Conclave (2 page)

‘. . . Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine: et lux perpetua luceat ei . . .’

Eternal rest grant unto him, Lord: And let perpetual light shine upon him . . .

When the liturgy had been recited, the four cardinals remained around the deathbed in silent prayer. After a couple of minutes Lomeli turned his head a fraction and half opened his eyes. Behind
them in the sitting room, everyone was on their knees with their heads bowed. He pressed his face back into his hands.

It saddened him to think that their long association should have ended on such a note. He tried to remember when it had happened. Two weeks ago? No, a month – 17 September, to be exact, after the Mass to commemorate the Impression of the Stigmata upon St Francis – the longest period he had gone without a private audience since the Pope had been elected. Perhaps the Holy Father had already started to sense that death was close and that his mission would not be completed; perhaps that accounted for his uncharacteristic irritation?

The room was utterly still. He wondered who would be the first to break the meditation. He guessed it would be Tremblay. The French Canadian was always in a hurry, a typical North American. And indeed, after a few more moments, Tremblay sighed – a long, theatrical, almost ecstatic exhalation. ‘He is with God,’ he said, and stretched out his arms. Lomeli thought he was about to deliver a blessing, but instead the gesture was a signal to two of his assistants from the Apostolic Camera, who entered the bedroom and helped him stand. One carried a silver box.

‘Archbishop Woźniak,’ said Tremblay, as everyone started getting to their feet, ‘would you be so kind as to bring me the Holy Father’s ring?’

Lomeli rose on knees that creaked after seven decades of constant genuflection. He pressed himself against the wall to allow the Prefect of the Papal Household to edge past. The ring did not come off easily. Poor Woźniak, sweating with embarrassment, had to work it back and forth over the knuckle. But eventually it came free and he carried it on his outstretched palm to Tremblay, who took a pair of shears from the silver box – the sort of tool one might use to
dead-head roses, thought Lomeli – and inserted the seal of the ring between the blades. He squeezed hard, grimacing with the effort. There was a sudden snap, and the metal disc depicting St Peter hauling in a fisherman’s net was severed.

‘
Sede vacante
,’ Tremblay announced. ‘The throne of the Holy See is vacant.’

Lomeli spent a few minutes gazing down at the bed in contemplative farewell, then helped Tremblay lay a thin white veil over the Pope’s face. The vigil broke up into whispering groups.

He moved back into the sitting room. He wondered how the Pope could have borne it, year after year – not just living surrounded by armed guards, but this place. Fifty anonymous square metres, furnished to suit the income and taste of some mid-level commercial salesman. There was nothing personal in it. Pale lemon walls and curtains. A parquet floor for easy cleaning. Standard-issue table, desk, plus sofa and two armchairs, scallop-backed and upholstered in some blue washable fabric. Even the dark wooden prie-dieu was identical to a hundred others in the hostel. The Holy Father had stayed here as a cardinal before the Conclave that elected him Pope, and had never moved out: one look at the luxurious apartment to which he was entitled in the Apostolic Palace, with its library and its private chapel, had been enough to send him running. His war with the Vatican’s old guard had started right here, on that issue, on his first day. When some of the heads of the Curia had demurred at his decision as not being appropriate for the dignity of a Pope, he had quoted at them, as if they were schoolboys, Christ’s instruction to his disciples:
Take nothing for your journey, no staff, nor bag, nor bread, nor money; and do not have two tunics
. From then on, being human,
they had felt his reproachful eye upon them every time they went home to their grand official apartments; and, being human, they had resented it.

The Secretary of State, Bellini, was standing by the desk with his back to the room. His term of office had ended with the breaking of the Fisherman’s Ring, and his tall, thin, ascetic frame, which he usually carried as erect as a Lombardy poplar, looked as if it had been snapped along with it.

Lomeli said, ‘My dear Aldo, I am so very sorry.’

He saw that Bellini was examining the travelling chess set that the Holy Father used to carry around in his briefcase. He was running a long, pale forefinger back and forth over the tiny red and white plastic pieces. They were crowded intricately together in the centre of the board, locked in some abstruse battle now destined never to be resolved. Bellini said distractedly, ‘Do you think anyone would mind if I took this, as a keepsake?’

‘I’m sure not.’

