The Accidental Pope (38 page)

On cue from Monsignor Cippolini, Bill rose from his seat. “You have made this audience a heartwarming event for my children and me, and we are grateful.” He raised his hands out toward the audience. “May the love of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit descend upon you and keep you and protect you and your families. Remember to pray for us. There is much that has to be done. Too many people are suffering in our world. I personally am overwhelmed by it.” He turned to assist his daughters. As they walked off the stage, the pope paused to glance at Monsignor Cippolini, who seemed to be waiting for the signal.

“Bring him to me, Al, if he's willing.” Meghan looked at her father, puzzled. “The old gentleman, Meghan.” He bent close to her ear. “He's a former priest.”

Meghan was startled. “What?” She clucked her tongue. “Takes one to know one.” She watched as Monsignor Cippolini hurried up the middle aisle.

*   *   *

It was now six o'clock. Jan Christensen knocked on the door to the papal apartments, unprepared for the surprised stare of a fellow guard posted outside. Meghan let the young man in. “Hi, Jan. Colleen said we should expect you. She'll be with you in a moment.” She ushered him into the family room, where Roger was busily engaged in a video game. “Roger, come and say hello to Mr. Christensen. He's come to take our big sister out for dinner.”

Roger stood up reluctantly, bothered that his video game had been interrupted. He stuck his hand out, and it was lost in the grip that met his own. “Hello, Roger. I'm glad to meet you. One of my fellow guards says you have a tough head.” Roger was not a little awed by this paragon of health and strength, his tight-fitting sports shirt revealing such conditioned muscles.

“You ever slash anyone with that ax you carry?”

Meghan flashed a reproving glare at her brother. “Roger, mind your manners!” She turned to Colleen's date for the evening. “Mr. Christensen, pay no attention to him.”

Jan smiled at Roger. “Those things are mostly for show. You know, the Middle Ages.”

“How will you protect us if you don't have your ax, Jan?” Colleen entered the room, all smiles, wearing a flowered dress that enhanced her figure. Walking directly up to him, she squeezed his arm, letting her hands slide slowly down his side to feel the holster his jacket was hiding. He blushed as he turned to Meghan and Roger.

“So, if you don't mind, we will be off to a little restaurant just off the Piazza Navona. I'll bring Colleen back early, I promise.”

“Jan,” Colleen appealed, “I'm the big sister here, please. Now let's go, Janny. We have lots to talk about. Sorry Dad isn't here. He's busy doing pope stuff.” She winked at her sister and held Jan's arm as they exited the apartment and walked down the hallway.

Smiling, Jan winked at the guard as they passed. Jan's wildest dream, one talked about by many of the guards for hours, was coming true. He was dating the pope's beautiful daughter.

*   *   *

In his library Bill sat quietly facing the older, nervous gentleman who had confronted him in the Paul VI auditorium. Milton Drapeaux had calmed down, having told his story. He gratefully sipped a brandy that Monsignor Cippolini had offered him. The history was similar to many Bill had heard, had indeed been part of years ago. A former priest, professor at a Catholic university in Paris, he had been caught up in the early exodus of priests when he married a former nun he had met in one of his classes. Within five years he had lost his newfound mate to AIDS via an unfortunate blood transfusion. Cut off thereafter from family and friends, who viewed him as a disgrace, he had spent the next uncounted years living with his pain and guilt.

He worked at menial jobs to keep from starving. Now he had spent the last of his savings to come to Rome. His hope was to meet this new man in the Vatican who was like him. Perhaps he would understand. He had been there. The pope listened quietly to the man's tale, nodding periodically at some of the more painfully related events. Finally it was all out.

Milton Drapeaux sipped his brandy and waited to discover what Bill Kelly would think of his background. The pope chose his words carefully. “Father Drapeaux, I understand your problems. I have walked in your shoes. Tell me, have you any experience in research? I'm talking about moral theology, which you say was your specialty at the university. I thought you might have some skills along those lines.”

