Conclave

by Robert Harris

  He stepped out of the elevator, passed the votive candles outside the Holy Father’s apartment and walked along the dimly lit corridor. From behind several of the closed doors he could hear showers running. When he reached his room, he hesitated, then went on a few paces and stood outside Adeyemi’s. Not a sound came from within. The contrast between this deep silence and the laughter and excitement of the previous evening was awful to him. He felt appalled by the brutal necessity of his own actions. He tapped lightly. ‘Joshua? It’s Lomeli. Are you all right?’ There was no reply.

  His own room had again been tidied by the nuns. He took off his mozzetta and rochet, then sat on the edge of his bed and loosened his shoelaces. His back ached. His eyes were swimming with tiredness. Yet he knew that if he lay down, he would fall asleep. He went to his prie-dieu, knelt, and opened his breviary to the readings for the day. His eye fell immediately upon Psalm 46:

  Come, behold the works of the Lord;

  see what desolations He has brought on the earth.

  He makes wars cease to the end of the earth;

  He breaks the bow, and shatters the spear;

  He burns the shields with fire.

  As he meditated, he began to experience the same premonition of violent chaos that had almost overcome him during the morning session in the Sistine Chapel. He saw for the first time how God willed destruction: that it was inherent in His Creation from the beginning and that they could not escape it – that He would come among them in wrath. See what desolations He has brought on the earth . . . ! He gripped the sides of the prie-dieu so hard that a few minutes later, when someone rapped loudly on the door behind him, his entire body seemed to jolt, as if he had been given an electric shock.

  ‘Wait!’

  He hauled himself back up on to his feet and briefly put his hand on his heart. It kicked against his fingers like a trapped animal. Was this how it had felt for the Holy Father just before he died? Sudden palpitations that turned into an iron band of pain? He took a few more moments to gather his composure before he opened the door.

  Standing in the corridor were Bellini and Sabbadin.

  Bellini stared at him with concern. ‘Forgive us, Jacopo, are we disturbing your prayers?’

  ‘It’s of no consequence. I’m sure God will excuse us.’

  ‘Are you unwell?’

  ‘Not at all. Come in.’

  He stood aside to let them enter. As usual, the Archbishop of Milan looked as professionally mournful as an undertaker, although he brightened when he saw the size of Lomeli’s room. ‘Dear me, this is tiny. We both have suites.’

  ‘It’s not so much the lack of space as the lack of light and air that I find oppressive. It’s giving me nightmares. But let us pray it won’t be for too much longer.’

  ‘Amen!’

  Bellini said, ‘That is what we’ve come about.’

  ‘Please.’ Lomeli removed his discarded mozzetta and rochet from the bed and draped them over the prie-dieu to allow his visitors to sit down. He pulled out the chair from the desk and turned it round so that he was seated facing them. ‘I’d offer you a drink, but foolishly, unlike Guttuso, I’ve failed to bring in my own supplies.’

  ‘It won’t take long,’ said Bellini. ‘I simply wanted to let you know I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t have sufficient support among our colleagues to be elected Pope.’

  Lomeli was taken aback by his directness. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure, Aldo. It isn’t over yet.’

  ‘You are kind, but I’m afraid, as far as I’m concerned, it is. I’ve had a very loyal cohort of supporters – among whom I’ve been touched to number you, Jacopo, despite the fact that I replaced you as Secretary of State, for which you would have had every right to harbour a grudge.’

  ‘I have never wavered in my belief that you are the best man for the job.’

  Sabbadin said, ‘Hear, hear.’

  Bellini held up his hand. ‘Please, dear friends, don’t make this any harder for me than it is. The question now arises: given that I can’t win, whom should I advise my supporters to vote for? In the first ballot I voted for Vandroogenbroek – the greatest theologian of the age, in my opinion – even though of course he never stood a chance. In the last four ballots, Jacopo, I have voted for you.’

  Lomeli blinked at him in surprise. ‘My dear Aldo, I don’t know what to say . . .’

  ‘And I should be happy to go on voting for you, and to tell my colleagues to do the same. But . . .’ He shrugged.

