Quart smiled slightly. "Your Grace mentioned technical difficulties," he said.
He was sitting on an uncomfortable chair opposite the archbishop's desk, at one end of the room. The walls were lined with the works of the Church fathers and papal encyclicals, all bearing the archbishop's coat of arms on the spine. At the other end of the room there was a prie-dieu beneath an ivory crucifix. There were also a low table, a small sofa and two armchairs where the archbishop gave a somewhat warmer reception to people he held in high esteem. The special envoy of the IEA was obviously not one of them.
"The secularisation of the building, which is required prior to demolition, has become rather complicated." The archbishop's mistrust of Quart was apparent. He chose his words with utmost care, weighing the implications of each one. "An ancient privilege dating from 1687, granted that same year with papal approval by one of my illustrious predecessors in this see, states categorically that the church is to preserve its privilege as long as a Mass is said there every Thursday for the soul of its benefactor, Gaspar Bruner de Lebrija."
"Why Thursday?"
"It was the day he died. The Bruner family was powerful, so I imagine that Don Gaspar must have had my predecessor by the throat."
"And Father Ferro, I assume, celebrates Mass every Thursday..:" "He says Mass every day of the week," said the archbishop. "At eight in the morning, except on Sundays and public holidays, when he holds two Masses."
"But surely Your Grace has the authority to make him stop," said Quart innocendy.
The archbishop glared at him. His hand twitched impatiently, destroying the effect of the light on his ring. "Don't make me laugh," he said, not sounding the least inclined to laugh. "You know this isn't a question of authority. How can an archbishop forbid a priest to celebrate Mass? It's a question of discipline. Father Ferro is elderly and, especially in certain aspects of his ministry, ultra-conservative, and he has very strong opinions. One of them is that he doesn't give a damn how many times I issue him a pastoral letter or call him to order."
"Has Your Grace considered suspending him?"
"Have I considered, have I considered" Corvo gave Quart a look of irritation. "It's not that simple. I've asked Rome to suspend Father Fcrro ab officio, but these things take time. And I fear that since that unfortunate break-in to the Vatican computer system, they're waiting for you to return with your scalp hunter's report."
Quart ignored the sarcasm. You don't want to get involved, he thought. This is a hot potato, and you're throwing it to us. You want someone else to play executioner so you don't get your hands dirty.
"And until then?"
"Everything's up in the air. The Cartujano Bank is about to clinch a deal involving the plot of land that would greatly benefit my diocese." Corvo seemed to reconsider his choice of possessive pronoun and then corrected himself softly. "This diocese. Although we may only have a moral right to the land, after three centuries of worship there, the Cartujano is going to pay us a generous sum in compensation. Which is good, because nowadays the collection boxes in most parish churches aren't exactly overflowing." The archbishop allowed himself a smile, to which Quart made sure he didn't respond. "In addition, the bank will pay for a church to be built in one of the poorest districts of Seville, and set up a foundation to support our charitable work in the Gypsy community. What do you think?"
"Very convincing," said Quart calmly.
"So there you are. All brought to a halt by the obstinacy of a priest on the verge of retirement."
"I've heard he's well liked by his parishioners.''
Monsignor Corvo raised the hand wearing the ring and placed it on his chest again next to his gold cross. "I wouldn't say that. The local people know him by sight to say hello to and maybe a couple of dozen pious old women hear him celebrate Mass. But it doesn't mean anything. People cry, 'Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord,' but then they get bored and crucify you." The archbishop peered indecisively at the row of pipes on his desk. At last he chose a curved one with a silver ring. "I have tried to find something dissuasive. I even considered rebuking him in the presence of his parishioners, but changed my mind after giving thought to the consequences. I'm afraid of going too far, and that the cure would be worse than the disease. We too have a duty to these people. Father Ferro is obstinate but sincere." He tapped the bowl of the pipe lightly against the palm of his hand. "Maybe, as you have more practice in delivering people from Caiaphas to Pontius Pilate"
The words were insulting, but the tone was polite, so Quart could not object. His Grace opened a drawer, took out a tin of English tobacco, and began filling his pipe, leaving it to Quart to keep up the conversation. Quart bowed his head slightly, and only from his eyes was it possible to sec that he was smiling. But the archbishop wasn't looking.