Authors: Erich Segal
There were many labels one could pin on Hardt, but “Marxist” was no more appropriate than “fundamentalist Christian,” although he advocated a literal reading of the Bible. For example, he made much of the incident recounted in three of the four gospels, when a pious young man asks Jesus what more he can do to be sure of life eternal. Christ answers: “If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven.”
Could any fair-minded Christian denigrate the Saviour’s injunction as mere socialism?
With every turn of the page, Tim expected to see more heretical and inflammatory utterances, but thus far he could find no reason to believe that Ernesto Hardt was dedicated to anything but the word of God.
The city of Brasilia was designed to look like an airplane from above. But to those who know it, it seems more like a wilting crucifix.
Until the 1940s, Brazil’s huge Mato Grosso was the last great unexplored area on earth. But for nearly two centuries Brazilian governments had dreamed of building an inland capital city, a beam of light in the very heart of darkness.
Nearly every history of modern architecture contains
photographs of architect Oscar Niemeyer’s stunning skyline, especially the dramatically tapered conical cathedral.
The futuristic, magnificently planned city was opened to receive its inhabitants in 1960, having leapt from drawing board to reality in little more than three years.
As the plane from Rio taxied to a stop, Tim picked up his briefcase and black raincoat (for the long wet season lay ahead of him, should his mission prove difficult), and walked through the hatchway into the sleek marble terminal.
The Vatican ambassador, Monsignor Fabrizio Lindor, his rotund figure dressed impeccably in a lightweight suit, looked remarkably fresh despite the lateness of the hour. He walked toward Tim, proffering his hand.
“
Benvenuto, Vostra Grazia.
I know how exhausted you must be, so give Father Rafael your baggage tags and come out to rest in the car.”
Tim had barely enough energy to nod as he followed the diplomat through the tall glass doors to a black Mercedes limousine waiting conspicuously in the No Parking zone.
“We were instructed by Cardinal von Jakob to book you a hotel suite. I’ve reserved the best at the Nacional, but I wonder if you wouldn’t feel safer—er, more comfortable, that is—staying in one of the embassy guest rooms.”
“Safe from what?” Tim inquired, slightly aroused from his torpor.
The Ambassador shrugged. “We’re very far from the Vatican, Your Grace, and very near the dense jungle.”
During the nearly two hours of his connecting flight from Rio Tim had prepared himself to confront the Vatican ambassador with an urgent demand for information.
“Monsignor Lindor, did you know my … predecessor?”
“Are you referring to Archbishop Rojas?”
“Yes. Did you know him?”
The diplomat hesitated before responding. “Briefly, yes. He was not with us very long.”
“Oh?” Tim remarked casually. “Did he fall under Hardt’s fabled spell?”
“Well, yes,” the envoy answered uneasily. “You might say that. He did embrace Liberation Theology and at Hardt’s suggestion went to work for Bishop Casaldáliga in the Amazon.”
“Is there any way I could get to speak to him?” Tim asked.
“I’m afraid not,” the Ambassador replied. “Rojas is dead. He was shot, actually.”
“Does anybody know by whom?”
“From what I hear it was a mistake,” said the Ambassador. “During a protest march, he’d linked arms with Casaldáliga. There was an assassination attempt. The gunman hit Rojas instead.” Tim thought he heard him add under his breath, “Worse luck.”
As they drove through the empty nocturnal streets of the city, its stark buildings like huge illuminated stalagmites against a blue-black sky, Ambassador Lindor rhapsodized at length about his nostalgia for Rome. Tim took this to be an unconscious revelation that the Vatican’s representative was ill at ease in this sinister Disneyland.
As they neared the hotel, Lindor remarked cordially, “I expect you’ll want to rest tomorrow, but if you wish I can come by in the late afternoon and give you a tour of the city.”
“That’s very kind, Monsignor,” Tim answered. “But I don’t think I’ll get much sleep tonight, and I’m anxious to get started. Does Father Hardt know I’m coming?”
“Well,” the Ambassador temporized, “we haven’t sent him an engraved announcement nor—as you instructed—have we set up an appointment. But somehow he still receives messages on the Franciscan grapevine. So I think it’s fair to say you won’t be surprising him.”
