“Principessa, the children need a hospital. In this day and age, they shouldn’t be dying of dysentery and measles.”
“I quite agree,” she replied sympathetically. “How much would such a hospital cost?”
Timothy’s heart beat faster.
He took a sip of mineral water, and tried to say as matter-of-factly as he could, “They would need something in the neighborhood of eight million dollars.”
There was a silence. The principessa merely absorbed what he had told her. At last she answered with fervor.
“There is no question, Timoteo. You must have that money. And I will personally see that you get it.”
He was on the verge of tears.
“God bless you, Cristina.” He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should rise and throw his arms around her.
But then she took the initiative.
“Listen to me, Timoteo, we’ll form a committee. I’ll get the finest families in Rome—and believe me I know them all, even the ones not connected with the Church. I’ll have them over for an evening, and you can address them. By the next social season we should be able to launch this charity with a magnificent gala. I promise you, even His Holiness will attend.”
She had demonstrated the supremely Roman art of saying yes, but meaning no.
“Cristina,” he said, growing angry, “as we sit here sipping coffee and planning social events, little children are in agony, dying in their mothers’ arms. Surely, if you gathered these friends of yours one evening and I spoke to them, if they’re anything as sensitive, as compassionate, as you, they’ll write checks—large checks.”
The principessa looked baffled. Had Timothy misconstrued the sincerity of her feelings, the genuineness of her offer to help?
“My dear boy,” she said, as if explaining something to a simple child. “One cannot be so—how can I say it?—brutal, in demanding contributions. No matter how noble the cause, if my friends were obliged to donate money to every charity in Rome, they would have nothing left to live on.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” Tim replied. He was painfully embarrassed, but he sensed he would never have this opportunity again, so he spoke his mind.
“Principessa, you yourself could write that check and barely feel it.”
“Please, Your Grace,” she answered coolly. “You are speaking out of turn.”
Tim rose and began to pace back and forth, trying to control his emotions.
“Look,” he began his peroration. “At heart I’m just a naive kid from Brooklyn. I know nothing of the world of money. But even if I weren’t its titular archbishop, I would know that your church, Santa Maria delle Lacrime, sits in so valuable a spot that the Vatican would pay you enough for it to build five hospitals.”
“Are you mad?” she replied. “Are you suggesting I sell a church that has been in the Santiori family for centuries just to build some clinic for unknown people in the jungle?”
Tim battled to restrain his anger. She’s a woman. She’s alone. She’s old. Still, he could not stop his words.
“Your Highness, you’ve got paintings in your dining room that would honor museums in the great cities of the world. Every other day we read about paintings fetching millions of dollars at auction. You have rooms of Old Masters.”
He was sweating and breathless, and stopped to regain his composure.
The principessa had not lost hers. She simply said, “I think Your Grace should go now.”
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I was carried away. Really, I apologize.…”
She smiled. “My dear Timothy, I have never met a purer soul than yours. I do admire you and will always think only the kindest thoughts of you.”
He had been dismissed.
In earlier times, if he had suffered such a humiliating experience, Tim would have run to his mentor for advice and consolation. Now with Ascarelli on his deathbed, no doubt expecting him to return in glory, he was almost ashamed to visit the hospital.
When the sky had grown even darker than his mood, he finally went back. Professor Rivieri was waiting, a look of grave concern on his face. Timothy feared the worst.
“Is he dead, Professore?”
The doctor shook his head. “He’s developed some cardiac complications. I doubt he’ll last the night.”
“Would he be lucid enough to know me?” Tim asked with concern.
“Yes, Archbishop Hogan. You’re probably the only person he recalls by name.” He added gravely, “He’s requested that you give him Extreme Unction.”
Timothy nodded. “Will you ask the hospital chaplain to lend me his stole and the other—” His voice broke.
The doctor placed his hand on Tim’s shoulder and said gently, “Your Grace, he’s lived a long and happy life. I think I see in him a patient ready to embrace death.”
Fifteen minutes later, Tim was at the old man’s bedside. He was breathing with great difficulty and, faithful servant of the Church that he was, used all the energy he could muster to repeat the words Tim requested. Of course, Tim performed the rite in Latin.
Thereafter, Tim sat and watched Ascarelli lapse into a sleep that would surely be his last. Yet he vowed not to leave his bedside lest the Jesuit awake even for an instant and find no comforting presence nearby.
At a little after eleven, his fidelity was rewarded. The scribe half-opened his eyes and whispered, “Is it you, Timoteo?”
“It is, Father. Try not to tire yourself.”
“Don’t worry, figlio,” he said, stopping every few syllables for breath. “As the poet said, ‘Nox est perpetua una dormienda’—I’ll have a long night to rest.”
To convey that he was still alive intellectually, he made Tim describe his encounter with the principessa. No, Tim thought to himself, I shouldn’t be telling him this bad news. And yet if he’s lucid enough to remember where I was this afternoon, he’d probably still enjoy his favorite sport—exposing hypocrisy.
Tim spun out the tale, making himself seem like a buffoon, trying to emphasize the comical aspect of it all. But when the anecdote ended, he could think of no witticism to cloak his bitter disappointment.
