The Accidental Pope (16 page)

Everyone in the august conclave believed he alone was doing God's work and that, hence, God was working through him. Each believed his individual opinion was God's opinion, and, therefore, even if his thinking might be at total variance with that of any other princes of the Church, that God, at least, was on his side.

They are all correct,
Brian thought.
God will take us and work with us come what may. We are his children. He is capable of considering all our views and opinions, then of getting it to work out and to move us ahead in time.

“You did your work most expeditiously.” As Cardinal Robitelli turned toward his table facing the chairs arranged for the cardinals, Brian reached out and laid a hand on the
camerlengo
's shoulder. Robitelli was now clearly back in charge of conclave proceedings.

“Please, Your Eminence, may I speak to you for a moment? It is vitally important that I tell you about the mission.”

The
camerlengo
showed his vexation that his conclave might be delayed for even another minute. “Not now, please, Comiskey. I'll have you give your little travel talk as soon as we get back into session.” With that he turned and walked briskly away.

What a fatuous snob,
Brian said to himself before he could stop the thought.
Very well. OK. I'll give my ‘travel talk' later. But ‘little'? I doubt it. It will be the most momentous travel talk in Catholic annals since Peter walked from Galilee to Rome.

*   *   *

Two Swiss guards on duty who recognized U.S. diplomatic plates on the big bulletproof American Cadillac waved the official embassy driver, Claudio, through the Porta di Sant'Anna. He drove up toward the Sistine Chapel and stopped in front of the side entrance.

“See you later, Maureen,” Bill said as he stepped out of the car. “I hope you have your historic day.”

“Maybe I'll see you later if you'll be staying on?” Maureen replied. “I'll make you the best
olio e aglio
you've ever tasted.”

Bill smiled enigmatically. “What happens to me from this moment on is in the hands of God. I will, of course, assist Him in making His will my own in every way possible.”

Maureen gave him a questioning look but found it hard to reply as Bill repeated his name to the guard at the door.

“Yes, Monsignor Kelly. I have been waiting for you,” the multihued-uniformed guardsman said. “Brian Cardinal Comiskey asked me to show you into Monsignor Cippolini's office at once.”

Beyond the side entrance to the Sistine Chapel the guard stopped at a large desk, where another Swiss guard wearing a contemporary officer's uniform sat on duty. “For you, Captain,” the first said, handing him a note. “Cardinal Comiskey of Ireland gave this to me less than an hour ago.”

The captain read the note, looked over at the imposing cleric in front of him, and reread the paper. “You are Monsignor William Kelly?” the captain asked sternly.

“Yes, I am!”

“Have you documents to prove that?” the captain challenged.

“Yes, of course.” Bill put his folder down, reached for the passport he had obtained when he attended a fishing conference in the Azores several years before, and handed it over.

The captain looked at the picture, a hint of a smile on his face. He rose, extending his hand. “Welcome to Rome, Monsignor. Follow me, please.”

Bill picked up his folder, pocketing his passport, and followed through a short, ancient hallway until they reached the desk of Monsignor Cippolini, who scrambled to his feet.

“Here is the monsignor that Cardinal Comiskey has told you to see.” The captain turned to Bill. “I'm led to presume you must be carrying important documents in that folder.”

“I presume so,” Bill replied levelly. With that the Swiss guard turned and moved swiftly down the hallway.

“My name is Monsignor Alonso Cippolini.” He shook hands with the anxious Bill Kelly. “Cardinal Comiskey asked me to receive you. Ah, something to eat,
caffè
maybe, while we wait for the signal?”

“I'd love coffee and any kind of roll.”

Monsignor Cippolini picked up the phone and gave the order, looking at Bill with an engaging grin. “The Americans and other English-speaking just call me ‘Al.' I must confess I'm as curious as the captain was as to what's in that apocalyptic folder. But I'm sure with all the trouble Brian, I mean Cardinal Comiskey, went through, we'll know soon enough.”

Al's Italian accent was charming, Bill thought. “Yes,” he replied. “I'm sure the cardinals will be anxious to see me—with this folder, of course. Monsignor—call me Bill.”

