Chapter Text
An early December chill has fallen on the Vatican, and Cardinal Lawrence shudders through his cassock as he stares into the turtle pond. He is alone, and the morning air is momentarily and blessedly still. In the calm between gusts of wind, Lawrence takes note of a change within himself.
It has been several weeks since Innocent XIV’s ascension, and Cardinal Lawrence no longer wants to leave the Vatican. The thought of a monastery—of some distant steeple standing stark against rolling green hills, of robed strangers accepting him into their ranks—no longer seems correct. It no longer seems like God’s plan.
Lawrence’s discontent has not left entirely. Instead, the feeling has merely transubstantiated, like the flesh of Christ in his gut.
Now, Lawrence finds himself sick of politics. He resents politics for having marred his friendship with Bellini; even these days, he notices that Bellini finds it difficult to meet his gaze. He despises having to tolerate Tedesco’s wild-eyed wrath for the sake of evasive unity. He resents the whispering Curia and the rumor mill. He is sick of secrets, sick of governance—sick of managing.
With a soft groan, Lawrence settles onto a stone bench near the turtles. He looks at his liver-spotted hands and realizes he is not sure what his new plan ought to be. He’s rather old for a change in career, but the thought of continuing on as Dean—such an inherently political role—is unappealing, to say the least.
Bellini is cut out for politics, and Lawrence is glad that Pope Innocent re-appointed him as Secretary of State. The role suits him. Lawrence thinks that if God carved a diplomat out of soapstone, the sculpture would have Bellini’s face.
Another gust of wind arrives. The cold whips at Lawrence’s cheeks, drawing a tear from his eye. He’s no stranger to tears, these days. He cries during prayer, feels more connected to God with such an upwelling of emotion. He hides his tears when he prays with Benitez.
When Lawrence prays with Pope Innocent in the evenings, he is divinely certain that he is close to God. When Lawrence is on his knees, when his black robe is brushing against Benitez’s white robe, he feels an overwhelming sense of rightness. In these moments, there is a spark in Lawrence’s core that he hasn’t felt since first coming to church as a young boy. The spark might be the Holy Spirit, or perhaps—perhaps it is something more human.
Lawrence knows Pope Innocent is, in large part, responsible for the spiritual rejuvenation he has undergone. There’s something inexpressibly holy, something uniquely compelling about him; some obscure gravitational pull emanating from those deep brown eyes. Lawrence shivers each time Innocent enters Mass, then blames the feeling on God.
Lawrence watches a turtle’s foot breach the water's surface. The ripples spread outward, reaching the marble edges of the pond. Motion, Lawrence thinks: if he finds himself staying in the Vatican, he does not want to stagnate. This—this power that Benitez has, his innate ability to enact change; it inspires Lawrence towards motion, towards work. It is a new feeling and Lawrence treasures it—holds it dear, like the first Bible he received as a child, which had been a gift from his grandfather.
Lawrence mourns the passing of the previous Holy Father. He never had time for mourning when there was a conclave to run—but now, eyes trained on swirling water, he thinks of the old man. Nonetheless, Lawrence acknowledges that within a month of his election, Benitez has done more with his pontificate than the late pope did in his last five years. If it weren’t sacrilegious, Lawrence might envision him as a prophet.
There was the interfaith summit in Jerusalem, the ecumenical council on the migrant crisis, and the appointment of several new cardinals from far-reaching dioceses. At each event, Lawrence admired the pope from a distance. At each event, Benitez looked serene. For a man who spent years in shoddy clothes in war zones, he always appeared strikingly well-suited to the papacy.
He was born to wear white, Lawrence thinks. The keys of Saint Peter could be in no better hands.
Lawrence looks back at his own palms and thinks again of his use, then shakes his head. He will do what Innocent asks of him, whatever shape that takes. Even if that means remaining as Dean. He has discussed his frustrations briefly with the pope, and never in detail. But Pope Innocent always seems to listen to his worries, seems to heed his concerns. Perhaps—
“Your Eminence,” interrupts a familiar voice.
