The Family - Mario Puzo [167]
“Yes, Papa,” Cesare said. “I have.”
Alexander asked, “And who would that be?”
“My sister,” Cesare admitted, his head lowered, his eyes shiny with tears. It seemed to him a confession.
“Lucrezia,” Alexander said softly, and again he smiled, for in his ears it sounded like a song. “Yes,” he said, “that was my sin. Your curse. And her virtue.”
Cesare said, “I will tell her you love her, for her grief at not being with you at this time will be immeasurable.”
His face naked of pretense, Alexander continued. “Tell her she has always been the most precious flower in my life. And a life without flowers is no life at all. For beauty is more necessary than we can imagine.”
Cesare looked at his father, and for the first time saw him as the man he was: uncertain and flawed. They had never before spoken freely, and now there was so much he wished to know about this man who was his father. “Papa, have you ever loved anyone more than yourself?”
With great effort, Alexander forced himself to speak again. “Yes, my son, oh yes . . . ” and he said it with such longing.
“And who would that be?” Cesare asked, as his father had.
Alexander said, “My children. All my children. Yet I fear that too was a fault. In one who was blessed to be the Holy Father, it was excessive. I should have loved God more.”
“Papa,” Cesare said, reassurance in his voice, “when you raised the golden chalice on the altar, when you raised your eyes to heaven, you filled the hearts of the devoted, for your own eyes were filled with love of the divine.”
Alexander’s whole body began to tremble and he began to cough and choke. His voice filled with irony. “When I held up the chalice of red wine, when I blessed the bread and drank the wine—that symbol of the body and blood of the Christ—in my own mind, I imagined the body and blood of my children. I, like God, had created them. And, like him, I sacrificed them. Hubris, to be sure. It was never so clear to me as it is in this moment.” He chuckled at the irony, but he began to cough again.
Cesare tried to comfort his father, but he himself was feeling weak and faint. “Father, if you have need for forgiveness, I can give that now. And if you have need of my love, you must know that you have always had it . . . ”
For a moment the Pope had a thought, and seemed to rally. “Where is your brother, Jofre?” he asked, a small frown on his brow.
Duarte went to find him.
When Jofre arrived, he stood behind his brother, away from his father. His eyes were cold and hard, with no hint of grief.
“Come close, my son,” Alexander said. “Take my hand for just a moment.”
Someone helped moved Cesare away, and reluctantly Jofre took his father’s hand. “Bend closer, my son. Come near,” he said. “There are some things I must say . . . ”
Jofre hesitated but then bent near. “I have wronged you, my son, and I do not doubt you are my son. But until this night, my eyes were fixed on foolishness.”
Jofre looked through the clouds that covered the eyes of his father and said, “I cannot forgive you, Father. For because of you, I cannot forgive myself.”
Alexander looked at his youngest son. “This comes late, I know, but before I die it is important that you hear it from me. You should have been the cardinal, for it was you who was the best of us.”
Jofre’s head shook almost imperceptibly. “Father, you do not even know me.”
At that Alexander smiled slyly, for when things were so clear there could be no mistake. “Without Judas, Jesus himself would have stayed a carpenter, lived a life of preaching that few would have listened to, and died an old man,” he said, chuckling. For suddenly, life seemed so absurd.
But Jofre rushed from the room.
Cesare took his place again