The man looked at him, and a gleam of dignity came into his eyes. It was the first time in more than twenty years that someone had called him “Father.” “Why, yes, during my summers off at the university I was a loner, not much into the social life, so I volunteered to do research for the other professors. I also volunteered to work with inmates in a men's prison, helping several get high school and university diplomas.”

The pope turned to look at his friend and now confidant, Alonso Cippolini. Their closeness made it easy for them to communicate without words.

“As a matter of fact, Father Drapeaux, Monsignor Cippolini and I were only recently trying to find someone who might have the skills and necessary background to do some research for us here at the Vatican, someone who might be able to canvass all former priests still alive. I would like them to consider serving as active priests again, if they meet the challenge. They have much to contribute. As you know, we are short of them.”

Drapeaux's mouth dropped open. He stared at the pope in disbelief. “Your Holiness, I was totally unaware that the ban on former priests had been lifted. This is amazing!”

The pope gave a regretful smile to his slightly stunned new friend. “Father Drapeaux, you have to realize that things get done rather slowly here. It's hard to get good help.” He turned to Alonso. “Don't tell me, Monsignor Cippolini, that you didn't get that rescript typed and published yet!”

Cippolini had to cough. It was at times too much even for his quick mind to deal with. Popes were not supposed to lie, much less talk about rescripts that did not exist. He rubbed his mouth to avoid a smile. “Why, no, Your Holiness. We have been so busy arranging your initial papal audience, we forgot about the rescript … put it on the back burner.”

The pope smiled and turned to the older, worn-looking man in front of him. “Father Drapeaux, you look like you could use a few weeks to recover from your ill health. Monsignor Cippolini will find you a room here in the Vatican where you can begin to plan your strategy. You may need to brush up on saying Mass again. Despite your sixty-eight years you seem to me to have some good ones left ahead of you. Alonso here will take you to his favorite clerical store; you can choose a new wardrobe. Charge it against the account Al will set up. If you have any questions before you start my research, call Al. He knows exactly what we need. Now, if you would like, we can have some supper with my children.”

He paused, shot a look at his wristwatch, and exclaimed, “Darn! Al, I forgot all about our young man coming to pick up Colleen. By now he's arrived, and, knowing my daughter, they're on their way. I got so interested in Father Drapeaux's fascinating story of his life I forgot all about it.” He stood up, leading his lost lamb out the door and giving a cheerful, dismissing nod to Monsignor Cippolini en route.

31

A VATICAN CHRISTMAS

Pope Peter II was tallying the overwhelming daily problems facing Augustine Cardinal Motupu in Africa. Fresh outbreaks of the lingering troubles in Ireland were constantly brought to his attention as Cardinal Comiskey did his best to heal never-ending breaches of peace and widening disagreements between splinter groups on both ends of the religious spectrum. And of course right here in the Vatican, he had to face the stern visage of Cardinal Robitelli whenever he proposed something that was anathema to standing dogma or canonical law. Yet Bill Kelly was resolved to enjoy the Christmas season.

The cardinal secretary of state was horrified and angry at the prospect of laicized priests serving in the Church again as newly “active” even though this was now precisely the case at the highest order of Catholicism, the papacy. Robitelli's genuine concern seemed to center on how this ‘second coming' as he scornfully referred to the pope's suggestion might affect those thousands of priests who had proven faithful to their vows and also how it might resonate among the people in the pews. Despite Pope Peter II's assurances that the whole project would be accomplished gradually, shrouded in a certain amount of obfuscation, the two men would never come to terms.

Also, Pope Peter had insisted on a more flexible Head of the Papal Household office, with Monsignor Cippolini filling the post. Day-to-day home life was becoming more relaxed for Pope Peter II.

Robitelli, foreseeing dire consequences for the pope's near-heretical initiatives, arranged a private meeting with certain dedicated, trustworthy traditionalists within the Vatican. The conventional-minded Vatican denizens hastily summoned by Robitelli found themselves trapped in something of a paradoxical situation: how to save the Church from this freewheeling renegade and at the same time show obedience to a pope they had themselves recognized as the leader of the Church.

But Peter II was resolved to enjoy Christmas with his family and with friends like Ed Kirby and his family.

