Conclave

19 Habemus papam

THE CHOICE OF name took Lomeli by surprise. To derive one’s papal title from a virtue – innocence, piety, clemency – rather than from a saint was a tradition that had died out generations ago. There had been thirteen Popes named Innocent, none of them in the last three centuries. But the more he considered it, even in those first few seconds, the more he was struck by its aptness – by its symbolism at such a time of bloodshed, by the boldness of its declaration of intent. It seemed to promise both a return to tradition and yet a departure from it – exactly the sort of ambiguity the Curia relished. And it fitted the dignified, childlike, graceful, softly spoken Benítez to perfection.

Pope Innocent XIV – the long-awaited Third World Pope! Lomeli privately gave thanks. Once again, miraculously, God had guided them to the right choice.

He was aware that the cardinals had started clapping again, in approval of the name. He knelt before the new Holy Father. Smiling in alarm, Benítez raised himself out of his seat, leaned across the desk and tugged at Lomeli’s mozzetta, indicating that he should get back on his feet. ‘It should be you in this place,’ he whispered. ‘I voted for you in every ballot and I shall need your advice. I would like you to continue as Dean of the College.’

Lomeli grasped Benítez’s hand as he hauled himself up. He whispered in return, ‘And my first piece of advice, Your Holiness, would be to make no promises of office just yet.’ He called to Mandorff: ‘Archbishop, would you be so good as to bring in your witnesses and draw up the deed of acceptance?’

He stepped back to allow the formalities to be conducted. It would take five minutes at most. The document had already been written out; it was necessary merely for Mandorff to insert Benítez’s birth name, his pontifical name and the date, and then for the new Holy Father to sign it and for it to be witnessed.

It was only as Mandorff placed the paper on the desk and began filling in the blank spaces that Lomeli noticed O’Malley. He was staring fixedly at the deed of acceptance, as if in a trance. Lomeli said, ‘Monsignor, I’m sorry to interrupt you. . .’ When the Irishman failed to react, he tried again: ‘Ray?’ Only then did O’Malley turn and look at him. His expression was confused, almost frightened. Lomeli said, ‘I think you should start gathering the cardinals’ notes. The sooner we can light the stoves, the sooner the world will know we have a new Pope. Ray?’ He reached out his hand in concern. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m sorry, Your Eminence. I’m fine.’ But Lomeli could see he was having to make a great effort to act as if nothing was wrong.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s simply not the outcome I was expecting. . .’

‘No, but it’s wonderful all the same.’ He dropped his voice. ‘Listen, if it’s my position you’re worried about, my dear fellow, let me assure you I feel nothing but relief. God has blessed us with His mercy. Our new Holy Father will make a much greater Pope than ever I would have done.’

‘Yes.’ O’Malley managed a kind of stricken half-smile, and gestured to the two masters of ceremonies who were not involved in witnessing the deed of acceptance to begin gathering the cardinals’ papers. He walked a few paces further into the Sistine, then halted and quickly returned. ‘Eminence, I have a great burden on my conscience.’

It was at that moment that Lomeli once again felt tendrils of alarm begin to curl around his chest. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘May I speak with you in private?’ O’Malley grasped Lomeli’s elbow and tried to guide him urgently towards the vestibule.

Lomeli glanced around to see if anyone was watching. The cardinals were all looking at Benítez. The new Pope had signed the deed of acceptance and was leaving his seat in order to be taken to the sacristy to be robed. Lomeli surrendered reluctantly to the monsignor’s pressure and allowed himself to be conducted through the screen and into the cold, deserted lobby of the chapel. He glanced up. A wind was blowing through glassless windows. Already it was starting to get dark. The poor man’s nerves had obviously been affected by the explosion. ‘My dear Ray,’ he said, ‘for heaven’s sake calm yourself.’

‘I’m sorry, Your Eminence.’

‘Just tell me simply what it is that’s troubling you. We have much to do.’

‘Yes, I realise now I should have spoken to you earlier, but it seemed so trivial.’

‘Go on.’

‘On that first night, when I took Cardinal Benítez the toiletries he was lacking, he told me I needn’t have bothered with a razor, as he never shaved.’

‘What?’

‘He was smiling when he said it, and to be frank, given everything else that was going on, I thought nothing of it. I mean, Your Eminence, it’s not uncommon, is it?’