“I had no such illusions,” Timothy assured him, continuing, “But my notes say he lectures only once a week and spends the rest of the time, as they euphemistically put it, ‘in the field.’ I believe tomorrow is that weekly occasion, and I wouldn’t want to miss it.”
“I have all his classes tape-recorded,” the Ambassador offered. “You could listen to him in the comfort of my office.”
“That’s all right,” Tim replied. “I’ve also read the transcripts. But there’s nothing like seeing the man himself in action. Don’t worry, Monsignor, I won’t defect.” He looked hard at the corpulent diplomat, who appeared to squirm uneasily.
“To be honest, Your Grace, he’s a second Savonarola.”
“Are you suggesting that Hardt be burnt at the stake?” Tim asked facetiously.
“Of course not,” the Ambassador responded. “That would be too good for him.”
The management had welcomed Tim to his suite with a basket of fruit and bottle of wine, but instead he took a can of Antártica, a local beer, from the minibar and sat down on his bed. Without the benefit of a glass, he took a cool mouthful and caught sight of himself in a mirror above the writing table.
“You still look fighting fit, Hogan,” he told himself. Indeed, the only uncomfortable moments for his vanity nowadays came when he brushed his hair and found an increasing number of blond strands in the bristles. He could not suppress a shudder at the prospect of growing bald. Not because of vanity on his part, but if the inevitable process continued, he would look less like Timothy Hogan and more like the despicable Tuck Delaney.
He drained the beer, leaned back, and fell asleep on top of the bed.
The following morning he was enjoying a breakfast of fresh fruit and strong coffee when the Ambassador phoned.
“You were right,” he reported. “Hardt lectures this afternoon from four till six. I’ll send an Embassy car to take you.”
Tim could not help noticing that the diplomat did not offer to go along.
“No, that’s all right, Monsignor,” he replied. “I think I might enjoy taking the bus.”
The University of Brasilia—another Niemeyer gem—was situated on the northeast periphery of the city. Tim stepped off at the university bus stop on the Eixo Rodoviário. As he crossed the campus he was struck by the varied hues of the students—in attire no less than complexion. He himself was dressed in “civilian” clothing—not even wearing his pectoral cross.
Ordinarily, lectures on religion took place in the Instituto de Teologia, but Hardt’s classes were so popular that they were held in the highly banked amphitheater in the science building.
Ironically, the words of God would be discussed in the domain where science was king. Hardt’s podium was flanked by gas spigots and other trappings of the modern laboratory.
At precisely 4:15, Ernesto Hardt—a tall, stoop-shouldered man with leathery skin and a flowing white mane crowning his high forehead—marched toward the podium. He wore corduroy pants and a short-sleeved khaki shirt opened sufficiently at the neck to reveal a small gold cross.
Tim was seated discreetly in the back. When the rest of the spectators rose in a gesture of respect he had to scramble to his feet to avoid attracting attention to himself.
Hardt carried no briefcase, book bag, or notes. All he brought to the podium was a tattered leather Bible, which he scarcely consulted during the entire hour and a half of his lecture.
His subject for the day was Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount.
But when he quoted “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” he interpreted it as praise for the materially impoverished.
“Now what exactly does our Lord mean when he says, ‘Blessed are those who hunger and thirst after
righteousness
’? Could Jesus have been referring simply to some abstract concept of justice? Of course not. The key words
are ‘hunger’ and ‘thirst.’ In our religion, ‘righteousness’ has to mean an equitable distribution of food among the peoples of the earth.
“We find the same thought processes in the Dead Sea Scrolls, notably the so-called
Thanksgiving
and
War
documents, which date from the same age as Jesus. So we can have no doubt as to what Our Lord intended.”
His penetrating gray eyes scanned every face in the auditorium before his swelling voice proclaimed, “There can be no justice in the world until there are no hungry people!”
Tim could only wonder whether the crowd surrounding Jesus would have reacted to these words with as much enthusiasm as Hardt’s audience, who cheered vociferously.
Withdrawing a crumpled handkerchief Hardt wiped the sweat from his cheeks and brow.
“The first action in the service of God is not prayer but commitment. Not sacrifice but giving. Only then can we begin to talk about other kinds of righteousness.”