The season was well under way when Ryan Kelly arrived quite unexpectedly, to the delight of the rest of the family. Ryan had decided that the loss of a couple of fishing trips to Georges Bank over the Christmas holidays could be sustained. On a sudden impulse he had taken a bus to Boston, bought a round-trip tourist-class ticket to Rome, boarded an Alitalia flight, and the next thing he knew he was drinking Peroni beer at thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic. A bowl of
gnocchi all'etrusca,
with tomatoes, cream, and cheese—a famous dish of the Tuscan region of Italy—topped off with scrumptious tiramisu, was followed by a few hours of sleep. He was awakened by a flight attendant who asked him if he would like some cappuccino or juice. They would be landing at Rome's Leonardo da Vinci Airport in approximately thirty minutes.

Ryan went through customs and immigration with no trouble, and no one recognized him as the son of the pope. He went to the money exchange and bought a hundred dollars' worth of lire, which he felt should be enough for cabs and expenses. A sharp-eyed taxi driver spotted him as an American tourist and picked him up.

“Vatican … er …
Vaticano,
” Ryan ordered. The driver nodded and began the drive toward Vatican City. As the taxi threaded its way through the outskirts of Rome into the centrum, Ryan expected to hear Christmas carols blasting from stores and watch crowds of shoppers buying presents, Santa Clauses everywhere ostensibly collecting for charities.

He was surprised at the mild, pleasant temperature he was enjoying and the dearth of commercial activity he noticed as they entered Rome proper. What he did see were groups of what had to be mountain people ambling, shambling along the sidewalks and spilling over into the streets. Each small group of three or four men, looking like shepherds, played on bagpipe-type musical instruments. Flapping arms pumped air from sacks and produced a cacophonous sound describable only as very un-Christmas-like. Later he would discover that they only came down from the mountains at Christmastime to play their unique-sounding homemade instruments.

The cab driver shouted spurts of invective out the window of his vehicle at the disorderly groups merrily lurching about the streets. As the driver sped in and out of the heavy traffic in the densely populated city, Ryan could see countless pushcarts with fresh fruit and vegetables. He also observed many cathedrals and Churches—like one on every corner, it seemed—and police cars everywhere. Men were sitting in sidewalk cafés sipping cappuccino and watching women examining the local produce.

“
Sì.
Excuse me?”

“Speak English?” Ryan asked.

“
Sì.
Speaka,” the cab driver replied.

“What kind of Christmas spirit you got here? No Christmas carols in the street. No Christmas lights.”

That was the final test of the driver's English. “Yeah,
buon Natale.
Merry Christmas.”

A few minutes later the cab drove up to a gate. A number of stores faced the entrance gate, which was attended by two colorfully costumed Swiss guards. Looming behind the gate was the Vatican in all its glory. Ryan judged that this was as far as the cab could go. He stepped out of the cab, carrying his suitcase, and pulled out the stack of lire. He read the number on the taximeter and began counting out the bills. He added 15 percent and found that he was almost out of lire. Somehow the cab driver had managed to take him in, but, then, it was Christmas and Ryan would soon be with his father and siblings.

“Yeaha, Christmasa!” he chuckled and approached the guards, who came to attention. Ryan hoped the guards spoke English as he introduced himself. Dubiously they stared at him. Ryan was wearing his one good dark suit, a conservative tie knotted into the collar of his white starched shirt. He was a bit disheveled, he realized, and maybe they could smell the beer on his breath from the flight.

“I'm Ryan Kelly, the son of Pope Peter II,” he introduced himself. “Merry Christmas, guys!”

The guards glanced at each other in surprise. The young man was indeed tall like the American pope. But it wasn't their prerogative to let him pass without some proof. Ryan recognized their quandary and showed his passport.

“What's your sister's name?” a guard asked with a grin.

“My big sister is Colleen, and the younger one is Meghan.”

“It is strange they did not tell us you were coming.”

“This is the Vatican and no Christmas decorations? No lights, no trees, no ringing bells?” He looked about in surprise. “A supermarket and post office at the Vatican?”