Acts of Faith

  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 fi
ve 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.

  76

  Timothy

  The 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.

  Perhaps half a dozen other houses had a generator like Hardt’s. The only water supply for the whole village came from two communal pumps. As Tim stared Hardt read his mind.

  “Yes, Dom Timóteo. It is polluted. And yes again, everything we served you was thoroughly boiled first. This is actually where my brothers and I have made some progress. We’ve taught some elementary hygiene here and dramatically reduced the dysentery rate.”

  Beyond the suffocating cluster of houses they reached a sodden field where Alberto and two dozen or so others like him were engaged in a spirited soccer match, the goals on either side marked by two empty oil drums.

  Even as they played, members of both teams managed a friendly wave to their resident priest.

  “Oi, Dom Ernesto. Como vai?”

  “Bem, bem,” Hardt answered as he waved back.

  “They look like they’re having fun,” Tim remarked. “What other activities do they have?”

  “None,” his Brazilian host replied. “Besides, we’re too busy to pay much attention to the healthy ones. Let’s go.”

  As he led Tim back through the narrow streets of the town, Hardt continued his commentary. “As you might imagine, here in what you North Americans call the Third World we have a very high birthrate.”

  “Yes,” said Tim quietly. “I imagine you do.”

  “But what keeps our burgeoning population in check,” Hardt went on ironically, “is one of the highest infant-mortality rates in the world. A baby born here is ten times more likely to die in its first months of life than one in, say, Ohio.

  “At the other end of life—if we’re willing to stretch that definition to describe a person inhabiting a favela—the average Brazilian will die ten years sooner than his gringo cousin in the States.”

  They walked several muddy paces in silence until something occurred to Tim. “I hope I don’t sound paranoid, Dom Ernesto. But every so often we pass a group of rather muscular residents who seem to be—I don’t know—sizing me up.”

  “Don’t worry,” Hardt answered. “They won’t bother you.

  “But who are they—some sort of gang?”

  “That’s such a pejorative term, Your Grace. They’re not only outstanding citizens of this favela, but they’re members of the associacão dos moradores. You might say they’re our ‘residents’ association.’ In short, they look after things and do for us what the government doesn’t.”

  At that moment, the two men reached a large building that seemed out of place in these surroundings. It was a long, white, barnlike structure with what appeared to be two floors.

  “This skyscraper is our hospital,” Dom Ernesto explained.

  “And are those men sitting in front moradores or doctors?”

  “Neither,” he replied tonelessly. “They’re undertakers.”

  Hardt looked soberly at Tim. “You don’t have to go in. Some of the dise
ases are quite contagious.”

  “That’s all right,” Tim said, shoring up his courage.

  He could never have been prepared for what he saw. Though he had visited the sick and dying in many hospitals, he had never attended terminally ill people who were not receiving any medical care.

  The huge dormitory echoed with the wails of the young and groans of the old. Suddenly, Tim felt Hardt’s hand affectionately on his shoulder. Ernesto spoke gently.

  “I understand, brother. I’ve come here every day for the past ten years, and I still can’t get used to it.”

  “Aren’t there any doctors?” Tim asked, his stomach in knots.

  “Of course,” Hardt replied. “They come, they make rounds, they go. Sometimes if a big drug company has been munificent, they leave pain-killers or some very avant-garde medicines.”

  “Well, at least that’s a consolation,” Tim remarked.

  “Ah,” Hardt said. “You must understand that for all the generosity of the world’s pharmaceutical companies, they prefer to sell rather than donate. This means we get drugs that for one reason or another have been declared unsuitable for ‘civilized’ consumption.” He added, “I don’t have to tell you how much Thalidomide we got free.

  “We do have nurses. One or two of them are fully qualified. Most are moradoras who just give injections, carry off the dead, and change the bedclothes.” He sighed heavily. “This is the one time I wish I were a doctor. All a priest can do is give last rites and try to offer some explanation for why God is taking them so young.”

  Tim looked around him at the patients on their low beds, some writhing, some spasmodic, most of them inert. Surely, he said to himself, this must be what Dante’s inferno looked like. Gradually a sound reached his consciousness, rising above the moans of the dying.

  “I can hear children.”

  “Yes.” Hardt locked him with his gaze, this time his gray eyes emanating sympathy for Tim. “They’re on the second floor. If I told you it was ten times worse than what you’re seeing now, I wouldn’t be exaggerating. Are you sure you can take it?”

  The fervor in Tim’s own eyes answered Hardt even before his words.