The Translation of Father Torturo (13 page)

Gonzales, white as a ghost, rose to his feet. He looked appealingly at the Cardinal Camerlengo, and then at Hojeda. The former shook his head solemnly, the latter bared his teeth. Gonzales shuffled out of the room, muttering a few muddled words as he went, which no one cared to hear and no one heard.

The vote was taken, and then counted by the Cardinal Camerlengo and his three assistants. The revisers double-checked the count and then the Camerlengo stood up and read the results. Out of the hundred and fifteen votes, there were fifty-seven for Hojeda and fifty-eight for Torturo.

The master of ceremonies, not paying attention to the instructions given by the custodian concerning the appropriate chemicals to be added when burning the ballots, ended up giving puzzling indications to the people assembled in St. Peter’s Square. A plume of white smoke would indicate that a new Pope had been elected, while black would signal that a decision had not yet been reached. The smoke was dark grey. The people in St. Peter’s Square murmured in confusion. Many insisted that the smoke was black, and that there was not yet a new Pope, while others were adamant in their belief that the smoke they had seen was white. The old men wagged their heads knowingly. The media debated the issue over ten-thousand broadcasts.

Meanwhile the one-hundred and fifteen Cardinals adjourned from the Sistine chapel to the Throne Room.

O’Malley took hold of Torturo’s elbow as they entered. “We’ve done it lad,” he whispered in a cheerful voice.

Torturo smiled slightly, nodded, took a pack of Parisiennes from his pocket and lit one.

The cardinals assembled on both sides of the room, with the Cardinal Camerlengo poised in the middle, before the throne. Exhaling a plume of smoke, Torturo approached.

The Cardinal Camerlengo intoned:

“The Sacred College has elected Your Holy Excellence as the Bishop of Rome, Archbishop of the Roman Province, Primate of Italy, Summus Pontifex, Pontifex Maximus, Successor of Saint Peter, thereby the Chief Pastor of the Entire Church, Single Patriarch of the Entire Western Church, the Universal Church, the Vicar of Christ Upon Earth; the said position being yours and yours alone provided you are willing to take the office. Do you accept your canonical election as Supreme Pontiff?”

There was a pause.

Zuccarelli held his breath. He could hear his own heart throbbing in his chest. He looked at O’Malley. O’Malley bit his bottom lip and locked his twinkling eyes on the candidate. The entire room was frozen in anticipation.

Torturo took a puff of his cigarette.

“Certainly I am willing to take the office,” he said, flicking away the half smoked cylinder. “Let us indulge in the papacy since God has given it to us.”

A sigh of relief and amazement swept across the room like a putrid Venetian breeze. O’Malley winked at Zuccarelli, giving him the thumbs up. Zuccarelli, for possibly the third or fourth time in his life, smiled a genuine smile. Cardinals nodded; double chins undulated. A vast number of handkerchiefs were applied to sweat glistened foreheads. The room was monstrously hot.

Silence was called for. The Cardinal Camerlengo looked appropriately grave.

Gazing steadfastly at Torturo he asked: “By what name do you wish to be called?”

“Lando the Second.”

Three-quarters of an hour later Torturo stood dressed in pontifical white. He received the triple crown unmoved, without the slightest sign of either elation or contempt. The cardinals, one by one, advanced towards Lando the Second and swore their submission.

The
Dean of the College of Cardinals stepped out onto the balcony of the Vatican Basilica. The people stared up from below. The wind could be heard beating against his vestments, which flapped like the flag of a conquering army. He cupped his hands around his mouth, like a horn. “Habemus Papam!” he yelled. “We have a Pope!”

There was a roar of excitement. Fists of approbation were raised in the air. A sprightly old man began to dance in the court. Broad smiles flashed like jewels. Pope Lando the Second advanced out onto the balcony. The ovation he received was tremendous. The Italian people considered it a supreme victory. The noise of the cheers could be heard throughout the city; they echoed against the hills and soared through the air like mighty birds. The Pope raised his hands and the people were hushed. All eyes were raised in joyful, serious attention. In a voice of absolute and unquestionable authority he pronounced the Apostolic Blessing Urbi et Orbi, and then returned within.