‘We used to play quite often at the end of the day. He said it helped him relax.’

‘Who won?’

‘He did. Always.’

‘Take it,’ urged Lomeli. ‘He loved you more than anyone. He would have wanted you to have it. Take it.’

Bellini glanced around. ‘I suppose one should wait and ask for permission. But it appears that our zealous Camerlengo is about to seal the apartment.’

He nodded to where Tremblay and his priest-assistants were gathered around the coffee table laying out the materials he needed to affix to the doors – red ribbons, wax, tape.

Suddenly Bellini’s eyes filled with tears. He had a reputation
for coldness – the aloof and bloodless intellectual. Lomeli had never seen him show emotion. It shocked him. He put a hand on Bellini’s arm and said sympathetically, ‘What happened, do you know?’

‘They say a heart attack.’

‘But I thought he had the heart of a bull.’

‘Not entirely, to be honest. There had been warnings.’

Lomeli blinked in surprise. ‘I hadn’t heard that.’

‘Well, he didn’t want anyone to know. He said the moment word got out, they would start spreading rumours that he was going to resign.’

They.
Bellini didn’t have to spell out who
they
were. He meant the Curia. For the second time that night, Lomeli felt obscurely slighted. Was that why he knew nothing of this long-standing medical problem? Because the Holy Father had thought of him not only as a manager, but as one of
them
?

He said, ‘I think we’ll have to be very careful what we say about his condition to the media. You know better than I do what they’re like. They’ll want to know about any history of heart trouble, and what exactly we did about it. And if it turns out it was all hushed up and we did nothing, they’ll demand to know why.’ Now that the initial shock was wearing off, he was beginning to perceive a whole series of urgent questions that the world would want answering – indeed that he wanted answering himself. ‘Tell me, was anyone with the Holy Father when he died? Did he receive absolution?’

Bellini shook his head. ‘No, I’m afraid he was already dead when he was discovered.’

‘Who found him? When?’ Lomeli beckoned to Archbishop Woźniak to join them. ‘Janusz, I know this is hard for you, but we’ll
need to prepare a detailed statement. Who discovered the Holy Father’s body?’

‘I did, Your Eminence.’

‘Well, thank God, that’s something.’ Of all the members of the Papal Household, Woźniak was the one who had been closest to the Pope. It was comforting to think that he had been the first on the scene. And also, purely from a public relations point of view, better him than a security guard; better him by far than a nun. ‘What did you do?’

‘I called the Holy Father’s doctor.’

‘And how quickly did he arrive?’

‘Immediately, Eminence. He always spent the night in the room next door.’

‘But there was nothing to be done?’

‘No. We had all the equipment necessary for resuscitation. But it was too late.’

Lomeli thought it over. ‘You discovered him in bed?’

‘Yes. He was quite peaceful, almost as he looks now. I thought he was asleep.’

‘This was at what time?’

‘Around eleven thirty, Eminence.’

‘
Eleven thirty?
’ That was more than two and a half hours ago.

Lomeli’s surprise must have shown in his face, because Woźniak said quickly, ‘I would have called you sooner, but Cardinal Tremblay took charge of the situation.’

Tremblay’s head turned at the mention of his name. It was such a small room. He was only a couple of paces away; he was beside them in an instant. Despite the hour, his appearance was fresh and handsome, his thick silver hair immaculately coiffed, his body trim and carried lightly. He looked like a retired athlete who had made a
successful transition to television sports presenter; Lomeli vaguely remembered that he had played ice hockey in his youth. The French Canadian said, in his careful Italian, ‘I’m so sorry, Jacopo, if you feel offended by the delay in informing you – I know His Holiness had no closer colleagues than you and Aldo – but I felt as Camerlengo that my first responsibility was to secure the integrity of the Church. I told Janusz to hold off from calling you so that we could have a brief period of calm to ascertain all the facts.’ He pressed his hands together piously, as if in prayer.

The man was insufferable. Lomeli said, ‘My dear Joe, my only concerns are for the soul of the Holy Father and the well-being of the Church. Whether I am told a thing at midnight or at two is neither here nor there as far as I’m concerned. I am sure you acted for the best.’