  ‘But you can’t win either,’ said Sabbadin with brutal finality. He opened his tiny black notebook. ‘Aldo got fifteen votes in the last ballot; you got twelve. So even if we delivered you all of our fifteen in a block – which frankly we can’t – you’d still only be in third place, behind Tremblay and Tedesco. The Italians are divided – as usual! – and since we three agree that the Patriarch of Venice would be a disaster, the logic of the situation is clear. The only viable option is Tremblay. Our combined total of twenty-seven, plus his forty, takes him to sixty-seven. That means he only needs another twelve to win a two-thirds majority. If he doesn’t get them on the next ballot, my feeling is he’ll probably get them on the one after that. Do you agree, Lomeli?’

  ‘I do – unfortunately.’

  Bellini said, ‘I’m no more of an enthusiast for Tremblay than you are. Even so, we have to face the fact that he has demonstrated broad appeal. And if we believe that the Holy Spirit is operating through the Conclave, we have to accept that God – improbable as it may seem – wishes us to give the Keys of St Peter to Joe Tremblay.’

  ‘Perhaps He does – although it’s strange that until lunchtime He also seemed to want us to give them to Joshua Adeyemi.’ Lomeli glanced at the wall: he wondered if the Nigerian was listening. ‘Can I add that I am also slightly troubled by this . . .’ he gestured back and forth, ‘by the three of us meeting in collusion to try to influence the result? It seems a sacrilege. All we need is the Patriarch of Lisbon with his cigars and we’d be in a smoke-filled room, just like an American political convention.’ Bellini gave a thin smile; Sabbadin frowned. ‘Seriously, let us not forget that the oath we swear is to cast our ballot for the candidate whom before God we think should be elected. It’s not enough for us just to vote for the least-worst option.’

  ‘Oh really, with respect, Dean, that is sophistry!’ scoffed Sabbadin. ‘On the first ballot, one can take the purist view – good; fine. But by the time we reach the fourth or fifth ballot, our personal favourite is likely to have long since gone, and we are obliged to choose from a narrowed field. That process of concentration is the whole function of the Conclave. Otherwise nobody would change their mind and we would be here for weeks.’

  ‘Which is what Tedesco wants,’ added Bellini.

  ‘I know, I know. You are right,’ sighed Lomeli. ‘I came to the same conclusion myself in the Sistine this afternoon. And yet . . .’ He sat forward in his chair, rubbing his palms together, trying to decide if he should tell them what he knew. ‘There is one other thing you ought to be aware of. Just before the Conclave began, Archbishop Woźniak came to see me. He said that the Holy Father had fallen out badly with Tremblay – to such an extent that he was intending to dismiss him from all his offices in the Church. Had either of you picked up this story?’

  Bellini and Sabbadin looked at one another in bewilderment. Bellini said, ‘It’s news to us. Do you really believe it’s true?’

  ‘I don’t know. I put the allegation to Tremblay in person, but naturally he denied it – he blamed the rumour on Woźniak’s drinking.’

  Sabbadin said, ‘Well, that is possible.’

  ‘Yet it can’t be entirely a figment of Woźniak’s imagination.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I discovered afterwards that there was a report of some kind into Tremblay, but it was withdrawn.’

  There was a moment’s silence as they considered this. Sabbadin turned to Bellini. ‘If there had been such
a report, surely as Secretary of State you would have heard of it?’

  ‘Not necessarily. You know how this place works. And the Holy Father could be very secretive.’

  Another silence. It went on for perhaps half a minute, until at last Sabbadin spoke. ‘We’ll never find a candidate who doesn’t have some kind of black mark against his name. We’ve had a Pope who was a member of the Hitler Youth and fought for the Nazis. We’ve had Popes who were accused of having colluded with communists and fascists, or who ignored reports of the most appalling abuses . . . Where does it end? If you’ve been a member of the Curia, you can be sure someone will have leaked something about you. And if you’ve been an archbishop, you’re bound to have made a mistake at one time or another. We are mortal men. We serve an ideal; we cannot always be ideal.’