The scribe looked at Tim and sighed philosophically, a wordless way of saying, What do you expect from that kind of hypocrite? He then changed the subject.
“You know, Timoteo, for a pedant like myself, even dying is an educational experience. All afternoon while you were gone I kept thinking of the lines Sophocles wrote when he, too, had one foot in the grave. Remember the Coloneus—the old king addressing his daughters?”
His sweating brow wrinkled even further as he struggled to summon the quotation from memory. “ ‘A single word compensates for all the hardships of life, and that is … love.’ ” He looked at his young protégé with half-open eyes. “Do you recall it—the Greek was—”
“ ‘To philein,’ ” Tim responded. “The human tie.”
“You never fail me,” Ascarelli smiled weakly. “And that is what has given meaning to my life. It is easy for a churchman to love God. It is harder to love one’s fellow man. But if that were not important, why would we be put on earth? I bless God for bringing me you, Timoteo. He gave me someone to share my love of Him.”
Exhausted, the old man let his head drop back onto the pillow. He was silent for what seemed minutes as he fought to gather the strength to speak.
But all he could add was, “Grazie, figlio mio.…”
Ten minutes later, Professor Rivieri arrived, checked for vital signs with his stethoscope, and then filled out a death certificate for the papal scribe, Father Paolo Ascarelli, S.J.
Tim felt abandoned.
Tim found Monsignor Murphy waiting in the doctor’s office, together with Guillermo Martínez, Father General of the Society of Jesus.
The papal secretary acknowledged Tim’s presence with a nod, and said to Father Martínez, “His Holiness is deeply saddened by Father Ascarelli’s death. He offers the vehicles for a funeral cortege to bring Father Paolo to the family
plot in Piemonte.”
“Monsignor Murphy,” Tim politely interrupted. “Can you arrange a place for me?”
Before the papal secretary could react, Father Martínez replied, “Without question, Your Grace. Paolo loved you. He spoke of you often with admiration and affection.”
His throat muscles tightening, Tim managed to reply, “The feeling was mutual.”
Two days later, Timothy found himself with four Jesuit priests and Father Martínez riding in a papal limousine heading north through the rich farmlands of the Po Valley. They were mourners to be sure, but the long life and peaceful death of Father Ascarelli was more a cause for reminiscence than grief.
The Ascarelli family plot stood high on a hill, so high that the shores of Lake Garda could be seen far below.
There they were joined by a group of Ascarelli’s nephews, nieces, and cousins, as well as some old acquaintances, one of whom made a point of introducing himself as Dottore Leone, the family attorney.
The service was brief, and according to the specific wishes of Father Ascarelli’s will, there was no eulogy.
The relatives then invited the visiting priests from Rome to join them at the family home for collazione.
The cars moved at a leisurely pace down through the glorious landscape of the Piemonte wine country, past a long stone wall, through a large metal gate. They drove through almost a quarter of a mile of vineyards to the main house where two long tables had been laid with various local specialities.
As the scribe would have wanted it, the meal following his interment was marked by toasts and happy anecdotes, making his funeral an affectionate celebration of his life.
Toward midafternoon, Dottore Leone approached Tim and politely inquired if he and the Father General could join him for a private talk. They followed the lawyer into a high-ceilinged library, with an antique desk placed by the large window, which stretched from floor to ceiling.
“I hope you don’t think it inappropriate, but since we are a long way from Rome, I thought it sensible to discuss Paolo’s will with you—since he’s named you both as executors.”
The Jesuit nodded in accord, but Timothy, somewhat surprised, muttered, “Yes, of course, Dottore.”
They all sat, and Leone pulled an envelope from a briefcase he had left near the window.
“Actually, the instructions are quite straightforward. There is the small matter of a codicil, but I doubt if that would cause either of you any difficulty.” Leone put on his reading glasses, perused the document, then slapped it down.
“Bah, the legalese of this testament is so ugly—and I have every right to say so since I wrote it myself. May I just summarize?”
Both churchmen nodded. The lawyer removed his spectacles and began.
“As Paolo was the only son, his father left the vineyards principally to him—with a token for his sisters, may they rest in peace. As a loyal Jesuit, Paolo wishes the Society of Jesus to assume complete ownership and use the profits to further their work—and here he was quite specific—in the Third World. He respectfully asks the Father General to seek the advice of Archbishop Hogan, who, at the time of signing this document, was working with the poor in Brazil.”
Timothy and Father Martínez exchanged glances, a silent communion in which both men wordlessly expressed their willingness to work together to fulfill Ascarelli’s wishes.
Timothy turned to the lawyer. “What else, Dottore?” he inquired.
“Why nothing, Your Grace. That’s alpha and omega. Each year when the harvest is sold, you will have to meet and decide how Paolo’s share is distributed. I am also an executor but I have no vote in this matter.”
Father Martínez spoke first. “I hope there’s a sum sufficient to establish an annual Latin prize in Paolo’s honor at a seminary in the vicinity.”
