‘Wait,’ Sabbadin interrupted him. ‘Really?’ He made a face and sucked his teeth. ‘I think we should keep off the subject of women entirely. It will only give Tedesco an opening for mischief. He’ll say you secretly favour female ordination – which you don’t.’
Perhaps it was Lomeli’s imagination, but there seemed to be the tiniest flicker of hesitation before Bellini said, ‘I accept that the issue of female ordination is closed for my lifetime – and probably for several lifetimes to come.’
‘No, Aldo,’ replied Sabbadin firmly, ‘it is closed for all time. It has been decreed on papal authority: the principle of an exclusively male priesthood is founded on the written word of God-’
‘“Set forth infallibly by the ordinary and universal magisterium” – yes, I know the ruling. Not perhaps the wisest of St John Paul’s many declarations, but there it is. No, of course I am not proposing female ordination. But there is nothing to stop us bringing women into the Curia at the highest levels. The work is administrative, not sacerdotal. The late Holy Father often spoke of it.’
‘True, but he never actually did it. How can a woman instruct a bishop, let alone select a bishop, when she isn’t even allowed to celebrate Communion? The College will see it as ordination by the back door.’
Bellini prodded his piece of veal a couple of times and then laid down his fork. He rested his elbows on the table, leaned forward and looked at each of them in turn. ‘Listen to me, my brothers, please. Let me be absolutely clear. I do not seek the papacy. I dread it. Therefore I have no intention of concealing my views or pretending to be anything other than I am. I urge you – I plead with you – not to canvass on my behalf. Not a word. Is that understood? Now, I am afraid I have lost my appetite, and if you will excuse me, I shall retire to my room.’
They watched him go, his stork-like figure bobbing stiffly between the tables and across the lobby until he disappeared upstairs. Sabbadin took off his spectacles, breathed on the lenses, polished them with his napkin, and then put them back on. He opened a small black notebook. ‘Well, my friends,’ he said, ‘you heard him. Now I suggest we divide the task. Rocco,’ he said to Dell’Acqua, ‘your English is the best: you talk to the North Americans, and to our colleagues from Britain and Ireland. Which of us has good Spanish?’ Panzavecchia raised his hand. ‘Excellent. The South Americans can be your responsibility. I shall speak to all the Italians who are frightened of Tedesco – that is, most of them. Gianmarco,’ he said to Santini, ‘presumably your work at the Congregation for Education means you know a lot of the Africans – will you deal with them? Needless to say, we avoid all mention of women in the Curia…’
Lomeli cut his veal into tiny pieces and ate them one at a time. He listened as Sabbadin went round the table. The Archbishop of Milan’s father had been a prominent Christian Democrat senator; he had learnt how to count votes in the cradle. Lomeli guessed he would be Secretary of State in a Bellini pontificate. When he had finished doling out assignments, he shut his notebook, poured himself a glass of wine and sat back with a satisfied expression.
Lomeli looked up from his plate. ‘I take it then you don’t believe our friend is sincere when he says he doesn’t want to be Pope.’
‘Oh, he’s perfectly sincere – that’s one of the reasons I support him. The men who are dangerous – the men who must be stopped – are the ones who actively desire it.’
Lomeli had kept an eye out all evening for Tremblay, but it wasn’t until the end of the meal, when the cardinals were queuing for coffee in the lobby, that he had the chance to approach him. The Canadian was standing in the corner holding a cup and saucer and listening to the Archbishop of Colombo, Asanka Rajapakse, by common consent one of the great bores of the Conclave. Tremblay’s eyes were fixed upon him. He was leaning towards him and nodding intently. Occasionally Lomeli heard him murmur, ‘Absolutely… absolutely…’ He waited nearby. He sensed that Tremblay was aware of his presence but was ignoring it, hoping he would give up and move away. But Lomeli was determined, and in the end it was Rajapakse, whose eyes kept darting to him, who reluctantly interrupted his own monologue and said, ‘I think the dean wishes to speak with you.’
Tremblay turned and grinned. ‘Jacopo, hello!’ he cried. ‘This has been a lovely evening.’ His teeth were an unnaturally brilliant white. Lomeli suspected he had had them polished for the occasion.
‘I wonder if I might borrow you for a moment, Joe?’ he said.
‘Yes, of course.’ Tremblay turned to Rajapakse. ‘Perhaps we could continue our conversation later?’ The Sri Lankan nodded to both men and moved away. Tremblay seemed sorry to see him go, and when he returned his attention to Lomeli, there was a trace of irritation in his voice. ‘What is this about?’
‘Could we talk somewhere more private? Your room, perhaps?’
Tremblay’s brilliant teeth vanished. His mouth turned down. Lomeli thought he might refuse. ‘Well I suppose so, if we must. But briefly, if you don’t mind. There are still some colleagues I need to speak to.’
His room was on the first floor. He led Lomeli up the stairs and along the passage. He walked quickly, as if anxious to get the thing over with. It was a suite, exactly the same as the Holy Father’s. All the lights – the overhead chandelier, the bedside and desk lamps, even the lights in the bathroom – had been left burning. It seemed antiseptic, gleaming like an operating theatre, entirely bare of possessions, apart from a can of hairspray on the nightstand. Tremblay closed the door. He didn’t invite Lomeli to sit. ‘What is this about?’
‘It concerns your final meeting with the Holy Father.’
‘What about it?’
‘I’ve been told it was difficult. Was it?’
Tremblay rubbed his forehead and frowned, as if making a great effort of memory. ‘No, not that I recall.’
‘Well, to be more specific, I have been told that the Holy Father demanded your resignation from all your offices.’
‘Ah!’ His expression cleared. ‘That piece of nonsense! This has come from Archbishop Woźniak, I presume?’
‘That I can’t say.’
‘Poor Woźniak. You know how it is?’ Tremblay’s hand wobbled an imaginary glass in mid-air. ‘We must make sure he receives proper treatment when all this is over.’
‘So there’s no truth in the allegation that at the meeting you were dismissed?’
‘None whatsoever! How utterly absurd! Ask Monsignor Morales. He was present.’
‘I would if I could, but obviously I can’t at the moment, as we’re sequestered.’
‘I can assure you he’ll only confirm what I’m telling you.’
‘No doubt. But still, it seems rather curious. Can you think of any reason why such a story should be circulating?’
‘I should have thought that was obvious, Dean. My name has been mentioned as a possible future Pope – a ludicrous suggestion, I need hardly add, but you must have heard the same rumours – and someone wants to blacken my name with false slurs.’
‘And you think that person is Woźniak?’
‘Who else could it be? I know for a fact he went to Morales with some story about what the Holy Father was alleged to have said to him – I know that because Morales told me. I might say he’s never dared speak directly to me about it.’