Two days later the coronation procession took place. A trumpet sounded. Rome fell silent. The Pope stepped outside, a white, almost phallic streak that moved with awesome gravity down the steps of St. Peter’s cathedral, onto the square. He carried in one hand, like a staff, the erect cross. The crowd parted, as if cloven in two by an axe. Two women fainted. The heels of his shoes could be heard on the brickwork. A magnificent white boulonnais horse was brought forth, which he mounted. He made his way down the via della Conciliazione and then along the Corso Vittorio Emanuele II. Nine hundred priests and cardinals followed him. There were floats displaying allegorical images and draped with pithy Latin sayings. Many fell to their knees as he passed. All remarked on the dignity of the new Pope’s appearance.

During those first days and nights the Roman people celebrated the ordination of the new Pope as if it were Carnival. The revel and rejoicing was enthusiastic to an unparalleled degree. It was like a massive, unmitigated public orgy. There were bonfires in the streets, songs sung and candlelight processions. Pictures of Torturo, now Lando the Second, hung from windows and were stationed around the city’s great monuments amongst garlands of flowers. All shops were closed and, young and old alike, paraded through the streets in uninterrupted merriment. The Pope was young; the Pope was Italian. Wine and bread were given out gratis. Barilla made a special pasta, in the shape of a fish, and dubbed it landotori for the occasion. Even some Protestants were pleased with the choice; the city of Bern struck off a medal in his honour.

Others, those Christians more radically apposed to popishness, declaimed him as the Antichrist.

Chapter Thirteen

The day after his coronation the new pope called Vivan and Zuccarelli to him, for a private audience.

The two men were shown through the Sala degli Arazzi, its walls adorned with magnificent Gobelin tapestries, into the Throne Room. Pope Lando the Second sat at the far end, on his majestic seat. He was dressed all in white, except for a crimson hood which sat on his shoulders. A priceless Spanish carpet lay between the door and the throne. Vivan stepped forward first, minced through the stately chamber, climbed the steps leading to the throne and fell to his knees, kissing the Pope’s right foot, which rested on a crimson pillow. Zuccarelli strode forward. Five meters before the Pope he dropped to one knee, bowed and rose. He proceeded forward, climbed the steps to the throne, bowed and kissed the Pope’s hand.

Pope Lando the Second spoke.

“Both of you have been of inestimable service,” he said gravely, “and, now that I am in a position to show my appreciation, I intend to do so.”

Zuccarelli nodded his head, as if to say: “I expected nothing less.”

“The three of us have a bond,” the Pope continued. “Though not strictly a bond of friendship, it is none the less precious. Though it is true that spirituality and perfection are not necessarily connected with advancement in our holy order, we still, each of us, are happy to advance. I have advanced. You shall each advance. We advance together.”

Vivan was affected. His eyes became watery. He was speechless.

The Primate of Italy proceeded:

“Cardinal Zuccarelli, I bestow on you the post of Secretary of State of the Vatican and also make you Cardinal-Deacon with the title of SS. Silvestro e Martino ai Monti.”

Zuccarelli bowed. “I am honoured,” he said.

“Bishop Vivan, I make you my personal assistant in all matters, as well as Cardinal-Priest with the title SS. Cosmas and Damian.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Vivan giggled and then, after giving a great, sweeping bow, fell to his knees and kissed the Pope’s hand. “Did I not tell you his offer was good,” he said, rising and turning to Zuccarelli.

Zuccarelli admitted it was so.

“Oh, we have wonderful days ahead of us,” Vivan cried, clapping his palms together. “And my mother will be thrilled – simply thrilled!”

“We are certainly in an enviable position,” Zuccarelli commented.

“Your positions
certainly are
enviable,” the Pope said, “and I feel confident that your time will be spent both agreeably and productively. That is as it should be. But I do have one condition to impose.”

Both men looked up inquiringly. Zuccarelli stuck out his chin.

“My only condition to bestowing these titles, to sharing all this opulence with the two of you, is that you both do me credit. Use the salt of prudence. Make sure not to dishonour me. Do not sully your offices. Be discreet.”

“Discreet Holy Father?” Vivan asked.

“Yes. You probably have not run across the word yet in your reading, but I expect you to learn its definition: I require you to be both careful and tactful in what you say and do.”