  It sounded like a rehearsed speech for the defence – so much so that for a moment Lomeli entertained the unworthy thought that perhaps Sabbadin had already approached Tremblay and offered to try to secure him the papacy in return for some future preferment. He wouldn’t put it past the Archbishop of Milan: he had never concealed his ambition to be Secretary of State. But in the end all he said was, ‘That was very well put.’

  Bellini said, ‘So we are agreed, Jacopo? I shall talk to my supporters and you will talk to yours and we’ll both urge them to support Tremblay?’

  ‘I suppose so. Not that I actually know who my supporters are, I might add, apart from you and Benítez.’

  ‘Benítez,’ said Sabbadin thoughtfully. ‘Ah, now there’s an interesting fellow. I can’t make him out at all.’ He consulted his notebook. ‘And yet he got four votes on the last ballot. Where on earth are they coming from? You might have a word with him, Dean, and see if you can persuade him to our point of view. Those four votes might make all the difference.’

  Lomeli agreed that he would try to see Benítez before dinner. He would go to his room. It was not the sort of conversation he wished to be seen having in front of the other cardinals.

  *

  Half an hour later, Lomeli took the elevator to the sixth floor of Block B. He recalled Benítez telling him that his room was at the top of the hotel, in the wing facing the city, but now that he was here, he realised he did not know the number. He wandered the corridor, examining the dozen identical closed doors, until he heard voices behind him and turned to see two cardinals emerging. One was Gambino, the Archbishop of Perugia, who was acting as one of Tedesco’s unofficial campaign managers. The other was Adeyemi. They were in the middle of a conversation: ‘I am sure he can be persuaded,’ Gambino was saying. But the moment they saw Lomeli, they stopped talking.

  Gambino said, ‘Are you lost, Dean?’

  ‘I am, as a matter of fact. I was looking for Cardinal Benítez.’

  ‘Ah, the new boy! Are you plotting, Your Eminence?’

  ‘No – or at least no more than anyone else.’

  ‘Then you are plotting.’ The archbishop pointed along the corridor, greatly amused. ‘I think you’ll find he’s in the end room, on the left.’

  As Gambino turned away and pressed the button for the elevator, Adeyemi lingered for a fraction longer, staring at Lomeli. You think I am finished, his face seemed to say, but you can spare me your pity, for I am not without some power, even yet. Then he joined Gambino in the elevator. The doors closed and Lomeli was left staring at the empty space. Adeyemi’s influence had been entirely overlooked in their calculations, he realised. The Nigerian had still received nine votes in the last ballot, even though by then his candidacy was plainly doomed. If he could deliver even half of those diehards to Tedesco, then the Patriarch of Venice would be assured of his blocking third.

  The thought energised him. He strode along the corridor and knocked firmly on the end door. After a few moments he heard Benítez call out, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Lomeli.’

  The lock slid back and the door half opened. ‘Your Eminence?’ Benítez was clutching his unbuttoned cassock together at his throat. His thin brown feet were bare. The room behind him was in darkness.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you while you’re dressing. May I have a word?’

  ‘Of course. One moment.’ Benítez disappeared back into his room. His wariness struck Lomeli as odd, but then he thought that if he had lived in some of the places this man had, doubtless he too would have got into the habit of not opening his door without first checking who was there.

  Along the corridor, two other cardinals had appeared and were preparing to go down to dinner. They glanced in his direction. He raised his hand. They waved back.

  Benítez opened the door wide. He had finished dressing. ‘Come in, Dean.’ He switched on the light. ‘Excuse me. At this time of day, I always try to meditate for an hour.’

  Lomeli followed him into the room. It was small – identical to his own – and dotted with a dozen flickering candles: on the nightstand, on the desk, beside the prie-dieu, even in the darkened bathroom.

  ‘In Africa I got used to not always having electricity,’ explained Benítez. ‘Now I find that candles have become essential for me when I pray alone. The sisters kindly found me a few. There is something about the quality of the light.’

  ‘Interesting – I must see if it helps me.’

  ‘You have difficulty praying?’

  Lomeli was surprised by the bluntness of the question. ‘Sometimes. Especially lately.’ His hand motioned a vague circle in the air. ‘I have too much on my mind.’