His dark brown face now glowed red. He had made his point, for without even mentioning his adversary, he had damned the Catholic Church. He had taken Christ from Rome and brought him, living, breathing, and preaching, to the heart of the Brazilian jungle.
Leaning against the wall under a banner broadcasting
E Proibido Fumar
, Hardt reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a package of Marlboros, and lit one. After inhaling deeply he once again approached the lectern.
“The class is officially over,” he began in colloquial Brazilian dialect. “But for any who are interested, I have a few words to say about freedom.”
No one moved. Hardt continued, “Any schoolboy knows the unspeakable practice of slavery was officially abolished in our country by Joachim Nabuco in 1888. But some people still haven’t heard the news. So instead of going to church on Sunday we’re traveling to São Jodo to demonstrate at the Da Silva ranch. Those interested in
painting placards should see either Jorge or Vittoria afterward.”
He pointed to a pair of young assistants dressed much like himself and holding clipboards ready to enroll foot soldiers in the army of justice.
“Our lecture next week will be on Old Testament echoes in the Gospels, so be sure you have the proper texts with you.
Vai com Deus.
”
A bustle ensued as the students went their various ways. Not a few stopped to sign up with Jorge and Vittoria. The exodus occurred so swiftly that Timothy found himself rooted to his chair, face to face—albeit at a distance—with his heretical quarry.
The Brazilian spoke first.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace. I hope my lecture wasn’t too elementary for you.”
“On the contrary, Dom Ernesto,” Tim replied. “It was very enlightening. May I invite you for a cup of coffee?”
The professor smiled. There was a quality in Hardt’s demeanor that Tim had never seen before in a man of God. Somehow his eyes were clearer and he radiated peace of mind.
“Not in a country where coffee is the only nonluxury. But since I presume the Vatican’s paying, why not revise your offer to a good bottle of
vinho verde
?”
“Very well,” Tim answered affably. “
Vinho verde
it is. Can you suggest a place?”
“If you don’t mind simple food I’d like to invite you to my home for dinner. How does that sound?”
“That’s very gracious,” Tim replied. “If you’ll give me directions …”
“It’s a little complicated. I think it would be better if I picked you up myself. Is seven-thirty all right?”
“I look forward to it.”
“As I,” Hardt replied, adding mischievously, “It would be especially festive if your budget allows you to bring several bottles.
Cenabis bene apud me
—if you know your Catullus.”
“Constat,”
Tim responded.
With that Hardt smiled, added
“Pax tecum,”
turned, and started toward the rear exit where Jorge and Vittoria were waiting.
A
t 7:15 Tim was standing in his best lightweight black suit in front of the Hotel Nacional with two green bottles under his arm, wondering what sort of a vehicle Hardt would arrive in.
He concluded that it would most likely be something conspicuously proletarian—a dump truck or a donkey.
He was both right and wrong, for at precisely seven-twenty-nine (was it the punctilious Swiss in him?) Hardt drove up in a Land Rover of so old a vintage that had it been a wine it would have been a
gran reserva.
“Step in, step in,” the older man called in a friendly voice. As Tim mounted the vehicle, the theologian eyed the bottles. “Ah, you’re a man of your word. That vintage must have set the Vatican back a pretty penny!” He floored the accelerator, and with a jolt and a heave, the car ground into a forward motion.
As the two men rode they engaged in casual dialogue about the astronomically high prices in Brasília. In no time they had driven through the Eixo Rodoviário Norte and out onto the highway.
After ten minutes Tim commented, “Have you always lived this far out of the city?”
“No,” Hardt replied. “When I was still enjoying the favor of the Church I had digs near the cathedral. But
now I’m in one of the ‘anti-Brasílias.’ It’s not as convenient, but it keeps me closer to the people.”
“ ‘Anti-Brasílias’?” asked Tim.
“Otherwise known as
favelas
—which is another way of saying ‘shantytowns.’ I don’t have to tell you this is the most thoroughly planned city in history. The designers only forgot one thing—living quarters for the
candangos
, the pioneers who actually did the construction work. Nowadays,” he went on, “the poor people are stuck in
favelas
which ring the city like beads on a necklace—only not so pretty. Some are as much as thirty kilometers out of town.”