Earthly Powers Read Free

see that. These young people," he added, nodding toward Geoffrey's voice that could be heard, full of aspirated stresses, moving toward green and sunlight. And then: "You play bridge here, I should think. A room pleasantly appointed for the playing of bridge," his eyes on the shelves full of bottles. "A harmless and civilised pastime." He raised his fat hand in what seemed to be both a blessing on the game and a gesture of regret that he could not accept, ever, an invitation to come and play. "I played. I play no longer. I have far too much work. His late Holiness too played. And then he too had far too much work. This you will know." His modest smile was meant, I assumed, to diminish the comparison.
           So, as I had been foretold in that Vatican letter, the visit was to be about His late Holiness. I said, "When Carlo was raised so high, his bridge-playing days were already over. Far too much work, as you say, as he said. But he had been a superb player—very clever and fierce. Like Mrs Battle, you know."
           His Grace had not heard of the lady. "Ah yes, I can believe that. Clever and fierce. But also human, or is it humane? Perhaps both. But also a saint." He looked at me with small unwilling awe. Carlo, I had said.
           I was ready to joke about there being no bridge saints, but that would have been cheap and unworthy. Instead, I said, "I know of the proposal, naturally. I gather there is still much to be done."
           His Grace waved the hand that was not holding his drink. "I speak, of course, of course—"
           "Proleptically?"
           "You are a master of the language, Mr Toomey. It will, I fear, be always a foreign language to me. The language of the Protestant, if you will forgive me. That you are a master is well known. I have little time, of course, for reading. I have been often told that you are a master of the English language."
           "Something," I said, "that most Maltese must be content to be told. Those interested, I mean. They are forbidden to find out for themselves."
           "Oh, one or two of your books are permitted. This I know. But our people must be protected, Mr Toomey. But I think that soon our censorship may be a little bit relaxed. There is a new spirit abroad, at home as well, aha. Already you may now buy the works freely of the atheist Monsieur Voltaire. In French, too."
           "Deist, not atheist." I knew what he was here for, but I decided to use pretended ignorance to get a point in. "Archbishop," I said, "I take it you are not here in any shall I say pastoral capacity? You will know, I think, that I was born in the faith. But I propose to die out of it. I have lived long enough out of it. I ought to make my position absolutely clear." And yet I gulped on that faith.
           "You propose," he said cheerfully. "Man proposes." And then: "No no no, oh no. One thing I have learned, we are all learning, His late Holiness was, aha, very clever and fierce in teaching us all, one thing is that there are many ways to salvation. But let me put it this way to you, Mr Toomey. You know the Church. Whatever you are now, you are not a Protestant. Certain doctrines, words, terms—these have meaning for you. I am right, I think."
           "Permit me to give you more whisky," I said, taking his glass and getting up, stiff, an old man. "Allow me to offer you a cigar. Or a cigarette."
           "A lethal action, smoking," he said without irony. "Smoking makes the life shorter. Just a little drop, then." I took a cigarette for myself from the Florentine leatherbound box on the counter. There was also a huge wooden bowl from Central Africa full of matchbooks, trophies of the world's airlines and hotels. I had toyed once with the notion of a travel book arranged on the aleatory taking out of matchbooks from this bowl, rather like filthy Norman Douglas's autobiography based on the random selection of visiting cards. It had come