Conclave

10 The Third Ballot

AFTER NEWBY HAD read out the results, and the three cardinal-revisers had checked them, Lomeli rose and approached the altar. He took the microphone from Newby. The Sistine seemed to be emitting a low-level hum. Along all four rows of desks the cardinals were comparing lists and whispering to their neighbours.

From the altar step he could see the four main contenders. Bellini, as a cardinal-bishop, was closest to him, on the right-hand side of the chapel as Lomeli looked at it: he was studying the figures and tapping his forefinger against his lips, an isolated figure. A little further down, on the other side of the aisle, Tedesco was tilting back in his chair to listen to the Archbishop Emeritus of Palermo, Scozzazi, who was in the row behind him and was leaning over his desk to tell him something. A few places further on from Tedesco, Tremblay was twisting his torso from side to side to stretch his muscles, like a sportsman between rounds. Opposite him, Adeyemi was staring straight ahead, so utterly immobile he might have been a figure carved in ebony, oblivious to the glances he was attracting from all sides of the Sistine.

Lomeli tapped the microphone. It echoed off the frescos like a drumbeat. At once the murmuring ceased. ‘My brothers, in accordance with the Apostolic Constitution, we will not stop to burn the ballot papers at this point, but instead proceed immediately to the next vote. Let us pray.’

For the third time, Lomeli voted for Bellini. He was settled in his own mind that he would not desert him, even though one could see – almost literally physically see – the authority draining from the former favourite as he walked stiffly up to the altar, recited the oath in a flat voice and cast his ballot. He turned to go back to his seat, a husk. It was one thing to dread becoming Pope; it was another altogether to confront the sudden reality that it was never going to happen – that after years of being regarded as the heir apparent, your peers had looked you over and God had guided their choice elsewhere. Lomeli wondered if he would ever recover. As Bellini passed behind him to get to his seat, he gave him a consoling pat on the back, but the former Secretary of State seemed not to notice.

While the cardinals voted, Lomeli passed his time in contemplation of the ceiling panels nearest to him. The prophet Jeremiah lost in misery. The anti-Semite Haman denounced and slain. The prophet Jonah about to be swallowed by a giant eel. The turmoil of it struck him for the first time; the violence; the force. He craned his neck to examine God separating light and darkness. The creation of the sun and planets. God dividing water from the earth. Without noticing, he allowed himself to become lost in the painting. And there will be signs in sun and moon and stars, and upon the earth distress of nations in great perplexity at the roaring of the sea and the waves, men fainting with fear and with foreboding of what is coming on the world; for the powers of the heavens will be shaken… He felt a sudden intimation of disaster, so profound that he shuddered, and when he looked around he realised that an hour had passed and the scrutineers were preparing to count the ballots.

‘Adeyemi… Adeyemi… Adeyemi…’

Every second vote seemed to be for the cardinal from Nigeria, and as the last few ballots were read out, Lomeli said a prayer for him.

‘Adeyemi…’ Newby threaded the paper on to his scarlet ribbon. ‘My brothers, that concludes the voting in the third ballot.’

There was a collective exhalation around the chapel. Quickly Lomeli counted the forest of ticks he had placed against Adeyemi’s name. He made it fifty-seven. Fifty-seven! He couldn’t resist leaning forward and peering down the row of desks to where Adeyemi was sitting. Almost half the Conclave was doing the same. Another three votes and he would have a straight majority; another twenty-one and he would be Pope.

The first black Pope.

Adeyemi’s massive head was bent forward on to his chest. In his right hand he was grasping his pectoral cross. He was praying.

In the first ballot, thirty-four cardinals had received at least one vote. Now there were only six who registered support:

Adeyemi 57

Tedesco 32

Tremblay 12

Bellini 10

Lomeli 5

Benítez 2

Adeyemi would be elected pontiff before the day was out. Lomeli was sure of it. The prophecy was written in the numbers. Even if Tedesco somehow managed to reach forty on the next ballot and deny him a two-thirds majority, the blocking minority would crumble quickly in the following round. Few cardinals would wish to risk a schism in the Church by obstructing such a dramatic manifestation of the Divine Will. Nor, to be practical about it, would they wish to make an enemy of the incoming Pope, especially one with as powerful a personality as Joshua Adeyemi.

