Conclave (23 page)

Tedesco from the start took up a position alongside Adeyemi on the table of African cardinals. As usual, he held his plate in one hand and hoisted food into his mouth with the other, occasionally pausing to stab the air with his fork as he made a point. Lomeli – who was seated in his customary position with the Italian contingent of Landolfi, Dell’Acqua, Santini and Panzavecchia – didn’t need to hear what he was saying to know that he was expounding on his familiar
theme of the moral decay of Western liberal societies. And to judge by his listeners’ solemnly nodding heads, he was finding a receptive audience.

Tremblay, meanwhile, a Québécois, ate his main course on a table of fellow French-speakers: Courtemarche of Bordeaux, Bonfils of Marseilles, Gosselin of Paris, Kourouma of Abidjan. His campaigning technique was the opposite of Tedesco’s, who liked to gather a circle around him and lecture them. Instead, Tremblay spent the evening moving from group to group, seldom staying more than a few minutes with each: shaking hands, squeezing shoulders, indulging in general bonhomie with this cardinal, exchanging whispered confidences with that. He did not seem to have a campaign manager as such, but Lomeli had already overheard several of the coming men – such as Modesto Villanueva, the Archbishop of Toledo – announcing in loud voices that Tremblay was the only possible victor.

From time to time Lomeli allowed his gaze to drift to the others. Bellini was sitting over in the far corner. He seemed to have given up trying to influence the undecided and was indulging himself for once by taking his meal with his fellow theologians, Vandroogenbroek and Löwenstein, no doubt discussing Thomism and phenomenology, or some similar abstractions.

As for Benítez, the moment he had arrived in the dining room he had been invited to join the Anglophones. Lomeli couldn’t see the Filipino’s face – he had his back to him – but he could observe the expressions of his companions: Newby of Westminster, Fitzgerald of Boston, Santos of Galveston-Houston, Rudgard of the Congregation for the Causes of Saints. Like the Africans with Tedesco, they seemed to be engrossed in what their guest was saying.

And all the while, between the tables, carrying trays and bottles
of wine, moved the blue-habited, downcast-eyed nuns of the Daughters of Charity of St Vincent de Paul. Lomeli was familiar with the ancient order from his years as a nuncio. It was run from a mother house in the rue du Bac in Paris. He had visited it twice. The remains of St Catherine Labouré and St Louise de Marillac were buried in its chapel. Its members had not given up their lives in order to become waitresses for cardinals. Its charism was supposed to be service to the poor.

On Lomeli’s table, the mood was sombre. Unless they could bring themselves to vote for Tedesco – which they all agreed they couldn’t – they were in the process of gradually reconciling themselves to the fact that they would probably never again see an Italian Pope in their lifetimes. The conversation was desultory all evening, and Lomeli was too preoccupied with his thoughts to pay it much attention.

His dialogue with Benítez had disturbed him profoundly. He was unable to get it out of his mind. Was it really possible that he had spent the past thirty years worshipping the Church rather than God? Because that, in essence, was the accusation Benítez had levelled against him. In his heart he could not escape the truth of it – the sin; the heresy. Was it any wonder he had found it so difficult to pray?

It was an epiphany similar to that which had struck him in St Peter’s while he was waiting to deliver his sermon.

Finally he could stand it no longer and pushed back his chair. ‘My brothers,’ he announced, ‘I fear I have been dull company. I think I shall go to bed.’

There was a muted chorus around the table of ‘Goodnight, Dean.’

Lomeli walked towards the lobby. Few noticed him. And of those
few, none would have guessed from his dignified tread the clamour resounding in his head.

At the last minute, instead of going upstairs, his footsteps suddenly swerved away from the staircase towards the reception desk. He asked the nun behind the counter if Sister Agnes was still on duty. It was around 9.30 p.m. Behind him in the dining room, dessert was just being served.

When Sister Agnes appeared from her office, something in her manner suggested she had been expecting him. Her handsome face was sharp and pale, her eyes a crystalline blue.

‘Your Eminence?’

‘Sister Agnes, good evening. I was wondering if it might be possible for me to have another word with Sister Shanumi?’

‘That’s impossible, I’m afraid.’

‘Why?’

‘She is on her way home to Nigeria.’

