Conclave

by Robert Harris

  ‘But that is absurd! What did I call for? Three things: unity; tolerance; humility. Are colleagues now suggesting we need a Pope who is schismatic, intolerant and arrogant?’ O’Malley bowed his head in deference, and Lomeli realised he had raised his voice. A couple of cardinals had turned to look at him. ‘I’m sorry, Ray. Excuse me. I think I’ll go to my room for an hour. I’m feeling rather drained.’

  All he had ever desired in this contest was to be neutral. Neutrality had been the leitmotif of his career. When the traditionalists had taken control of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith in the nineties, he had kept his head down and got on with his work as Papal Nuncio in the United States. Twenty years later, when the late Holy Father had decided to clear out the old guard and had asked him to step down as Secretary of State, he had nevertheless served him loyally in the lesser role of Dean. Servus fidelis: all that mattered was the Church. He had meant what he said that morning. He had seen at first hand the damage that could be done by inflexible certainty in matters of faith.

  Now, though, as he made his way across the lobby to the elevator, he found to his dismay that although he was receiving some friendly acknowledgement – the occasional pat on the back, a few smiles – this came entirely from the liberal faction. At least as many cardinals who were listed in Lomeli’s file as traditionalists frowned or turned their heads away from him. Archbishop Dell’Acqua of Bologna, who had been at Bellini’s table the night before, called out, loudly enough for the whole room to hear, ‘Well said, Dean!’ But Cardinal Gambino, the Archbishop of Perugia, who was one of Tedesco’s strongest supporters, ostentatiously wagged his finger at him in silent reproof. To cap it all, when the elevator doors opened, there stood Tedesco himself, red-faced and doubtless on his way to an early lunch, accompanied by the Archbishop Emeritus of Chicago, Paul Krasinski, who was leaning on his stick. Lomeli stepped aside to let them out.

  As he passed, Tedesco said sharply, ‘My goodness, that was a novel interpretation of Ephesians, Dean – to portray St Paul as an Apostle of Doubt! I’ve never heard that one before!’ He swung round, determined to have an argument. ‘Did he not also write to the Corinthians, “For if the trumpet give forth an uncertain note, who shall prepare himself to the battle?”’

  Lomeli pressed the button for the second floor. ‘Perhaps it would have been more palatable to you in Latin, Patriarch?’ The doors closed, cutting off Tedesco’s reply.

  He was halfway along the corridor to his room before he realised he had locked his key inside. A childish self-pity welled within him. Did he have to think of everything? Shouldn’t Father Zanetti be looking after him just a little better? There was nothing for it except to turn around, descend the stairs and explain his foolishness to the nun behind the reception desk. She disappeared into the office and returned with Sister Agnes of the Daughters of Charity of St Vincent de Paul, a tiny Frenchwoman in her late sixties. Her face was sharp and fine, her eyes a crystalline blue. One of her distant aristocratic forebears had been a member of the order during the French Revolution and had been guillotined in the marketplace for refusing to swear an oath to the new regime. Sister Agnes was reputed to be the only person of whom the late Holy Father had been afraid, and perhaps for that reason he had often sought out her company. ‘Agnes,’ he used to say, ‘will always tell me the truth.’

  After Lomeli had repeated his apologies, she tut-tutted and gave him her pass key.

  ‘All I can say, Your Eminence, is that I hope you take better care of the Keys of St Peter than you do of the keys to your room!’

  By now most of the cardinals had drifted away from the lobby, either to go to their quarters to rest or meditate, or to have lunch in the dining hall. Unlike dinner, lunch was self-service. The clatter of plates and cutlery, the smell of hot food, the warm drone of conversation – all were tempting to Lomeli. But looking at the queue, he guessed that his sermon would be the main topic of conversation. It would be wiser to let it speak for itself.

  At the bend in the stairs, he encountered Bellini on his way down. The former Secretary of State was alone, and as he drew level with Lomeli he said quietly, ‘I never knew you were so ambitious.’

  For a moment Lomeli wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. ‘What an extraordinary thing to say!’

  ‘I didn’t mean any offence, but you must agree that you have . . . how should one put it? Stepped out of the shadows, shall we say?’

