Once the voting papers had been checked by the revisers, Lomeli returned to the altar step and addressed the Conclave. ‘My brothers, that concludes the third ballot. We shall now adjourn for luncheon. Voting will resume at two thirty. Kindly remain in your places while the officials are readmitted, and remember not to discuss our proceedings until you are back inside the Casa Santa Marta. Would the Junior Cardinal-Deacon please ask for the doors to be unlocked?’
The members of the Conclave surrendered their voting papers to the masters of ceremonies. Afterwards, making animated conversation, they filed across the vestibule of the Sistine, out into the marbled grandeur of the Sala Regia and down the staircase to the buses. Already it was noticeable how they deferred to Adeyemi, who seemed to have developed an invisible protective shield around him. Even his closest supporters kept their distance. He walked alone.
The cardinals were eager to get back to the Casa Santa Marta. Few now lingered to watch the burning of the ballots. O’Malley stuffed the paper sacks into one furnace and released the chemicals from the other. The fumes mingled and rose up the copper flue. At 12.37 p.m., black smoke began to issue from the Sistine Chapel chimney. Observing it, the Vatican experts on the main television news channels continued confidently to predict a victory for Bellini.
Lomeli left the Sistine soon after the smoke was released, at roughly a quarter to one. In the courtyard, the security men were holding the last minibus for him. He declined the offer of help and climbed up on to it unaided to find Bellini among the passengers, sitting near the front with his usual squad of supporters – Sabbadin, Landolfi, Dell’Acqua, Santini, Panzavecchia. He had done himself no favours, Lomeli thought, by trying to win over a worldwide electorate with a clique of Italians. As the rear seats were occupied, Lomeli was obliged to sit with them. The bus pulled away. Conscious of the driver’s eyes examining them in the rear-view mirror, the cardinals didn’t speak at first. But then Sabbadin, turning round in his place, said to Lomeli, with deceptive pleasantness, ‘I noticed, Dean, that you spent nearly an hour this morning examining Michelangelo’s ceiling.’
‘I did – and what a ferocious work it is, when one has time to study it. So much disaster bearing down upon us – executions, killings, the Flood. One detail I hadn’t noticed before is God’s expression when He separates light from darkness: it is pure murder.’
‘Of course, the most appropriate episode for us to have contemplated this morning would have been the story of the Gadarene swine. What a pity the master never got around to painting that.’
‘Now, now, Giulio,’ warned Bellini, glancing at the driver. ‘Remember where we are.’
But Sabbadin could not contain his bitterness. His only concession was to drop his voice to a hiss, so that they all had to lean in to hear him. ‘Seriously, have we taken leave of our senses? Can’t we see we’re stampeding over a cliff? What am I to tell them in Milan when they start to discover our new Pope’s social views?’
Lomeli whispered, ‘Don’t forget there will also be great excitement at the prospect of the first African pontiff.’
‘Oh yes! Very good! A Pope who will permit tribal dancing in the middle of the Mass but will not countenance Communion for the divorced!’
‘Enough!’ Bellini made a cutting gesture with his hand to signal that the conversation was over. Lomeli had never seen him so angry. ‘We must all accept the collective wisdom of the Conclave. This isn’t one of your father’s political caucuses, Giulio – God doesn’t do re-counts.’ He stared out of the window and didn’t speak again for the remainder of the short journey. Sabbadin sat back, arms folded, furious in his frustration and disappointment. In the rear-view mirror, the driver’s eyes were wide with curiosity.
It took less than five minutes to drive from the Sistine Chapel to the Casa Santa Marta. Lomeli calculated later therefore that it must have been roughly 12.50 p.m. when they disembarked outside the hostel. They were the last to arrive. Perhaps half the cardinals were already seated, and another thirty were queuing with their trays; the remainder must have gone up to their rooms. The nuns were moving between the tables, serving wine. There was an atmosphere of unsuppressed excitement: permitted to talk openly, the cardinals swapped their opinions of the extraordinary result. As he joined the end of the line, Lomeli was surprised to see Adeyemi sitting at the same table he had occupied at breakfast, with the same contingent of African cardinals: if he had been in the Nigerian’s position, he would have been in the chapel, away from this hubbub, deep in prayer.
He had reached the counter and was helping himself to a little riso tonnato when he heard the sound of raised voices behind him, followed by the crash of a tray hitting the marble floor, glass shattering, and then a woman’s scream. (Or was scream the right word? Perhaps cry would be better: a woman’s cry.) He swivelled round to see what was happening. Other cardinals were rising from their seats to do the same; they obscured his view. A nun, her hands clasped to her head, ran across the dining room and into the kitchen. Two sisters hurried after her. Lomeli turned to the cardinal nearest him – it was the young Spaniard, Villanueva. ‘What happened? Did you see?’
‘She dropped a bottle of wine, I think.’
Whatever it was, the incident seemed to be over. The cardinals who had stood resumed their seats. The drone of conversation slowly started up again. Lomeli turned back to the counter to collect his food. Holding his tray, he looked around for a place where he could sit. A nun came out of the kitchen carrying a bucket and a mop and went towards the Africans’ table, at which point Lomeli noticed that Adeyemi was no longer there. In a moment of terrible clarity, he knew what must have happened. But still – how he reproached himself for this afterwards! – still his instinct was to ignore it. The discretion and self-discipline of a lifetime guided his feet towards the nearest empty chair, and then commanded his body to sit, his mouth to smile a greeting at his neighbours, his hands to unfold a napkin, while in his ears all he could hear was a noise like a waterfall.
So it was that the Archbishop of Bordeaux, Courtemarche – who had questioned the historical evidence for the Holocaust, and whom Lomeli had always shunned – suddenly found himself sitting next to the Dean of the College. Mistaking it for an official overture, he began to make a plea on behalf of the Society of St Pius X. Lomeli listened without hearing. A nun, her gaze modestly averted, came and stood at his shoulder to offer him wine. He looked up to refuse, and for a fraction of a second she looked back at him – a terrible, accusing look: it made his mouth go dry.
‘… the Immaculate Heart of Mary…’ Courtemarche was saying, ‘… the intention of heaven declared at Fatima…’
Behind the nun, three of the African archbishops who had been sitting with Adeyemi – Nakitanda, Mwangale and Zucula – were approaching Lomeli’s table. The youngest, Nakitanda of Kampala, seemed to be their spokesman. ‘Could we request a word with you, Dean?’
‘Of course.’ He nodded to Courtemarche. ‘Excuse me.’
He followed the trio into a corner of the lobby. ‘What just happened?’ he asked.
Zucula shook his head mournfully. ‘Our brother is troubled.’