“Also true,” Justin agreed. “But that came only in his last days when he was in failing health and headed for the graveyard. I don’t count that as one of his noble accomplishments. Neither do I count his breaking with the Catholic Church. I am not a firebrand who is going out on my own. My goal is simply to pull or push the church into this century with gentle nudges. All of you know my initiatives thus far. Some say they are radical, but my view is to the contrary.”
“What did Luther really accomplish other than splitting the church and giving rise to Protestantism?” Greene asked.
Justin smiled. “Isn’t that enough? Everyone needs a little competition. He was a monk, priest and theologian, quite a bright man. He translated the Bible from Latin to German, which had a large impact on the common man. In so doing he influenced its translation into English as the King James Bible. His marriage and subsequent family set an example for Protestant clerics to marry.”
Time had slipped by and the press had enough on its plate with the Martin Luther quote. “Thank you, Your Holiness,” Greene said, ending the session. Everyone turned to the breakfast bar. Father Shafia visited the omelet station and oversaw the production of one for Justin.
The two-day visit was tiring, but enjoyable. The final day was capped by a banquet in the castle attended by a select number of local and national dignitaries. The food was not heavy and gaseous as some had expected from the German kitchen and the wine was excellent.
Justin noticed that the pretty reporter from the Bavarian press AZ Nurnberg attended the dinner, and seemed to be the only press person present. A pretty girl has entry to many venues, he reasoned. When he looked her way she flashed a brilliant smile of recognition. He immediately imagined himself as both the Pope and a chick magnet. What would Sylvia think? Or what did she think? She was seated toward the back of the room with a table of German nuns.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Justin had been back from the castle tour just under a month and he had caused very little trouble, although the Holy See was keeping its eyes on him. He had simply done Pope things – greeting the crowds in St. Peter’s Square, answering mail, granting two or three audiences a week, talking with groups of novitiates, working out, napping in the chapel, and attending midnight sessions with Sylvia, his trusted advisor. She had mapped a plan for his world tour.
Justin was in his office at mid-morning when Cardinal Pio Margeot entered.
“What are you busying yourself with these days,” Margeot asked. He seemed in a good mood and carried a sheaf of papers.
“I’ve been reading up on the life of Martin Luther. Since I compared him to myself I thought I should know something about him.”
“Anything startling?”
“Not really. He lived from 1483 into 1546. He was a brilliant and courageous man. I thought it odd that he was born and died in the same town, Eisleben, Germany. You know how people move around so much these days.”
“In the old days a peasant would be born and die never venturing more than fifteen or twenty miles from his home.” Margeot dropped into a chair. They had become quite good friends and trusted companions. “I’ve been going over these plans for your global tour. Quite something.”
“Yes, not a whole lot of stops. France, Canada, the U.S., Mexico, Australia, China, Russia. Just seven formal situations, plus airports and the odd press conference. Father Poulis is quite excited about.”
“I can imagine. He’s in his element, plunging ever farther in the public eye.”
“Into the breach. Once more into the breach,” Justin said. “And you. What are your feelings?”
“I’m finishing up on the arrangements. Some of the events I’d like to plan at the last moment, after the trip is underway. For safety purposes. Of course the stops are laid out, but not the exact timing. Everything is subject to change. Keep the crazies guessing.”
“And you can do that en route?” Justin asked.
“You think I should go?”
“Of course. Who else would I want to share a touring car with?”
“America and Mexico, places like that, people carry guns. It might be wise to use the Popemobile.”
“People would think I’m frightened. We Catholics, we princes of the church, we go with trumpets and fanfares into the life that awaits us beyond the gates of St. Peter. We look forward to living forever somewhere in the clouds.”
Margeot nodded. “Have you ever heard that drinking song, 'In Heaven there is no beer. That is why we drink it here'? I believe it’s from the States.”
“Definitely. Have you heard from Cardinal Piovanelli?”
“Constantly. He’s eager for the trip to begin. Wants to show you the Great Wall, the Summer Palace and the Forbidden City. I take it those are touristy things near or in Beijing.”
“I believe so. I’ve gotten the same message.” The news brought a smile to Justin’s face. Giovanni thought he might resign shortly after the world tour. Probably he would want to accompany the party back from China. “So,” Justin asked, “when do we leave?”
“The French would like us to come in one week. Something about fitting us in between other events at Versailles.”
“That’s where the event will be?”
“Yes. Chateau de Versailles, made famous by Marie-Antoinette among others. Of course it was the court of the king. In 1783 she had a small hamlet built in a remote area of the grounds so she might escape the boredom of the court.”
“Lost her head, I believe,” Justin said.
“In more ways than one.” The cardinal ran a hand over his forehead and struck a serious pose. “There’s just one thing I should tell you. I was seriously injured in a car accident some years ago. During the recovery I got hooked on drugs, so you might say I’m an addict.”
“If you’re addicted to drugs, I’d say you’re an addict. That states the obvious fairly concisely.” Justin was curious. “ So how do you manage to feed your craving?”
