Conclave (22 page)

‘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a report of some kind into Tremblay, but it was withdrawn.’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 Conclave 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.’

‘Ah, well here we differ. I feel I am more likely to encounter the embodiment of the Holy Spirit elsewhere – for example in those two million women who have been raped as an act of military policy in the civil wars of central Africa.’

Lomeli was so taken aback it was a moment before he could reply. He said stiffly, ‘I can assure you I would never for a moment countenance breaking my oath to God – whatever the consequences for the Church.’

The evening bell rang – a long, jangling note like a fire alarm – to signal that dinner was being served.

Benítez stood and extended his hand. ‘I meant no offence, Dean, and I am sorry if I have given it. But I cannot vote for a man unless he is the one I deem most worthy to be Pope. And for me, that man is not Cardinal Tremblay: it is you.’

‘How many more times, Your Eminence?’ Lomeli struck the side of his chair in his frustration. ‘I do not want your vote!’

‘Nevertheless, you will have it.’ Benítez stretched out his hand further. ‘Come. Let us be friends. Shall we go down to dinner together?’

Lomeli sulked for a few more seconds, then sighed and allowed himself to be helped up from his chair. He watched as Benítez went round the room blowing out the candles. The extinguished wicks spurted thin black tendrils of pungent smoke, and the smell of the burnt wax carried Lomeli in an instant back to his days in the
seminary, when he would read by candlelight in the dormitory after lights-out and pretend to be asleep when the priest came by to check. He went into the bathroom, licked his thumb and forefinger, and snuffed out the candle beside the washbasin. As he did so, he noticed the little kit of toiletries that O’Malley had provided for Benítez on the night of his arrival – a toothbrush, a small tube of toothpaste, a bottle of deodorant, and a plastic disposable razor, still in its cellophane wrapper.

THAT NIGHT, AS
they consumed the third dinner of their imprisonment – some unidentifiable fish in caper sauce – a new and febrile mood took hold of the Conclave.

The cardinals were a sophisticated electorate. They could ‘do the math’, as Paul Krasinski, the Archbishop Emeritus of Chicago, was going round urging them. They could see that this had now become a two-horse race between Tedesco and Tremblay: between unyielding principle on the one hand and yearning for compromise on the other; between a Conclave that might drag on for another ten days and one that would probably end the following morning. The factions worked the room accordingly.