“Right, ‘Bill.' We'll sit here at my desk. You can have your
caffè
and rolls and we can make talk until the phone rings.”

“Thanks, Al. It's good to meet a thoughtful person now, at this moment.”

“I am from Sicily, but of course I love Rome. Rivalry, you know? Is this your first visit?”

“That's right. Maybe you could tell me a little bit about your work and what goes on in this place,” Bill suggested.

“If I did that, Bill, you'd have a long beard and cobwebs before I finished. But I think I could give you a mental tour before they call you. When they are done maybe we will go out to one of my favorite little restaurants for a late lunch.” Monsignor Cippolini turned as a waiter brought in a continental breakfast. “If you are going to be here a while longer I will show you the best restaurants in Rome. The best are also the least expensive.”

“Thanks, Al. That would be helpful indeed.” Bill sipped the coffee and munched on a tasty, sticky Italian roll.

Inside, the princes were waiting expectantly, some apprehensively, to hear Brian's account of the aftermath of their ill-advised “joke” before casting their ballots anew. Various groups were already seated in their places, openly discussing the next ballot despite the rules. Every cardinal was by now eager to put an end to this conclave, to get out of his Vatican prison and speed back to his own semiprivate world again.

Within minutes after the last cardinal was in his place the
camerlengo
tapped his wooden gavel on the table before him. “Dear brothers, I know you are all anxious to get our business concluded, so I will not slow you down save to allow our brother, Cardinal Comiskey, a few moments to tell us all about his trip. We are well aware of the pressure he was under the moment he left our presence. I, for one, am particularly proud of him for the near-incredible speed with which he carried out this most difficult assignment. Let us give him a warm welcome back.”

“Bravo, bravo!”
echoed in the chapel.

Restrained but intense applause greeted their momentary hero. When the clamor began to subside the
camerlengo
tapped his gavel again. “So, dear brother, before we begin our voting, would you take no more than fifteen minutes to bring us all up to date?” The
camerlengo
seated himself.

Cardinal Comiskey felt the butterflies in his stomach and a constriction in his throat as he stood up. To everyone's surprise he strode to the front of the chamber and turned to face them. “Dear brothers, I feel any account of my journey would be superfluous. The only thing necessary to say, and I certainly did not expect I would be saying it…” He paused, as though incapable for a moment of making the pronouncement. Then, “There will be no need for another vote. Bill Kelly has accepted the papacy!”

The shocked silence was suffocating. Slowly minds began to absorb the meaning of this declaration.
“Mio Dio,”
were the first words uttered as one cardinal blessed himself with the sign of the cross.

Nervous laughter, mingled with a subdued mumbling, was cut off abruptly by Cardinal Robitelli. Without rising, he blared out at the bowed head before him. “Please, Cardinal Comiskey, the ‘joke' has gone far enough. We will have no more of it! If you think this gathering is a joke, be seated and we will get on at once with our work.”

Brian turned his head slowly, and the
camerlengo
mentally shuddered at the withering contempt of his stare. “You are right, Your Eminence. The ‘joke' is over, and it is on us. God is my witness, and I am not in a jesting mood.”

The
camerlengo
was on his feet now as he suddenly realized along with the others in the room that there was no smile on the face or jest in the words of their Irish colleague. “Impossible, Comiskey! What did you say to that man? What are you trying to do to us?”

Murmurs arose, some angry, from several areas in the room. Only the black cardinals from Africa and America, seated in their own enclave, indulged without constraint or fear in joyous expressions and nods among themselves.

Brian could see that he needed their attention in the Sistine Chapel to complete his task. “Sit down, Eminence!” his voice whipped. “I will inform you what occurred.” The totally uncharacteristic turnabout had its desired effect. The
camerlengo
fell back into his seat, dazed by his junior's outrageous rebuff. Silence, and all eyes were glued on the now isolated figure confronting them in evident pain.

“First, I apologize to you, Cardinal Robitelli, for my outburst, but I felt it the only way I could deliver this most unique of messages. I must explain to all of you exactly what happened, no more and no less.

