The Accidental Pope (32 page)

“And my friend and sometime adversary, Gino Robitelli?”

“He seems more or less like the others. Whether just priests or monsignors, bishops or cardinals, they all seem glad to see us.”

“I'm glad you feel comfortable, Meghan. I, too, didn't know exactly how a pope,
en famille
as the French put it, would be regarded. Just yesterday I asked Gino to say something about it.”

Meghan smiled. “Even after you and cardinal Robitelli have disagreed, he couldn't be more respectful of the rest of us. What did he say?”

“Well, the clergy we see around this place actually welcome the opportunity of being with laypeople. Ultimately a lot of them look forward to working in parishes, hearing confessions, baptizing babies, confirming family members, helping the sick and the dying. They actually like working with families, especially young people.”

“I guess they'll all adjust in time to popes having families in a modern Vatican.”

“You may just be right, Meghan. I do recall that Robitelli himself said something to that effect the day after you kids arrived. We've got to work on it.”

Curious, Meghan asked, “Oh? And what was that?”

Bill blushed as he thought back on it. “He said he's noticed a change in me since my children arrived. He said it was like the glow he remembered in his parents' eyes, something he had long since forgotten. We discussed the possible differences in the minds of married people. It had kind of slipped my mind, Meghan. Child-rearing has many challenges and pressures, but the feeling of a father working to overcome the difficulties of money, paying the bills, bringing up the children—that's the essence of parenthood. To change the subject, how is Colleen adjusting?”

“She is finding much of interest, of course, in the libraries and museums. And it seems she and Maureen Kirby are becoming friends.”

“That reminds me, we must have the Kirbys over to dinner.”

“Yes. Whenever you say, I'll help arrange it, Your Holiness.” Meghan reached out and took her father's hand. “Do you sometimes feel bad now that you had left the priesthood and got married?”

He gazed at his beautiful young daughter and kissed her lightly. “Never, Meghan.”

A loud bang on the door interrupted their conversation. “Bill! Meghan! Come quick! Roger is hurt!” Cippolini shouted. Startled, Bill and Meghan sprang to their feet.

“What's happened, Al? What's wrong?” Bill gasped.

“He was skateboarding down the hallway on the first floor and he ran into one of the Swiss guards. He may be hurt, Bill.” Monsignor Cippolini was visibly shaken.

They hurried out of the office and downstairs to the scene of the accident. A small crowd had gathered to assist—or perhaps to gape—at the unusual accident to the pope's son.

A more composed Monsignor Cippolini kneeled beside Roger, holding his handkerchief to the boy's head. “He should be fine, Bill. It's a nasty gash on the head. The nurse is on her way.”

The pope kneeled beside Cippolini and looked down at his young son, lying stunned and bleeding on the marble corridor floor. “How did this happen?” he asked.

“From what I can gather,” Cippolini explained, “Roger was trying out our long winding hallways with his skateboard. Then he ran head-on into one of the guards coming around the corner to investigate a ‘strange noise.' Roger slammed into him, and the battle-ax scraped his head.”

The pope looked down at his son, who was trying to hold back his tears. “Roger, I thought I told you—”

“Dad,” Meghan sharply cut him off, “please. Not now. Just thank God he's all right.”

Sister Maria, one of the Vatican nurses, pushed her way muttering through the surrounding crowd. She used her short body to muscle a path to the fallen boy. Then, with a grunt, she lowered herself to the floor beside Roger.

She spoke rapidly in Italian and then, realizing it was the pope's son, switched to English. “Well, now, let's have a look at this cut, young Roger. I'll be careful.”

Roger nodded, even though grimacing with fear, as the nurse slowly pulled the handkerchief back to view the damage. Then she looked up and met the searching eyes of the worried father.

“He'll need some stitches, Your Holiness, that's for sure. Let's get him to the infirmary. I'll call the doctor. I think he's up at the Guard infirmary.” Maria grinned mischievously. “He's probably taking care of the other casualty.”

“I'm sorry, Dad,” Roger moaned as he looked up at his father.