Lawrence rises and turns, then smiles at the sight of an old friend. “Monsignor O’Malley—what brings you to the courtyard?” O’Malley moves quietly; he’s already within feet of Lawrence, who had not noticed him.
He gives a subtle bow of his head, then responds. “Fresh air, you know,” O’Malley says, peering at Lawrence through his wire-rimmed spectacles. “Italy feels much more like my own County Kildare this time of year.”
Lawrence nods, then looks up at the gray sky and thinks briefly of his own home, not so far from O’Malley’s. “It does, doesn’t it?” he responds. Then: “Do you find yourself homesick often?” Lawrence never asks O’Malley such personal questions, but it seems appropriate to fill the silent morning air.
“From time to time, Cardinal,” O’Malley answers. “And yourself?”
“Less, nowadays,” Lawrence begins. It is true. He had been homesick often at seminary, and in his early days at the Vatican. He had thought often of returning to his sister in England. She never quite understood his choices. As children, when they sat next to each other in church, she’d felt bored; he felt God. He misses her dearly.
Lawrence had even thought, once, of shedding his collar and starting a family in the same house he’d grown up in. Now, he thinks of his mother’s rose trellises, still growing all these years later in that small backyard.
That is not home anymore, Lawrence knows. He swallows hard, then something compels him to keep speaking. “Ray—”
O’Malley, secretarial by nature, anticipates the question. “Your Eminence, do you require anything?”
“I know it is before your working hours, Ray; I don’t wish to burden you. But, as you know, I…have been experiencing challenges with my position.” O’Malley nods; there is no surprise here. Over these past weeks, Lawrence has asked him to cancel more meetings than ever. “I have no desire to leave the Curia. It is only—” He pauses and stares at a lily pad.
O’Malley clears his throat. “Would you like me to inquire about possible open roles and see if there might be something appropriate for you?”
The corners of Lawrence’s mouth twitch upwards. O’Malley knows him better than he knows himself, it seems. “Yes, Ray, that would be excellent. Thank you, Monsignor.”
“Always, your Eminence.” O’Malley dips his head again and walks across the courtyard, headed back inside.
Lawrence stands there a moment longer, feeling as the breeze threatens to topple his zucchetto off of his head. He clamps a hand to his skull, forcing it to remain. Distant bells ring; it is nearly 7 o’clock.
—
It’s a short walk to the chapel inside the Casa Santa Marta, where Pope Innocent delivers daily morning Mass. Lawrence has not missed Mass once since the election, a change in pace from his inconsistent attendance during the late Holy Father’s tenure. Benitez writes beautiful homilies, and delivers them as though each day is holier than the last.
Once there, Lawrence settles into a pew next to Cardinal Sabbadin. They greet each other with brief nods, then turn to face the altar. The pope is not yet there; he is busy walking around, greeting visitors to the Vatican. Always a man of the people, thinks Lawrence.
Lawrence catches the pope’s eye through a wave of dark hair and smiles. Warmth rushes through him. Some days, Lawrence struggles to believe that such a godly man could be aware of his existence. When he recalls that Benitez voted for him, right through the final ballot, it seems as though it had been a dream.
The chapel smells of frankincense, and warm light shrouds the altar. Sabbadin looks around the room for a few moments, brow creased. After a beat, he glances at Lawrence. “Where’s Aldo?”
Lawrence tears his gaze from Benitez and searches the room. His friend is nowhere to be seen. “I haven’t—I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in some time. His…” Lawrence pauses, unsure. His throat feels dry. “His role is taxing, Giulio.”
“Oh, and ours are not?” Sabbadin cocks his head. Formerly the Cardinal Archbishop of Milan, he is now Camerlengo: Tremblay’s former role. Upon Tremblay’s demotion, Sabbadin had been elevated. His responsibilities are largely financial in nature, and he often has pen-ink stains on his fingers. For reasons unknown to Lawrence, he prefers to do his accounting by hand.
Lawrence thinks of defending Bellini by saying something about the travel required for his position, but it is too late. The pope is approaching the altar.
Lawrence and Sabbadin rise from their wooden pew. Lawrence’s knees creak. Sabbadin sounds rather irked, thinks Lawrence, even as he sings in well-practiced Latin. Lawrence ignores it and allows himself to be suffused with golden sound. They make the Sign of the Cross as Benitez begins to speak: “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
They are, of course, words Lawrence has heard thousands of times. Nevertheless, this is different, somehow; the phrase sounds especially venerable coming from Benitez’s lips.
When Benitez says Dominus vobiscum—the Lord be with you—Lawrence is sure that this is the truth. The Lord is near, watching as the Vicar of Christ speaks. Surely, the stirring in Lawrence’s core is the result of God’s proximity.
Through the penitential act, and several psalms, and an opening reading, and several more hymns, Lawrence’s eyes do not leave the pope’s face. He can tell Sabbadin’s focus is drifting, feels motion beside him and is fairly sure Sabbadin is trying to count something on his fingers.
The homily is next. “Dear family in Christ,” Benitez begins. The typical introduction goes something like “Dear brothers and sisters in Christ,” and Lawrence prickles with awareness at the alteration. It reminds him—it reminds him of what he is not supposed to know. He looks at Benitez’s steady jaw and the fisherman’s ring situated on his narrow finger. I am what God made me, he hears in his mind.
Benitez’s voice is soft, yet it carries far; the back pews hear as he clears his throat. “In my ministries, afflictions were often visible things. I—” He pauses for a moment, seemingly reminiscing. There’s a tenderness to his face. “I saw a great many gunshot wounds, a great number of the injured and pained. In their struggle, I witnessed God-given perseverance.” In the space between sentences, Lawrence notices that Benitez’s breath shakes a little.
“This perseverance did not exist in each individual. It was, instead, the product of community. When we are—when we are without community, we suffer from a less visible affliction.” He pauses again, then: “In the beginning, God Himself acknowledged that ‘it is not good that the man should be alone,’ and it is true.” Lawrence identifies the verse silently: Genesis 2:18. “The Lord knows that without each other, we cannot persist. Without unity, we are weak. Loneliness can drive man away from God, and towards hate.”
Lawrence thinks of Tedesco, all alone in the Palazzo Patriarcale in Venice. Tedesco, bullish figure and sweeping cape; one man filling the space of many. Lawrence is not sure whether the Patriarch has friends, or merely allies. Those are not the same thing, Lawrence knows. He has been lucky, throughout these past decades, that Bellini has been both.
“We were created for communion,” Benitez continues. “Were we not? With God and with each other. It is St. Paul who calls us to ‘bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.’ When we bear each other’s burdens, we lighten our collective load.” Benitez’s eyes are earnest and bright as he scans the crowd. His gaze falls on Lawrence, and a tingle goes up his spine.
“In togetherness, we find hope. There is solace in the sharing of hardship.” Ah—Lawrence thinks of that first night of the conclave, walking with Benitez near the turtle pond and sharing his struggle with prayer. There is no struggle anymore, is there? And yet, Benitez continues to look at him. “When we cannot commune among ourselves, it is Christ who promises that He ‘will not leave you as orphans… He will come to you.’ God is never distant to us, and thus when we are with God, we can never be truly lonely.”
Christ, thinks Lawrence. He notes the pained look on the pope’s tan face, in place of his usual serenity. There’s an odd feeling in Lawrence’s chest. He stares at the cross behind the altar as his eyes swim with tears and candlelight.
“But our trust in God does not replace the necessity of communion with each other. When we are closer to each other, we are closer to the Lord. My friends, loneliness is not the final word. Let us open our hearts to His presence, and let us become His presence to others. In doing so, we will fulfill His commandment to love one another as he has loved us. Amen.”
