Day of Confession - Allan Folsom [121]
Palestrina was directly across from him, sitting in a gold-fabric armchair, speaking Mandarin to the Chinese. Every part of him, from the plant of his feet on the floor to the look in his eyes to the expressive way he used his hands, conveyed heartfelt empathy and vast concern for the tragedy playing out halfway around the world. He made his entire outpouring intimate and very personal, as if he were saying that if it were at all possible, he would go to Hefei and minister to the sick and dying himself.
It was a posture and generosity the Chinese took courteously and appreciatively, if not gratefully. But Marsciano—and, he knew, Palestrina as well—could see they were merely going through the motions. As much as their thoughts and concerns were with the people of Hefei, they were first and foremost politicians, and the focus of their attention was their government and its survival. Beijing, and what it did, was clearly under a world microscope.
Yet how, in their wildest nightmares, could they know, or even consider, that the prime architect of the disaster was neither nature nor a decaying water-filtration system, but instead the white-haired giant who sat only inches away, consoling them in their own language? Or that two of the three other highly distinguished prelates in the room with them had, in the last hours, become that architect’s steadfast disciples?
If Marsciano had held any secret hope—now that the horror had started and Palestrina’s “Protocol” was exposed for the awful and savage reality it was—that either Monsignor Capizzi or Cardinal Matadi would be rocked to his senses and take a forceful stand against the secretariat, it had been quashed by an internal letter of support, hand delivered that morning by both men to Palestrina personally (a letter Marsciano was asked to sign but refused), fully backing the secretariat’s rationale for his actions. A rationale maintaining that Rome had sought rapprochement with Beijing for years, and for years the central government had spurned it; and would continue to spurn it for as long as they remained in power.
To Palestrina, Beijing’s stance meant one thing—the Chinese had no religious freedom at all and never would have it. Palestrina’s answer to that was simply that he was going to give it to them. The cost was irrelevant, those who died would be martyrs.
Obviously Capizzi and Matadi wholeheartedly agreed. Pursuit of the papacy was everything, and either would be foolish to defy the man who could put him there. In result, human life became merely a tool in that pursuit. And vile as it was now, it would get infinitely worse, because there were two more lakes yet to be poisoned.
Knowing what was to come, sickened by the awful hypocrisy and obscenity before him, unable to participate in it further, Marsciano suddenly stood. “If you will excuse me.”
Palestrina started and looked up sharply in surprise. “Are you ill, Eminence?”
Palestrina’s startled reaction made Marsciano realize how deranged the secretariat had become. He was playing his part so well he actually and truly believed what he was saying. At that moment the other side of him simply did not exist. It was a marvel of supreme self-deception.
“Are you ill, Eminence?” Palestrina said again.
“Yes…,” Marsciano said quietly, his gaze swinging directly to Palestrina and holding there for the briefest second, his profound contempt for the secretariat made explicitly clear but at the same time kept wholly private between them. Immediately he turned away and bowed graciously to the Chinese.
“The prayers of all of Rome are with you,” he said and then left, crossing the room alone and walking out the door, knowing Palestrina watched him every step of the way.
92
MARSCIANO MIGHT HAVE LEFT THE ROOM alone, but that was where his freedom ended. Protocol forced him to wait for the others, and now, inside the limousine, there was silence.
Marsciano looked purposely out the window