“Looks like Wojtyla doesn’t plan to resign,” said another, scratching his sideburns.
“Or they won’t let him resign!” a third boldly suggested.
The rest of their words were lost as they moved down the corridor. The president of the German Episcopal Conference, Karl Lehmann, had made some dangerous statements weeks before, saying that if the pope were not in any shape to guide the church responsibly, he should retire. The bishop of Mainz had not been the only one to express such a suggestion in light of the Extreme Pontiff’s bad health. His statement had fallen like boiling oil on the pope’s inner circle. Apparently the secretary of state, Cardinal Sodano, had just addressed such ideas in a stormy press conference. The waters were churning, I thought to myself apprehensively, and they wouldn’t stop until the Holy Father rested in the ground and a new, firm-handed shepherd assumed the universal government of the church.
Of all the business at the Vatican, the election of a new pope interested people most. It was without a doubt the most fascinating, the most politically charged of the church’s worldly events. It demonstrated not only the basest ambitions of the Curia Romana, but also the least pious aspects of God’s representatives. Unfortunately, we were on the threshold of such a spectacular event. Vatican City was teeming with maneuvers and machinations on the part of the different factions interested in placing their candidate on Saint Peter’s throne. One thing was certain: It had been a long time since we in the Vatican had felt that the end was near for the pontificate. As a daughter of the church and a nun, I was hardly affected by all such problems, but as an investigator with several projects pending for approval and financing, I could be deeply affected. During the current pontificate, with his marked conservative leaning, it had been impossible to carry out certain types of investigation. In my heart, I yearned for a Holy Father who was more openminded, less worried about entrenching the official version of the church’s history. (So much material was labeled Classified and Confidential.) However, I didn’t hold out much hope for such an unlikely revamping. The cardinals named by the pope had accumulated great power, and after more than twenty years, it looked like the election of a pope from the progressive wing was virtually impossible. Unless the Holy Spirit itself was determined to exert its powerful influence in such an unspiritual appointment, the conservative group would surely be the one to designate the new pontiff.
Just then, a priest dressed in a black soutane approached Father Ramondino and whispered something in his ear. The reverend father raised his eyebrows, signaling for me to get ready. They were waiting for us. We were free to enter.
The exquisite doors opened silently. I waited for the prefect to enter first, as protocol mandated. A sitting room three times the size of our waiting room and completely decorated with mirrors, gilded moldings, and frescoes—which I recognized as Raphaels—held the smallest office in its corner that I had ever seen in my life. It was barely visible at the opposite end of the large room, and consisted of nothing more than a classical writing desk situated on top of a rug and paired with a highbacked chair. To one side of the sitting room and under the slender, elegant windows that let the outside light filter in, a group of ecclesiastics seemed to be in the midst of an animated discussion. They were seated on small stools almost completely hidden under their cassocks. Behind one of them, standing at the fringes of the discussion, was a strange, taciturn, secular man. His bearing was so obviously military that I had no doubt he was a soldier or a policeman. He was very tall (over six feet), stocky, and compact, as if he lifted weights all day and chewed glass during meals. His blond hair was cropped so close that the nape of his neck and his forehead gleamed.
Seeing us walk in, one of the cardinals, whom I recognized immediately as the secretary of state, Angelo Sodano, got to his feet and came to greet us. He was a man of medium height, about seventy years old. He had a broad forehead due to partial baldness, and his white hair was slicked back under his purple silk zucchetto. He was wearing oldfashioned tortoiseshell glasses with large square lenses, a black soutane with purple trim and buttons, and an iridescent sash with matching socks. A discreet gold pectoral cross glittered on his chest. His Eminence beamed a wide, friendly smile as he approached the prefect to exchange the customary kiss on each cheek.
“Guglielmo!” he exclaimed. “I’m so glad to see you again!”
“Eminence!”
Their mutual delight was clear. So, the prefect had not dreamed up his old friendship with the most important executive in the Vatican (after the pope, of course). I found myself more and more disoriented and perplexed, as if this were all a dream and not a tangible reality. What had I done to be here?
