Conclave (12 page)

‘My brothers and sisters, in the course of a long life in the service
of our Mother the Church, let me tell you that the one sin I have come to fear more than any other is certainty. Certainty is the great enemy of unity. Certainty is the deadly enemy of tolerance. Even Christ was not certain at the end. “
Eli, Eli, lama sabachtani?
” He cried out in His agony at the ninth hour on the cross. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Our faith is a living thing precisely
because
it walks hand in hand with doubt. If there was only certainty, and if there was no doubt, there would be no mystery, and therefore no need for faith.

‘Let us pray that the Lord will grant us a Pope who doubts, and by his doubts continues to make the Catholic faith a living thing that may inspire the whole world. Let Him grant us a Pope who sins, and asks forgiveness, and carries on. We ask this of the Lord, through the intercession of Mary most holy, Queen of the Apostles, and of all the martyrs and saints, who through the course of history made this Church of Rome glorious through the ages. Amen.’

He retrieved from his seat the homily he had not delivered and handed it to Monsignor Epifano, who took it from him with a quizzical look, as if he were not sure exactly what he was supposed to do with it. It had not been delivered, so was it now to go to the Vatican archive or not? Then he sat. By tradition there now followed a silence of one and a half minutes so that the meaning of the sermon could be absorbed. Only the occasional cough disturbed the immense hush. He could not gauge the reaction. Perhaps they were all in a state of shock. If they were, then so be it. He felt closer to God than he had for many months – closer perhaps than he had ever felt before in his life. He closed his eyes and prayed.
O Lord, I hope my words have served Your purpose, and I thank You for granting me the
courage to say what was in my heart, and the mental and physical strength to deliver it.

When the period of reflection was over, an altar boy produced the microphone again, and Lomeli rose and chanted the first line of the Credo – ‘
Credo in unum deum
.’ His voice was firmer than before. He felt a great surge of spiritual energy, and the power stayed with him, so that in every stage of the Eucharist that followed he was aware of the presence of the Holy Spirit. Those long sung passages of Latin, the prospect of which had filled him with trepidation – the Universal Prayer, the Offertory Chant, the Preface and the Sanctus and the Eucharistic Prayer and the Rite of Communion – every word and every note of them seemed alive with the presence of Christ. He went down to the nave to offer Communion to selected ordinary members of the congregation, while around and behind him the cardinals queued to go up to the altar. Even as he placed the wafers on the tongues of the kneeling communicants, he was half aware of the looks he was receiving from his colleagues. He sensed astonishment. Lomeli – the smooth, the reliable, the competent Lomeli; Lomeli the lawyer; Lomeli the diplomat – had done something they had never expected. He had said something interesting. He had not expected it of himself, either.

At 11.52 a.m., he intoned the Concluding Rites, ‘
Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus,
’
and made the sign of the cross three times, to the north, to the east and to the south: ‘
Pater . . . et Filius . . . et Spiritus Sanctus.
’

‘
Amen.
’

‘Go forth, the Mass is ended.’

‘Thanks be to God.’

He stood at the altar with his hands clasped on his chest while the choir and the congregation sang the Antiphona Mariana. As the cardinals processed in pairs back up the nave and out of the basilica, he scrutinised them dispassionately. He knew he would not be alone in thinking that the next time they returned, one of them would be Pope.

LOMELI, ALONG WITH
his attendants, arrived back at the hostel a few minutes after the other cardinals. They were being divested in the lobby, and almost at once he sensed a change in their attitude towards him. For a start, nobody came over to speak to him, and when he gave his crozier and mitre to Father Zanetti, he noticed how the young priest avoided meeting his gaze. Even Monsignor O’Malley, who offered to help him remove his chasuble, seemed subdued. Lomeli was expecting him at the very least to make one of his usual overfamiliar jokes. Instead he merely said, ‘Would Your Eminence care to pray while the vestments are removed?’

‘I think I’ve prayed enough for one morning, Ray, don’t you?’ He bowed his head and allowed the chasuble to be pulled away. It was a relief to have the weight off his shoulders. He rotated his neck to ease the tension in his muscles. He smoothed his hair and checked his zuchetta was properly in place then glanced around the lobby. The schedule permitted the cardinals a long lunch break – two and a half hours, which they could spend as they wished until a fleet of six minibuses arrived at the Casa Santa Marta to ferry them to the
vote. Some were already making their way upstairs to rest and meditate in their rooms.

O’Malley said, ‘The press office have been calling.’

‘Really?’

‘The media have noticed the presence of a cardinal who doesn’t appear on any official list. Some of the better-informed have already identified him as Archbishop Benítez. The press people want to know how they should handle it.’

‘Tell them to confirm it, and have them explain the circumstances.’ He could see Benítez standing over by the reception desk, in conversation with the other two cardinals from the Philippines. He was wearing his zuchetta at a sideways angle, like a schoolboy’s cap. ‘I suppose we’ll also need to put out some biographical details. You must have access to his file at the Congregation for Bishops?’

‘Yes, Eminence.’

‘Could you pull something together, and let me have a copy? I wouldn’t mind knowing a little more about our new colleague myself.’

‘Yes, Eminence.’ O’Malley was scribbling on his clipboard. ‘Also, the press office want to release the text of your homily.’

‘I don’t have a copy, I’m afraid.’

‘It doesn’t matter. We can always make a transcript from the tape.’ He made another note.

Lomeli was still waiting for him to pass some comment on his sermon. ‘Is there anything else you have to say to me?’

‘I think that’s all I need to bother you with at the moment, Eminence. Do you have any other instructions?’

‘Actually, there is one thing.’ Lomeli hesitated. ‘A delicate matter. Do you know who I mean by Monsignor Morales? He was in the Holy Father’s private office.’

‘I don’t know him personally; I know
of
him.’

‘Is there any chance you might be able to have a word with him, in confidence? It needs to be done today – I’m sure he must be in Rome.’

‘
Today?
That won’t be easy, Eminence . . .’

‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry. Perhaps you could do it while we’re voting?’ He lowered his voice so that none of the cardinals disrobing around them could hear. ‘Use my authority. Say that as dean I need to know what happened in the final meeting between the Holy Father and Cardinal Tremblay: did anything occur that might render Cardinal Tremblay unfit to assume the papacy?’ The normally unflappable O’Malley gaped at him. ‘I’m sorry to land you with such a sensitive mission. Obviously I’d do it myself, but I’m now officially forbidden to make contact with anyone outside the Conclave. I need hardly add that you mustn’t breathe a word to a soul.’

‘Of course not.’

‘Bless you.’ He patted O’Malley’s arm. He couldn’t suppress his curiosity any longer. ‘Well, Ray, I notice you’ve said nothing about my homily. You’re not usually so tactful. Was it really as bad as all that?’

‘Far from it, Your Eminence. It was extremely well said, although I expect it will have raised a few eyebrows over at the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. But tell me: was it really extempore?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact, it was.’ He was taken aback by the implication that his spontaneity might have been an act.

‘I only ask because you may find that it’s had a considerable effect.’

‘Well – that’s to the good, surely?’

‘Absolutely. Although I have heard murmurings that you are trying to pick the new Pope.’

Lomeli’s first reaction was to laugh. ‘You are not serious!’ Until
that moment it had not occurred to him that his words might be interpreted as an attempt to manipulate the voting one way or another. He had spoken simply as the Holy Spirit had moved him. Unfortunately, he couldn’t now remember the exact phrases he had used. That was the peril of speaking without a prepared text, which was why he had never done it before.

‘I only report what I’ve heard, Eminence.’

‘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.’