phlegm.
‘I ask myself,’ the secretary began, ‘if you realize the outrages you’ve told this congregation. You’ve polluted this holy place with a mountain of heresies.’
There was a concurring mutter and shaking of heads around the table.
‘Salvation is always in our Lord Jesus Christ,’ the secretary added, gaining the approval of the prefect.
‘I agree with Your Eminence,’ Schmidt affirmed.
‘But not completely,’ added Cardinal Ricard.
‘The extent of my agreement isn’t important. As I said previously, believing or not believing is equally correct.’
The cardinal got up indignantly. ‘There is only one belief,’ he shouted. ‘In our Lord Jesus Christ. It was He who said the kingdom of God is always at hand.’ He stuck his finger in the air, as if that sanctioned what he said.
Schmidt chuckled.
‘When Jesus said that He was not talking about time.’
‘What was He talking about, then?’ Secretary Ladaria asked.
Schmidt looked at his listeners with a genuine smile. He was very amused. ‘About distance.’
‘Distance? Explain that, please.’ William spoke now. He’d been silent so far.
‘Jesus meant that the kingdom of God, salvation, was near, that is, it was ready, within reach of anyone. But he wasn’t talking about a place or time…’ He let his words sink in before proceeding. ‘He was referring to a state or condition.’
‘A state,’ the secretary repeated, as if awakening from a trance. ‘And what state was that?’
‘The state of illumination.’
The entire congregation waited for an explanation.
‘Jesus almost always lived in this state,’ Schmidt continued. ‘It’s what happens when you live free from permanent control of the mind. The mind judges, classifies, files everything that surrounds it. It’s hot, cold, bad, good… this one’s an idiot, that one’s a thief, and everything is conspiring against us… Everything that passes before our eyes suffers instant classification. It happens often we meet a person, and in five minutes we’ve formed a fixed opinion. We like him or not, according to our mental classification. Nothing is more erroneous.’
Indignation was growing among the counselors. The prefect was the only one who showed no reaction.
‘Jesus didn’t judge and classify things. He was in a permanent state of enlightenment. Always in contact with the vital energy of the universe. He didn’t make value judgments or predictions, didn’t worry about problems that might or might not occur, and never tried to imagine how to correct things, because things never happen as we imagine. Jesus didn’t live in the past or in the future, only in the one state in which one can live: the present. Consider the lilies of the field. They neither toil nor spin, He said. There is no other way to live. You can’t do it thinking about what is going to happen in five minutes or ten or an hour, a day or a year. We can only make a difference now in the present. Jesus made all the difference living in this way.’
No one said anything for some time. They didn’t know what to say. The counselors tried to assimilate the outrageous words that the reverend Austrian father had uttered with such fervent passion. The entire session was a horrendous profanation of the holy, a sacrilege. In a way that Schmidt might have considered disrespectful, if he were a man given to classification, the counselors began whispering among themselves. William stayed out of the conversation in the beginning, but was compelled to intervene when whispering turned into a murmur and, later, into a heated altercation.
‘Gentlemen,’ the voice of Schmidt, whom everyone had forgotten about, broke in. ‘Reverend Prefect, Mr. Secretary, and Your Eminences, I understand that you don’t agree with me. I want to tell you that my first duty and priority is to the church, which I serve and obey, in humility and abnegation.’ With those final words he lowered his head in a gesture of submission until he showed his bare neck to indicate he was at their mercy.
The prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith rose from his chair, assumed an arrogant pose that matched his function, and looked at Reverend Father Hans Matthaus Schmidt sternly.
‘Good… this session was without doubt… intense.’ He hesitated to characterize the proceedings. ‘The prefect and the other counselors will deliberate and — ’
The doors suddenly opening interrupted the prefect’s discourse. Four Swiss Guards, in dress uniform, entered and took position on either side of the door. Four more of their countrymen immediately followed.
‘What’s going on?’ the prefect wanted to know.
One of the guards, clearly the most senior, advanced to the center of the room.
‘This room is sealed until further notice.’
‘How ridiculous,’ the secretary spoke up. ‘You owe us respect, Daniel.’
‘I’m sorry, Your Eminences, but there has been a breach of security. At this time I have maximum responsibility for the Vatican. I beg your understanding.’
‘A security breach? What happened?’ the prefect asked.
Daniel hesitated. He didn’t know if he had to answer.
‘Don’t keep it secret, Daniel. What happened?’ William insisted.
‘A murder within the walls of the Vatican,’ the commander of the Pontifical Swiss Guard explained.
‘My dear God,’ the prefect let slip and sat down exhausted.
‘But who?’ the secretary inquired.
‘I’m not authorized to say. I am sorry to inform you that no one may enter or leave until further notice.’ He turned his back and looked at the Austrian priest. ‘Father Hans Schmidt?’
Schmidt confirmed with a nod, and then the other three guards surrounded him.
‘I must kindly ask you to accompany us.’
Schmidt got up, blushing slightly.
‘Where are you taking him?’ the secretary asked.
‘To the papal apartments. Orders of the Holy Father.
38
From the street, the church could not be seen. It was hidden under a dark, filthy viaduct. Above, the constant noise of trains made the foundations vibrate in that same place where it had stood long before there had been trains and viaducts. The church wasn’t always set in that kind of subterranean underworld, but within a community, and its tiled roof had shimmered in the weak British sunshine. People came to the small Catholic church for morning services, especially on Sundays. These days it was just a grimy, forgotten building under a viaduct, which sheltered Rafael from the light rain that had begun to dampen London.
He had abandoned the taxi a half mile from the British Museum, walked another few yards to Tottenham Court Road, and called another taxi, which left him a few hundred feet from the church. He quickly covered the distance to the Church of St. Andrew and found the door, bare of paint from the passage of time, open. He entered without making any noise. No one was there. A candle burned next to the altar. The church couldn’t hold more than fifty people, but rarely had that many over the years. Perhaps a handful of faithful still attended, more out of fear of God and respect for the priest than for any other reason. The walls, once white, looked darkened by cars and trains. The light was faint. Next to the candle were one or two low-voltage bulbs.
Rafael kneeled at the altar, blessed himself, and prayed briefly.
‘Hello,’ he heard a voice say.
Rafael got up and looked at a man with completely white hair. ‘Hi, Donald,’ he greeted him.
‘What the fuck,’ the other cursed.
Rafael smiled. ‘You were always gracious.’
‘What are you doing here, you prick?’ Donald was clearly not enjoying the visit.
‘Seeing a friend.’
‘You must have the wrong place. No one is your friend here.’
Rafael didn’t give the slightest sign of being offended. Donald greeted all his friends like this.
‘Have you got yourself into a mess, Santini?’