The other people in the room watched the scene with the same attention and curiosity as I. They were His Eminence Cardinal Carlo Colli, the vicar of Rome and president of the Italian Episcopal Conference, a calm man who seemed good-natured; the archbishop secretary of the Second Division, Monsignor François Tournier (whom I recognized by his violet zucchetto, worn only by the cardinals); and the quiet, blond soldier, who deeply knitted his transparent eyebrows as if the entire display was displeasing to him.
Suddenly, the prefect turned and ushered me forward by the shoulder until I stood even with him.
“This is Dr. Ottavia Salina, Eminence,” he said. Sodano examined me from head to toe in a matter of seconds. Fortunately, that day I had worn a pretty gray skirt and a salmon-colored sweater set.
“Eminence…,” I whispered, curtsying and bowing my head in respect; I kissed the ring the secretary of state placed before my lips.
“Are you religious, Doctor?” he asked.
“It’s Sister Ottavia, Eminence,” the prefect hurried to clarify. “She’s a member of the Order of the Blessed Virgin Mary.”
“Then why are you dressed in secular clothes?” the Archbishop Monsignor François Tournier inquired suddenly without even rising from his seat. “Can it be that your order does not favor habits, Sister?”
His tone deeply offended me, and I decided right then that I wasn’t going to be intimidated. At this point in my life in Vatican City, I had been in this situation a zillion times, and I was hardened by a thousand battles on behalf of my gender. I looked him in the eye and answered, “No, Monsignor. My order gave up our habits after the Second Vatican Council.”
“Ah, the Council…,” he muttered with clear disgust. Monsignor Tournier was a very good-looking man, a viable candidate for prince of the church, one of those dandies who always take a great photograph. “Is it proper for a woman to pray to God with a bare head?” he asked himself aloud, citing Saint Paul’s First Epistle to the Corinthians.
“Monsignor,” the prefect emphasized, in my defense, “Sister Ottavia has a doctorate in paleography and art history and holds numerous other academic titles. She has directed the Restoration and Paleography Laboratory of the Vatican’s Classified Archives for eight years, is the educational director of the Vatican School of Diplomatic and Archivist Paleography, and has won numerous international prizes for her investigative work, among them the prestigious Getty Prize. Twice, in 1992 and 1995.”
“Aha!” exclaimed the secretary of state, Cardinal Sodano, as he took the vacant seat next to Tournier. “Good! That’s why we have requested your presence, Sister.” Everyone looked at me with evident curiosity; but I remained silent, expectant, so that Sodano wouldn’t even think of reciting—for my benefit—the passage from Saint Paul that reads “The women shall fall silent at the assemblies/ That they are not permitted to take the word.” I supposed that the monsignor—like the rest of those in attendance—would prefer his own sister-servants (they each must have at least three or four) to someone like me. Or perhaps even those little Polish nuns from the Order of Infant Mary who, dressed in their habits and with a veil covering their heads, occupied their time by preparing the meals for His Holiness, cleaning his living quarters, and making sure that his clothing was always spotless; or like the sisters belonging to the Congregatio
n of the Pious Disciples of the Divine Master, who are the Vatican’s telephone operators.
“Now,” continued His Eminence Angelo Sodano, “the archbishop secretary, Monsignor Tournier, will explain why you’ve been summoned, Sister. Guglielmo, sit here, next to me. Monsignor, I yield the floor to you.”
Monsignor Tournier, with the confidence of those who know that their good looks smooth all of life’s difficulties, serenely rose from his chair. Without looking, he extended his hand toward the stern soldier, who then handed him a bulky dossier in a black file. My stomach turned, and for a moment I thought that whatever I’d done, it must have been terrible. I was convinced I’d be dismissed from my position that very day.
“Sister Ottavia.” His voice was grave and nasal, and he didn’t look at me as he spoke. “In this folder you will find photographs that are… how should we describe them… unusual? Yes, without a doubt, unusual. Before you examine them, we must warn you they show the body of a recently deceased man, an Ethiopian whose identity we’re not sure of yet. You will observe that these are enlargements of certain sections of the cadaver.”