Lomeli squinted at him, uncomprehending. ‘Ray, I’m sorry, but you are making no sense to me.’ Dimly he recalled blowing out the candle in Benítez’s bathroom and seeing the razor in its cellophane wrapper.

‘But now that I’ve discovered about the clinic in Switzerland. . .’ His voice trailed away helplessly.

‘The clinic?’ repeated Lomeli. Suddenly the marble floor began to feel like liquid. ‘You mean the hospital in Geneva?’

O’Malley shook his head. ‘No, that’s the point, Eminence. Something kept on niggling away in my mind, and this afternoon, once I saw that there was a chance the Conclave might move towards Cardinal Benítez, I decided I should look it up. It turns out it isn’t a normal hospital. It’s a clinic.’

‘A clinic for what?’

‘It specialises in what they call “gender reassignment”.’

Lomeli hurried back into the main part of the chapel. The masters of ceremonies were moving along the rows of desks, collecting every scrap of paper. The cardinals were still in their places, talking quietly among themselves. Only Benítez’s seat was empty, along with his own. The papal throne had been set up in front of the altar.

He walked the length of the Sistine to the door of the sacristy and knocked. Father Zanetti opened the door a crack. ‘His Holiness is being robed, Your Eminence,’ he whispered.

‘I need to speak with him.’

‘But Your Eminence-’

‘Father Zanetti, if you please!’

Startled by his tone, the young priest stared at him for a moment before withdrawing his head. Lomeli heard voices within, then the door was opened briefly and he slipped inside. The low vaulted chamber looked like the props room backstage at a theatre. It was cluttered with discarded clothes and the table and chairs that had been used by the scrutineers. Benítez, already clothed in the white watered-silk cassock of the Pope, was standing with his arms held wide, as if nailed to an invisible cross. Kneeling at his feet was the papal tailor from Gammarelli, pins in his teeth, stitching the hem, so intent on his work he did not look up.

Benítez gave Lomeli a resigned smile. ‘Apparently even the smallest vestments are too large.’

‘May I speak to Your Holiness alone?’

‘Of course.’ Benítez peered down at the tailor, ‘Have you finished, my child?’

Through clenched teeth and pins the reply was unintelligible.

‘Leave that,’ ordered Lomeli curtly. ‘You can finish it later.’ The tailor looked round at him and spat his pins into a metal tin, then unthreaded his needle and bit through the gossamer line of spun white silk. Lomeli added, ‘You too, Father.’

The two men bowed and left.

When the door was closed, Lomeli said, ‘You must tell me about this treatment at the clinic in Geneva. What is your situation?’

He had anticipated various responses – angry denials, tearful confessions. Instead, Benítez looked more amused than alarmed. ‘Must I, Dean?’

‘Yes, Your Holiness, you must. Within the hour you will be the most famous man in the world. We can be certain the media will try to find out everything there is to know about you. Your colleagues have a right to know it first. So if I may repeat: what is your situation?’

‘My situation, as you call it, is the same as it was when I was ordained a priest, the same as when I was made an archbishop and the same as when I was created a cardinal. The truth is, there was no treatment in Geneva. I considered it. I prayed for guidance. And then I decided against it.’

‘And what would it have been, this treatment?’

Benítez sighed. ‘I believe the clinical terms are surgery to correct a fusion of the labia majora and minora, and a clitoropexy.’

Lomeli sat down on the nearest chair and put his head in his hands. After a few moments, he was aware of Benítez pulling up a chair next to him.

‘Let me tell you how it was, Dean,’ Benítez said softly. ‘This is the truth of it. I was born to very poor parents in the Philippines, in a place where boys are more prized than girls – a preference I fear is still the case all over the world. My deformity, if that is what we must call it, was such that it was perfectly easy and natural for me to pass as a boy. My parents believed that I was a boy. I believed that I was a boy. And because the life of the seminary is a modest one, as you know well, with an aversion to the uncovering of the body, I had no reason to suspect otherwise, and nor did anyone else. I need hardly add that all my life I have observed my vows of chastity.’

‘And you really never guessed? In sixty years?’

‘No, never. Now, of course, when I look back, I can see that my ministry as a priest, which was mainly among women who were suffering in some way, was probably an unconscious reflection of my natural state. But I had no idea of it at the time. When I was injured in the explosion in Baghdad, I went to a hospital, and only then was I fully examined by a doctor for the first time. The instant the medical facts were explained to me, naturally I was appalled. Such darkness came upon me! It seemed to me that my entire life had been lived in a state of mortal sin. I offered my resignation to the Holy Father, without giving him the reasons. He invited me to Rome to discuss it and sought to dissuade me.’

