3 - Cruel Music by Beverle Graves Myers Page A

square. Beggars in rags, porters, bargemen, rope makers, and other laborers were followed by women of the same class. Their eyes gleamed with anticipation and every tongue uttered the identical cry: “Di Noce…our papa cardinal…he comes…he comes.”
    Liya whirled, shaded her eyes with her hand, and gazed in my direction. I waved frantically, jumping up and down as the noise and energy of the throng intensified. Her expression did not change.
    I shouted, but the chaos swallowed my words. The crowd around me contracted, flowing toward the source of the excitement. It was like swimming a river against a powerful current. The traffic of bodies from the side street met the mass of people hastening from the market, and they all swirled together in one great cataract. The crush trapped my arms at my sides and buffeted me farther and farther away from the woman I sought, until suddenly, as if by magic, I was thrown straight into her arms.
    “Liya!” I cried, struggling to hold my footing.
    She responded with wide-eyed wonder. “Tito Amato!” She grabbed my arm fiercely. “Can it be? What are you doing here?”
    The cries of “Di Noce, Di Noce” became a swelling chorus. As the object of their frenzy neared, a new surge rippled through the crowd. A bulky man in a tattered jacket, intent on witnessing the procession, pushed between us and broke our hold.
    I grabbed for Liya’s sleeve, but the press of the crowd threatened to carry her away. With a bursting leap, she threw an arm around my neck and pulled me close. Her breath was warm on my cheek. I heard “Teatro Argentina, tomorrow afternoon,” and then she was gone.
    I stood unheeding and unmoving as the tumult quietened and the crowd suddenly parted. With my heart drumming in my ears, I dimly realized I was about to see the cardinal who was expected to challenge Stefano Montorio for the papal crown. I looked around for a formal procession, Swiss Guards on the march, a stately gentleman in crimson waving from the window of a gleaming carriage. But there was none of that.
    Cardinal Di Noce didn’t ride. Escorted by only three priests, Di Noce walked among the people. His simple black cassock was faded and dusty, and his broad-brimmed hat had slipped back to expose a skullcap surrounded by a few tufts of gray hair. A short, chunky man, Di Noce shuffled along with the humble steps of a poor parish priest returning from an all-night vigil. Nevertheless, my neighbors gazed in rapt attention. Some fell to their knees and made the sign of the cross; others scurried forward to touch medals and rosaries to the hem of his garment.
    As Di Noce progressed across the square, I tried to see what it was about this unkempt, balding, middle-aged cleric that inspired such devotion. Yes, the blessings he pronounced brimmed with humility and concern. And his slanted, wide-set eyes seemed to radiate good cheer. But, after all, he was just a man.
    I tapped the shoulder of the fellow next to me, a baker in a flour-caked apron pushing his young son forward. “Who is this Di Noce?” I asked. “Why is everyone so excited?”
    My neighbor dropped his beard-shadowed jaw. “Is there a man alive who hasn’t heard of Di Noce?”
    “I’m new to Rome. Just arrived from Venice.”
    He shot me a contemptuous glance that lingered on the ruffles of fine lawn falling over my shirt front. “Perhaps Venice hasn’t heard. Cardinal Di Noce will be our next pope.”
    “Is it true?” I made my eyebrows arc in surprise. “I thought our ambassador, Cardinal Montorio, was the man to replace Pope Clement.”
    “Montorio? Not likely. Rome will riot if that ball of lard wins out over our…” He clamped his mouth shut abruptly, narrowing his gaze as if to say: I’ll shut up because I don’t know who you are, but your ambassador might as well be a piece of shit floating on the Tiber.
    I smiled broadly, trying to win his confidence. “It’s all right. I’ll grant that Cardinal Di Noce may gain the