Conclave (21 page)

As his colleagues turned to look at him, Tremblay bowed his head and placed his hands together in prayer. For once this ostentatious show of piety did not irritate Lomeli. Instead, he briefly closed his eyes and gave thanks.
Thank you, O Lord, for this indication of Your will, and if Cardinal Tremblay is to be our choice, I pray that You may grant him the wisdom and strength to fulfil his mission. Amen.

It was with some relief that he stood and faced the Conclave. ‘My brothers, that concludes the fifth ballot. No candidate having achieved the necessary majority, we shall resume voting tomorrow morning.
The masters of ceremonies will collect your papers. Please do not take any written notes out of the Sistine, and be careful not to discuss our deliberations until you are back inside the Casa Santa Marta. Would the Junior Cardinal-Deacon please ask for the doors to be unlocked?’

At 6.22 p.m., black smoke once again began to pour from the Sistine chimney, picked out by the searchlight mounted on the side of St Peter’s Basilica. The pundits hired by the television channels professed themselves surprised by the Conclave’s failure to agree. Most had predicted that the new Pope would have been elected by now, and the US networks were on standby to interrupt their lunchtime schedules to show the scenes in St Peter’s Square as the victor appeared on the balcony. For the first time the experts started to express doubts about the strength of Bellini’s support. If he was going to win, he ought to have done so by now. A new collective wisdom began to rise out of the debris of the old: that the Conclave was on the verge of making history. In the United Kingdom – that godless isle of apostasy, where the whole affair was being treated as a horse race – the Ladbrokes betting agency made Cardinal Adeyemi the new favourite. Tomorrow, it was commonly said, might at last see the election of the first black Pope.

As usual, Lomeli was the last cardinal to leave the chapel. He stayed behind to watch Monsignor O’Malley burn the ballots, and then together they made their way across the Sala Regia. A security man trailed them down the staircase towards the courtyard. Lomeli assumed that O’Malley, as the Secretary of the College, must know the results of the afternoon ballots, if only because it was his task to
collect the cardinals’ notes in order to destroy them – and O’Malley was not the kind of man to avert his eyes from a secret. He must be aware therefore of the collapse of Adeyemi’s candidacy and of the unexpected ascendancy of Tremblay’s. But he was too discreet to raise the subject directly. Instead he said quietly, ‘Is there anything you would like me to do before tomorrow morning, Your Eminence?’

‘Such as?’

‘I was wondering if perhaps you wanted me to go back to Monsignor Morales and see if I could discover any more about this withdrawn report into Cardinal Tremblay.’

Lomeli glanced over his shoulder at the security man. ‘I don’t know what would be the point of it, Ray. If he wouldn’t say anything before the Conclave started, he’s hardly likely to do so now, particularly if he suspects Cardinal Tremblay might be about to be elected Pope. And that, of course, is exactly what he
would
suspect if you raised the matter for a second time.’

They emerged into the evening. The last of the minibuses had gone. Somewhere nearby a helicopter was hovering again. Lomeli beckoned at the security guard and gestured to the deserted courtyard. ‘I seem to have been left behind. Would you mind?’

‘Of course, Your Eminence.’ The man whispered into his sleeve.

Lomeli turned back to O’Malley. He felt weary and alone and was seized by an unaccustomed desire to unburden himself. ‘Sometimes one can know too much, my dear Monsignor O’Malley. I mean, who among us doesn’t have some secret of which he is ashamed? This ghastly business of shutting our eyes to sexual abuse, for example – I was in the foreign service, so was spared direct involvement myself, thank God, but I doubt I would have acted any more firmly. How many of our colleagues failed to take the complaints of the victims seriously, but simply moved the priests
responsible to a different parish? It wasn’t that those who turned a blind eye were evil; it was simply that they didn’t understand the scale of the wickedness they were dealing with, and preferred a quiet life. Now we know differently.’

He was silent for a moment, thinking of Sister Shanumi and her worn little photograph of her child. ‘Or how many have had friendships that became too intimate, and led on to sin and heartbreak? Or poor silly Tutino and his wretched apartment – without a family, one can so easily become obsessed with matters of status and protocol to give one a sense of fulfilment. So tell me: am I supposed to go around like some witchfinder general, searching for my colleagues’ lapses of more than thirty years ago?’