“It's all right, son. Don't worry. Let's go get some stitches like you had the last time on your knee.”

Roger reached to touch his head but was blocked by the nurse. “Aw, do I have to?”

Bill grabbed his son's hand. “Yes, you have to, pal. Be a brave boy now. Meghan is going with you.”

The boy was helped to his feet and slowly walked alongside the nurse, gaining moral support from his sister.

Monsignor Cippolini glanced up at the pope as they returned to his office. “It sounds like he's had stitches before, Bill.”

The pope smiled ruefully. “That seems to come with the territory for small boys, Al. I'd venture to say he's been sewed up five or six times. So he's a pro at it. Thanks for looking after him.” The anxious look returned to his face as he sat behind his desk. “Incidentally, how is the poor guard? I almost forgot about him.”

“He'll be fine,” Al Cippolini assured the pope. “Roger was going pretty fast and hit him in … well, let's say the lower half. A few of his countrymen helped him off while needling him with their little quips. He was trying to apologize, but it wasn't his fault.”

“Thanks, Al. Let me know his name. We'll invite him to dinner some evening so the two warriors can shake hands and be friends again.” He sighed deeply. “Meantime I'll quarantine the skateboard for the duration. I guess it's my fault. I told Roger I would find him a place to use it and haven't quite gotten around to it.”

A slow smile brightened Al's visage. “I'm supposed to know this place better than anyone. I think I know a few places in this vast complex where the young man can practice his skills.”

“That would be appreciated, Al.”

“Well, please don't forget, you are the pope. I think we may find a guard with a little time who might be able to supervise his demonstrations.”

Bill smiled appreciatively. “That would be great if you could. I must move on quickly now. Tim Shanahan is coming to discuss some Church history. Do new popes get a chance to peek into the family closet?”

Flustered, Alonso Cippolini said, “I don't know anything about that kind of thing, Bill. It's not my area.”

“Well, you've got me saying Mass again, in Italian and English. That's pretty good.”

Meghan pushed open the door and interrupted them breathlessly. Bill gave her an alarmed look. “Is Roger okay?”

“He's coming along fine. I dropped by the apartment and on our private voice mail there was a message from a Cardinal Motupu in Angola. He asked if his message could get to you personally and privately.” She glanced at Cippolini questioningly.

“It's all right, Meghan. Gus is concerned about a certain cardinal intercepting my messages.”

Meghan handed her father a note. “Here is the routing of his number. He said he'd wait until he hears from you.”

Bill took the slip of paper and turned to Cippolini. “Al, would you excuse me, please?”

“Of course. I hope all is well in Africa.” The monsignor stood up and left the room immediately.

Bill gestured for Meghan to sit down beside his desk and picked up the phone. It would naturally get back to Robitelli that Motupu had gone around the approved routing. The call must be urgent and personal.

Soon Motupu's high-pitched voice was coming over the phone. “Your Holiness, I am sorry to bother you outside protocol but I felt it was important. I never had a chance to brief you personally on certain African affairs, and Robitelli unfortunately never got around to paying much attention to our continent.”

“Go ahead, Gus. I'm listening,” Bill invited.

“I can't tell you too much on the telephone. I'd like to see you personally.”

“Is it truly that urgent?”

“I think so, Bill. It is a situation that has been festering here for the last half century. I had hoped that it would die out with the collapse of Communism.”

“Can you tell me any more?”

“On these lines out of Africa there is no such thing as security. Get Monsignor Shanahan to tell you what he knows about things here in respect to certain Christian religious rivalries. That's all I can say in these circumstances.”

“When do you want to come, Gus?”

“The sooner the better.”

Bill glanced at the calendar before him. “Can it wait until after the Christmas holidays? This is a busy time for me, and I'll be saying Mass and greeting a lot of folks.”

“It's waited this long; a few more weeks won't make a great big difference … I guess,” he added doubtfully.

“Any hint so I can be prepared?”

“Check your files on Russian Orthodox African intervention. And see what you can find on the Patriarch Alexis and a certain Bishop Yussotov, sometimes known as the ‘Mad Monk of Odessa.' Anything more will have to wait until I can see you.”