  ‘Perhaps I could be of assistance?’

  For a brief instant Lomeli was affronted – was he, a former Secretary of State and Dean of the College of Cardinals, to be given lessons in how to pray? – but the offer was clearly sincere, so that he found himself saying, ‘Yes, I would like that, thank you.’

  ‘Sit, please.’ Benítez pulled out the chair from the desk. ‘Will it disturb you if I finish getting ready while we talk?’

  ‘No, go ahead.’

  Lomeli watched the Filipino as he sat on the bed and pulled on his socks. He was struck afresh by how young and trim he looked for a man of sixty-seven – boyish almost, with his lock of jet-black hair spilling like ink across his face as he bent forward. For Lomeli these days, putting on a pair of socks could take ten minutes. Yet the Filipino’s limbs and fingers seemed as lithe and nimble as a twenty-year-old’s. Perhaps he practised yoga by candlelight, as well as praying.

  He remembered why he had come. ‘The other night you were kind enough to say that you had voted for me.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I don’t know whether you’ve continued to do so – I’m not asking you to tell me – but if you have, I want to repeat my plea to you to stop, only this time I make the plea with even greater urgency.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘First, because I lack the necessary spiritual depth to be Pope. Secondly, because I can’t possibly win. You must understand, Your Eminence, this Conclave is poised on a knife edge. If we don’t reach a decision tomorrow, the rules are very clear. Voting will have to be suspended for a day so that we can reflect on the impasse. Then we shall try again for two days. Then we stop for another day. And so on, and so on, until twelve days have passed and a total of thirty ballots have been held. Only after that can the new Pope be elected by a simple majority.’

  ‘So? What is the problem?’

  ‘I would have thought that was obvious: the damage such a long-drawn-out process will do to the Church.’

  ‘Damage? I don’t understand.’

  Was he naïve, Lomeli wondered, or disingenuous? He said patiently, ‘Well, twelve successive days of balloting and discussion, all of it in secret, with half the world’s media camped in Rome, would be seen as proof that the Church is in crisis – that it can’t agree on a leader to guide it through these difficult times. It would also, frankly, strengthen that faction of our colleagues who want to take the Church back to an earlier era. In my worst nightmares, to speak absolutely freely, I wonder if a prolonged Con
clave could herald the start of the great schism that has been threatening us for nearly sixty years.’

  ‘So I take it you have come to ask me to vote for Cardinal Tremblay?’

  He was sharper than he seemed, thought Lomeli.

  ‘That would be my advice. And if you know the identities of the cardinals who have voted for you, I would also ask you to consider advising them to do the same. Do you know who they are, as a matter of interest?’

  ‘I suspect two of them are my fellow countrymen Cardinal Mendoza and Cardinal Ramos – even though, like you, I have begged everyone not to support me. Cardinal Tremblay has spoken to me about this, in fact.’

  Lomeli laughed. ‘I’m sure he has!’ He regretted his sarcasm at once.

  ‘You want me to vote for a man you regard as ambitious?’ Benítez looked at Lomeli – a long, hard, appraising look that made him feel quite uncomfortable – and then, without speaking further, began putting on his shoes.

  Lomeli shifted in his seat. He didn’t care for this lengthening silence. Eventually he said, ‘I am assuming, of course, because of your obviously close relationship with the Holy Father, that you don’t want to see Cardinal Tedesco as Pope. But perhaps I’m wrong – perhaps you believe in the same things he does?’

  Benítez finished tying his shoelaces and placed his feet on the floor. He looked up again.

  ‘I believe in God, Your Eminence. And in God alone. Which is why I don’t share your alarm at the idea of a long Conclave – or even a schism, come to that. Who knows? Perhaps that is what God wants. It would explain why our Conclave is proving to be such a conundrum that even you can’t solve it.’

  ‘A schism would go against everything I have believed in and worked for throughout my entire life.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘The divine gift of the single Universal Church.’

  ‘And this unity of an institution is worth preserving even at the price of breaking one’s sacred oath?’

  ‘That is an extraordinary allegation. The Church is not merely an institution, as you call it, but the living embodiment of the Holy Spirit.’