Once the voting papers had been checked by the revisers, Lomeli returned to the altar step and addressed the Conclave. ‘My brothers, that concludes the third ballot. We shall now adjourn for luncheon. Voting will resume at two thirty. Kindly remain in your places while the officials are readmitted, and remember not to discuss our proceedings until you are back inside the Casa Santa Marta. Would the Junior Cardinal-Deacon please ask for the doors to be unlocked?’

The members of the Conclave surrendered their voting papers to the masters of ceremonies. Afterwards, making animated conversation, they filed across the vestibule of the Sistine, out into the marbled grandeur of the Sala Regia and down the staircase to the buses. Already it was noticeable how they deferred to Adeyemi, who seemed to have developed an invisible protective shield around him. Even his closest supporters kept their distance. He walked alone.

The cardinals were eager to get back to the Casa Santa Marta. Few now lingered to watch the burning of the ballots. O’Malley stuffed the paper sacks into one furnace and released the chemicals from the other. The fumes mingled and rose up the copper flue. At 12.37 p.m., black smoke began to issue from the Sistine Chapel chimney. Observing it, the Vatican experts on the main television news channels continued confidently to predict a victory for Bellini.

Lomeli left the Sistine soon after the smoke was released, at roughly a quarter to one. In the courtyard, the security men were holding the last minibus for him. He declined the offer of help and climbed up on to it unaided to find Bellini among the passengers, sitting near the front with his usual squad of supporters – Sabbadin, Landolfi, Dell’Acqua, Santini, Panzavecchia. He had done himself no favours, Lomeli thought, by trying to win over a worldwide electorate with a clique of Italians. As the rear seats were occupied, Lomeli was obliged to sit with them. The bus pulled away. Conscious of the driver’s eyes examining them in the rear-view mirror, the cardinals didn’t speak at first. But then Sabbadin, turning round in his place, said to Lomeli, with deceptive pleasantness, ‘I noticed, Dean, that you spent nearly an hour this morning examining Michelangelo’s ceiling.’

‘I did – and what a ferocious work it is, when one has time to study it. So much disaster bearing down upon us – executions, killings, the Flood. One detail I hadn’t noticed before is God’s expression when He separates light from darkness: it is pure murder.’

‘Of course, the most appropriate episode for us to have contemplated this morning would have been the story of the Gadarene swine. What a pity the master never got around to painting that.’

‘Now, now, Giulio,’ warned Bellini, glancing at the driver. ‘Remember where we are.’

But Sabbadin could not contain his bitterness. His only concession was to drop his voice to a hiss, so that they all had to lean in to hear him. ‘Seriously, have we taken leave of our senses? Can’t we see we’re stampeding over a cliff? What am I to tell them in Milan when they start to discover our new Pope’s social views?’

Lomeli whispered, ‘Don’t forget there will also be great excitement at the prospect of the first African pontiff.’

‘Oh yes! Very good! A Pope who will permit tribal dancing in the middle of the Mass but will not countenance Communion for the divorced!’

‘Enough!’ Bellini made a cutting gesture with his hand to signal that the conversation was over. Lomeli had never seen him so angry. ‘We must all accept the collective wisdom of the Conclave. This isn’t one of your father’s political caucuses, Giulio – God doesn’t do re-counts.’ He stared out of the window and didn’t speak again for the remainder of the short journey. Sabbadin sat back, arms folded, furious in his frustration and disappointment. In the rear-view mirror, the driver’s eyes were wide with curiosity.

