The Road to Gandolfo
For John Patrick
A distinguished writer and
an honored man whose idea this was
A Word From the Author
The Road to Gandolfo is one of those rare if insane accidents that can happen to a writer perhaps once or twice in his lifetime. Through divine or demonic providence a concept is presented that fuels the fires of his imagination. He is convinced it is truly a staggering premise which will serve as the spine of a truly staggering tale. Visions of one powerful scene after another parade across his inner screen, each exploding with drama and meaning and … well, damn it, they’re just plain staggering!
Out come reams of paper. The typewriter is dusted and pencils are sharpened; doors are closed and heady music is played to drown out the sounds of man and nature beyond the cell of staggering creation. Fury takes over. The premise which will be the spinal thunderbolt of an incredible tale begins to take on substance as characters emerge with faces and bodies, personalities and conflicts. The plot surges forward, complex gears mesh and strip and make a hell of a lot of noise—drowning out the work of true masters like that Mozart fellow and what’s-his-name Handel.
But suddenly something is wrong. I mean wrong!
The author is giggling. He can’t stop giggling.
That’s horrible! Staggering premises should be accorded awed respect … heaven knows not chuckles!
But try as he may the poor fool telling the tale is trapped, bombarded by a fugue of voices all repeating an old ars antigua phrase: You’ve-got-to-be-kidding.
Poor fool looks to his muses. Why are they winking? Is that The Messiah he’s hearing or is it Mairzy-Dotes? What happened to the staggering thunderbolt? Why is it spiraling out of whack in a clear blue sky, hiccuping its way to a diminished … giggle?
Poor fool is bewildered; he gives up. Or rather, he gives in because by now he’s having a lot of fun. After all, it was the time of Watergate, and nobody could invent that scenario! I mean it simply wouldn’t play in Peoria. At that point-in-time, that is.
So poor fool plunges along, enjoying himself immensely, vaguely wondering who will sign the commitment papers, figuring his wife will stop them because the oaf does the dishes now and then and makes a damn good martini.
The oeuvre is finally presented and, most gratefully for poor fool, the closeted sound of laughter is heard. Followed by screams of revolt and threats of beyond-salvage termination with extreme-prejudice.
«Not under your name!»
Time mandates change, and change is cleansing.
Now it’s under my name, and I hope you enjoy. I did have a lot of fun.
Robert Ludlum
Connecticut Shore, 1982
A LARGE PART OF THIS STORY TOOK
PLACE A WHILE BACK. AND QUITE A BIT OF IT TOMORROW.
SUCH IS THE POETIC LICENSE OF LITURGICAL DRAMA.
PART I
Behind each corporation must be the singular force, or motive, that sets it apart from any other corporate structure and gives it its particular identity.
PROLOGUE
The crowds gathered in St. Peter’s Square. Thousands upon thousands of the faithful waited in hushed anticipation for the pontiff to emerge on the balcony and raise his hands in benediction. The fasting and the prayers were over; the Feast of San Genarro would be ushered in with the pealing of the twilight Angelus echoing throughout the Vatican. And the bells would be heard throughout all Rome, heralding merriment and good feeling. The blessing of Pope Francesco the First would be the signal to begin.
There would be dancing in the streets, and torches and candlelight and music and wine. In the Piazza Navonna, the Trevi, even sections of the Palatine, long tables were heaped with pasta and fruit and all manner of home-produced pastries. For had not this pontiff, the beloved Francesco, given the lesson? Open your hearts and your cupboards to your neighbor. And his to you. Let all men high and low understand that we are one family. In these times of hardship and chaos and high prices, what better way to overcome but to enter into the spirit of the Lord and truly show love for thy neighbor?
For a few days let rancors subside and divisions be healed. Let the word go forth that all men are brothers, all women sisters; and all together brothers and sisters and very much each others’ keepers. For but a few days let charity and grace and concern rule the hearts of everyone, sharing the sweet and the sad, for there is no evil that can withstand the force of good.
Embrace, raise the wine; show laughter and tears and accept one another in expressions of love. Let the world see there is no shame in the exultation of the spirit. And once having touched, having heard the voices of brother and sister, carry forth the sweet memories beyond the Feast of San Genarro, and let life be guided by the principles of Christian benevolence. The earth can be a better place; it is up to the living to make it so. That was the lesson of Francesco I.
A hush fell over the tens of thousands in St. Peter’s Square. Any second now the figure of the beloved Il Papa would walk with strength and dignity and great love onto the balcony and raise his hands in benediction. And for the Angelus to begin.
Within the high-ceilinged Vatican chambers above the square, cardinals, monsignors, and priests talked among themselves in groups, their eyes continuously straying to the figure of the pontiff seated in the corner. The room was resplendent with vivid colors: scarlets, purples, immaculate whites. Robes and cassocks and head pieces—symbols of the highest offices in the Church—swayed and were turned, giving the illusion of a constantly moving fresco.
And in the corner, seated in a wing chair of ivory and blue velvet, was the Vicar of Christ, Pope Francesco I. He was a plain man of wide girth, and the strong yet gentle features of a campagnuolo, a man of the earth. Standing beside him was his personal secretary, a young Black priest from America, from the archdiocese of New York. It was like Francesco to have such a papal aide.
The two were talking quietly, the pontiff turning his enormous head, his huge, soft brown eyes looking up at the young priest in serene composure.
«Mannaggi’!» whispered Francesco, his large peasant hand covering his lips. «This is crazy! The entire city will be drunk for a week! Everyone will be making love in the streets. Are you sure we have it right?»
«I double-checked. Do you want to argue with him?» replied the Black, bending down in tranquil solicitousness.
«My God, no! He was always the smartest one in the villages!»
A cardinal approached the pontiff’s chair and leaned forward. «Holy Father, it is time. The multitudes await you,» he said softly.
«Who—? Yes, of course. In a minute, my good friend.»
The cardinal smiled under his enormous hat; his eyes were filled with adoration. Francesco always called him his good friend. «Thank you, Your Holiness.» The cardinal backed away.
The Vicar of Christ began humming. Then words emerged. «Che gelida … manina … a rigido esanime … ah, la, la-laa—tra-la, la, la-laaa…»