven’t told you yet. But I can assure you, when Dean Fortunato presides over a Defense, a lavish celebration always follows.”

  The scribe’s words were prophetic. When Tim arrived back at the college a little after one in the morning, he found an envelope slipped under his door. The gold embossed Coat of Arms on the back bore the motto Civitas Dei est patria mea—The City of God is my true homeland.

  Tim tore it open. In magnificent calligraphy, under a letterhead stamped Cristina, Principessa di Santiori and with an appropriately noble address near the Palatine Hill, he read:

  My dear Father Hogan,

  Forgive my boldness, but so many of your accomplishments have taken wing and flown over the Vatican walls, that I feel I already know you.

  My good friend Dean Fortunato tells me that your “Defense” (which I am sure will be more of a eulogy than a questioning) will take place on the twenty-sixth of this month. As I understand it, no one from your family will be able to cross the Atlantic for this occasion, and so I take the liberty of proposing a reception and supper in your honor at my home.

  If you find my proposal acceptable, please give me the names of any friends with whom you would like to share the celebration of your Doctorate.

  Very truly yours,

  Cristina di Santiori

  Tim smiled with pleasure, then switched on his hotplate to boil water for coffee. There was much work still to be done before the sun peeked over the Esquiline hill.

  It was only at six A.M. when he woke after a meager three hours’ sleep to celebrate morning Mass that the significance of the letter began to sink in.

  The Santioris were distinguished members of what was known in Rome as the aristocrazìa nera—“the Black Nobility.” These were families of laymen who had for centuries been influential princes of the papal court, the so-called “Privy Chamberlains of Sword and Cape.”

  Some had hereditary duties at papal ceremonies. Dynasties like the Serlupi Crescenzi, who had served as Masters of the Horse for centuries. Or the Massimo clan, who held the hereditary office of Postmaster General.

  But the Santioris claimed an even higher distinction. They had served as Grand Masters of the Sacred Hospice, the highest rank a layman could achieve in the papal court. Perhaps the most significant sign of their true nobility was the fact that their names never appeared in the press. When they gave a party it was not reported. Anyone worthy of knowing about it would have been invited, and that excluded the Fourth Estate.

  As Tim was sitting in a corner of the refectory, pensively spooning cornflakes, George Cavanagh appeared.

  “May I join you, Father Hogan?”

  Tim looked up, trying to disguise his annoyance, and replied desultorily, “Be my guest.”

  George, who had already seated himself, surprised Tim by his seemingly genuine cordiality. “Hey, listen, Hogan. I know it’s open to everybody—but would it make you nervous if I showed up at your Defense? I mean, over the years I’ve needled you a lot. I was just wondering if my presence would put you off.”

  “No, that’s okay,” Tim answered. “Nothing could make me more nervous than I already am.”

  “Thanks. I look forward to not understanding a word.”

  Moved by this gesture of thoughtfulness, Tim immediately reciprocated. “George, there’s going to be a little party afterward …”

  “Santiori?” George smiled, his eyes widening eagerly.

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks. I was hoping you’d ask.”

  Though its outcome was not in doubt, there was nonetheless an air of suspense at Tim’s thesis Defense. The Aula Magna was packed with students, faculty, and—at least somewhere in the crowd—the Princess of the Black Nobility with her entourage.

  Tim had arrived fifteen minutes before the start of the ordeal, only to find Father Ascarelli already present. “My hearing’s so antiquated I must always sit in the front row,” the old Jesuit declared, then leaned forward to give his protégé some whispered advice—and a secret weapon.

  “Remember. Despite the learning of those who will ask the questions—and also be prepared for the idiotic ones. Just say ‘non pertinet’ and move along. No one knows this topic better than you, since it is freshest in your mind. Dean Fortunato will of course pose a query, but it will be more like an oration to show how clever he is. Merely flatter him by agreeing wholeheartedly and proceed.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Tim said with a wan smile.

  “Now, take this,” the old man urged, pressing something into his hand. It was in fact a Hershey bar.

  “One of my former students sends me boxes from America,” Ascarelli explained. “They’re perfect for stimulating the mind.”

  Tim could not help laughing with joy at this eccentric gesture and willingly devoured the fuel as Ascarelli watched with satisfaction.

  “One final word,” Ascarelli called out affectionately as Tim was moving away. “These will be your last two hours as a student. Enjoy them.”

  In a way, it was like the final of a tennis match. Timothy skillfully volleyed back dozens of differing questions: powerful serves, carefully placed lobs, and some—as the old man had predicted—completely out of bounds. There was even the cheering, although it was, of course, silent, except for the occasional murmur of appreciation from an elderly Jesuit in the first row: “Bene … optime.”

  When it was over, Tim’s relief was tinged with a touch of sadness. Ascarelli was right. This had been his final moment to shine as a student.

  The huge Palazzo Santiori sat in elegance atop the Via San Teodoro. Every one of its high-ceilinged rooms was graced by magnificent works of art, some dating back to the early Renaissance, when the artists had worked under the direct patronage of the family.

  “This is unbelievable,” said Tim, standing in awe before a depiction of the Annunciation by Raphael. He had steeled himself to meet modern power brokers, but was unprepared to confront Old Masters as well.

  “The Santiori have always had an eye for talent.” The princess was a short, buxom woman with gray hair, and eyes that outsparkled her many gems. “This version is earlier than the one in the Vatican. But really, when it comes to Raphael, there is no such thing as second best don’t you agree?”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Tim answered quickly, wondering how it must feel to live in a house that held so many priceless treasures.

  “Come, Father—may I call you Timoteo?—let me introduce you to some fascinating people. Drop over some other day and spend all the time you want looking at paintings.”

/>   Tim followed the principessa up the wide, sweeping marble steps. Her high heels clicked in near synchrony with the rapid beating of his heart.

  After another flight of stairs, they came out onto a roof garden, lit by torches placed at intervals along the iron railing. The terrace commanded a breathtaking view of the Eternal City. From this vantage point one could see the entire Roman Forum illuminated by spotlights. Tim’s eyes remained fixed on the noble remnants of Empire, partially because he did not feel worthy enough to face the living grandeur that was milling on the terrace.

  The sound of a familiar voice brought his attention back to the present.

  “Nunc est bibendum, ‘now is the time to quaff,’ as the poet says,” he heard Father Ascarelli declare. “Horace was a truly Roman poet, was he not?”

  Tim glanced at his mentor and was moved to quiet laughter. “You’re certainly making good use of the occasion, Father,” he remarked, looking at the flutes of champagne the scribe held in either hand.

  “Well,” Ascarelli joined the laughter at his own expense, “at my age I must make every effort to exploit the moment. I’ve already drunk your health, and will again. I’m grateful that you had the principessa put me on her list. Now I can die with an impeccable social pedigree.”

  “Carpe noctem,” Tim said warmly.

  “Et tu, fili,” Ascarelli responded and vanished in a sea of eminences.

  At that very moment, Tim vowed to drink only mineral water so he would remember every face, sound, and syllable of this occasion … in his honor.

  Nonetheless, he woke next morning with a headache. Not from anything he had drunk or eaten, but rather, he concluded, from yesterday’s vast intellectual efforts—an afternoon of shining and a night of being shined upon.

  He had returned to the college just in time for morning Mass, then climbed exhaustedly into bed, and slept through breakfast.

  That evening, George sat down beside him in the refectory. “You almost could have been elected last night, Hogan.”