The desk was really a large mahogany table, several meters in length, placed before a bookcase which contained an eclectic mix of official documents, sacred texts, biographies, histories and even a few detective novels.
His two private secretaries, one of them a Vietnamese priest, the other a Sardinian, were waiting at quiet attention with smiles on their young faces.
‘I’ve never seen the two of you so happy to be called to work at night,’ the Pope said lightly.
‘It’s been a great while since we’ve been able to serve Your Holiness,’ Father Diep said in his sing-song Italian.
‘Our hearts are full of joy,’ Father Bustamante added with touching sincerity.
The Pope sat in his wheelchair and surveyed the piles of papers littering his once-tidy desk. He shook his head. ‘Look at this,’ he said. ‘It’s like an unattended garden. The weeds have overtaken the flower beds.’
‘Essential business continues,’ Diep said. ‘Cardinals Aspromonte and Diaz are co-signing the day-to-day papers. Much of what we have here are copies for your review.’
‘Let me use what small abilities I have tonight to tend to one or two vital ecclesiastical issues. You choose what is suitable. Then I want to pray in my chapel before I’m once again confined to bed by Sister Emilia and Dr Zarilli.’
The wine was from Aspromonte’s brother who had a vineyard and regularly sent cases to the Vatican. Aspromonte was known for his liberal pouring habits and for giving away bottles as presents.
‘The Sangiovese is excellent,’ Diaz said, holding up the glass to the light of the chandelier. ‘Compliments to your brother.’
‘Well, 2006 was a marvelous year for him and really for everyone who grows in Tuscany. I’ll send you a case if you like.’
‘That would be grand – thank you,’ Diaz said. ‘Let’s pray that conditions are favorable for him this year.’
‘The rains have to stop first,’ Giaccone grumbled. ‘Today’s been mostly clear but, dear God, the last three weeks have been biblical. We should be building an ark!’
‘Is it affecting your work?’ Aspromonte asked.
‘I just came from a meeting of the Pontifical Commission and I can tell you that the archeologists and engineers are worried about the integrity of the catacombs on the Via Antica Appia, particularly St Sebastiano and St Callixtus. The fields above them are so saturated that some trees were uprooted by wind gusts. There’s fear of sinkholes or collapses.’
Diaz shook his head and put down his fork. ‘If only that was all we had to worry about.’
‘The Holy Father,’ Aspromonte said quietly.
Diaz said soberly, ‘Many are looking for us to be doing the right things, to be making preparations.’
‘You mean planning for a Conclave,’ Giaccone said bluntly.
Diaz nodded. ‘The logistics aren’t trivial. You can’t just snap your fingers and assemble all the Cardinal Electors.’
‘Don’t you think we have to tread lightly here?’ Aspromonte asked, chewing the last of a mouthful of beef. ‘The Pope is alive and, God willing, he will remain so. And we must be mindful not to appear to have any personal aspirations.’
Diaz finished his glass and let Aspromonte fill it again. He looked over his shoulder to make sure they were alone. ‘We’re friends. We’ve worked shoulder to shoulder for the better part of three decades. We’ve taken each other’s confessions. If we can’t talk frankly, who can? We all know the chances are good that the next Pope is sitting at this table. And, in my opinion, I’m too old. And not Italian enough!’
Aspromonte and Giaccone looked down at their plates. ‘Someone had to say it,’ Diaz insisted.
‘Some say it’s time for an African or a South American. There are some good men who bear consideration,’ Giaccone said.
Aspromonte shrugged. ‘I’m told we have some excellent peach gelato for dessert.’
The Pope was alone in his private chapel. Father Diep had wheeled him in and placed him in front of his usual bronze-clad meditation chair. The ceiling glowed with stained-glass backlit panels, contemporary in style, heavy in primary colors. The floor was white Italian marble with black streaks, also a modernist pattern, but softened by a lovely old brown rug in the center. The altar was simple and elegant: a white lace-covered table holding candles and a Bible. Behind the table a golden crucified Christ floated in the concavity of a floor-to-ceiling installation of red marble.
The pontiff’s hip started aching and the pain intensified. He had begun to pray and didn’t want to return to his sickbed just now. His infusion pump of morphine was fixed to a pole on the wheelchair but he was especially loath to medicate himself in the presence of this beautiful representation of a suffering Christ.
He fought the pain and kept the prayers flowing wordlessly for only God to hear.
Suddenly, a different pain.
It seized his throat and upper chest.
The Pope looked down with the irrational thought that someone had sneaked up and was pressing heavily on his chest.
The pressure made him contort his face and close his eyes.
But he wanted to keep them open and fought to do so.
It was as if a flaming arrow had pierced his breast, burning through layers of flesh.
He couldn’t call out, couldn’t take a good breath.
He struggled to keep his gaze fixed firmly on the face of the golden Christ.
Dear God. Help me in my hour of need.
Monsignor Albano entered Cardinal Aspromonte’s dining room without knocking.
Aspromonte could tell from his drained face that something was amiss.
‘The Pope! He’s been stricken in his chapel!’
*
The three cardinals rushed up the stairs and hurried through the formal rooms until they entered the chapel. Fathers Diep and Bustamante had moved the Pope’s slumped body from the wheelchair onto the rug and Zarilli was kneeling over his one and only patient.
‘It’s his heart,’ Zarilli mumbled. ‘There’s no pulse. I fear—’
Cardinal Diaz cut him off. ‘No. He’s not dead! There’s time to administer Extreme Unction!’
Zarilli began to protest but Giaccone cut him off and issued sharp orders to Fathers Bustamante and Diep who hurriedly fled the chapel.
Aspromonte whispered to Diaz, ‘Under the circumstances, you can omit the prayers, even the Misereatur, and proceed to the Communion.’
‘Yes,’ Diaz said. ‘Yes.’
Both Giaccone and Aspromonte helped Cardinal Diaz lower himself next to the Pope’s body where he knelt and said a silent prayer.
The Pope’s secretaries ran back in with a tray of communion wafers and a red leather bag. Diaz took one of the wafers and said in a clear voice, ‘This is the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world. Happy are those who are called to His supper.’
The Pope was unable to respond, but Aspromonte whispered what he would have said, ‘Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed.’
‘The body of Christ,’ Diaz intoned.
‘Amen,’ Aspromonte whispered.
Diaz broke off a small particle of wafer and placed it into the froth inside the Pope’s mouth. ‘May the Lord Jesus protect you and lead you to eternal life.’
Zarilli was on his feet now, looking mournful, ‘Are you finished?’ he asked Diaz. ‘It’s over. The Pope has passed.’
‘You are wrong, doctor,’ the old cardinal said icily. ‘He’s not dead until the Cardinal Camerlengo says he’s dead. Cardinal Aspromonte, please proceed.’
Everyone dropped back while Aspromonte took the leather bag from Father Diep and extracted a small silver mallet engraved with the Pope’s coat of arms.
He fell to his knees and gently tapped the Pope’s forehead with the mallet, ‘Get up, Domenico Savarino,’ he said, using the name that the pontiff’s mother had whispered to him as a child, for it was said that no man would remain asleep at the sound of his baptismal name.