‘My goodness, that was quick!’

‘There was an Ethiopian Airlines flight to Lagos from Fiumicino this evening. I thought it would be best for all concerned if she was on it.’

Her eyes held his, unblinking.

After a pause he said, ‘Perhaps in that case I might have a private talk with you?’

‘Surely we are having a private talk at the moment, Your Eminence?’

‘Yes, but perhaps we might continue it in your office?’

She was reluctant. She said she was about to go off duty. But in the end she led him around the back of the reception desk and into her little glass cell. The blinds were down. The only light came from a desk lamp. On the table was an old-fashioned radio-cassette
machine, playing a Gregorian chant. He recognised
Alma Redemptoris Mater: ‘Loving Mother of our Saviour’. The evidence of her piety touched him. That ancestor of hers martyred during the French Revolution had been beatified, he remembered. She turned off the music and he closed the door behind them. They both remained standing.

He said quietly, ‘How did Sister Shanumi come to be in Rome?’

‘I have no idea, Your Eminence.’

‘But the poor woman didn’t even speak Italian and had never left Nigeria before. She can’t simply have turned up here without someone causing it to happen.’

‘I received notification from the office of the Superioress General that she would be joining us. The arrangements were made in Paris. You should ask the rue du Bac, Your Eminence.’

‘I would, except that, as you know, I am sequestered for the duration of the Conclave.’

‘Then you can ask them afterwards.’

‘The information is of value to me now.’

She stared him out with those indomitable blue eyes. She could be guillotined or burnt at the stake; she would not yield. If I had ever married, he thought, I would have wanted a wife like this.

He said, gently, ‘Did you love the Holy Father, Sister Agnes?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well, I certainly know he had a special regard for you. In fact I think he was rather in awe of you.’

‘I don’t know about that!’ Her tone was dismissive. She knew what he was doing. And yet a certain part of her could not help but be flattered, and for the first time her gaze flickered slightly.

Lomeli pressed on. ‘And I believe he may have had some small
regard for me as well. At any rate, let’s say that when I tried to resign as dean, he wouldn’t let me. I couldn’t understand why at the time. To be honest, I was angry with him – may God forgive me. But now I believe I understand. I think he sensed he was dying and for some reason he wanted me to run this Conclave. And, with constant prayer, that is what I’m trying to do – for him. Therefore, when I say I need to know why Sister Shanumi came to be in the Casa Santa Marta, I am asking not for myself but on behalf of our late mutual friend the Pope.’

‘You say that, Your Eminence. But how do I know what he would have wanted me to do?’

‘Ask him, Sister Agnes. Ask God.’

For at least a minute she did not reply. Eventually she said, ‘I promised the superioress I wouldn’t say anything. And I shan’t say anything. You understand?’ And then she put on a pair of spectacles, sat at her computer terminal and began to type with great rapidity. It was a curious sight – Lomeli would never forget it – the elderly aristocratic nun peering closely at the screen, her fingers flying as if by their own volition across the grey plastic keyboard. The percussive blur of clicks built to a crescendo, slowed, became single beats, until with a final aggressive stab, she lifted her hands, stood, and moved away from the desk to the other side of the office.

Lomeli took her seat. On the screen was an email from the superioress herself, dated 3 October – two weeks before the Holy Father died, he noted – marked ‘In Confidence’ and reporting the immediate transfer to Rome of Sister Shanumi Iwaro of the Oko community in Ondo province, Nigeria.
My dear Agnes, between us both, and not for public consumption, I would be grateful if you could take particular care of our sister, as her presence has been requested by the Prefect of the
Congregation for the Evangelisation of Peoples, His Eminence Cardinal Tremblay.

After saying goodnight to Sister Agnes, Lomeli retraced his steps and returned to the dining room. He queued for coffee and carried it into the lobby. There he sat in one of the overstuffed crimson armchairs with his back to the reception desk and waited and watched. Ah, he thought, but he was something, this Cardinal Tremblay! A North American who was not an American, a French-speaker who was not a Frenchman, a doctrinal liberal who was also a social conservative (or was it the other way round?), a champion of the Third World and the epitome of the First – how foolishly Lomeli had underestimated him! Already he noticed the Canadian did not have to fetch his own coffee any more – Sabbadin collected it on his behalf – and then the Archbishop of Milan accompanied Tremblay over to a group of Italian cardinals, who deferred to him at once, widening their circle to admit him.

