“Good luck with that.”
The last item on the newscast concerned a report by the Episcopal Conference of Switzerland detailing a sharp increase in the number of new sexual abuse cases.
Donati sighed. “I wish they would talk about something uplifting. The bombing in Hamburg, for example.”
“Did you know the report was coming?”
Donati nodded. “The Holy Father and I reviewed the first draft a few weeks before his death.”
“How is it possible there are stillnewcases of abuse?”
“Because we apologized and asked for forgiveness, but we never addressed the root causes of the problem. And the Church has deservedly paid a terrible price. Here in Switzerland, Roman Catholicism is on life support. Baptisms, church weddings, and Mass attendance have all fallen to extinction levels.”
“And if you had it to do over again?”
“Despite what my enemies used to say about me, I was not the pope. Pietro Lucchesi was. And he was an innately cautious man.” Donati paused. “Too cautious, in my opinion.”
“And if you were the one with the Ring of the Fisherman on his finger?”
Donati laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“The very idea is preposterous.”
“Humor me.”
Donati considered his answer carefully. “I’d start by reforming the priesthood. It’s not enough merely to weed out the pedophiles. We must create a new and dynamic global community of Catholic religious if the Church is to survive and flourish.”
“Does that mean you would admit women into the priesthood?”
“You said it, not me.”
“How about married priests?”
“Now we’re sailing into treacherous waters, my friend.”
“Other faiths allow their clergy to marry.”
“And I respect those faiths. The question is, can I as a RomanCatholic priest love and cherish a wife and children while at the same time serving the Lord and tending to the spiritual needs of my flock?”
“What’s the answer?”
“No,” said Donati. “I cannot.”
A sign warned they were approaching the lakeside resort town of Vevey. Gabriel turned onto the E27 and followed it north to Fribourg. It was a bilingual city, but the streets bore French names. The rue du Pont-Muré stretched for about a hundred meters through the elegant Old Town, above which soared the spire of the cathedral. Gabriel parked the car in the Place des Ormeaux and took a table at Café des Arcades. Alone, Donati crossed the street to Café du Gothard.
It was a formal, old-fashioned restaurant, with a dark wooden floor and heavy iron fixtures overhead. At that hour, the twilight between lunch and dinner, only one other table was occupied, by an English couple who looked as though they had just declared a fragile truce after a long and calamitous battle. The maître d’ showed Donati to a table near the window. He dialed Gabriel’s number and then laid his Nokia facedown on the tabletop. Several minutes elapsed before Stefani Hoffmann appeared. She placed a menu before him and with considerable effort smiled.
“Something to drink?”
16
Café du Gothard, Fribourg
She tucked a loose strandof blond hair behind her ear and peered at Donati over the top of an order pad. Her eyes were the color of an Alpine lake in summer. The rest of her face matched their beauty. The cheekbones were broad, the jawline was sharp, the chin was narrow with a slight indentation.
She had addressed Donati in French. He responded in the same language. “A glass of wine, please.”