O’Malley said, ‘I agree, Your Eminence. “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone.” However, I thought in the case of Cardinal Tremblay you were worried about something more recent – a meeting between the Holy Father and the cardinal that took place last month?’

‘I was. But I’m beginning to discover that the Holy Father – may he be joined for evermore to the Fellowship of Holy Pontiffs . . .’

‘Amen,’ said O’Malley, and the two prelates crossed themselves.

‘I am beginning to discover,’ continued Lomeli in a quieter voice, ‘that the Holy Father may not have been entirely himself in the last few weeks of his life. Indeed, from what Cardinal Bellini has said to me, I gather he had almost become – I speak to you in absolute confidence – slightly paranoid, or at any rate very secretive.’

‘As witnessed by his decision to create a cardinal
in pectore
?’

‘Indeed. Why in heaven’s name did he do that? Let me say at once that I hold Cardinal Benítez in high esteem, as clearly do several of our brothers – he is a true man of God – but was it really necessary for him to be elevated in secret, and in such haste?’

‘Especially as he had only just tried to resign as archbishop on the grounds of poor health.’

‘And yet he seems perfectly fit in mind and body to me, and last night when I asked after his health, he seemed surprised by the question.’ Lomeli realised he was whispering. He laughed. ‘Listen to me – I sound like a typical old maid of the Curia, gossiping in darkened corners about appointments!’

A minibus drove into the courtyard and pulled up opposite Lomeli. The driver opened the doors. There were no other passengers inside. A blast of hot air-conditioned air fanned their faces.

Lomeli turned to O’Malley. ‘Do you want a lift to the Casa Santa Marta?’

‘No, thank you, Your Eminence. I need to go back to the Sistine and put out fresh ballot papers, and make sure everything is ready for tomorrow.’

‘Well then, goodnight, Ray.’

‘Goodnight, Your Eminence.’ O’Malley offered his hand to help Lomeli up on to the coach, and for once Lomeli felt so tired he took it. The Irishman added, ‘Of course, I could undertake a little further investigation, if you would like me to.’

Lomeli paused on the top step. ‘Into what?’

‘Cardinal Benítez.’

Lomeli thought it over. ‘Thank you, but no. I don’t think so. I’ve heard enough secrets for one day. Let God’s will be done – and preferably quickly.’

When he reached the Casa Santa Marta, Lomeli went straight to the elevator. It was just before seven o’clock. He held the door open long enough to allow the archbishops of Stuttgart and Prague,
Löwenstein and Jandaček, to join him. The Czech was leaning on his stick, grey-faced with fatigue. As the door closed and the car began to rise, Löwenstein said, ‘Well, Dean, do you think we will finish this by tomorrow night?’

‘Perhaps, Your Eminence. It’s not in my hands.’

Löwenstein raised his eyebrows and glanced briefly at Jandaček. ‘If it drags on much longer, I wonder what the actuarial odds are that one of us will die before we find a new Pope.’

‘You might mention that to a few of our colleagues.’ Lomeli smiled and gave him a slight bow. ‘It may concentrate minds. Excuse me – this is my floor.’

He stepped out of the elevator, passed the votive candles outside the Holy Father’s apartment and walked along the dimly lit corridor. From behind several of the closed doors he could hear showers running. When he reached his room, he hesitated, then went on a few paces and stood outside Adeyemi’s. Not a sound came from within. The contrast between this deep silence and the laughter and excitement of the previous evening was awful to him. He felt appalled by the brutal necessity of his own actions. He tapped lightly. ‘Joshua? It’s Lomeli. Are you all right?’ There was no reply.

His own room had again been tidied by the nuns. He took off his mozzetta and rochet, then sat on the edge of his bed and loosened his shoelaces. His back ached. His eyes were swimming with tiredness. Yet he knew that if he lay down, he would fall asleep. He went to his prie-dieu, knelt, and opened his breviary to the readings for the day. His eye fell immediately upon Psalm 46:

As he meditated, he began to experience the same premonition of violent chaos that had almost overcome him during the morning session in the Sistine Chapel. He saw for the first time how God willed destruction: that it was inherent in His Creation from the beginning and that they could not escape it – that He would come among them in wrath.
See what desolations He has brought on the earth . . . !
He gripped the sides of the prie-dieu so hard that a few minutes later, when someone rapped loudly on the door behind him, his entire body seemed to jolt, as if he had been given an electric shock.