Lomeli sipped his coffee and bided his time. He wanted there to be no witnesses to what he needed to do.

Occasionally a cardinal would come over to speak to him, and he would smile up at them and exchange a few pleasantries – nothing in his face betrayed the agitation in his mind – but he found that if he did not stand, they soon took the hint and moved away. One by one they began making their way up to bed.

It was almost 11 p.m. and most of the Conclave had retired for the evening when Tremblay finally ended his conversation with the Italians. He raised his hand in what could almost have been interpreted as a benediction. Several of the cardinals bowed slightly. He turned
away, smiling to himself, and walked towards the stairs. Immediately Lomeli tried to intercept him. There was a moment of near-comedy as he discovered his legs had stiffened and he could barely get up from his chair. But after a struggle he managed to rise and limped on stiff legs in pursuit. He caught the Canadian just as he put his foot on the bottom step of the staircase.

‘Your Eminence – a word, if I may?’

Tremblay was still smiling. He exuded benignity. ‘Hello, Dean. I was just on my way to bed.’

‘It really won’t take a moment. Come.’

The smile remained, but a wariness appeared in Tremblay’s eyes. Nevertheless, when Lomeli gestured to him to follow, he did – the length of the lobby, around the corner and into the chapel. The annexe was deserted and in semi-darkness. Behind the toughened glass, the spotlit Vatican wall glowed greenish-blue, like an opera set for a midnight assignation, or a murder. The only other illumination came from the lamps above the altar. Lomeli crossed himself. Tremblay did the same. ‘This is mysterious,’ the Canadian said. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s quite simple. I want you to withdraw your name from the next ballot.’

Tremblay peered at him, still apparently amused rather than alarmed. ‘Are you feeling all right, Jacopo?’

‘I’m sorry, but you are not the right man to be Pope.’

‘That may be your opinion. Forty of our colleagues disagree.’

‘Only because they don’t know you as I do.’

Tremblay shook his head. ‘This is very sad. I have always valued your level-headed wisdom. But ever since we entered the Conclave, you seem to have become quite disturbed. I shall pray for you.’

‘I think you would do better to save your prayers for your own
soul. I know four things about you, Your Eminence, that our colleagues don’t. First, I know there was some kind of report into your activities. Second, I know that the Holy Father raised the matter with you only hours before he died. Third, I know that he dismissed you from all your posts. And fourth, I now know why.’

In the bluish half-light, Tremblay’s face seemed suddenly stupefied. He looked as if he had been struck a heavy blow on the back of the head. He sat down quickly on the nearest chair. He said nothing for a while, just stared straight ahead, at the crucifix suspended above the altar.

Lomeli took the seat directly behind him. He leaned forward and spoke quietly into Tremblay’s ear. ‘You are a good man, Joe, I’m sure of it. You wish to serve God to the fullness of your abilities. Unfortunately, you believe those abilities are equal to the papacy, and I have to tell you they are not. I am speaking as a friend.’

Tremblay kept his back to him. ‘A friend!’ he muttered bitterly and derisively.

‘Yes, truly. But I am also the Dean of the College, and as such, I have responsibilities. For me not to act on what I know would be a mortal sin.’

Tremblay’s voice was hollow. ‘And what exactly is it you know that isn’t mere gossip?’

‘That somehow – I assume through your contacts with our missions in Africa – you discovered the story of Cardinal Adeyemi’s grave surrender to temptation thirty years ago, and arranged for the woman involved to be brought to Rome.’

Tremblay didn’t move at first. When at last he did turn round, he was frowning, as if trying to remember something. ‘How do
you
know about her?’

‘Never mind that. What matters is that you brought her to Rome
with the express intention of destroying Adeyemi’s chances of becoming Pope.’

‘I deny that accusation absolutely.’

Lomeli held up a warning finger. ‘Think carefully before you speak, Your Eminence. We are in a consecrated place.’

‘You can bring me a Bible to swear on if you like. I still deny it.’

‘Let me be clear: you deny asking the superioress of the Daughters of Charity to transfer one of her sisters to Rome?’