“I am sure you will find no reason to complain of our behaviour or regret your trust,” Zuccarelli said.

“I do not suppose it otherwise. I am simply stating the obvious so that there is no mistake. Now: Later in the week we will meet in order to outline your exact duties. Meanwhile I imagine you each have many things to wrap up back in Padua. Please do so and return as quickly as possible: Your residences from henceforth are here, in the Vatican, near my person.”

Both men expressed their complete compliance, bowed and moved towards the exit. Vivan turned, on his way out, and blinked.

“Is there anything else?” the Primate of Italy asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Vivan blushed. “I only wanted to say that you look exceptionally
majestic
in white!”

The door shut behind the two ecclesiastics. The Pope rose from his seat and began to pace the room. His dormant season was at an end. It was now the time for action; he needn’t hide his light under a bushel. The world expected great things from him, and he had every determination to give the world great things.

He sent a message to Di Quaglio, requesting his immediate presence. Ten minutes later the plump little man came bustling into the Throne Room, a giant leather ledger under one arm. He bowed.

“You wanted to see me
Summus Pontifex
?”

“Yes. There are a few matters I want to discuss with you. In the time of my predecessor, you were the Secretary of Finance of the Vatican, were you not?”

“I was.”

“That will not do.”

“Oh!”

“That will not do. I want you nearer to my person.”

“As you wish Holy Father.”

“You were a great help during the conclave, and I believe you are fit for greater responsibilities. Would you object to being the Sub-Prefect of the Sacred Apostolic Palace?”

“Not in the least Your Holiness!”

“You will retain your original position as Secretary of Finance, but you will have this one as well, – But you must pledge to me your complete subservience and obedience.”

“I – I do,” the little man stammered.

“You must keep an eye out for my interests. Watch over all my underlings. Report to me any mischief you discover.”

“Certainly.”

“Monitor all comings and goings.”

“Certainly.”

“Monitor the phone lines.”

“Yes
Summus Pontifex
.”

“What is that you have under your arm?”

“The ledger summing up the finances of the Vatican.”

“Fine, set it down over there . . . Yes, that will do.”

“Do you require me further?”

“Yes; – I have business to conduct . . . I want all public access cut off from the Sistine Chapel and the Vatican museums.”

“But, Your Holiness, to deny public access . . .”

“Yes, deny it. The residential section around the Cortile de San Domasco is ridiculously small for the sole Patriarch of the Western Church. Of the thousand or so rooms, only two-hundred are set aside for my use, a quantity which is grossly inadequate. The chapel as well as the majority of museum buildings must be sequestered for private purposes.”

“Your Holiness, I am not sure if you realise it or not, but the chapel, aside from being a most sanctified place, is also a considerable source of capital. Millions of tourists visit it each year and, at nine euros a head . . .”

“My dear fellow,” the Pope said imperiously, “I am not a cattle rancher or pig farmer to be concerned with head-count, nor do I much fancy my residence as a kind of Catholic Disney Land. It would be greatly appreciated if you did not second guess my decisions. Remember, Christ proclaimed that it was my choice to bind or loose as I choose. The legislative authority of Saint Peter falls upon me . . . The relics of the holy saints will, in any case, remain in Rome. If people want to pay to see something, let it be those, and let them be enlightened thereby. The most important task for you at present is to make sure that the holy personage who utters these words is scrupulously obeyed and comforted. Going against the grain, the grain being I, is not a habit of which the cultivation is recommended.”

Just as Pius II, Paul II and Innocent VIII made changes to the Papal residence, so did the present
Summus Pontifex
. Pope Lando the Second cared not a whit what the world might think. His fists were made not to coddle but to crush. The Vatican, partially cleared of its touristic and pecuniary aspect was thus greatly increased in useable size.

Leonardo’s
St. Jerome
and the
Stefaneschi
triptych of Giotto he had removed to his own
sleeping chambers. The paintings which defaced the walls of the modern picture gallery were removed and, along with the giant canvas by Matejko, sold at auction. The entire collection of Egyptian antiquities, except for the papyri, he had returned to the government of that country, a move which gained him much acclaim in previously antagonistic quarters.