  ‘And how exactly is one to remain in the shadows if one has to celebrate a televised Mass in St Peter’s for two hours?’

  ‘Oh now you’re being disingenuous, Jacopo.’ Bellini’s mouth twisted into an awful smile. ‘You know what I’m talking about. And to think that only a little while ago you tried to resign! But now . . . ?’ He shrugged, and the smile twisted again. ‘Who knows how things may turn out?’

  Lomeli felt almost faint, as if he were suffering an attack of vertigo. ‘Aldo, this conversation is very distressing to me. You cannot seriously believe I have the slightest desire, or the remotest chance, of becoming Pope?’

  ‘My dear friend, every man in this building has a chance, at least in theory. And every cardinal has entertained the fantasy, if nothing else, that one day he might be elected, and has selected the name by which he would like his papacy to be known.’

  ‘Well I haven’t . . .’

  ‘Deny it if you like, but go away and search your heart and then tell me it isn’t so. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have promised the Archbishop of Milan that I will go down to the dining room and attempt to make conversation with some of our colleagues.’

  After he had gone, Lomeli stood motionless on the stairs. Bellini was obviously under the most tremendous strain, otherwise he would not have spoken to him in such terms. But when he reached his room, and let himself in, and lay on his bed attempting to rest, he found he could not get the accusation out of his mind. Was there really, deep within his soul, a devil of ambition he had refused to acknowledge all these years? He tried to make an honest audit of his conscience, and at the end of it his conclusion was that Bellini was wrong, as far as he could tell.

  But then another possibility occurred to him – one that, however absurd, was much more alarming. He was almost afraid to examine it:

  What if God had a plan for him?

  Could that explain why he had been seized by that extraordinary impulse in St Peter’s? Were those few sentences, which he now found so hard to remember, not actually his at all, but a manifestation of the Holy Spirit working through him?

  He tried to pray. But God, who had felt so close only a few minutes before, had vanished again, and his pleas for guidance seemed to vanish into the ether.

  *

  It was just before 2 p.m. when Lomeli finally roused himself from his bed. He undressed to his underwear and socks, opened his closet and laid out the various elements of his choir dress on the counterpane. As he removed each item from its cellophane wrapping, it exuded the sweet chemical aroma of dry-cleaning fluid – a scent that always reminded him of his years in the Nuncio’s residence in New York, when all his laundry was done at a place on East 72nd Street. For a moment he closed his eyes and heard once more the ceaseless soft horns of the distant Manhattan traffic.

  Every garment had been made to measure by Gammarelli, papal outfitters since 1798, in their famous shop behind the Pantheon, and he took his time in dressing, meditating on the sacred nature of each element in an effort to heighten his spiritual awareness.

  He slipped his arms into the scarlet woollen cassock and fastened the thirty-three buttons that ran from his neck to his ankles – one button for each year of Christ’s life. Around his waist he tied the red watered-silk sash of the cincture, or fascia, designed to remind him of his vow of chastity, and checked to make sure its tasselled end hung to a point midway up his left calf. Then he pulled over his head the thin white linen rochet – the symbol, along with the mozzetta, of his judicial authority. The bottom two-thirds and the cuffs were of whit
e lace with a floral pattern. He tied the tapes in a bow at his neck and tugged the rochet down so that it extended to just below his knees. Finally he put on his mozzetta, an elbow-length nine-buttoned scarlet cape.

  He picked up his pectoral cross from the nightstand and kissed it. John Paul II had presented him in person with the cross to mark his recall from New York to Rome to serve as Secretary for Relations with Foreign States. The Pope’s Parkinsonism had been terribly advanced by then; his hands had shaken so much as he tried to hand it over, it had dropped on the floor. Lomeli unclipped the gold chain and replaced it with a cord of red and gold silk. He murmured the customary prayer for protection (Munire digneris me . . .) and hung the cross round his neck so that it lay next to his heart. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, worked his feet into a pair of well-worn black leather brogues and tied the laces. Only one item remained: his biretta of scarlet silk, which he placed over his skullcap.