‘And did you tell him the reasons for your resignation?’

‘In the end, yes, I had to.’

Lomeli stared at him, incredulous. ‘And he thought it was acceptable for you to continue as an ordained minister?’

‘He left it up to me. We prayed together in his room for guidance. Eventually I decided to have the surgery and to leave the ministry. But the night before I was due to fly to Switzerland, I changed my mind. I am what God made me, Your Eminence. It seemed to me more of a sin to correct His handiwork than to leave my body as it was. So I cancelled my appointment and returned to Baghdad.’

‘And the Holy Father was content to allow that?’

‘One must assume so. After all, he made me a cardinal in pectore in full knowledge of who I am.’

Lomeli cried out, ‘Then he must have gone mad!’

There was a knock at the door.

Lomeli shouted, ‘Not now!’ but Benítez called, ‘Come!’

It was Santini, the Senior Cardinal-Deacon. Lomeli often wondered afterwards what he must have made of the scene: the newly elected Holy Father and the Dean of the College of Cardinals sitting on a pair of chairs, knees practically touching, in the middle of what was obviously a profound conversation. ‘Forgive me, Your Holiness,’ Santini said, ‘but when would you like me to go out on to the balcony to announce your election? There are said to be a quarter of a million in the square and the surrounding streets.’ He gave Lomeli an imploring look. ‘We are waiting to burn the ballot papers, Dean.’

Lomeli said, ‘Give us one more minute, Your Eminence.’

‘Of course.’ Santini bowed and withdrew.

Lomeli massaged his forehead. The pain behind his eyes had returned, more blinding even than before. ‘Your Holiness, how many people know of your medical condition? Monsignor O’Malley has guessed it, but he swears he has mentioned it to no one apart from me.’

‘Then it is only we three. The doctor who treated me in Baghdad was killed in a bombing shortly after he examined me, and the Holy Father is dead.’

‘What about the clinic in Geneva?’

‘I was only booked in for a preliminary consultation under an assumed name. I never went. Nobody there would have any idea the prospective patient was me.’

Lomeli sat back in his chair and contemplated the unthinkable. But then, was it not written in Matthew, Chapter 10, Verse 16: Be wise as serpents and innocent as doves. . . ? ‘I’d say there’s a reasonable chance that we can keep it secret in the short term. O’Malley can be promoted to archbishop and sent away somewhere – he won’t talk; I can deal with him. But in the long term, Your Holiness, the truth will emerge, we may be sure of it. I recall there was a visa application for your stay in Switzerland, giving the address of the clinic – that might be discovered one day. You will get old, and require medical treatment – you may have to be examined then. Perhaps you will have a heart attack. And eventually you will die, and your body will be embalmed. . .’

They sat in silence. Benítez said, ‘Of course, we are forgetting: there is one other who knows this secret.’

Lomeli looked at him in alarm. ‘Who?’

‘God.’

It was nearly five when the two emerged. Afterwards, the Vatican press office let it be known that Pope Innocent XIV had refused to receive the traditional pledges of obedience while seated in the papal throne but instead had greeted the cardinal-electors individually, standing before the altar. He embraced them all warmly, but especially those who had at one time dreamed of being in his place: Bellini, Tedesco, Adeyemi, Tremblay. For each he had a word of comfort and admiration; to each he pledged his support. By this demonstration of love and forgiveness he made it plain to every man in the Sistine Chapel that there were to be no recriminations – that no one would be dismissed and that the Church would face the perilous days and years ahead in a spirit of unity. There was a communal sense of relief. Even Tedesco grudgingly acknowledged it. The Holy Spirit had done its work. They had picked the right man.

In the vestibule, Lomeli watched O’Malley cram the paper sacks of ballot papers and all the notes and records of the Conclave into the round stove and set fire to them. The secrets burnt easily. Then into the square stove he released a canister of potassium chlorate, lactose and pine resin. Lomeli let his eyes travel slowly up the length of the flue to the point where it exited through the glassless window and into the darkened heavens. He could not make out the chimney or the white smoke, only the pale reflection of the searchlight in the shadows of the ceiling, followed a moment later by the distant roar of hundreds of thousands of voices raised in hope and acclamation.