Charlie’s Apprentice

opposite directions by conflicting emotions, Father Robertson seemingly racked with even greater fear than ever, Snow even angrier than before at his frustrating isolation from any contact with London. They even ceased, without discussion, taking each other’s confession: for his part Snow was relieved, spared the hypocricy.

The dissent between them was exacerbated by Father Robertson’s constant insistence – usually in the evening, after he’d been drinking – that both the embassy and the Vatican Curia of the Jesuits had to be warned, until finally Snow’s patience snapped with his demanding why the older man didn’t just do something instead of talking about it.

So Father Robertson did. Three days after their uneasy encounter with the Chinese, he broke his daily schedule of always being around the complex in the morning by announcing he was going out – without saying where – and being absent for three hours. When he returned the head of mission made the further announcement that he’d sent to Italy through the diplomatic mail a full account of what had happened and had an hour-long discussion at the embassy with the political officer, Peter Samuels.

‘He agreed with me that there’s a potential difficulty,’ concluded Father Robertson.

‘I should talk with him as well,’ insisted Snow.

‘I suggested that. Samuels said for you to visit, so closely after me, would be a mistake.’ His words were slightly slurred.

‘Why?’ demanded Snow.

‘The embassy is watched. If I go, then you follow almost immediately after, it could suggest that we have something to be frightened about: that we are conducting services – preaching religion – from the mission.’

‘But we’re not! If the Chinese suspect that we are, they will have been watching us here, as well. And we know they won’t have found anything because there’s nothing to find!’

‘You’re being insubordinate.’

‘I’m being truthful and factual and objective. You’re building this into something far greater and far more important than it is!’

‘That is not for you to decide. Or me.’

‘It’s an opinion that will be reached from how the facts are presented. Yours have been. Mine haven’t. I want the opportunity to put my assessment forward.’

‘You’ll be given it, if it’s thought necessary.’

‘I think it’s necessary.’

‘You serve. You don’t demand.’

Snow’s breathing started to become difficult. ‘What have you told the Curia?’

‘Precisely what happened.’

‘With what recommendation?’

‘None. I also serve, not demand. Any decision has to be theirs, uninfluenced by any opinion of mine.’

‘What will you recommend, if you are asked?’

‘That you are withdrawn. This mission can’t be endangered.’

‘How is it any less endangered with only you here? You can conduct religious services just as easily as me.’

‘Before your appointment, when I worked here by myself, there was never any official interest.’

Because you’re their hollow totem, thought Snow, contemptuously. Just as quickly he confronted the reality. His primary function, as a Jesuit, was to serve: so he would have to leave, permitted no opposing argument, if he were ordered out of the country by the Vatican. So why did the prospect make him so unsettled? Surely his unofficial activities had not assumed greater importance than his avowed vocation? Of course not, he assured himself: a ridiculous doubt. Snow said: ‘When do you expect to hear back from Rome?’

‘I don’t impose time-limits,’ avoided the older man.

Snow sighed, but shallowly because his chest was still tight. With strained patience he said: ‘In normal circumstances how long does it take to get a reply from Rome?’

‘There is no formula,’ said the mission chief, almost as if determined to be difficult. ‘Sometimes weeks. Sometimes months.’

In fairness he should be allowed to give his calmly reasoned side of the issue, despite Father Robertson’s pedantic reminder of humility. If he were allowed to state his case, Snow wondered if it would not be the most opportune time to suggest that Father Robertson be the one to be withdrawn, a burned out man obsessed by imagined demons, doing little if any good remaining here on station, too prone always to sound alarms where none were justified. He said, with minimal sincerity: ‘I am sorry you don’t think this a happy ministry.’

Father Robertson moved at once towards conciliation. ‘It hasn’t been easy for either of us. Me, from what happened before: you, from it being your first posting. Because circumstances here – and I don’t mean this current situation – aren’t normal. God knows when they ever will be.’

Snow realized, surprised, that Father Robertson was no longer prevaricating but arguing forcefully and positively expressing an opinion. Moving towards conciliation himself, he said: ‘Possibly more difficult for you than me, because of what happened in the past.’

Father Robertson physically shuddered. ‘Now in the past, thank God.’

Gentle-voiced, no longer having any anger, he said: ‘Have you ever thought of leaving China? Going home, perhaps?’

Father Robertson frowned across his desk, a look of total bewilderment on his face. ‘This is my home. Here.’

‘This is your posting,’ insisted Snow, but gently now.

‘Home,’ said Father Robertson, even more insistent, although his voice was oddly remote. ‘There is nowhere else. It’s important work, being here.’

Snow judged, at that moment, that the older man was completely lost, his mind full of confused images. Which Snow decided gave even more reason for suggesting the transfer, if he got the opportunity. And for no other reason than simple Christianity: Father Robertson had served and suffered dreadfully during a devoted lifetime in their special priesthood. Now he deserved peace and contentment and hopefully relief from the terrors that constantly gripped him. There were caring Retreats throughout the world – in Rome particularly – where the old man could live out the rest of his life in prayer and meditation. ‘Don’t you feel you have done enough?’ Snow asked, still gentle.

‘No one has ever done enough,’ smiled Father Robertson. ‘There’s always so much more to be done.’

And finally the day came.

In the early morning, before setting off, Snow and Father Robertson prayed separately, which they often did anyway, and afterwards Snow wondered if the head of mission had sought guidance as fervently as he had. He took the older man’s meaningless, mumbled confession but declined to make one himself, pleading lack of time that day. Father Robertson didn’t argue.

It was an extensively planned schedule, a reception for the visiting British businessmen in the forenoon, a lunch culminating with an introductory speech from the junior British trade minister accompanying the delegation, and in the afternoon a seminar for discussions with Chinese government representatives and officials. Snow didn’t know how long it would take him to manoeuvre the encounter with the despised but still necessary Foster.

In his anxiety to get at last to the embassy Snow suggested they take a taxi to Jian Guo Men Wai, but Father Robertson dismissed the unnecessary expense. The old man had pressed his usually concertinaed trousers, donned what Snow knew to be his best jacket and put on a tie. His hair, as always, looked like a wind-blasted wheat field. The nervousness was obvious, shaking through the man: increasingly, as the time approached for them to leave the mission, his sentences became gabbled, most ending unfinished and none of any consequence. Twice, as they talked, Snow smelled whisky.

Snow himself made a greater effort than usual, wearing his one good suit, surprised when he put it on at the tightness of the trouser band, unaware he had been gaining weight. He wasn’t, however, surprised at the snatch of asthma, well aware how tense he was. He used his inhaler and considered wearing the pollution mask but decided against it. As a precaution he slipped it into his pocket.

The head of mission walked slowly, but Snow still found himself breathing heavily; towards the end he wished he had argued more strongly for a taxi. Twice they were intercepted by money-changers. It was Snow who rejected