It took less than five minutes to drive from the Sistine Chapel to the Casa Santa Marta. Lomeli calculated later therefore that it must have been roughly 12.50 p.m. when they disembarked outside the hostel. They were the last to arrive. Perhaps half the cardinals were already seated, and another thirty were queuing with their trays; the remainder must have gone up to their rooms. The nuns were moving between the tables, serving wine. There was an atmosphere of unsuppressed excitement: permitted to talk openly, the cardinals swapped their opinions of the extraordinary result. As he joined the end of the line, Lomeli was surprised to see Adeyemi sitting at the same table he had occupied at breakfast, with the same contingent of African cardinals: if he had been in the Nigerian’s position, he would have been in the chapel, away from this hubbub, deep in prayer.

He had reached the counter and was helping himself to a little riso tonnato when he heard the sound of raised voices behind him, followed by the crash of a tray hitting the marble floor, glass shattering, and then a woman’s scream. (Or was scream the right word? Perhaps cry would be better: a woman’s cry.) He swivelled round to see what was happening. Other cardinals were rising from their seats to do the same; they obscured his view. A nun, her hands clasped to her head, ran across the dining room and into the kitchen. Two sisters hurried after her. Lomeli turned to the cardinal nearest him – it was the young Spaniard, Villanueva. ‘What happened? Did you see?’

‘She dropped a bottle of wine, I think.’

Whatever it was, the incident seemed to be over. The cardinals who had stood resumed their seats. The drone of conversation slowly started up again. Lomeli turned back to the counter to collect his food. Holding his tray, he looked around for a place where he could sit. A nun came out of the kitchen carrying a bucket and a mop and went towards the Africans’ table, at which point Lomeli noticed that Adeyemi was no longer there. In a moment of terrible clarity, he knew what must have happened. But still – how he reproached himself for this afterwards! – still his instinct was to ignore it. The discretion and self-discipline of a lifetime guided his feet towards the nearest empty chair, and then commanded his body to sit, his mouth to smile a greeting at his neighbours, his hands to unfold a napkin, while in his ears all he could hear was a noise like a waterfall.

So it was that the Archbishop of Bordeaux, Courtemarche – who had questioned the historical evidence for the Holocaust, and whom Lomeli had always shunned – suddenly found himself sitting next to the Dean of the College. Mistaking it for an official overture, he began to make a plea on behalf of the Society of St Pius X. Lomeli listened without hearing. A nun, her gaze modestly averted, came and stood at his shoulder to offer him wine. He looked up to refuse, and for a fraction of a second she looked back at him – a terrible, accusing look: it made his mouth go dry.

‘… the Immaculate Heart of Mary…’ Courtemarche was saying, ‘… the intention of heaven declared at Fatima…’

Behind the nun, three of the African archbishops who had been sitting with Adeyemi – Nakitanda, Mwangale and Zucula – were approaching Lomeli’s table. The youngest, Nakitanda of Kampala, seemed to be their spokesman. ‘Could we request a word with you, Dean?’

‘Of course.’ He nodded to Courtemarche. ‘Excuse me.’

He followed the trio into a corner of the lobby. ‘What just happened?’ he asked.

Zucula shook his head mournfully. ‘Our brother is troubled.’

Nakitanda said, ‘One of the nuns serving our table started talking to Joshua. He tried to ignore her at first. She dropped the tray and shouted something. He got up and left.’

‘What did she say?’

‘We don’t know, unfortunately. She was speaking in a Nigerian dialect.’

‘Yoruba,’ Mwangale said. ‘It was Yoruba. Adeyemi’s dialect.’

‘And where is Cardinal Adeyemi now?’

‘We don’t know, Dean,’ said Nakitanda, ‘but clearly something is wrong and he has to tell us what it is. And we need to hear from the sister before we go back to the Sistine to vote. What exactly is her complaint against him?’

Zucula seized Lomeli’s arm. For such a seemingly frail man, his grip was fierce. ‘We have waited a long time for an African Pope, Jacopo, and if God wills it to be Joshua, I am happy. But he must be pure in heart and conscience – a truly holy man. Anything short of that would be a disaster for all of us.’