“Perhaps it would be advisable to ask Sister Ottavia if she will be able to work with such disagreeable material.” His Eminence Carlo Colli, the vicar of Rome, interjected for the first time. He looked at me with paternal concern and continued. “That poor, unfortunate man, Sister, died in a painful accident and was completely disfigured. It’s quite unsettling to look upon those images. Do you think you can tolerate it? If not, just tell us.”
I was paralyzed. Deep down, I had the feeling I was the wrong person for the task.
“Excuse me, Eminences,” I stammered. “Wouldn’t it be more appropriate to consult a forensic pathologist? I don’t understand how I can be of use.”
“You will see, Sister,” Tournier cut me short, taking back the floor. He began a slow stroll within the circle of listeners. “The man in the photographs was implicated in a serious crime against the Catholic Church, as well as against all other Christian churches. We are very sorry, but we cannot give you any more details. What we want is for you, with the greatest discretion possible, to study certain symbols, strange scars that were discovered on his body when his clothes were removed for the autopsy. Scarifications, I believe, is the correct word for this type of, how should we put it, tattoo ritual or tribal marks. It seems that certain ancient cultures had a custom of decorating the body with ceremonial wounds.” He opened the folder and glanced at the photographs, “Those on this poor, unfortunate man are quite odd. They depict Greek letters, crosses, and other images that are equally… artistic? Yes, without a doubt, artistic.”
“What Monsignor is trying to say,” His Eminence the secretary of state interrupted with a warm smile, “is that you must analyze all those symbols, study them, and give us the most complete, exact interpretation possible. Of course, you can use all the resources of Classified Archives and any other services the Vatican has at its disposal.”
“In any case, Dr. Salina can count on my complete support,” declared the prefect of the archive, watching for the approval of those present.
“We thank you for the offer, Guglielmo,” emphasized His Eminence. “But although Sister Ottavia usually reports to you, this time it will be different. Please do not take offense, but as of right now, and until the report is finished, she will report directly to the secretary of state.”
“Don’t worry, Reverend Father,” Monsignor Tournier added smoothly, with an elegant wave of unconcern. “Sister Ottavia will have at her disposal the inestimable cooperation of Captain Kaspar Glauser-Röist, here present. He is a member of the Swiss Guard and one of His Holiness’s most valuable agents in the service of the Court of the Sacred Roman Rota. He is the one who took these photographs and is in charge of the investigation in progress.”
“Eminences…” It was my trembling voice. The four prelates and the soldier turned to look at me. “Eminences,” I repeated with all the humility I was capable of. “I am infinitely grateful that you have thought of me for such an important matter, but I’m afraid I cannot carry it out.” I softened my words even more before continuing. “Not just because it is impossible for me to leave the work I’m in the middle of right now, which takes up all my time, but because I lack the basic knowledge to handle the databases in the Classified Archives. Also, I’d need the help of an anthropologist to be able to focus on the more prominent aspects of the investigation. What I mean, Eminences, is I don’t think I can do what you ask.”
Monsignor Tournier was the only one who showed any signs of life when I finished. While the rest were in shock, Tournier’s sarcastic grin made me suspect he had opposed my assignment to the case from the very beginning. I could hear him saying contemptuously, “A woman….” His sly, mordant attitude made me do a one-eighty.
“However, after more thought, perhaps I could take a look, as long as you gave me enough time.”
Monsignor Tournier’s mocking expression vanished as if by magic while the tense expressions of the rest relaxed, sighing with great relief and satisfaction. One of my biggest sins is pride, I admit—pride in all its variations of arrogance, vanity, haughtiness. I will never repent enough nor do enough penance, and I am incapable of rejecting a challenge or getting cold feet when any doubt is cast on my intelligence or my knowledge.