‘It’s simply that when a Pope dies unexpectedly, any mistakes made in the initial shock and confusion can lead to all manner of malicious rumours afterwards. You only have to remember the tragedy of Pope John Paul I – we’ve spent the past forty years trying to convince the world he wasn’t murdered, and all because nobody wanted to admit his body was discovered by a nun. This time, there must be no discrepancies in the official account.’

From within his cassock he drew a folded sheet of paper and handed it to Lomeli. It was warm to the touch. (Hot off the press, thought Lomeli.) Neatly printed on a word processor, it was headed, in English, ‘Timeline’. Lomeli ran his finger down the columns of type. At 7.30 p.m., the Holy Father had eaten with Woźniak in the cordoned-off space reserved for him in the dining room of the Casa Santa Marta. At 8.30, he had retired to his apartment and had read and meditated on a passage from
The Imitation of Christ
(Chapter 8, ‘Of the dangers of intimacy’). At 9.30, he had gone to bed. At 11.30, Archbishop Woźniak had checked to see that he was well and had
failed to observe any vital functions. At 11.34, Dr Giulio Baldinotti, seconded from the Vatican’s San Raffaele Hospital in Milan, commenced emergency treatment. A combination of cardiac massage and defibrillation was attempted, without result. The Holy Father had been pronounced dead at 12.12 a.m.

Cardinal Adeyemi came up behind Lomeli and began reading over his shoulder. The Nigerian always smelled strongly of cologne. Lomeli could feel his warm breath on the side of his neck. The power of Adeyemi’s physical presence was too much for him. He gave him the document and turned away, only to have more papers thrust into his hand by Tremblay.

‘What’s all this?’

‘The Holy Father’s most recent medical records. I had them brought over. This is an angiogram conducted last month. You can see here,’ said Tremblay, holding up an X-ray to the central light, ‘there is evidence of blockage . . .’

The monochrome image was tendrilled, fibrous – sinister. Lomeli recoiled. What in God’s name was the point of it? The Pope had been in his eighties. There was nothing suspicious about his passing. How long was he supposed to live? It was his soul upon which they should be focused at this moment, not his arteries. He said firmly, ‘Release the data if you must, but not the photograph. It’s too intrusive. It demeans him.’

Bellini said, ‘I agree.’

‘I suppose,’ added Lomeli, ‘you’ll tell us next there will have to be an autopsy?’

‘Well, there are bound to be rumours if there isn’t.’

‘This is true,’ said Bellini. ‘Once, God explained all mysteries. Now He has been usurped by conspiracy theorists. They are the heretics of the age.’

Adeyemi had finished reading the timeline. He took off his gold-framed glasses and sucked on the stem. ‘What was the Holy Father doing
before
seven thirty?’

Woźniak answered. ‘He was celebrating vespers, Eminence, here in the Casa Santa Marta.’

‘Then we should say so. It was his last sacramental act, and implies a state of grace, especially as there was no opportunity for the viaticum.’

‘A good point,’ said Tremblay. ‘I’ll add it.’

‘And going back further – the time before vespers,’ Adeyemi persisted. ‘What was he doing then?’

‘Routine meetings, as far as I understand it.’ Tremblay sounded defensive. ‘I don’t have all the facts. I was concentrating on the hours immediately before his death.’

‘Who was the last to have a scheduled meeting with him?’

‘I believe, in fact, that may have been me,’ said Tremblay. ‘I saw him at four. Is that right, Janusz? Was I the last?’

‘You were, Eminence.’

‘And how was he when you spoke to him? Did he give any indication he was ill?’

‘No, none that I recall.’

‘What about later, when he had dinner with you, Archbishop?’

Woźniak looked at Tremblay, as if seeking his permission before replying. ‘He was tired. Very, very tired. He had no appetite. His voice sounded hoarse. I should have realised—’ He stopped.

‘You have nothing to reproach yourself with.’ Adeyemi returned the document to Tremblay and put his glasses back on. There was a careful theatricality to his movements. He was always conscious of his dignity. A true prince of the Church. ‘Put in all of the meetings he had that day. It will show how hard he was working, right up to
the end. It will prove there was no reason for anyone to suspect he was ill.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Tremblay, ‘isn’t there a danger that if we release his full schedule, it will look as if we were placing a huge burden on a sick man?’

‘The papacy
is
a huge burden. People need to be reminded of that.’