Though he knew that Firenzi died because of the papers, he still couldn’t know whether his own involvement in the matter would be discovered by whoever was trying to get them. They would probably end up locating him, but God’s designs were unfathomable, and he would readily accept what was to come, for good or ill, with equanimity. He was ready to accept his fate, whatever it might be.
It wasn’t humanly possible to speak with Felipe, from Madrid, or with Pablo Rincón, from Buenos Aires. Both of them received letters from Firenzi, telling them what they should do. But it was too late. Two days after his last prayer for Firenzi, he heard about the death of one and the murder of the other. Still, he remained convinced that God would try to reward those who served his purpose. If it was His will for the papers to remain in his hands, that would come to pass, just as the opposite would occur if that was His intent.
“Keep your eyes wide open,” Firenzi told him the last time they spoke. “Keep your eyes wide open.” But his age no longer allowed him to get involved in adventures or quick escapes. He would continue to conduct his life as before, routinely, normally, saying Masses, attending museums and exhibits, going to the theater. If somebody was looking for him, or already stalking him, then he needed patience. The stalker knew nothing about the location of the papers, nor would he.
The cab had just turned onto Sixth Avenue, and traveled the short distance to the corner of Thirty-eighth Street. The old man paid the driver and got out. When he entered his building, the uniformed doorman wasn’t there to open the door or press the elevator call button.
Where’s Alfred? he wondered. It wasn’t normal to find the front desk empty, nor was it safe for the building to be unguarded. In spite of the doorman’s fancy garb, he wasn’t there just to provide comfort and appearances for the tenants. He also served as a security guard, one who ensured that no one entered uninvited or without authorization. The old priest looked at the front desk again, and tried to open the doormen’s office, but it was locked.
Being a meticulous man, he locked the front door of the building with his key, to prevent any intruder from taking advantage of the doorman’s temporary absence. Tenants who wanted to enter or leave could use their own keys.
Finally, he went into the elevator. He got out on the seventh floor and, going down the hall, reached for the key to his apartment.
He turned the key in the lock, but it wasn’t necessary. He only needed to turn the doorknob.
“Strange,” he said to himself. “I could swear I had turned the key twice.”
Inside, he headed for the telephone and picked up the handset. But he noticed that something was out of order. His copies of the New Testament were out of place, strewn on the floor, in a row, as if marking a path. A path leading into the next room. He put down the phone and followed the trail of books. He was about to enter the room with the altar, but the light was off, and the candles out. He could see nothing. He felt for the switch on the inner wall and turned on the ceiling lamp. On the floor in front of him he saw the doorman, leaning back against the wall, his hands and feet tied, and his head covered with a bag. Then he noticed three individuals, sitting comfortably beside the altar: the Master, the servant, and the assistant.
“Marius Ferris,” the Master said firmly, his cane across his lap.
“Who are you? How did you get in here?” the old man asked the Master, who had called him by name.
“I’ve descended from the heavens to pay you a visit,” he answered jokingly.
“Who, who are you?”
“You can call me J.C.”
52
Villot couldn’t manage to remain calm in his office chair. He got up and started pacing back and forth, cigarette in hand. Once more he would exceed his self-imposed limit. He had vowed to himself countless times that under no circumstances should he smoke more than two packs a day. This poison was killing him slowly. But he couldn’t escape it. The smoke toned down his nervous anxiety. Unfortunately for him, it also helped bring him closer to his eternal reward.
Smoke was billowing from his mouth, but the cardinal was also puffing with rage. He looked for the umpteenth time at the papers on top of the impressive wooden desk. Over the centuries, thousands of documents had moved across this invaluable piece of furniture. Behind this antiquarian’s piece, dozens and dozens of secretaries of state had presided over the destiny of the holy institution. If the desk had the gift of speech, it could reveal secrets, intrigues, plots, and machinations that could chill the spine of even the most stouthearted. In addition, his desk had also accumulated desires, dreams, ambitions, and utopias. There, above all, a perceptive eye would discover badly disguised ambitions to occupy the papal throne. Indeed, what else could one aspire to, after attaining the second-highest spot in the Church hierarchy?
But at that moment, ambition was not the source of Villot’s anguish. For years, he had been resigned to his failure to receive the glory of being a successor to the prince of the apostles. What he wished for with all his heart was to have a different man in charge, one who didn’t cause all the headaches of the current pontiff.
It wasn’t even an hour since he received certain papers from the office of Albino Luciani. They contained orders, decisions, and replacements. Some of those imminent changes would be confirmed within hours or the next day. Villot took the papers from the top of the desk, and reread what he already knew by heart.
Benelli in my position? he said to himself. Can you think of a greater outrage?
“This is overly risky, Holy Father,” Villot had said when he received the papers and was able to take a glance at the first papal decisions. “What will be left of the Church if we do this?”
“The Church will survive in its purity, humbleness, and humanity,” was Albino Luciani’s only comment.
Villot held the papers with one hand and stroked his cap with the other, as he read the absurdities written by the man who was supposedly the supreme voice of Christianity. His desire to make the Church’s position concerning birth control more flexible was only one of the pontiff’s misdirected notions.
“But Holy Father, this goes against Church doctrine. It opposes the dictates of other popes.” The secretary of state was visibly disturbed.
“Infallibility,” was the answer.
“Sacred infallibility,” Villot emphasized.
“Sacred? We both know that it’s a mistake,” the pope declared with his usual serenity.
“How can you say such a thing?” the cardinal asked, hypocritically crossing himself.
“I can say it because I am the pope and know that I err like any human being.”
“A pope is infallible. And these dictates put in question decisions made with the assurance of papal infallibility.”
Villot’s combative nature wouldn’t allow him to address his superior with submission and obedience. He argued with John Paul I as if he were talking to an assistant or secretary. Albino Luciani seemed to ignore Villot’s lack of respect, although he felt uneasy. He would never have thought Villot capable of such behavior.
“A Church that calls itself infallible can’t cure its own ills,” Luciani declared. “You and I know how the idea of infallibility was made official only in 1870.”
On July 18 of that year, Pope Pius IX issued the constitution for dogma Pastor aeternus, in which it was specified that the supreme pontiff was infallible when he spoke ex cathedra, that is, by virtue of his high representation and position as spiritual heir to Saint Peter. Whatever contradicted the pope’s words could and ought to be considered anathema.
“Are you criticizing the acts of Pius IX?” Villot asked.
“Can one who doesn’t criticize his own ever improve?”