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- Колин Маккалоу
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- Стр. 334/535
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"
An
aristocrat
,
Herr
General
.
Both
the
Archbishop
and
myself
bear
old
and
venerable
names
,
but
beside
her
lineage
,
ours
are
as
nothing
.
Do
you
like
her
name
?
It
is
Chinese
for
silken
flower
.
Apt
,
is
it
not
?
"
The
tea
had
arrived
,
was
being
arranged
;
they
were
all
quiet
until
the
lay
sister
left
the
room
.
"
You
wo
n't
regret
a
decision
to
declare
Rome
an
open
city
,
Your
Excellency
,
"
said
Archbishop
Ralph
to
the
new
master
of
Italy
with
a
melting
smile
.
He
turned
to
the
Cardinal
,
charm
falling
away
like
a
dropped
cloak
,
not
needed
with
this
beloved
man
.
"
Your
Eminence
,
do
you
intend
to
be
'
mother
,
'
or
shall
I
do
the
honors
?
"
"
'
Mother
'
?
"
asked
General
Kesselring
blankly
.
Cardinal
di
Contini-Verchese
laughed
.
"
It
is
our
little
joke
,
we
celibate
men
.
Whoever
pours
the
tea
is
called
'
mother
.
'
An
English
saying
,
Herr
General
.
"
That
night
Archbishop
Ralph
was
tired
,
restless
,
on
edge
.
He
seemed
to
be
doing
nothing
to
help
end
this
war
,
only
dicker
about
the
preservation
of
antiquities
,
and
he
had
grown
to
loathe
Vatican
inertia
passionately
.
Though
he
was
conservative
by
nature
,
sometimes
the
snaillike
caution
of
those
occupying
the
highest
Church
positions
irked
him
intolerably
.
Aside
from
the
humble
nuns
and
priests
who
acted
as
servants
,
it
was
weeks
since
he
had
spoken
to
an
ordinary
man
,
someone
without
a
political
,
spiritual
or
military
axe
to
grind
.
Even
prayer
seemed
to
come
less
easily
to
him
these
days
,
and
God
seemed
light-years
away
,
as
if
He
had
withdrawn
to
allow
His
human
creatures
full
rein
in
destroying
the
world
He
had
made
for
them
.
What
he
needed
,
he
thought
,
was
a
stiff
dose
of
Meggie
and
Fee
,
or
a
stiff
dose
of
someone
who
was
n't
interested
in
the
fate
of
the
Vatican
or
of
Rome
.
His
Grace
walked
down
the
private
stairs
into
the
great
basilica
of
Saint
Peter
's
,
whence
his
aimless
progress
had
led
him
.
Its
doors
were
locked
these
days
the
moment
darkness
fell
,
a
sign
of
the
uneasy
peace
which
lay
over
Rome
more
telling
than
the
companies
of
grey-clad
Germans
moving
through
Roman
streets
.
A
faint
,
ghostly
glow
illuminated
the
yawning
empty
apse
;
his
footsteps
echoed
hollowly
on
the
stone
floor
as
he
walked
,
stopped
and
merged
with
the
silence
as
he
genuflected
in
front
of
the
High
Altar
,
began
again
.
Then
,
between
one
foot
's
noise
of
impact
and
the
next
,
he
heard
a
gasp
.
The
flashlight
in
his
hand
sprang
into
life
;
he
leveled
his
beam
in
the
direction
of
the
sound
,
not
frightened
so
much
as
curious
.
This
was
his
world
;
he
could
defend
it
secure
from
fear
.
The
beam
played
upon
what
had
become
in
his
eyes
the
most
beautiful
piece
of
sculpture
in
all
creation
:
the
Pietà
of
Michelangelo
.
Below
the
stilled
stunned
figures
was
another
face
,
made
not
of
marble
but
of
flesh
,
all
shadowed
hollows
and
deathlike
.
