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The
Bishop Goes to The University by Andrew M. Greeley Rating: •• (Mildly Recommended) |
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Academic Father Andrew Greeley reprises one of our
favorite characters, Bishop Blackie Ryan, in his new novel, The
Bishop Goes to The University. As readers would expect, Bishop
Blackie is called in by his boss, Cardinal Cronin, to solve a murder mystery.
The surprise is that the murder took place in an ivory tower of The
University, which all know is the University of Chicago. Here’s an excerpt
from chapter one that sets up what’s happening (pp. 11-17): "One cardinal ought to be enough for
Chicago, ought he not. Blackwood?" His Eminent Lordship Scan, Cardinal Priest of the
Roman Church, Cronin towered over me, like a crimson watered silk alien from another
planet. Cardinals who are tall (only a few) and handsome (even fewer) and
with powerful presence (yet fewer still) can create that illusion. No one of
this world would walk around in cardinalatial choir robes in daylight. He
might, however, be a character from a Fellini movie or someone playing
Richelieu in a theater of the absurd production from North Lincoln Avenue. In
any event his hooded blue eyes were wide-open, his forehead furrowed in a
deep frown, and his lips pressed together in either serious thought or
suppressed anger. "Arguably," I said, glancing up from my
computer, "more than enough." I had just returned from a bootless trip to Rome. A
certain dicastry of the Roman Curia had wanted to consult with me on a
problem. By which they meant they wanted to tell me what they thought and
could not have cared less about what I thought. They were doing me a favor by
talking to me. "Yet we seem to have another." "How unfortunate." I sighed in West of
Ireland protest. "He's dead." Milord Cronin opened my liquor cabinet, removed
from the back of it a precious container of Bushmills Single Malt and poured
himself considerably more than a splasheen in one of my recently cleaned
Waterford tumblers. "That would solve the problem, would it
not?" I turned away from my workstation. The Cardinal
deposited a large stack of output on the floor and reclined on my couch. In
full robes with a drink in hand (though it was only early afternoon on a
radiant October day), he did look a little like the cinematic version of
Armand-Jean de Plessis, due de Richelieu—if one were to imagine that worthy
to have been Irish. "No, that creates the problem." Aha, the harmless, indeed almost invisible little
auxiliary bishop was about to be dispatched on a mystery-solving expedition. "There are always a few kooks wandering around
this city," he said, sipping cautiously from uisce beatha
as the Irish were pleased to call the Creature. "This is good stuff,
Blackwood," he interrupted his train of thought. "You think they
will have it in heaven?" "Minimally it and sex." He sighed, not, however, as loudly as I can sigh. "My own tailor makes crimson robes for them,
though he doesn't want me to know about it. They're not really authentic, but
parading down Thirty-first Street in what they think is full regalia gives
them a kick, I guess." "As do the several troubled folk who insist on
donning papal white. It is, after all, a free city. From the point of view of
those who are not of the household of the faith. We're all kooks." On occasion I have had to persuade some such
persons not to enter a ceremony at the Cathedral over which I preside at the
Lord Cardinal's pleasure. They depart quietly with sad eyes when I tell them
that their presence would greatly trouble Milord Cronin, which may be a touch
of an exaggeration. "This Russian fellow, however, left a full set of choir robes in
his closet. They seem to be authentic . . ." "Russian fellow?" "That's right, you've been off in Rome,
haven't you? This Semyon lvanivich Popov who was killed in a locked office of
the Divinity School at The University the other night." In Chicago there are many universities. However,
only one is identified as The University, mostly because of frequent
repetition of the italicized word by its denizens. He handed me a sheaf of clippings from Chicago
papers. "Interesting name . . ." "He was Russian. They all have funny
names." "Simon, son of John, priest? Or if you wish,
Simon bar Jona, Pope?" "The cops tell me that the robes included a
pallium. None of the crazies bother with that." The pallium is a small decoration made of wool,
which only archbishops can wear. I glanced through the clippings. "No mention of the sacred crimson in the
press." "Cops have kept it secret." "Aha," I said, "does not his late
Eminence look much like Grigori Yefimovich?" "Who?" He looked up from his tumbler of
Bushmills. "The inestimable and legendary Rasputin." Cardinal Popov was standing in front of the
Divinity School in the flowing robes of Russian monasticism, complete with
the hood that was propped up in front and added several inches to his already
impressive height and his staff. With dark, flasliing eyes, broad shoulders,
a long gray beard, and the frown that is required in such pictures, he was a
central-casting Russian monk. He must have created quite a stir at The
University. "He's dead, isn't he?" "He was thrown into a freezing river in 1915,
but there have been disputed about whether he survived and may still
survive." "This guy was teaching at the Divinity School
out there, something about the Mystical Soteriology of the Old Believers.