  On the back of the bathroom door was a full-length mirror. He switched on the stuttering light and checked himself in the bluish glow: front first, then his left side, then his right. His profile had become beaky with age. He thought he looked like some elderly moulting bird. Sister Anjelica, who kept house for him, was always telling him he was too thin, that he should eat more. Hanging up in his apartment were vestments he had first worn as a young priest more than forty years ago and which still fitted him perfectly. He smoothed his hands over his stomach. He felt hungry. He had missed both breakfast and lunch. Let it be so, he thought. The pangs of hunger would serve as a useful mortification of the flesh, a constant tiny reminder throughout the first round of voting of the vast agony of Christ’s sacrifice.

  *

  At 2.30 p.m., the cardinals began boarding the fleet of white minibuses that had been queuing all afternoon in the rain outside the Casa Santa Marta.

  The atmosphere had become much more sombre in the time since lunch. Lomeli remembered it had been exactly the same at the last Conclave. It wasn’t until the moment for voting arrived that one felt the full weight of the responsibility. Only Tedesco seemed immune to it. He was leaning against a pillar, humming to himself and smiling at everyone as they passed. Lomeli wondered what had happened to improve his mood. Perhaps he was indulging in some kind of gamesmanship to disconcert his opponents. With the Patriarch of Venice, all things were possible. It made him uneasy.

  Monsignor O’Malley, in his role of Secretary of the College, stood in the centre of the lobby holding his clipboard. He called out their names like a tour guide. They filed out to the buses in silence, in reverse order of seniority: first the cardinals from the Curia, who made up the Order of Deacons; then the cardinal-priests, who mostly comprised the archbishops from around the world; and finally the cardinal-bishops, of whom Lomeli was one, and who also included the three Eastern patriarchs.

  Lomeli, as Dean, was the last to leave, immediately behind Bellini. They made eye contact briefly as they hoisted the skirts of their choir dress to climb up on to the bus, but Lomeli didn’t attempt to speak. He could tell that Bellini’s mind had elevated itself to some higher plane and was no longer registering – as Lomeli’s did – all those trivial details that crowded out the presence of God: the boil on the back of their driver’s neck, for example, or the scrape of the windscreen wipers, or the awful slovenly creases in the mozzetta of the Patriarch of Alexandria . . .

  Lomeli made his way to a seat on the right, halfway down, away from the others. He took off his biretta and placed it in his lap. O’Malley sat beside the driver. He turned to check that everyone was on board. The doors closed with a hiss of compressed air and the coach pulled away, its tyres drumming over the cobbles of the piazza.

  Flecks of rain, dislodged by the motion of the bus, streamed diagonally across the thick glass, veiling the view of St Peter’s. Beyond the windows on the other side of the vehicle, Lomeli could see security men with umbrellas patrolling the Vatican Gardens. The coach drove slowly around the Via delle Fondamenta, passed under an arch and then came to a halt in the Cortile della Sentinella. Through the misty windscreen the brake lights of the buses up ahead glowed red like votive candles. Officers of the Swiss Guard sheltered in their sentry box, the plumes of their helmets bedraggled by the rain. The bus inched forward through the next two courtyards and turned sharp right into the Cortile del Maresciallo, pulling up directly opposite the entrance to the staircase. Lomeli was pleased to see the bins of rubbish had been removed, then irritated by his pleasure – it was another trivial detail to disrupt his meditation. The coach door opened, letting in a gust of chilly damp air. He replaced his biretta. As he climbed out, two more members of the Swiss Guard saluted. Instinctively he glanced up, past the high brick facade, to the narrow patch of grey sky. He felt the drizzle on his face. For an instant he had an incongruous mental image of a prisoner in an exercise yard, and then he was through the door and climbing the long flight of grey marble steps that led to the Sistine Chapel.

  *

  According to the Apostolic Constitution, the Conclave was required to assemble first in the Pauline Chapel, next door to the Sistine, ‘at a suitable hour in the afternoon’. The Pauline was the private chapel of the Holy Father, heavily marbled, gloomier and more intimate than the Sistine. By the time Lomeli arrived, the cardinals were already seated in their pews and the television lights had been switched on. Monsignor Epifano was waiting beside the door, holding the dean’s scarlet silk stole, which he draped carefully around Lomeli’s neck, and together they walked towards the altar, between Michelangelo’s frescos of St Peter and St Paul. Peter, on the right of the aisle, was depicted being crucified upside down. His head was twisted in such a way that he seemed to stare out in angry accusation at whoever had the temerity to look at him. Lomeli felt the saint’s scorching eyes on his back all the way to the altar steps.