Margeot hesitated for a moment, not certain he should be confiding in this young Pope, but there was no turning back. “In the Vatican it’s no problem. Pharmaceutical companies must think we’re treating the walking wounded. Even though we are constantly switching companies. Many of the cardinals and others are users. Life can be a bit boring here. Of course there’s alcohol.”
“When you say ‘many,’ Pio, how many is ‘many?’”
“I’ve no doubt overstated that. I should have said a few, or some. I’m not saying these good folks are mindless drug addicts. As far as I know there is not one who does not function effectively, not one who is the so-called basket case. These are good men and a handful of women.”
“So, why tell me at this juncture?”
“Two things, Your Holiness. One, as Pope you should have a grip on Vatican reality. Two, we plan a fairly extensive trip, which means I’ll have to see to an adequate supply of the stuff that keeps me going. I can’t go cold turkey; it would take weeks of rehab.”
“You want me to enable your habit?”
Margeot shook his head. It had been difficult for him to breach the subject, but he was glad he had. Also, he felt no shame. Getting hooked on drugs was something that came very naturally, and if such a habit could be easily sustained, why bother to fight that good life? “I simply wanted you to be aware of it. Something might happen during the trip, something unforeseen. I thought you should be informed.”
Justin was deeply touched. He had gained Margeot’s confidence. This man was his true friend. He reached out and clasped his friend’s hand for a moment and said, “I understand. And I thank you for sharing the information. I was not elected pope to fight the drug problem in the Vatican. While I do not endorse it, it can be overlooked. And from what you say, the medications, if I can call them that, are being obtained in a legal manner and used, I would hope, sparingly, in an almost wholesome way.”
Margeot grinned broadly. “Wholesome? That does shine a new light on the issue. Here in the Vatican many things come f
rom above. If it was God’s will that created you as pope, perhaps it is God’s will to permit certain individuals to be bolstered by different medications. All things are created for a purpose.”
“Well said. Now let us move on to worthier matters. If the French want us to come on such short notice, is that possible?”
“Possible and possibly the best way to go. Too much waiting, too much anticipation, too much time to stir up your enemies, too many nefarious plots to hatch. Yes, if you’re in agreement I’ll give the signal to move right along.”
“Then let the deed be done. I’ll see to my wardrobe and jot down a few simple phrases, perhaps a Latin word or two. You have much to oversee, Pio. I relish this low-key Pope’s life.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Justin seemed to have mastered the job of pope. He had always been a serious student and had been a leader in several fields – president of his high school junior and senior classes, captain of his college tennis team, salutatorian of his college graduating class. He had been beaten out of valedictorian by a brainy cheerleader who had bedded several faculty members. She emerged from between the sheets with a grace note for her resume.
On the surface he was a serious pope and had gained the respect of many both in and out of the Vatican. Below the surface he was restless and uncertain. The job was huge and involved legions of sensitive individuals. The job had stamped him, molded him like flexible clay and sent him off to the kiln. His core values were solid, but his innovations were still on the table, still to be hammered out on an anvil pushed and pulled by clerics and laymen alike from the hardest of conservatives to the freest thinking liberals.
His mentor, Cardinal Black, had been with him briefly, lavished him with comfort and succor at a time of need. But now he had moved on to the next station. Justin remembered him daily in his prayers and supplications, prayed for his soul and begged him for guidance.
A recurring nightmare haunted Justin’s dreams. He did not fear death, but he feared a person in the United States. And now he was returning to that great nation and his conscience compelled him to seek out that individual and hope for the best.
When he had come to France, ostensibly to study the French language and culture, he had no intention of ever returning to the States. He would seek work in Europe or Asia, perhaps with an American company with offices or factories abroad. He had heard there were even opportunities in sub-Sahara Africa. Perhaps Timbuktu would beckon.
To calm his troubled dreams he had considered psychotherapy. But now he was Pope and that was out of the question. So he would turn to the identical thing, built into the Catholic faith, a confessor. And who would confess the Pope? Cardinal Pio Margeot, of course. The man would be by his side during the world tour. And he might be some comfort after Justin faced his devils. Confrontation was the only way out, that much he knew.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The week was half done and Margeot and Father Poulis were wading through a sea of details for the French phase and beyond. Versailles was an ideal spot because of size and isolation from a French population center. The French were not the Germans, yet along with the Swiss guards, they would be up to the job.
Gendarmes had already cleared away a group of Muslim campers near the Versailles gates who had been printing large “Death to the Pope” placards. The reason for their potential protest was not immediately clear. They were jailed for the duration of the visit on trespass charges.
About that time Justin telephoned Margeot and suggested they have a talk when the cardinal had some time to spare.
“The plan is progressing smoothly, everyone knows his task. We can chat.”
Justin rose and led the way into his chapel. They were quite alone in the dim light. Free from the cares of the world, free from prying eyes and ears.
“I would like you to be my confessor. Do I address you as father?”
“Me, the confessor to the Pope. I never thought such a thing might happen. Of course you may call me Father, Holy Father.”
“Father, I have sinned.” The fact was Justin had seldom been to confession before, even when serving as an altar boy. He wasn’t aware of the exact routine if there was one. So he continued with the story that had eaten away at him since before coming to Europe.