“My trip to the United States, as we all expected, was fraught with confusion and bewilderment. But I was blessed with the help of Bishop Murray of Boston and Bishop McCarrick of Fall River. When I arrived at the Kelly residence, Bill Kelly had just returned from a long fishing trip.”

Brian paused and searched his audience for understanding. “Now, please pay strict attention to what I say. It is of the utmost significance.” All the cardinals, some in a kind of agony, leaned forward to hear the next words. “I went down to the dock to greet him. When I got within five yards of him he caught sight of me. He dropped the nets he was repairing and cried out to me in a shocked voice, ‘Oh, my God! So it's true!' His words stunned me totally.” Brian held the rosary he had given to Bill all those years ago, suddenly as bright as new, tightly in his right hand and mustered all the sincerity, emotion, and inner truth he could command.

“I asked him what he meant by those words. After some fumbling around he quite reluctantly admitted to me that he had dreamed, envisioned, perhaps had even experienced, an apparition from Our Lady of Fatima. She was appealing to the people of the world to recognize the new challenges to the Church. She implored the lowly fisherman to become a fisher of men's souls.”

Brief murmurs arose in the assembly as Cardinal Comiskey paused and then continued. “I sat down with him on the side of his boat and tried to explain my purpose in coming and the bizarre manner in which his ‘election' had transpired. But the more I spoke to him about how impossible this situation had become, the more evidence he provided me for believing that the Blessed Mother Mary somehow had spoken to him beforehand, and he would not be dissuaded from accepting.”

As Brian continued with ever-greater fluency to recount the conversations and events that had taken place the day before in Buzzards Bay, individual whispering coalesced into a steady murmur around the chamber.

“And that, brothers, is what leads me to believe that through our blundering and our floundering here, or perhaps in spite of it, or perhaps because of it, the Holy Spirit has in very truth spoken to us in this conclave!”

With his last words Brian walked slowly over to the Bible that was placed beside the voting chalice and placed his hand, still holding the rosary, on the book. “So help me, God, I have witnessed the truth, the entire truth, and nothing but the truth.” He kissed the Bible and walked quickly back to his seat.

A few cardinals began to talk quietly to each other. They were surely, terribly, at a loss. Finally, a stunned Cardinal Robitelli stood behind his table and tapped his gavel. His mind was searching for words. As was the case with most of the assembled Church princes, he was trying to determine how to repudiate the accounting that Cardinal Comiskey had rendered.

What had happened was blatantly inconceivable. Worse, it was suspect. Yet, like all the rest in the room, the
camerlengo
felt an inner tug at his conscience—or was it his soul? All of them had experienced what each believed to be direct communion with the Holy Spirit in some way, at some time, in some place. Could this be another one of those circumstances? They were suddenly, instantly, caught between two worlds. It was one thing to preach love of God or say that He had spoken through His Scriptures. But it was another matter entirely when a mere mortal stated that Our Lady had spoken to him. Who did this man think he was? Yet had not each one of them been similarly called to the religious life in the first place?

Robitelli looked out at the assembly. He could announce a recess. They were all anxiously waiting for him, their leader, to clarify this situation. “Dear brothers, I'm … well, at a loss to know what to say. And you know I've seldom been at a loss for words.”

He waited for help in the expected response. None came. He coughed to clear his throat, stalling for the inspiration that eluded him. Finally he reverted to the tried and true solution to any dilemma: Pass the buck, or blame the messenger.

“Cardinal Comiskey, I can't believe that you allowed this to happen! You should certainly know how to convince a layman that any high post, let alone the papacy itself, is far beyond anything he could imagine or merit. I hold you personally responsible for this situation. My God! I wish I had been granted a chance to speak to this upstart, Mr. Kelly. Things would have been different.”

Cardinal Comiskey, mortally affronted, had expected something like this, and was prepared. Standing before the cardinals, he glanced around the assemblage, then stared back at the
camerlengo,
a smile of impending vindication on his lips. The
camerlengo
again unwittingly had ensnared himself. “You have appealed to Caesar, to Caesar you shall go!”