“Splendid!” exclaimed His Eminence, the secretary of state, slapping his knee. “Then there’s nothing more to talk about. Problem solved, thanks be to God! Very well, Sister Ottavia. From this moment on, Captain Glauser-Röist will be at your side to collaborate on anything you might need. Each morning, when you begin your work, he will give you the photographs. You will return them to him when you’re finished at the end of each day. Any questions before you get started?”
“Yes,” I replied, puzzled. “Will the captain be allowed to enter the restricted area of the Classified Archives? It’s not a secular area, and…”
“Of course he will, Doctor!” Prefect Ramondino affirmed. “I will see to it myself. I’ll have his pass ready by this very afternoon.”
A little toy soldier (for what else is a Swiss Guard?) was about to put an end to a venerable and secular tradition.
I had lunch at the cafeteria in the Archives and spent the rest of the afternoon packing up everything on the desk in my lab. Postponing my study of the Panegyrikon irritated me more than I could admit, but I’d fallen into my own trap. I couldn’t get out of a direct order from Cardinal Sodano. Besides, I was intrigued and felt a tickle of perverse curiosity.
When everything was in perfect order and my office was ready for the new task that began the next morning, I gathered my belongings and left. Crossing the Bernini Colonnade, I left by way of the Via di Porta Angelica and walked distractedly by numerous souvenir stores filled with the crowds of tourists that had flooded Rome for the great jubilee. I clutched my purse and picked up my pace. Although the pickpockets of the Borgo more or less recognized those of us who worked in the Vatican, since the Holy Year had begun—the first ten days of January, when three million visitors flood the city—pickpockets from all over Italy had swelled their numbers, the result of which made me as alert as ever. The afternoon light streamed slowly in from the west, and I— who’d always had a certain aversion to such light—couldn’t wait to curl up at home. I was almost there. Luckily, the head of my order had decided that having one of its nuns in such an outstanding position as mine merited the purchase of a furnished apartment near the Vatican. So, three sisters and I had been the first to live in a tiny apartment located in the Piazza delle Vaschette. It overlooked the baroque fountain, which long ago flowed with the angelic water known for its great curative powers for gastric troubles.
Sisters Ferma, Margherita, and Valeria, who worked together in a public school nearby, had just gotten home. They were in the kitchen, fixing dinner and chatting happily. Ferma, fifty-five and the oldest, still stubbornly wore a uniform. After habits were retired, she’d donned a white shirt,
a navy blue cardigan, a skirt that reached below her knees, and thick black stockings. Margherita, the mother superior of our community and director of the school, was only a few years older than I. Our relationship over the years had gone from distant to warm, then from warm to friendly, but not any further. Lastly, young Valeria from Milan taught four- and five-year-olds, among whom increasingly numbered the children of immigrant Arabs and Asians, with all the problems of communication this brought to a classroom. I had recently seen her reading a big book on the customs and religions of other continents.
The three respected my work at the Vatican, but they didn’t know the details of what I did. All that they knew was that they shouldn’t ask too many questions; I assume they must have been warned firmly by our superiors, for in my contract with the Vatican, one clause was explicitly clear: Under penalty of excommunication, I was forbidden to discuss my work. However, once in a while they liked to hear what I’d recently discovered about the first Christian communities or the beginnings of the church. I only talked about good things, the things I could divulge without undermining the official history or the props of their faith. How would I explain to them that in a zealously guarded writing, Ireneo, one of the fathers of the church in the year 183, was cited as the first pope—not Peter, who wasn’t even mentioned? Or that the official list of the first popes, collected in the Catalogus Liberianus from the year 354, was completely false, and that the alleged pontiffs who appeared on that list (Anacleto, Clement I, Evaristo, Alexander) hadn’t even existed? Or that the four Gospels had been written after the Epistles of Paul, the true forger of our church, following his doctrine and teachings, and not the other way around as everyone believed? Why tell them any of that? My doubts and fears, my internal struggles and great suffering, which Ferma, Margherita, and Valeria clearly sensed, were a secret only my confessor could be a witness to. All of us who worked in the third and fourth subterranean floors of the Classified Archives had the same confessor, the Franciscan father Egilberto Pintonello.