‘I understand. Let me see what I can do.’ Lomeli looked at his watch. It was three minutes past one.

To reach the kitchen from the lobby, Lomeli had to walk all the way across the dining room. The cardinals had been observing his conversation with the Africans, and he was conscious of his progress being followed by dozens of pairs of eyes – of men leaning across to whisper to one another, of forks poised in mid-air. He pushed open the door. It was many years since he had been inside a kitchen, and never one as busy as this. He looked around in bewilderment at the nuns who were preparing the food. The sisters closest to him bowed their heads.

‘Your Eminence…’

‘Your Eminence…’

‘Bless you, my children. Tell me, where is the sister who had the accident just now?’

An Italian nun said, ‘She is with Sister Agnes, Your Eminence.’

‘Would you be kind enough to take me to her?’

‘Of course, Eminence. Please.’ She indicated the door that led back out to the dining room.

Lomeli shied away from it. ‘Is there a rear exit we can take?’

‘Yes, Eminence.’

‘Show me, child.’

He followed her through a storeroom and into a service passage.

‘What is the name of the sister, do you know?’

‘No, Eminence. She is new.’

The nun knocked timidly on the glass door of an office. Lomeli recognised it as the place where he had first met Benítez, only now the blinds had been lowered for privacy and it was impossible to see inside. After a few moments he knocked himself, more loudly. He heard the sound of someone moving, and then the door was opened a crack by Sister Agnes.

‘Your Eminence?’

‘Good afternoon, Sister. I need to speak with the nun who dropped her tray just now.’

‘She is safe with me, Your Eminence. I am dealing with the situation.’

‘I am sure you are, Sister Agnes. But I must see her myself.’

‘I hardly think a dropped tray should concern the Dean of the College of Cardinals.’

‘Even so. If I may?’ He gripped the door handle.

‘It’s really nothing I can’t deal with…’

He pushed gently at the door, and after one last attempt at resistance, she yielded.

The nun was sitting on the same chair Benítez had occupied, next to the photocopier. She stood as he entered. He had an impression of a woman of about fifty – short, plump, bespectacled, timid: identical to the others. But it was always so hard to see beyond the uniform and the headdress to the person, especially when that person was staring at the floor.

‘Sit down, child,’ he said gently. ‘My name is Cardinal Lomeli. We’re all worried about you. How are you feeling?’

Sister Agnes said, ‘She’s feeling much better, Eminence.’

‘Could you tell me your name?’

‘Her name is Shanumi. She can’t understand a word you’re saying – she doesn’t speak any Italian, poor creature.’

‘English?’ he asked the nun. ‘Do you speak English?’ She nodded. She still hadn’t looked at him. ‘Good. So do I. I lived in the United States for some years. Please, do sit down.’

‘Eminence, I really do think it would be better if I-’

Without turning to look at her, Lomeli said firmly, ‘Would you be so good as to leave us now, Sister Agnes?’ And only when she dared to protest again did he at last swing round and give her a look of such freezing authority that even she, before whom three Popes and at least one African warlord had quailed, bowed her head and backed out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Lomeli drew up a chair and sat opposite the nun, so close to her that their knees were almost touching. Such intimacy was hard for him. O God, he prayed, give me the strength and the wisdom to help this poor woman and to find out what I need to know, so that I may fulfil my duty to You. He said, ‘Sister Shanumi, I want you to understand, first of all, that you’re not in any sort of trouble. The fact of the matter is, I have a responsibility before God and to the Mother Church, which we both of us try to serve as best we are able, to make sure that the decisions we take here are the right ones. Now, it’s important that you tell me anything that is in your heart and that is troubling you in so far as it relates to Cardinal Adeyemi. Can you do that for me?’

She shook her head.

‘Even if I give you my absolute assurance it will go no further than this room?’

A pause, followed by another shake of the head.

It was then that he had an inspiration. Afterwards he would always believe that God had come to his aid. ‘Would you like me to hear your confession?’