‘Wait!’

He hauled himself back up on to his feet and briefly put his hand on his heart. It kicked against his fingers like a trapped animal. Was this how it had felt for the Holy Father just before he died? Sudden palpitations that turned into an iron band of pain? He took a few more moments to gather his composure before he opened the door.

Standing in the corridor were Bellini and Sabbadin.

Bellini stared at him with concern. ‘Forgive us, Jacopo, are we disturbing your prayers?’

‘It’s of no consequence. I’m sure God will excuse us.’

‘Are you unwell?’

‘Not at all. Come in.’

He stood aside to let them enter. As usual, the Archbishop of Milan looked as professionally mournful as an undertaker, although he brightened when he saw the size of Lomeli’s room. ‘Dear me, this is tiny. We both have suites.’

‘It’s not so much the lack of space as the lack of light and air that
I find oppressive. It’s giving me nightmares. But let us pray it won’t be for too much longer.’

‘Amen!’

Bellini said, ‘That is what we’ve come about.’

‘Please.’ Lomeli removed his discarded mozzetta and rochet from the bed and draped them over the prie-dieu to allow his visitors to sit down. He pulled out the chair from the desk and turned it round so that he was seated facing them. ‘I’d offer you a drink, but foolishly, unlike Guttuso, I’ve failed to bring in my own supplies.’

‘It won’t take long,’ said Bellini. ‘I simply wanted to let you know I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t have sufficient support among our colleagues to be elected Pope.’

Lomeli was taken aback by his directness. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure, Aldo. It isn’t over yet.’

‘You are kind, but I’m afraid, as far as I’m concerned, it is. I’ve had a very loyal cohort of supporters – among whom I’ve been touched to number you, Jacopo, despite the fact that I replaced you as Secretary of State, for which you would have had every right to harbour a grudge.’

‘I have never wavered in my belief that you are the best man for the job.’

Sabbadin said, ‘Hear, hear.’

Bellini held up his hand. ‘Please, dear friends, don’t make this any harder for me than it is. The question now arises: given that I can’t win, whom should I advise my supporters to vote for? In the first ballot I voted for Vandroogenbroek – the greatest theologian of the age, in my opinion – even though of course he never stood a chance. In the last four ballots, Jacopo, I have voted for you.’

Lomeli blinked at him in surprise. ‘My dear Aldo, I don’t know what to say . . .’

‘And I should be happy to go on voting for you, and to tell my colleagues to do the same. But . . .’ He shrugged.

‘But you can’t win either,’ said Sabbadin with brutal finality. He opened his tiny black notebook. ‘Aldo got fifteen votes in the last ballot; you got twelve. So even if we delivered you all of our fifteen in a block – which frankly we can’t – you’d still only be in third place, behind Tremblay and Tedesco. The Italians are divided – as usual! – and since we three agree that the Patriarch of Venice would be a disaster, the logic of the situation is clear. The only viable option is Tremblay. Our combined total of twenty-seven, plus his forty, takes him to sixty-seven. That means he only needs another twelve to win a two-thirds majority. If he doesn’t get them on the next ballot, my feeling is he’ll probably get them on the one after that. Do you agree, Lomeli?’

‘I do – unfortunately.’

Bellini said, ‘I’m no more of an enthusiast for Tremblay than you are. Even so, we have to face the fact that he has demonstrated broad appeal. And if we believe that the Holy Spirit is operating through the Conclave, we have to accept that God – improbable as it may seem – wishes us to give the Keys of St Peter to Joe Tremblay.’

‘Perhaps He does – although it’s strange that until lunchtime He also seemed to want us to give them to Joshua Adeyemi.’ Lomeli glanced at the wall: he wondered if the Nigerian was listening. ‘Can I add that I am also slightly troubled by this . . .’ he gestured back and forth, ‘by the three of us meeting in collusion to try to influence the result? It seems a sacrilege. All we need is the Patriarch of Lisbon with his cigars and we’d be in a smoke-filled room, just like an American political convention.’ Bellini gave a thin smile; Sabbadin frowned. ‘Seriously, let us not forget that the oath we swear is to cast our ballot for the candidate whom before God we think
should be elected. It’s not enough for us just to vote for the least-worst option.’