Magnificat by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Read Free Book Online

something so unacceptable as an unknown Chinese.” He rose. “You must pardon me, Eminence, but I am bidden to supper at the Russian embassy; it would not do for me to be late.”
    “Russians!” Cardinal Jung scoffed. “They’re conciliating now that they have lost control of so many of their buffer countries. Remember that they are just like the bears that are their symbol: they can be taught to dance after a fashion, but that doesn’t get rid of their claws and teeth. And size.” His mouth turned down at the corners.
    “As I understand it, Metropolitan Gosteshenko wishes to pay an official visit to us, and apparently this is going to be the first round of questions about it.” He saw the surprise in Cardinal Jung’s face. “I’ve met Metropolitan Gosteshenko twice before. I suppose that is why they chose to speak to me; with no Pope the protocol is less formal, but less certain. My Russian is not expert, but I can manage to converse.” His smile was more benign than ever.
    Many things annoyed Cardinal Jung—rock music, Neo-German restaurants within sight of Saint Peter’s, European women’s fashions, television programs about birth control, the decline of academic standards in Catholic schools, abstract crucifixes, Protestant Christmas carols, Church officials in secular dress—but nothing irritated him as much as having someone leave his company before he dismissed him. He glared at Cardinal van Hooven. “If it is necessary, or if you must go, then go” he said grudgingly.
    “Probably not in the same way food and shelter are, but—” Whatever else he was going to say was lost; Cardinal van Hooven slipped out the door, closing it softly behind him.
    * * *
    Out of his Cardinal’s finery, Charles Mendosa looked like a rich American tourist: his suit was a conservatively cut, understatedly expensive charcoal wool; his shirt was not white but ecru, of silk broadcloth; his tie, a heavy dull-red damask silk, was just the right width. At first glance he appeared to be wearing black shoes, but a closer look revealed black-on-black cowboy boots. Only his lapel pin proclaimed his position.
    “So to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Willie Foot was (as he described himself) weedy, reedy, and tweedy. Their table at the restaurant was secluded enough to ensure their privacy, but Willie was savvy about such interviews and allowed the Cardinal to sit with his back to the room. They spoke quietly, and in English.
    “It’s difficult,” said Cardinal Mendosa.
    “Difficult how?” Willie inquired in the same tone he might have used to ask the waiter if the rolls were fresh-baked.
    “Difficult internationally,” said Cardinal Mendosa, then sighed. “We have to get into the People’s Republic.”
    “China?” asked Willie, continuing, “Get into how literally?” He knew better than to make notes, but he activated his palm-sized tape recorder.
    Cardinal Mendosa smiled at once. “I’m not going there myself or I don’t think I am.” He glanced up as the waiter approached and ordered a fruit-and-cheese platter and a bottle of Lacrima Christi in excellent Italian. “This one is on me. And I mean me, Charles Ruy Mendosa, not my Eminence.” His gentle self-mockery was familiar to Willie Foot, who suspected that many of the Cardinals did not understand the Texan’s humor.
    “Thanks. And you’re scaring the shit out of me.” He said it as a joke but he was concerned.
    “I don’t mean to,” Mendosa answered, frowning at the top of the table. “No offence, Willie, but will you turn off that damned machine of yours?”
    Willie Foot was experienced enough to conceal his surprise. “All right, if you’ll give me your word that you’ll let me have a proper interview as soon as it’s possible.”
    “Done,” said Mendosa, relief obvious on his rugged face. “Thanks. You’ll get your interview.”
    Willie thumbed off the tape recorder. “What is it, then?”
    Mendosa did not answer at once.