As Bill hung up, an alarm went off in his head. For a moment the
avviso
flashed through his thoughts. The Orthodox Church and the patriarch suddenly took on meaning in light of a passage in the previous pope's warning. He noted with relief that Tim Shanahan was coming for one of their general consultations. Impatiently, he read a memo from Cardinal Robitelli regarding the next scheduled meeting he must attend before he would have a chance to discuss Motupu's call with Tim.

“Archbishop Enrico Locatelli, the socially progressive papal nuncio in Washington, constantly agitating for social and economic justice, is upset about the way things are going in America.”
The memo indicated that the pope's representative in the United States needed to confer on the fact that American bishops were having a difficult time keeping the flock united.

By the time Archbishop Locatelli was announced, the pope had managed to don something resembling formal attire after having been more comfortably dressed all that morning. Bill rose to meet the nuncio as he entered the richly appointed papal library. By force of habit the bishop, a short, plump, and fussy individual, dropped to one knee, reaching to kiss the fisherman's ring. Both flushed slightly as the bishop rose.

“So glad to have this opportunity to meet with you, Your Holiness. Sorry about the ring business. I was forewarned that it bothers you.”

“I'm likewise trying to adapt. Please be seated,” the pope replied.

The nuncio cautiously made sure not to seat himself ahead of the pope. “Thank you, Your Holiness.” He winced again as the words escaped his lips. “Oh, sorry about that. I hope you understand how much emphasis we put on showing the highest respect for the representative of Christ on Earth.”

The pope let a long breath flow from his lungs as he tried to adjust his own mindset. “I know, I know. Whatever makes you feel the most comfortable.”

The archbishop cleared his throat. “Well, Pope Bill, as you know I personally came here to see Cardinal Robitelli—and yourself—to try to impress more firmly upon your minds that the Church in the United States has for some time been drifting toward a potentially debilitating state of affairs. The U.S. government, including both political parties, is generally walking away from the concerns of the needy and the poor. This is placing a greater burden and more responsibility on private charities, especially the Churches. Catholic Charities in cities like Chicago and Boston are now practically the safety net for the poor.”

The archbishop paused to gauge the effect of his situation on the pontiff. “There is marked division when the bishops meet for their annual conferences. Everyone is sincere, I know. But I see an increasing dissatisfaction, even fear, creeping into their various presentations. They are under great challenges and are meeting more while accomplishing less.” He gave the pope a questioning look. “I was hoping that perhaps, finally, a strong stand from Rome, some sort of definitive pronouncement, would make them regroup and get on with the business of bringing all alienated souls—the homeless, drug addicts, fallen-away Catholics, all of them—back to Christ.” He stopped abruptly and stared at the pope.

“Well, well,” Bill muttered, clearing his throat and fumbling for words. “No one can argue with that. Of course, Cardinal Robitelli has apprised me of some of this. I have even met with several bishops and cardinals here to come up with solutions.”

The nuncio plunged ahead with his argument. “On the social front, they have fewer dollars and more needs. Charitable giving overall is down. People are not contributing and they have had to close hundreds of inner-city schools and Churches. They just can't afford to keep them open! The Catholics with money have gone out to the suburbs; charter schools are opening up everywhere, taking students and dollars out with them. The politicians are afraid of the antiChurch groups and liberal media so they don't want to go out front on school vouchers.”

Locatelli stared almost accusingly at the pope, who replied apologetically, “Naturally, I admit I haven't been much help. My knowledge of ecclesiastical affairs is still limited. But I do receive a great deal of input from the American bishops. Secretary Robitelli is putting reports together for me to sign as a sort of … what do you call it … ‘rescript'?”

The archbishop smiled involuntarily at the pope's attempt to search out the right word.

“It's called an ‘encyclical,' Pope Bill.” The pope's face reddened. Archbishop Locatelli continued. “We feel that an encyclical would be the most powerful way to press our point further, and would clarify our stance on all related issues. Do you agree? To define and clarify once and for all Church's responsibility? I read part of the paper that Cardinal Robitelli is writing. Very good.”