‘I’m sorry, Your Eminence.’
‘Just tell me simply what it is that’s troubling you. We have much to do.’
‘Yes, I realise now I should have spoken to you earlier, but it seemed so trivial.’
‘Go on.’
‘On that first night, when I took Cardinal Benítez the toiletries he was lacking, he told me I needn’t have bothered with a razor, as he never shaved.’
‘What?’
‘He was smiling when he said it, and to be frank, given everything else that was going on, I thought nothing of it. I mean, Your Eminence, it’s not uncommon, is it?’
Lomeli squinted at him, uncomprehending. ‘Ray, I’m sorry, but you are making no sense to me.’ Dimly he recalled blowing out the candle in Benítez’s bathroom and seeing the razor in its cellophane wrapper.
‘But now that I’ve discovered about the clinic in Switzerland. . .’ His voice trailed away helplessly.
‘The clinic?’ repeated Lomeli. Suddenly the marble floor began to feel like liquid. ‘You mean the hospital in Geneva?’
O’Malley shook his head. ‘No, that’s the point, Eminence. Something kept on niggling away in my mind, and this afternoon, once I saw that there was a chance the Conclave might move towards Cardinal Benítez, I decided I should look it up. It turns out it isn’t a normal hospital. It’s a clinic.’
‘A clinic for what?’
‘It specialises in what they call “gender reassignment”.’
Lomeli hurried back into the main part of the chapel. The masters of ceremonies were moving along the rows of desks, collecting every scrap of paper. The cardinals were still in their places, talking quietly among themselves. Only Benítez’s seat was empty, along with his own. The papal throne had been set up in front of the altar.
He walked the length of the Sistine to the door of the sacristy and knocked. Father Zanetti opened the door a crack. ‘His Holiness is being robed, Your Eminence,’ he whispered.
‘I need to speak with him.’
‘But Your Eminence-’
‘Father Zanetti, if you please!’
Startled by his tone, the young priest stared at him for a moment before withdrawing his head. Lomeli heard voices within, then the door was opened briefly and he slipped inside. The low vaulted chamber looked like the props room backstage at a theatre. It was cluttered with discarded clothes and the table and chairs that had been used by the scrutineers. Benítez, already clothed in the white watered-silk cassock of the Pope, was standing with his arms held wide, as if nailed to an invisible cross. Kneeling at his feet was the papal tailor from Gammarelli, pins in his teeth, stitching the hem, so intent on his work he did not look up.
Benítez gave Lomeli a resigned smile. ‘Apparently even the smallest vestments are too large.’
‘May I speak to Your Holiness alone?’
‘Of course.’ Benítez peered down at the tailor, ‘Have you finished, my child?’
Through clenched teeth and pins the reply was unintelligible.
‘Leave that,’ ordered Lomeli curtly. ‘You can finish it later.’ The tailor looked round at him and spat his pins into a metal tin, then unthreaded his needle and bit through the gossamer line of spun white silk. Lomeli added, ‘You too, Father.’
The two men bowed and left.
When the door was closed, Lomeli said, ‘You must tell me about this treatment at the clinic in Geneva. What is your situation?’
He had anticipated various responses – angry denials, tearful confessions. Instead, Benítez looked more amused than alarmed. ‘Must I, Dean?’
‘Yes, Your Holiness, you must. Within the hour you will be the most famous man in the world. We can be certain the media will try to find out everything there is to know about you. Your colleagues have a right to know it first. So if I may repeat: what is your situation?’
‘My situation, as you call it, is the same as it was when I was ordained a priest, the same as when I was made an archbishop and the same as when I was created a cardinal. The truth is, there was no treatment in Geneva. I considered it. I prayed for guidance. And then I decided against it.’
‘And what would it have been, this treatment?’
Benítez sighed. ‘I believe the clinical terms are surgery to correct a fusion of the labia majora and minora, and a clitoropexy.’
Lomeli sat down on the nearest chair and put his head in his hands. After a few moments, he was aware of Benítez pulling up a chair next to him.
‘Let me tell you how it was, Dean,’ Benítez said softly. ‘This is the truth of it. I was born to very poor parents in the Philippines, in a place where boys are more prized than girls – a preference I fear is still the case all over the world. My deformity, if that is what we must call it, was such that it was perfectly easy and natural for me to pass as a boy. My parents believed that I was a boy. I believed that I was a boy. And because the life of the seminary is a modest one, as you know well, with an aversion to the uncovering of the body, I had no reason to suspect otherwise, and nor did anyone else. I need hardly add that all my life I have observed my vows of chastity.’
‘And you really never guessed? In sixty years?’
‘No, never. Now, of course, when I look back, I can see that my ministry as a priest, which was mainly among women who were suffering in some way, was probably an unconscious reflection of my natural state. But I had no idea of it at the time. When I was injured in the explosion in Baghdad, I went to a hospital, and only then was I fully examined by a doctor for the first time. The instant the medical facts were explained to me, naturally I was appalled. Such darkness came upon me! It seemed to me that my entire life had been lived in a state of mortal sin. I offered my resignation to the Holy Father, without giving him the reasons. He invited me to Rome to discuss it and sought to dissuade me.’
‘And did you tell him the reasons for your resignation?’
‘In the end, yes, I had to.’
Lomeli stared at him, incredulous. ‘And he thought it was acceptable for you to continue as an ordained minister?’
‘He left it up to me. We prayed together in his room for guidance. Eventually I decided to have the surgery and to leave the ministry. But the night before I was due to fly to Switzerland, I changed my mind. I am what God made me, Your Eminence. It seemed to me more of a sin to correct His handiwork than to leave my body as it was. So I cancelled my appointment and returned to Baghdad.’
‘And the Holy Father was content to allow that?’
‘One must assume so. After all, he made me a cardinal in pectore in full knowledge of who I am.’
Lomeli cried out, ‘Then he must have gone mad!’
There was a knock at the door.
Lomeli shouted, ‘Not now!’ but Benítez called, ‘Come!’
It was Santini, the Senior Cardinal-Deacon. Lomeli often wondered afterwards what he must have made of the scene: the newly elected Holy Father and the Dean of the College of Cardinals sitting on a pair of chairs, knees practically touching, in the middle of what was obviously a profound conversation. ‘Forgive me, Your Holiness,’ Santini said, ‘but when would you like me to go out on to the balcony to announce your election? There are said to be a quarter of a million in the square and the surrounding streets.’ He gave Lomeli an imploring look. ‘We are waiting to burn the ballot papers, Dean.’
Lomeli said, ‘Give us one more minute, Your Eminence.’
‘Of course.’ Santini bowed and withdrew.
Lomeli massaged his forehead. The pain behind his eyes had returned, more blinding even than before. ‘Your Holiness, how many people know of your medical condition? Monsignor O’Malley has guessed it, but he swears he has mentioned it to no one apart from me.’