“When I was young my best friend’s name was Phil. His sister’s name was Penny. We were often together. I even dated Penny a few times, but we were never serious. It was a matter of going places we both wanted to go. Then came college and jobs.
“Off and on during my twenties I was more or less a professional student. Money was never a problem. My mother died of cancer, my father a suicide, leaving me a trust fund. The money is still piling up today. During my studies I piled up several degrees. Worked as a graduate assistant, then instructor. I never became a full professor.”
Margeot nodded and said things like “Go on,” during the confession. He failed to see where this was leading, but hoped some heinous crime might not be revealed. What a burden for him to carry if he found the Pope to be a heartless criminal.
“So my thirtieth birthday passed and I was simply drifting along. A college instructor isn’t much of a job. I was involved in what I would call a meaningful romance with the woman you now know as Sister Sylvia.”
Again, Margeot nodded. He had suspected that was true, but Cardinal Black had pulled that one off as slick as a whistle. To think such a trick could be turned – to approach a young Jewish woman in the States, have her whisked away to a convent, later emerge as a fully digested sister and introduce her to the Vatican in a woman’s rights role. One had to hand it to the late cardinal.
“Then one day Phil called. Not unusual, we had kept in touch. But Penny’s thirtieth birthday was approaching and nothing would do but the three of us get together for a reunion and celebration. I welcomed such a respite, driving the five hours it took to get to my hometown in southern Indiana and checking into a hotel. We met that night at a large chain restaurant, had a pleasant meal of seafood, a couple of drinks, then headed for a popular night spot.”
Justin hesitated. This was the part that seemed to stick in his throat. And he knew this was only the first stage in his recovery.
Margeot said, “Go on, my son.”
“Yes, Father. I’ll not dwell on the evening, only on the horrid outcome. The three of us had too much to drink. Phil seemed the worse for wear so it was I who took the wheel to drive them home. There was a crash. Phil was killed outright. A back injury resulted in partial paralysis for Penny. I don’t know which vertebrae, but she would still be able to use her arms and upper body. I was not hurt.”
“That is your confession?” Margeot asked.
“Yes, Father.”
“You were spared for a purpose, my Son.”
“If there is a purpose for such an event, there is no just God.”
“There is justice and injustice in the world. You are the Pope. You have the ability to help millions and you have already launched yourself successfully on that mission. Now what is it you fear most?”
“I fear Penny. I visited her only once and she was partly sedated. Then coward that I am, I fled to France.”
“You acted on impulse, my Son. What is it you plan to do now?”
“Confront Penny. Beg forgiveness.”
“That would seem to be the wise route to follow. Now, go in peace. The confession is over.”
CHAPTER FORTY
The first leg of the world tour went well. The Pope, his entourage and the Roman press flew to Paris where they were joined by the international press. The long drive to Versailles was lined with a few fervent souls who had waited for hours. An exact schedule had not been announced. The Pope waved from the back of the open car, ordered a stop now and then so he could chat with mothers and bless the children.
Once inside the gates of the Chateau a large crowd of ardent Catholics, carefully screened by the Archbishop, Bishop and assorted priests waited with great enthusiasm. Everyone wante
d a live glimpse of the young Pope. Some likened the experience to the election of John F. Kennedy as president of the United States years ago.
After a tour, Justin met the expanded press corps and generally went over the same ground he had in the past. He noticed that the pretty young German girl from AZ Nurnberg, Bavaria, was among the print reporters. Once again she caught his eye with a broad suggestive grin. And once again Sister Sylvia, who was toward the rear of the entourage with a group of French nuns, caught the action.
There followed a lavish state dinner with guest speakers, singers and a military band. Justin said a few words in English followed by a Latin phrase, then pleased the crowd with a couple of sentences in French he had rehearsed for hours.
He had learned to eat and drink very little at these affairs, but by the end of the long day he was thoroughly tired and fell into a deep dreamless sleep. Following a breakfast with church dignitaries the following morning, he greeted groups of school children, and then it was off to an airport hotel near Paris to prepare for the morning flight to Canada.
Nothing was scheduled, but his press secretary, Father Poulis, told him Victor Greene, the New York Times Rome reporter had a single question and might he see the Pope.
“It’s unusual,” Justin said, “and other members of the press would be annoyed, but because we are headed for America, a brief meeting would be in order. And I say brief. I’m one tired cleric.”
“I don’t think other members of the press will even notice. There’s a press room and an open bar, courtesy of the French,” Poulis said with a grin.
Greene was admitted by a guard a few minutes later to find Justin slumped in a chair by a window overlooking a courtyard.
“Someone could take a shot at you through that window,” he cautioned.
“I’m not going to spend what remains of my life hiding in the shadows. What is your question? I’m very tired.”
“My paper has done some research on your past life. There were some indications of leadership, quite a few academic degrees, almost a professional scholar, thanks I suppose to a trust fund. Then graduate assistant and a teaching posts. Little to do with religion. The question is are you up to handling the job?”