  At the microphone, he turned to face the cardinals. They stood. Epifano held up before him the slim volume containing the stipulated rituals, open at section two, ‘The Approach to the Conclave’. Lomeli made the sign of the cross.

  ‘In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.’

  ‘Amen.’

  ‘Venerable brothers in the College, having completed the sacred acts this morning, now we enter into the Conclave in order to elect our new Pope . . .’

  His amplified voice filled the small chapel. But unlike the great Mass in the basilica, this time he felt no emotion, no spiritual presence. The words were words only: an incantation without magic.

  ‘The entire Church, which is joined to us in common prayer, begs the immediate grace of the Holy Spirit that a worthy pastor for the whole flock of Christ may be elected by us.

  ‘May the Lord direct our steps in the way of truth so that with the intercession of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Saints Peter and Paul and all the saints, we may act in a way that is truly pleasing to them.’

  Epifano closed the book and removed it. The processional cross by the door was lifted by one of the trio of masters of ceremonies, the two others held aloft lighted candles, and the choir began to file out of the chapel singing the Litany of the Saints. Lomeli stood facing the Conclave with his hands clasped, his eyes closed, his head bowed, apparently in prayer. He hoped the television cameras had cut away from him by now, and that the close-ups hadn’t betrayed his lack of grace. The chanting of the saints’ names grew fainter as the choir processed across the Sala Regia towards the Sistine. He heard the cardinals’ shoes shuffling down the marble aisle to follow them.

  After a while Epifano whispered, ‘Eminence, we should go.’

  He looked up to find the chapel had almost emptied. Leaving the altar and passing St Peter’s crucifixion for a second time, he tried to keep his gaze fixed on the door ahead. But the force of the painting was irresistible. And you? the eyes of the martyred saint seemed to demand. In what way are you worthy to choose my successor?

  In the Sala Regia, a line of Swiss Guards stood to attention. Lomeli and Epifano joined the end of the pro
cession. The cardinals were intoning their response – ‘Ora pro nobis’ – to the chanting of each saint’s name. They passed into the vestibule of the Sistine Chapel. Here they were obliged to halt while those queuing ahead of them were shown to their places. To Lomeli’s left were the twin stoves in which the ballot papers were to be burnt; in front of him the long, narrow back of Bellini. He wanted to tap him on the shoulder, lean forward, wish him good luck. But the TV cameras were everywhere; he didn’t dare risk it. Besides, he was sure Bellini was in communion with God.

  A minute later they processed up the temporary wooden ramp, through the screen and on to the raised floor of the chapel. The organ was playing. The choir was still chanting the names of the saints: ‘Sancte Antoni . . . Sancte Benedicte . . .’ Most of the cardinals were standing at their places behind the long rows of desks. Bellini was the last to be conducted to his seat. When the aisle was cleared, Lomeli walked along the beige carpet to the table where the Bible had been set up for the swearing of the oath. He took off his biretta and handed it to Epifano.

  The choir began to sing the Veni Creator Spiritus:

  Come, creator spirit,

  Visit the hearts of your people,

  Fill with celestial grace

  The hearts you have made . . .

  When the hymn was over, Lomeli advanced towards the altar. It was wide and narrow, flush to the wall, like a double hearth. Above it, The Last Judgement filled his vision. He must have seen it a thousand times yet he had never experienced its power as he did in those few seconds. He felt almost as if he was being sucked into it. When he mounted the step, he found himself at eye level with the damned being dragged down to hell, and he had to take a moment to steady himself before he turned and faced the Conclave.

  Epifano held the book up for him. He intoned the prayer – ‘Ecclesiae tuae, Domine, rector et custos’ – and then began to administer the oath. The cardinals, following the text in their order of service, read out the words along with him: