Chapter Text
6 She then went to the bedpost near the head of Holofernes and took the sword that hung there. 7 She drew close to his bed, grasped the hair of his head, and said, “Give me strength this moment, O Lord, God of Israel.” 8 Then with all her might she struck his neck twice and cut off his head.
— Judith 13:6-8
“The devil and I sat at opposite ends
of the tiny dining table and listened to the roaches
scuttle beneath the refrigerator.
I watched the devil take the east road,
hands in pockets, eyes on the stars.
His shadow
kept me company in the door
frame. One day’s walk to reach Cairns.
He had a sprawling gait
and I thought, perhaps next time,
we’d try dancing.”
— Shastra Deo, “I Saw the Devil in the Cane Fields”
Pope John XXIV returned from his vacation at Castel Gandolfo with Cardinal Vincent Benítez in tow and a newfound vigor, which his close circle hadn’t seen even in the beginning of his pontificate. Perhaps not even before then.
With this renewed zeal, Thomas Lawrence resumed the leadership of various initiatives and restructuring projects that had been worked on and approved the months prior—needing only the last motions to launch in an official capacity. One of these, the Dicastery of Evangelization, which merged the department of the Pontifical Council for Promoting the New Evangelization and the Congregation for the Evangelization of Peoples, was finished before the end of the month after his arrival to the Holy See. This new dicastery had Pope John himself serving as its prefect and assisted by two pro-prefects: one for the Section for First Evangelization and the New Particular Churches and the second one, the Section for Fundamental Questions regarding Evangelization in the World.
It was the latter that Vincent Benítez, for his lifetime of service and bravery in war-torn and poverty-stricken territories around the globe, assumed the leadership of.
While Vincent learned and sought to master the ins and outs of this new administrative position, he had to admit that he was finding the Vatican and its people more pleasant than what he initially anticipated.
In part, though Vincent would never suspect it himself, because even with only a month and a half since he had formally manifested in the Vatican, he was dazzling—through sheer politeness, kindness, and genuine interest in other people—not only his department but also the nuns, his fellow priests, the security, foreign dignitaries, the laypeople working in the Holy See, and even the turtles he visited every day in their pond. In that brief period of time, Vincent had learned the names of every person he had met at least once, and, with the passing of days, he now knew even what herb the gardener’s (Pietro) mother shredded into the pangrattato (oregano; she swore by it) and the condition of the sister of one of the journalists (Romina) from Radio Vatican (the tumor was mercifully benign).
So Vincent had been feeling strangely welcomed, though he could not pinpoint exactly why.
The other reason for his rapid acclimatization in the Vatican lay, of course, in his friendship with Thomas, which filled his heart with a joy Vincent could only explain as work from the Holy Spirit. They met each other every day at least at lauds and compline; Vincent made an effort to attend all of Thomas’ masses or liturgies, and later in the evening they would often share supper together, discuss the events of the day, and pray.
When there was time, they would even take walks around the meticulously ordered Vatican gardens.
Thus, even when he sometimes gave into pangs of nostalgia and wondered what his people in Zaatari would be doing or what the Afghan refugees were right now in the present moment, Vincent felt very much at peace and guided by a beautiful and strange sense of hope. As if he was exactly where he needed to be.
Cardinal Benítez was now walking towards Pope John’s office in Casa Santa Marta to deliver last week's reports. He arrived at the appointment earlier than expected; sometimes this happened when it came to Thomas: Vincent would hurry to see him, even if it was moot, as was the case right now. The pope had two short meetings before him; the first currently in session.
Vincent greeted the two Swiss Guards standing at the door—Kaspar and Christoph—warmly, then proceeded to sit on a bench next to the room, prepared to wait patiently for his turn. Fortunately, he always carried his breviary with him.
Since it was close to noon, Vincent opted to recite the Sext. Dios mío, ven a mi auxilio , he prayed privately. He was starting with Gloria al Padre when the discussion behind the door next to him reached his ears. He could hardly make out the words, mostly the escalating tone of the conversation.
“...your insolence— ” Vincent heard Thomas punctuate in that cold anger of his.
“Oh, my insolence!” That voice was unmistakably the loud Cardinal Tedesco. He said something more, almost shouting, but it was a quick, furious hybrid of Italian and Latin muffled by the walls that Vincent did not parse.
The door opened. Tedesco stormed out of the room with a grimace on his face and flung the garnet-colored door shut behind him. The echo of the slam rang several seconds in the air, though neither of the Swiss Guards reacted or said anything—just kept staring ahead as if gargoyles.
Vincent, however, looked up from his open breviary—the part where he left off marked only by a brown index finger on the translucent paper. His own expression was open, more curious than startled: he had not seen the Patriarch personally since the conclave that elected Pope John. It was an odd second meeting after all this time.
Cardinal Tedesco, at first, did not notice him. He took a big drag of his vape pen and billowed a large, cherry-scented cloud that cloyed the faces of poor Kaspar and Christoph momentarily. With the smoke emerging from his nostrils, Vincent thought the man resembled a dragon, clad in red as he was.
The Patriarch turned to his right, and his ferraiolo—the scarlet cape—followed his movement, less like clothing and more like the living tongue of an otherwise invisible animal. His gaze came to rest on Vincent, who felt underdressed in comparison with his plain work clothes and dog collar, and a light—which might have been a reflection caught in the thick-rimmed glasses or a sinister sort of joy—shone in his eyes.
“Cardinal Benítez!” he called with a wolfish grin. He strutted towards him with open hands and half-stretched arms, as if inviting a hug, then he added, “Vincenzo.”
Vincent rose to meet the other man, the breviary on the bench momentarily forgotten.
“Eminence Tedesco,” he smiled kindly. “Buongiorno.”
The two cardinals grasped each other’s arms above the elbows. Vincent felt the strong grip of Tedesco’s hands squeezing him twice; he was left with the impression he was being sized up like livestock instead of warmly, if a bit forcefully, greeted. During the whole exchange, Tedesco’s smirk never left his mouth, and neither did his eyes look away from Vincent’s face.
“Congratulations are sorely in order,” Tedesco commented. His hands released Vincent, yet hovered almost impalpably above the fabric of his black shirt. “After all, I heard you earned a promotion, haven’t you, Prefetto Benítez? Hmm?”
Vincent smiled modestly and opened his mouth to reply, but Tedesco was faster.
“How has the new position been treating you? It must be quite different from your work in…”
Tedesco gestured dismissively, the vape pen fixed between his fingers like another extra digit in his hand. “...All those exotic places you’ve been throughout your career.”
Vincent knitted his brows, slightly disarmed by the use of the word exotic in the other man’s faint praise. Did Tedesco behave this way unconsciously, or was he deliberately aiming to rile Benítez up? Vincent genuinely, if briefly, attempted to recall a moment where he had offended the Patriarch, yet found nothing in his conscience besides their impromptu debate in the aula. Was Tedesco holding him accountable for the traditionalists’ sudden loss during the conclave?
Vincent replied diplomatically, “It is indeed very new in all senses of the word, but everybody has been tremendously accommodating with me.”
He smiled warmly and authentically as he recalled this, a shining feather of gratitude unfurling in his chest like a tongue of fire. “I can’t help but feel blessed.”
Something shifted, nearly imperceptibly, in Eminence Tedesco’s mask. An almost instantaneous flicker in his right brow that smoothed itself over.
“I see.” Tedesco’s tone was noncommittal.
He picked the vaporizer with his index and thumb and brought it to his lips in reflex but did not smoke.
He bit the pen softly with a white incisor, then removed it from his mouth.
“Do you have an appointment with the Holy Father, Vincenzo?”
The mischievous grin reappeared. “I’m not keeping you late, right?”
Vincent shook his head negatively.
“His Holiness has a meeting with Cardinal Sabbadin before me.” Then, more shyly, he added, “I arrived a bit earlier than expected.”
“Oh, that’s perfetto, then!” Tedesco said, his mouth twisted into a grimace of joy. “Say, Vincenzo, since you have a bit of time before your rendezvous with our Holy Father, why don’t you accompany me to the courtyard and we can…”
His left hand made a twirling motion—the gold ecclesiastical ring blinked like a firefly under the fluorescent lights—searching for the words in English. “Catch up!”
“Besides,” he added, “it has been brought to my attention several times by now that I can’t be seen smoking indoors.”
“Is seen the operative word here, Eminence?” quipped Vincent.
Tedesco chuckled and turned his head, as if he was studying Vincent from a different perspective.
The smirk on his face, just an upturned angle in the leftmost corner of his lips, was more understated than his previous expressions. “Quite.”
Vincent took a quick glimpse at his breviary, left behind atop the cushioned seat. He supposed that he could offer the None as his daytime prayer instead of the Sext.
“Of course, Eminence,” Vincent returned to the question. “I’d be glad to keep you company.”
“Please,” Tedesco extended his palm, bidding Vincent forward, “Goffredo is just fine.”
Goffredo Tedesco was considerate enough to place himself in a way where the wind current would not blow his vaporized fog directly into Vincent’s face. Still, the Patriarch’s exhaust lingered in the air like perfume around them. The smell wasn’t precisely malodorous per se , but Vincent simply found the distance between the smell of actual, fresh cherries and the artificial, candy store flavor of the vape uncannily jarring. He reckoned, however, that this was not Goffredo’s fault. Vincent never had much access to sweets when he was young, mostly homemade and on special occasions, and thus he never developed a sweet tooth. Specially saccharine tastes sent him running for a glass of water even today.
For a moment, neither of them said a word, just stared at the glossy cobblestone courtyard as they stood side by side, at the pigeons whose white plumage dimly reflected the glare of the sunny day in Rome.
Tedesco inhaled another breath and exhaled confectionery into their surroundings, then he broke the silence.
“So you’ve been growing accustomed to the work in the Dicastery; that’s good,” the man in red said disinterestedly. “You are practically co-workers with good ol’ Tomasso ; how do you like it?”
Vincent spoke from his heart, “The Holy Father is a generous, diligent man. I respect his judgment immensely.”
Tedesco turned just so to give him a side-eye and an amused smile, as if Vincent was utterly adorable . “It’ll get boring eventually. Me personally? Couldn’t take it—all that British stuffiness!”
He snorted and took another hit of his vape.
“Though to be fair he wasn’t always like that,” this time Goffredo shared a glance with Vincent that was almost conspiratorial. “You should have seen him in his heyday; he was a real tarasque.”
Vincent watched him with a cross of amusement and skepticism in equal parts.
“What is that look for? You don’t believe me?” Tedesco lifted his hands and faced heaven as if asking God silently for patience and fortitude. “Pater, dimitte illis, quia nesciunt quid faciunt. You know what used to be his nickname in the Curia, Vincenzo ? When the late Holy Father was pope? The Law viathan!”
He took another drag from his pen. At this rate he was going to empty the whole capsule.
“Beware the fury of Thomas Lawrence! The man was ruthless in his pursuit of… whatever he believed the given summum bonum was in a particular circumstance. Ha! ”
Tedesco made a cutting, horizontal movement with his free hand.
“Most of our liberal brothers? Frankly, can’t stand them. But Tomasso—” The patriarch’s flat hand uplifted itself into a mountain, his index finger bolting straight up, “—was something different. Real fire in his eyes.”
As Goffredo was saying this, his gaze got lost in the distance, transported by remembrance. Chuckling, nodding, and shaking his head to himself. Vincent felt that in his own, strange way, Tedesco liked Thomas. But why exactly he couldn’t understand.
“Some years ago, though… Well, I suppose he got old. Mellowed out. Lost that…” He spun his hand in a wheeling motion. “Fight within him. His resolve.”
Vincent remembered what Thomas had told him in Castel Gandolfo, the death of his twin brother marking the start of what became his increasing problems with prayer. The memory of Thomas, face blank and sadness in his blue eyes, felt like the sudden, cold touch of an invisible hand in his chest.
Tedesco shrugged his shoulders. “It happens.”
“Though I reckon that—” Tedesco laughed as if in the midst of a private joke.
“Sometimes , though only sometimes, mind you,” he pointed his finger directly at Vincent, “he has his moments.”
Then there it was, that conspiratorial look about him again, and Vincent couldn’t help but smile. Tedesco had a certain pull about him, inviting you like a close friend; he understood why this man was the one that led the traditionalist and conservative wings of the Church.
To a person like Vincent, who never said or behaved in a manner he did not mean, it was hard to digest that, with the very same ease individuals like Tedesco drew you in, they were capable of discarding seemingly all affections.
“You saw him in the conclave. Oh, we all saw him in the conclave,” he cackled, a loud, deep baritone. “He broke the seal of the pope’s quarters and photocopied confidential documents to everybody in the dining room to absolutely squash any and all chances of Tremblay at papacy!”
Tedesco’s hands brushed away the air in a wide arc. “Never caring how that little trick could come back to harm him. That was Tomasso, fearless. Ready to dig you out like a hound, consequences be damned if he believed he had some dirt on you.”
In Tedesco’s brown pupils, there was a savage glee as he narrated—an ember of admiration. “In another life, he would have been a paladin in the Crusades.”
Then, cold. Goffredo’s brow furrows together. His deep brown eyes, set alight one moment like firewood, become dark and enclosed as a forest. “In this life, however, it seems he’ll be content persecuting his fellow brothers of faith.”
That Tedesco would once again attempt to glorify not only war but the Crusades of all things, even in passing, made something inside Vincent boil to the tip of his nails; and associating Thomas with that imagery was a thought far too grotesque to not speak up.
“Is that what the dispute in Pope John’s office was about, Eminence?” Vincent asked, slow and deliberate.
There was a flash of surprise in Tedesco’s face, his mouth slightly ajar, as if he had not expected Vincent to hear their quarreling—but then again, Vincent was not meant to be there at all.
The Patriarch of Venice schooled his expression into a smug smile. “I suppose I might as well tell you. Since you two are close and all…”
He crossed his fingers when he said close. Crushing index and middle fingers together in a mock embrace.
“...He’ll probably end up sharing it with you himself. Yes, Vincenzo. Our dear Holy Father reprimanded me for, and I quote, insubordination.”
He put the pen back in his mouth, but the distaste in which he recalled the situation was such that Tedesco could only manage to sip a whiff of the cartridge, pushing out only a plume of berry scent from his lips.
“Pope John has a problem with me using my freedom of speech to talk to the press and dare to contradict him in matters of doctrine and opinion.”
Using his cigarette as a teacher or presenter used a pointer, he continued, drawing in the air.
“It is easy to speak of the pope’s generosity, as you said, when one’s invited to vacation with him, isn’t it? But where is that same lenience to be found as he demotes cardinals, bishops, and prefects he deems problematic to irrelevance?”
Despite how Tedesco’s vitriol unsettled Vincent, he put both of his hands in a gentle fig-leaf stance, then firmly spoke.
“Thomas is a merciful man. The fact that I and our siblings in Kabul are safe and sound today is testament enough to that very fact. In any case, if you believe that Pope John has failed to show the same grace to every one of our brethren, I will not dispute the veracity of something I do not know of, with so little time I spent among you. It is indeed a sad display when we all debase ourselves to petty struggles in the face of the horrors of war and poverty around the world instead of standing together. However, if the way you choose to vent those grievances, and rightfully so, is to, for example, publicly denounce the Church financing medical aid to survivors and displaced people in war zones, equating the fact as the pope’s approval of contraceptives and using the real lives of the oppressed as bartering chips in this dispute, then I regret to inform you, Cardinal Tedesco, that you too have woefully failed to live up to the very picture of Christian mercy you wish the Holy Father to model.”
Tedesco, who said nothing during Vincent’s reply, had been drawing air from his pen ever since Benítez started talking—regarding the younger man with a curious expression. Then, Tedesco spilled a blaze of cherry-smelling funk in front of himself and Vincent.
But Vincent, whose scrutinizing gaze never left the other man while he spoke, used the air in his own, healthy lungs and blew one single gust that parted Tedesco’s fog machine emissions and returned them to the Patriarch’s own face, bathing the glasses of the other man with condensation.
Tedesco coughed once, removed his glasses, and cleaned the wetness with the rim of his red cape.
Then, he chuckled.
“You are very different,” he adjusted his glasses back over his nose, “from the usual… kind that the Holy Father prefers to surround himself with. The lapdogs and the pets that bark only while hiding under his skirts.”
“Like right now or that time in the aula…” Tedesco thought out loud. “You are direct, bold. There's transparency to you. Yet you aren’t afraid to dissent from him either.”
Tedesco drew a step closer; they were standing almost face to face. He was only a few centimeters taller than Vincent.
“I respect that.”
A faint aroma of cherry and liquor, the mixture of the fumes and Tedesco’s cologne possibly, spread like syrup between them. Without the sticky moisture of the vape, Vincent found the impromptu fragrance more subdued. Pleasant.
“Say, Vincenzo, as the prefect of Fundamental Questions regarding Evangelization you deal with broader, more universal topics of faith in our modern world, do you not?”
The question was rhetorical. Goffredo knew exactly what Vincent's role entailed.
“I’m thinking we should have our own meeting,” a bent smile appeared on his rough lips, “in an official capacity, of course. You know that Tomasso and I have different philosophies concerning the direction of the Church, but as you were implying, we need to display…”
He snapped his fingers. “Church unity. Unità.”
“As his envoy in these matters, it only makes sense to speak to you first, vero ? I bet we could have a fruitful dialog. Find common ground between ideas.”
He lifted his left hand and dropped it over Vincent’s shoulder with aplomb. Tedesco’s fingers dug into the fabric of the shirt, feeling the muscle beneath it.
“I have the feeling you can be quite persuasive. You made quite the impression on us all during the conclave after all.”
Tedesco shook him by the shoulder; the man was robust, but Vincent intuited the gentle push was meant to be friendly instead of a power play. Probably.
“So whenever you have time in your tight schedule, come to Venezia for a day or two. Have you ever been there? If not, you’ll love it. There’s no city like it.”
He leaned his head closer, practically whispering into Vincent’s ear—salt and pepper beard brushing against Vincent’s naked cheek. “She’s a real temptress, eh? Once you meet her, trust me, you’ll never want to leave.”
“Thank you, Goffredo, truly,” Benítez replied tentatively, taking one small step back. “I’m sure once I finish settling in, we’ll be able to make an arrangement.”
Tedesco's smile was a flash of white teeth; he drummed his fingers once on Vincent’s shoulder and let go.
“Well, don’t let me hold you up any longer.”
A flurry of red waved through the air, and Vincent was briefly enveloped by the silky caress of Goffredo’s ferraiuolo. A tart scent was left in his wake, so subtle that Vincent might have imagined it.
“Give my regards to Tomasso,” Tedesco shouted before disappearing from view.
Vincent went back to the hallway outside the Papal Office to wait for his turn. Though he had his prayer book with him, he just held it in his hand; instead, his gaze focused on the floor, polished to near-mirror levels of reflection.
The conversation with Tedesco weighed on Vincent’s mind, and he replayed it inside his head. He didn’t know what to make of it. He didn’t know yet how to read the man; the grandness and performativity of his gestures hid his feelings too well. Some people were sincere with their intentions, others acted out a facade of normalcy and restraint to avoid suspicion, and then there were the ones who showered themselves with hyperbolic artificiality so as to make the difference between real and pretend completely flat—dazzle camouflage.
It must have been mere minutes before the door to the office opened. The pope’s personal secretary, Raymond O’Malley, held the door for Cardinal Sabbadin, who exited the room. The pair of men gave each other a brief, friendly hug and exchanged the appropriate pleasantries.
Cardinal Sabbadin approached Vincent, shook his hand in a hurry, and bid him goodbye. Meanwhile, Cardinal O’Malley stood by the entrance and waited for the niceties to end.
After Sabbadin made his leave, Ray called Vincent.
“Cardinal Benítez,” he offered a polite smile, “His Holiness is ready to receive you.”
Vincent followed. When he entered the office, Thomas looked up from the papers he was holding in his hands. He removed his reading glasses to see Vincent more clearly, and the frown he was wearing relaxed.
“Vincent,” a smile unfurled itself timidly and progressively on his face, the way a Mimosa pudica might do when it feels no threat around it. “It’s good to see you. Please, sit.”
Besides Thomas, sitting behind his desk, and Ray, in a chair to the pope’s right, the Secretary of State, Aldo Bellini, was also in the room to Vincent’s mild surprise—leaning on the furniture by Thomas’ left side.
Vincent beamed brightly at Aldo. He quite liked the man, and what's more, he respected him. The cardinal was intelligent and witty, but there was also a certain ease about him. An elegance in the way he moved around the Holy See, one that was right now on display: in the manner in which he lounged, gently reclining on Thomas’ desk without the fear of bumping into an antique or holy relic that made Vincent anxiously aware of his surroundings all the time—as if Aldo knew instinctively the place of everything in the Vatican—his svelte figure draped in signature priestly black reminded Vincent of a cat or a panther, waiting idly and comfortably—Bellini was completely in his habitat—and Vincent knew there was much he could learn from his peer.
“Pope John, Cardinal Bellini,” Vincent smiled. “Good afternoon.”
“Vincent,” Aldo gave a small, good-humored bow.
Vincent approached the desk, dug through his satchel, and procured the brown envelope with this week’s documents.
Thomas received them with an open hand, and when Vincent passed them, the pope’s hand unconsciously caressed the side of the cardinal’s palm. Moments after the brief touch was over, the ghost sensation on Vincent’s hand still lingered.
“So, dear Vincent,” Thomas started, small needles of merriment danced around his eyes, “what do you have for us this week?”
Vincent opened his mouth, thinking about the contents of the reports—the meetings, the phone calls, the literature, and the interviews—but found himself thinking first and foremost about the strange encounter with the Patriarch this morning.
So he decided to tell them just that.
“Something most curious happened to me while I was outside.”
“How so?” Asked Thomas.
“I arrived a bit earlier than expected and met Cardinal Tedesco at the door,” he said.
“Cardinal Tedesco,” Thomas repeated, flatly. The previous mirth in his eyes now frozen.
“Indeed,” he explained. “He invited me outside to the courtyard—he wanted to smoke. He told me he wished to catch up.”
“Those were his words?” Asked Ray, a cautious look on his face.
Vincent nodded.
“He’s a… particular man. But he was polite. Mostly. I think.”
Vincent hadn’t forgotten about the comments that Tedesco made about Adeyemi that Thomas relayed to him or the way he had referred to most of the men inside the room as the pope’s pets , leaving ambiguous whether Vincent was included or he was a special kind of animal to the Patriarch. But while those comments were unacceptable, the way that Tedesco seemed to test the confines of civil speech very particularly—the denigrating way he had labeled Vincent’s missions as exotic or how he added an air of mockery when talking about his friendship with Thomas—seemed to hint at a method to the cardinal’s offenses: one that sought to uncover and file the limits and weaknesses of his targets, the lines they would allow others to cross around them.
Then he added, “He proposed I visit Venice. Organize a meeting in an official capacity.”
“You? In Venice?” Said Thomas, his previous good mood disintegrated. “Why?”
“Uh,” Vincent felt shy all of a sudden, “he appeared, I guess, interested in my section in the new Dicastery and thought that we could discuss its program. Said it could make for a display of…”
Unità , he heard Tedesco’s voice very clearly in his mind. “Church unity.”
Thomas appeared properly discombobulated. “Oh, God…”
“And, what,” Aldo bent his back forward, leaning towards the younger man, “did you answer to him, Vincent?”
“Well, I thanked him for the kind offer and told him I still needed to settle in, the new position keeping me busy enough as it is, but that we could coordinate something down the line.”
Thomas sighed, bowed his head, and rubbed his temple with his right hand.
“I’m sorry,” Vincent’s voice was soft. “Did I say or do anything I shouldn’t have?”
“No, no,” Aldo dismissed Vincent's concerns in a flippant manner, trying to assuage him by downplaying the less-than-enthusiastic reaction. “That man is just… the worst, that is all.”
“Do you think his invitation has to do with the discussion he and Thomas had?”
The three men exchanged glances between themselves uncomfortably.
“He mentioned that, Vincent?” Thomas said. Despite his eyes being on Vincent, the cardinal could tell there was a distance between the conversation and his thoughts. As if calculating a difficult math problem in his head.
“I asked him, actually,” said Vincent. Then, anticipating the question, he continued, “He can be… loud. But I heard little of the disagreement from the outside.”
“And what did he say to you, Eminence?” Ray interjected.
“Cardinal Tedesco summarized it as a formal admonishment motivated by his use of the press as a way to discredit Pope John’s papacy.”
“Well, that seems about right,” muttered Aldo.
Vincent nodded. “I believe that Eminence Tedesco is retaliating through the media against his perceived displacement of conservative and traditionalist members of the Curia since Thomas’ election.”
He went ahead and explained further, “He was not so explicit. I read between the lines.”
Thomas’ clasped his hands together, pensive. “What were— are your thoughts on the matter?”
Vincent placed his hands over his abdomen, the way he did when he needed to steel himself.
“I felt disconcerted. The Patriarch is abrasive, confrontational, and, quite frankly, fanatical at times, but he doesn’t strike me as deliberately untruthful. I couldn’t prove or deny the claim based on my short amount of time here in the Vatican, but what I did tell him was that it was indeed shameful when we lose sight of the greater good to fight among ourselves. And yet I also informed him he has repeatedly failed to rise to the occasion with the venom he spilled on some of his interviews.”
Thomas was mute. He sat taut, as if he had been slightly shaken by Vincent’s words.
“And he invited you for a house tour after you humbled him?” Aldo picked up after the pause, faintly amused.
“Apparently, Tedesco respected that I wasn’t afraid to disagree with the Holy Father.”
“Now , the truth comes to light,” Aldo exclaimed. “Tedesco is trying to ingratiate himself with Vincent and turn him into his man on the inside.”
“Refusing any and all attempts at diplomacy will give Tedesco more ammunition to paint the administration as hostile and uncompromising,” warned Raymond.
“Well—”
Vincent cut through the two cardinals' onset of realpolitik. “Thomas, do Tedesco’s complaints hold any truth?”
Thomas looked up from the blank point in space he was bored into; he locked eyes with Vincent.
“We are planning a Synod,” he replied. Cardinal O’Malley opened his mouth, dismayed, but Thomas interrupted him. “Vincent was always going to be among the first to know, Ray.”
He turned to Vincent. “It’s in the absolute preliminary stages, which is why I hadn’t mentioned it. Best case scenario, the Synod will be the coming year; if not, the subsequent one.”
Ray breathed out something so low that Vincent scarcely managed to make it out, “—confidential information.”
Aldo pressed a hand on the desk and gently swept the surface with a finger, pushing imaginary motes of dust off the edge.
“The last Synod was during the late Holy Father’s pontificate; a moderate success,” Bellini described. “But since you weren’t a cardinal yet, Vincent, you must know that the initial proposal was far more ambitious—maybe too much—than what the actual results were.”
Thomas continued, “Everything was on the table: homosexuality, clerical celibacy, contraception, divorce, the role of women in the Church…”
“The discussion was a stalemate that lasted weeks,” Aldo reminisced. “The conservative wing of the Church had enough power back then to paralyze reforms, even if they were, at the laypeople level, quite popular.”
“Before his death,” Thomas said, “the late Holy Father had wanted to do a second Synod. Finish what he started all those years ago: a full renovation of the Church.”
“So is that what we are doing here?” Vincent asked tentatively. “Taking care of the opposition beforehand?”
“Studying the opposition,” muttered Ray, who looked quite cross with how the conversation was going.
Thomas’s tone was conciliatory. “Regrettably, not every cardinal operates with the same degree of selflessness as you do, dear Vincent. Some are accustomed to the very heights of privilege that the Church allows them, and it’s there where their devotion ultimately lies.”
“But those privileges can be reduced, even taken away,” Ray stated, now firmly. “Excesses can be trimmed. To those whose loyalties reside ultimately in their appetites, a reminder of how much more could be lost might be example enough to put them in line.”
“Is Tedesco one of them?” Asked Vincent defiantly. “He seems the kind of man immune to intimidation tactics.”
Clearly, the word intimidation left a bad taste in his fellows’ mouths. Aldo shared a wry look with the other two men.
“That he might be,” Bellini sighed with his entire body. “But then again, if Vincent decides to visit him, there are those rumors—”
Ray interrupted, as if knowing exactly what Aldo was going to say, “There are rumors like that about everyone in the Curia.”
“—that he could help us confirm.”
“Aldo,” Thomas warned. One word, low like a growl.
“Oh, come on, Thomas!” Bellini blurted out nonchalantly, swatting his hand at the pope’s words like pests. “The man walks around everywhere wrapped in six feet of Dracula’s cape. I know a queen when I see one.”
Then, composing himself, a tad more abashed, he looked at Vincent apologetically and said, “Takes one to know one after all.”
Vincent felt his head truly spinning by now. “You believe that Cardinal Tedesco is homosexual?”
And you too? was the unspoken question floating in the air right now.
Aldo spotted Vincent’s expression of utter disorientation and tactfully averted his eyes.
“I’m guessing by now you didn’t tell him, did you, Thomas?”
Thomas’ countenance was one of a man whose day could hardly get any worse.
“If I regaled him with a tale of every travesty that we are subjected to around here, perhaps, maybe, Cardinal Benítez would have been overwhelmed in his first month around the Vatican?”
Ray coughed once for attention. “There is a large percentage of the Curia that is homosexual. Exact figures are unknown because of the obvious clandestineness around the subject.”
Vincent hoped his general demeanor transmitted neutrally puzzled instead of totally bewildered. “How large is that percentage?”
“Our estimates say that about half the Curia,” Ray treaded carefully. “Perhaps more.”
“How— why are there so many?” Vincent was shocked; obviously the Church in all her extension was also comprised of queer people, and he had worked side by side with them on numerous occasions. But this information was beyond anything he could have ever believed possible.
“We have our own theories,” Aldo replied.
Leaving the desk behind, Aldo began pacing around the room as he drew a mental picture. “Imagine you are a young, sensitive boy living in San Machissimo who likes to read and is finding out that he doesn’t really like girls as much as the other pubescent teens around him.”
He stopped in his tracks, the index finger of his right hand lifted and the left arm behind his back.
“But, through the Mother Church’s gentle embrace, you can exchange your weakness and trade it into a strength worthy of admiration by the society that would have scorned you. The fact that it is also segregated by sex and that you can reach very high places by just doing what you’re told is the cherry on top.”
He waved his right arm as if the listeners were part of a class. “Quod erat demonstrandum .”
“It could also explain,” offered Ray, “the current distribution we are aware of. Some of the most active homosexuals in the Curia right now are from the conservative and traditionalist wing. They vehemently defend the system that allowed them to thrive.”
“And hide from scrutiny by donning the homophobe’s mask,” said Aldo. “A tried-and-true classic from the gays that only care about themselves and to hell ,” he drew a line with both hands for emphasis, “with everyone else.”
Vincent tried his best to assimilate the news. Privately, he wondered if such rumors were spread about all the members of the Holy See then how long would it take for the same gossip to turn against him, the newcomer? Tedesco clearly new about Castel Gandolfo. Would Vincent be used as a weapon against Thomas to disgrace him as pope? The idea was for a moment too much to bear.
“That’s not what is important right now,” Thomas intervened, unknowingly anchoring Vincent with his composed tone. “Homosexuality on its own is not a problem. The problem is that the secrecy surrounding it has become a pivotal part of a system of silence—one that allows and promotes abuses of many kinds. If sex and homosexuality themselves are corrupting and base according to Canon Law, then even an inactive, homosexual priest upholding his vows is lumped with the men using Church funds for prostitution or sexual abusers. Few will be incentivized to call out corruption if they fear the hammer will drop on them as well.”
“Which brings us back to Cardinal T,” Aldo plopped down in one of the chairs without losing panache. “I am not entirely convinced that this isn’t, in one way or another, a seduction attempt on his part.”
Ray darted his eyes at Vincent this time with empathetic concern. “Isn’t that asking him to risk a little too much?”
Vincent started to do breathing exercises. “Is what is being suggested right now that I should convene with Cardinal Tedesco and spy on him so we can blackmail him after?”
“Of course not, Vincent,” Aldo defended himself, lifting both hands placatingly. “What I was implying was that, if you were indeed to accept the Venice invitation—”
“Aldo, Ray.”
Thomas’s voice was clear, with just enough volume for it to be soft but still be heard around the room.
His authority frequently took shape in that subdued manner, Vincent thought. Pope John didn’t yell; his hushed words forced others to get closer and pay attention.
“Could you leave Vincent and me alone for a moment?” He requested, but it was an order.
Aldo closed his mouth, stood up, gave Thomas a look that Vincent assumed only the two men, with their decades of friendship, could interpret, and left with a nod.
Ray had to pick up his things—pen, notebooks with post-its, and papers full of marginalia and annotations—in a hurry to catch up to Aldo. With his one free hand, Cardinal O’Malley closed the door behind him.
Thomas let an angel pass, allowing the silence and the calm that comes with it to replace the echo of all the discussions that have transpired that morning still buzzing inside both of their minds.
“Vincent,” he finally started; he wore that tone he used when they spoke to each other in private—pure gentleness. “Won’t you please take a seat?”
Vincent could not even tell when during the argument he had risen to his feet. He eased back into his chair.
Thomas pushed stacks of paperwork, folders, and pieces of stationery to the side of the desk and pulled in his chair closer. Then, he extended his right arm forward, his cupped hand seeking Vincent’s.
Vincent gave him his.
“You’re angry,” he murmured. “I’m sorry, it was all too much at once.”
“It’s not anger,” Vincent tried to gather his emotions, muddling uncomfortably in his chest. “Perhaps I’m just upset.”
“What was that which upset you?” Thomas rubbed circles on Vincent’s wrist with his thumb.
“During the conclave,” Vincent elaborated, “it was the liberal and moderate wing that practically cannibalized itself through scheming. Cardinal Tedesco only rode the momentum with the righteousness of someone who was seeing their enemies fall apart from their own wickedness, proof that God was on his side.”
Thomas exhaled long and deep through his nose. “But he didn’t win in the end.”
“No, but he almost did. Tremblay almost did; he was the compromise candidate. Can’t you see it was this? The conspiring, the Machiavellianism, that put us in that situation in the first place? That almost made us bend the knee to simony?”
“I thought about it; I’ve prayed about it.” Thomas’ smile was sad. “I want—I do believe that God would never abandon His Church. But I also think about the late Holy Father.”
Thomas’ force increased inadvertently; he is worried. Vincent matched his efforts, clutching both of their hands together. There was strength in that bond that moored each other.
“It was he who requested Sister Shanumi’s presence via Tremblay to sink Adeyemi’s candidature and, in turn, make Tremblay take the fall for it. His hidden documents allowed me to expose Tremblay…”
“And, Vincent,” Thomas looked at him, his blue eyes open and begging silently for reassurance, “it was the fact that he kept you in pectore that made all the difference. You were the hidden ace in his sleeve. It was your presence, which nobody could investigate beforehand, that managed to counter Tedesco’s worst tendencies.”
“Tomás …” Vincent whispered.
“The Holy Father… He didn’t play very cleanly by the end.” Thomas bit the inside of his mouth. Guilt, even if he isn’t exactly speaking unkindly or incorrectly about the dead man.
“No,” admitted Vincent, feeling strangely forlorn. “Maybe he didn’t.”
But there was a spark that burned inside his heart, one that spread around his throat with fervor. “But it was not just that.”
“The late Holy Father set the stage, but it was your courage, Tomás, that delivered the Church from those most ambitious. Your uncompromising belief that we should not, that we could not settle with lesser evil.”
“A bad tree cannot bear good fruit.” He cited.
Vincent lifted Thomas’ hand and pressed his own forehead to their joint fists. It was his deep brown eyes, like every forest and mountain that Thomas had ever set his eyes upon, that now pleaded.
“You are a good man, Thomas Lawrence. Don’t let anybody ever rob you of that.”
Thomas leaned towards him, his senescent brow now resting atop Vincent’s.
“What is there to be done with us?” He susurrated, Thomas’ voice rustling like a leaf in the wind.
“Perhaps,” Vincent mused, sotto voce, “there is to be a balance.”
Yet…
He swallowed, “I don’t mean to be naive. But I am not entitled to despair; I must do what is right and wait for the deliverance that is God’s to give. Dum spiro spero. This too is faith.”
Thomas smiled at him; there was light in every one of his features, looking at Vincent as if he had painted the dawn and the sun in the world.
“It’s a good point,” he conceded. “What is it you wish to do?”
“About Tedesco, you mean?” Vincent’s lips made a flat line. “I suppose I’ll have to pray about it. Discern,” he joked, “as our Jesuit brothers say.”
The pope chuckled. It was amazing, Vincent thought, that it took only the smallest exchange of words with Thomas for Vincent’s doubts to dissipate and make him jest.
“But I think that my immediate instincts tell me that I should go to Venice,” Vincent said more seriously. “For if there is any possibility that Cardinal Tedesco is honest about his intentions, that he does wish to hear me and that I could change his mind, then I simply cannot refuse it.”
“And if that is not the case?” Thomas prodded gently.
“What he does, thinks, or says speaks about his character. What I do and the reasons for why I do them speak about mine.”
“Very well.” Thomas kissed both of their hands, pressed together into one whole, then let go. “If that is indeed your decision, when the time comes, I approve of it.”
He leaned back on his chair—noon makes his white vestments glitter innocently, like fresh snow. “There is nobody else I trust more.”