Whoever they might be . . . I suppose you are informed about the
subject." "One could summarize them by saying that they
were fundamentalist Orthodox who went into schism over a new translation of
the Bible. They were murdered in great numbers by various czars who didn't
like dissidents of any sort . . . Have our mutual friends across the pond
made any inquiries about Brother Semyon's death?" Color that beard black and he would look like
Rasputin. A man who lived over a hundred and forty years had the right to a
white beard, did he not? "Not a word. Finally, after a couple of days,
I called them. Pretty high-level too. All I heard was what a fine scholar
Brother Semyon was and what a tragedy his death was and how terrible the
American crime rate was." "They're hiding something?" "Maybe. That's the way they would talk if they
were. But then they may not know anything either . . . How come he's in all
those departments? Does he collect salaries from all of them?" I glanced at the text of the articles. Semyon Popov
was a visiting professor in the Divinity School, the Slavic Languages
Department, the Committee on Social Thought, the Center for International
Studies, and the College. "Only prestige. The more departments which
list you, the more important you are." "So he was pretty important?" "More likely as a Russian monk he was pretty
fashionable." "Blackwood, what the hell goes on in that part
of the world?" "The Vatican or the University?" "I mean out where Russia and Poland come
together?" "It's kind of like the Pecos River in Texas,
where there's no law west of. . . Between the Vistula and the Volga there
isn't much in the way of natural boundaries. So invaders have swept across
those plains for a couple of thousand years—Goths, Huns, Teutons, Slavs,
Wends, Magyars, Vikings, Mongols. A few of each group stayed there either on
the way in or the way out. Maybe even a few Celts who headed west when the
last ice age ended. The borders keep changing so at any given time, half the
people are in a country they don't want to be in. There's lots of religions
there too, four or five brands of Orthodoxy, a couple of Catholic Byzantine
groups, and, of course, the Latin Rite Poles. It's borderland, a region of
the world made to order for conspiracy and shenanigans." As I lectured my eyes drifted briefly to the
portraits of three Johns on the wall of my study, childhood heroes—the Pope,
the president, and the quarterback. Now all three were dead, John Unitas
being the last one to have gone home. 0 lente, lente curnte
noctis equi. "We've had underground operations there, I
presume?" "Sure. Probably still do. Some of them as
independent of Vatican control as were those Czech bishops who ordained women
when the Iron Curtain was still working." "And the various popes have appointed certain
cardinals in petto—secret until they want to reveal it . . . Most of them one
kind of Eastern European or another . . ." "A nice touch," I admitted, "though
hardly displaying the transparency that is supposed to be our hallmark these
days." He dismissed this cavil with a wave of his hand,
the one with the ring, not the one holding my Bushmills. "OK, Blackwood, let's say for the sake of the
argument that Brother Semyon was in fact a Catholic bishop in the underground
over there and that he did such a good job that they gave him the red hat in
petto. Why would he travel around with choir robes if it were all a
secret?" . "Or even possess them.
One suspects that the FSB, nee KGB, would find that disturbing . . . It says
here that his head was blown off by a shotgun!" Milord Cronin grimaced. "Messy,
but quick." He
drained his tumbler. "How, then, did the vigilant Chicago police
identify him?" "It was his office, and his robes. Who else
would it have been?" He searched for a place to put the Waterford and
finally set it on the top of my computer output. "They thereupon sought confirmation from
fingerprints or DNA?" "His apartment was swept clean of all traces.
There were plenty of fingerprints in his office, however. The Russians don't
know who Brother Semyon is. Or was." "If it were really him." He rose from my couch with more alacrity than I
could have managed. "There is also the possibility," I added,
"that he identified in some fashion with the Avignon crowd." That stopped Milord dead in his tracks, just as he
reached the door of my office. "Who!" I forebore from correcting him by saying
"whom." "It is said that there is a remnant of the
Avignon papacy that still survives. Rejecting as they do the solution of the
Council of Basle to the Great Western Schism, a few elderly French clerics
gather together when their pope dies and elect a new pope, who promptly
concedes jurisdiction to the false antipope in Rome for the good of the
Church. He then appoints a few more elderly French clerics to choose his
successor when that becomes necessary." "That was five hundred years ago!" "More like seven hundred!" "Why would they bother?" "You know the French . . ." He turned in the doorway and scowled. "I don't like any of it at all, Blackwood. One
pope is enough. So is one cardinal—unless they make you one as a punishment
for your South Side Irish prejudices. I can't have itinerant cardinals
wandering around Chicago posing as Russian monks. Or vice versa. Or French
popes, or whatever. I want this mess straightened out . . . See to it,
Blackwood!" Thereupon he disappeared down the corridor with
much the same éclat as the Superchief when it used to leave Chicago on the
rails to storied La La Land. The
Bishop Goes to The University is a pleasant enough mystery that’s
somewhat enjoyable to read. I find that Greeley’s dialog gets too tedious
after fifty pages or so. Readers who can put up with Greeley’s eccentricities
will enjoy this mystery. If you like the dialog in the excerpt above, by all
means, go ahead and enjoy this book. Steve Hopkins, October 28, 2003 |
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ã 2003 Hopkins and Company, LLC The
recommendation rating for this book appeared in the November 2003
issue of Executive
Times URL
for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/The
Bishop.htm For
Reprint Permission, Contact: Hopkins
& Company, LLC • 723 North Kenilworth Avenue • Oak Park, IL 60302 E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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