He guessed it had been lucky for Guttuso that the Holy Father had died when he did. Another few months and Lomeli was sure he would have been asked to resign. ‘I want a Church that is poor,’ the Pope had complained more than once in Lomeli’s hearing. ‘I want a Church that is closer to the people. Guttuso has a good soul but he has forgotten where he came from.’ He had quoted Matthew: ‘If you would be perfect, go, sell what you possess and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me.’ Lomeli reckoned the Holy Father had had it in mind to remove almost half the senior men he had appointed. Bill Rudgard, for example, who arrived soon after Guttuso: he might come from New York and look like a Wall Street banker, but he had failed entirely to gain control over the financial management of his department, the Congregation for the Causes of Saints (‘Between you, me and the bedpost, I should never have given the job to an American. They are so innocent: they have no idea how bribery works. Did you know that the going rate for a beatification is said to be three quarters of a million euros? The only miracle is that anyone pays it. . .’).
As for the next man to enter the Casa Santa Marta, Cardinal Tutino, the Prefect of the Congregation for Bishops, he would surely have gone in the New Year. He had been exposed in the press for spending half a million euros knocking two apartments together to create a place big enough to house the three nuns and the chaplain he felt necessary to serve him. Tutino had been given such a mauling in the media, he looked like the survivor of a physical attack. Someone had leaked his private emails. He was obsessed with finding out who. He moved furtively. He glanced over his shoulder. He found it hard to meet Lomeli’s eyes. After only the most cursory of greetings, he slipped into the Casa, ostentatiously carrying his belongings in a cheap plastic holdall.
By five o’clock it was becoming dark. As the sun dipped, the air chilled. Lomeli asked how many of the cardinals had yet to arrive. O’Malley consulted his list. ‘Fourteen, Your Eminence.’
‘So a hundred and three of our sheep are safely in the pen before nightfall. Rocco,’ he said, turning to his priest, ‘would you be so kind as to bring me my scarf?’
The helicopter had moved away, but the last of the demonstrators could still be heard. There was a steady, rhythmic beating of drums.
He said, ‘I wonder where Cardinal Tedesco has got to?’
O’Malley said, ‘Perhaps he isn’t coming.’
‘That would be too much to hope! Ah, forgive me. That was uncharitable.’ He could hardly admonish the Secretary of the College for lacking respect if he didn’t show it himself. He must remember to confess his sin.
Father Zanetti returned with his scarf just as Cardinal Tremblay appeared, walking alone from the direction of the Apostolic Palace. Slung over his shoulder was his choir dress in a dry-cleaner’s cellophane wrapper. In his right hand he swung a Nike sports bag. It was the image he had projected ever since the Holy Father’s funeraclass="underline" a Pope for the modern age – unpretentious, informal, accessible – even though not one hair of that magnificent silvery helmet beneath his red zucchetto was ever out of place. Lomeli had expected the Canadian’s candidacy to fade after the first couple of days. But Tremblay knew how to keep his name before the media. As Camerlengo, he was responsible for the day-to-day running of the Church until a new pontiff was elected. There was not much to do. Nevertheless, he called daily meetings of the cardinals in the Synod Hall and held press conferences afterwards, and soon articles began appearing, quoting ‘Vatican sources’, saying how much his skilful management had impressed his colleagues. And he had another, more tangible means of ingratiating himself. It was to him, as Prefect of the Congregation for Evangelisation of Peoples, that the cardinals from the developing world, especially the poorer countries, came for funds, not just for their missionary work but for their living expenses in Rome during the time between the Pope’s funeral and the Conclave. It was hard not to be impressed. If a man had that strong a sense of destiny, perhaps he had indeed been chosen? Perhaps he had been given a sign, invisible to the rest of them? It was certainly invisible to Lomeli.
‘Joe, welcome.’
‘Jacopo,’ said Tremblay amiably, and lifted his arms with a smile of apology, to show that he couldn’t shake hands.
If he wins, Lomeli promised himself as soon as the Canadian had passed, I shall be gone from Rome the very next day.
He knotted his black woollen scarf around his neck and thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat. He stamped his feet against the cobbles.
Zanetti said, ‘We could wait indoors, Your Eminence.’
‘No, I’d prefer to get some fresh air while I still can.’
Cardinal Bellini didn’t appear until half past five. Lomeli noticed his tall, thin figure moving through the shadows around the edge of the piazza. He was pulling a suitcase with one hand. In the other he carried a thick black briefcase so crammed with books and papers it would not properly close. His head was bowed in meditation. By general agreement, Bellini had emerged as the favourite to succeed to the throne of St Peter. Lomeli wondered what thoughts must be passing through his mind at the prospect. He was far too lofty for gossip or intrigue. The Pope’s strictures about the Curia had not applied to him. He had worked so hard as Secretary of State that his officials had been obliged to provide him with a second shift of assist-ants to come on duty at six every evening and stay with him until the early hours. More than any other member of the College he had the physical and mental capacity to be Pope. And he was a man of prayer. Lomeli had made up his mind to vote for him, although he had been careful not to say so, and Bellini had been too fastidious to ask him. The ex-Secretary was so wrapped up in his thoughts he seemed likely to walk straight past the welcoming party. But at the last minute he remembered where he was, glanced up and wished them all good evening. His face looked more than usually pale and drawn. ‘Am I the last?’
‘Not quite. How are you, Aldo?’
‘Oh, fairly dreadful!’ He managed a thin-lipped smile and drew Lomeli aside. ‘Well, you’ve read today’s newspapers – how else would you expect me to be? I’ve twice meditated on the Spiritual Exercises of St Ignatius just to try to keep my feet on the ground.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen the press, and if you want my advice, you’d be wise to ignore all these self-appointed “experts”. Leave it to God, my friend. If it’s His will, it will happen; if not, not.’
‘But I’m not merely God’s passive instrument, Jacopo. I have some say in the matter. He gave us free will.’ He lowered his voice so that the others couldn’t hear. ‘It’s not that I want it, you understand? No sane man could possibly want the papacy.’
‘Some of our colleagues seem to.’
‘Well then they’re fools, or worse. We both saw what it did to the Holy Father. It’s a Calvary.’
‘Nevertheless, you should prepare yourself. The way things are going, it may well fall to you.’
‘But what if I don’t want it? What if I know in my heart I’m not worthy?’
‘Nonsense. You’re more worthy than any of us.’
‘I am not.’
‘Then tell your supporters not to vote for you. Pass the chalice to someone else.’