The attorney’s eyes widened. “Perhaps I have understated the matter. Father Ascarelli lived only on his papal wages, and hence I have invested his share for more than thirty years. This alone could probably construct several large schools.”
“As much as that?” the Jesuit leader said with amazement.
Leone smiled. “Oh, he left you two some real problems, I can tell you. I have no doubt you’ll spend many months each year debating how to expend the annual endowment.”
“And how much would that be?” asked Father Martínez, breathless.
“Well, the price of wine is rising every year,” the attorney replied. “And the Barolo these vineyards produce is of the finest quality. Last year alone I put nearly three billion lire into the Trust.”
Timothy, who had been unable to make any sound, now gasped. It was a staggering sum, nearly two million dollars. He suddenly found that only Latin could express his stupefaction. “Deo grattas,” he exclaimed.
“Ah no,” the Father General corrected him good-humoredly. “Ascarellio gratias!” He turned to the lawyer and asked, “Do I recall you mentioning a codicil?”
“Yes,” Leone answered. “The day before he died, Paolo called me to discuss Archbishop Hogan’s desire to build a children’s hospital in Brasilia. He instructed me to urge you both to make this a priority and left a note to that effect, witnessed by two nurses. Of course, it was not notarized, but—”
The Father General raised his hand to stop the lawyer’s oration.
“We need no legalism in this matter, Avvocato. Paolo’s words had the only witness necessary.”
Tim smiled and explained. “Father Martínez means Almighty God.”
As the priests prepared for the long journey home, Timothy walked among the Ascarelli vineyards. He could now see that they stretched to the horizon. When he was too far from the others to be heard, he looked up at the crimson sky and called exultantly, “God bless you, Father Ascarelli. You’ve saved thousands of sick children.” He added in a whisper, “And my soul as well.”
By the time the convoy had returned to Rome, though emotionally and physically spent, Tim knew he would not be able to rest until he had prayed for his beloved mentor’s soul.
At 11:30 P.M., St. Peter’s Square was empty and dimly lit. Tim could hear the echoing of his feet on the cobblestones as he walked. When he reached the main entrance, he was surprised to find the huge bronze doors locked.
He chastised himself for not remembering that the great Basilica closed at sunset and would not open again until first light. As he slowly made his way down the Via della Conciliazione toward the river, he recalled the words of Christ in Matthew, chapter six. When you pray, do not be like those who pray in public so that they are noticed. Rather, pray privately—and He will answer.
And in the manner the Saviour preached, Tim whispered in his heart.
Our Father Who art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.
EPILOGUE
81
Timothy
The Auxiliary Bishop of Chicago was gazing out of his office window at the gray streets of his domain—the largest Catholic diocese in America. He was dictating to a young graduate of St. Mary’s of the Lake, whose pencil raced to keep up with his torrent of words.
The phone rang and the younger priest answered.
“Oh,” he remarked, suddenly awestruck, “Oh, my …”
“Who is it?” the bishop inquired.
“It’s Rome, Your Excellency,” the young man whispered breathlessly. “I can’t believe I’m really talking to the Vatican—even though it’s only an operator.”
“Find out who’s calling,” George Cavanagh ordered, trying to act as if this were an everyday occurrence.
His secretary made the inquiry and then related, “It’s someone called Timothy Hogan.”
“My dear Jerzy,” George said with mock indignation. “You’re referring to a distinguished archbishop and papal nuncio.” He took the phone. “Salve, Your Grace. To what do I owe the honor of this call?”
“Can you spare me five minutes?” Tim asked in a voice that seemed somewhat muffled to G
eorge, but whose tone he ascribed to a bad connection.
“For you, Timmo, I can even stretch it to six. What’s on your mind?”
First, Tim reported Ascarelli’s death.
“I’m really sorry,” George said, “I know how much he meant to you.”
“Thanks. George, I’ve got something momentous to discuss with you,” Tim said somberly. “Are you alone?”
The Auxiliary Bishop of Chicago looked up at his secretary and said politely, “Will you excuse me, Jerzy? This is a very confidential matter.”
The young man nodded and withdrew.
“Okay, Timmo. Unless my enemies are bugging this line, we’re on our own.”
“Oh,” Tim responded. “Are you serious about having enemies?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t. Now tell me how I can help you.”
“I read somewhere that you’re on the Advisory Board of something called the Catholic Press of America. Am I right?”
“Yeah,” George replied, “except it’s the New Catholic Press of America. Don’t tell me you’ve written a book?”
“Better than that,” Tim retorted. “How would you like to publish the English translation of Ernesto Hardt’s treatise in favor of married clergy?”
“Ernesto Hardt?” There was reverence in his voice. “How soon can I see the manuscript?”
“Well,” Tim replied. “On the off chance that despite the trappings of power you had maintained your principles, I’ve already sent you some floppy disks by FedEx. They’re in Portuguese, but I think I’ll have the English translation finished within a month.”
“I assume you want to remain anonymous, right, Timmo?”
“No, George. If you think my translation’s good enough, you can print my name.”
“Excuse me, brother, but in gratitude I oughta tell you that’s not exactly a clever career move.”
“That’s all right,” Tim replied. “I don’t have a career.”