“Amen,” choruses the crowd. Lawrence is a beat behind, somehow, and his voice stands alone as he says “Amen.”
—
Hours later, Lawrence paces down the halls of the Palace of the Holy Office. He prefers to walk as he talks on the phone. Nakitanda, the Cardinal Archbishop of Kampala, is calling for Lawrence’s advice. Nakitanda has been stuck on the same subject for long enough that the sun has sunk noticeably outside the windows since he first began to speak. Cloudy dusk has fallen. Lawrence loses the thread of Nakitanda’s complaint and scrubs a hand over his face.
“Dean? What do you think?” the archbishop repeats.
“Ah—Oliver…give me a moment,” Lawrence stumbles.
Nakitanda blows past the request. “I just simply believe if no misconduct has been confirmed, then there is no reason to defrock a man who—”
God, thinks Lawrence: politics. “Have you spoken to any other members of the diocese?”
“Yes, Your Eminence, and they know as little as I do.” His voice jumps in pitch: “That is why I need to counsel with you! You are the one who—”
“Cardinal. Cardinal, please, a moment,” Lawrence says, mustering a semblance of authority. Several heads—a nun, and several other men who work in the offices—turn to stare at him as he raises his voice. Still, Lawrence seems to have had no effect.
Nakitanda continues: “And I have spoken to Monsignor Epifano, who directed me to Cardinal Mwangale, but you know as well as I do that he is impossible to reason with, and I cannot—I will not—” Lawrence breathes through his nose and shuts his eyes. The hallways reek of the morning’s stale coffee and Lawrence wants nothing more than to hang up the phone.
Then—a flash of purple garments, the heel-clicking of shoes. O’Malley is down the hall, approaching.
“Ray!” shouts Lawrence, decorum fallen by the wayside.
“What? Dean, are you listening?” Nakitanda snaps. His voice is tinny and shrill over the phone and Lawrence holds it further from his face to protect his ears.
O’Malley stands patiently, a few feet away. Lawrence glances over apologetically, then looks back at his phone. “Cardinal, why don’t I call you back later, and we can sort this out?”
“Fine, but Dean, I—”
Lawrence hangs up. “Monsignor O’Malley, it’s good to see you.”
O’Malley smiles and steps forward. He has pencil shavings stuck to the fabric of his cassock and his glasses are a little crooked on his face. “You as well, Your Eminence.” He does not pause long before saying: “I came to find you—I believe I may have a job for you.”
Lawrence’s eyebrows shoot up. “Why, already?” There’s an anticipatory tingle coursing through him; his robes already feel lighter on his shoulders.
“The Vatican moves fast these days, Dean Lawrence.” It is true. The previous papacy had a molasses ooze to it; this one flows like molten silver. “I believe you have an academic background, yes?”
“Yes, as do most members of the Curia.” O’Malley and Lawrence begin to walk down the hallway out of the Palace of the Holy Office. They fall into matching strides.
“The archives—the Vatican Apostolic Archive—they are looking for someone. I have spoken with the lead archivist, Archbishop Giordano, who is busy with digitalizing the collection and processing all the new material from the conclave. He had several of his historians and archivists retire upon the late Holy Father’s death, and has not yet found suitable replacements.”
Lawrence thinks back on his university and seminary days and remembers long, espresso-scented, candle-lit nights at his desk, poring over documents. He thinks of himself in the twilight of his life, returning to ephemera and moldered books and history. It suits the vague image of himself he holds in his mind: the aging scholar, the pious academic.
“Yes. Yes, Ray, that sounds wonderful. What would the job entail?” They’ve reached the door at the end of the hall, and O’Malley opens it for Lawrence. There’s a patter of steps as they descend through a stairwell.
“Giordano’s most urgent requirement is for an archivist to record the work—and there is a great deal of it, as you well know—being undertaken by His Holiness. During the late Holy Father’s tenure, there was a member of the archives by his side quite often; taking notes at meetings, keeping detailed schedules and write-ups, taking interviews…”
A glow builds in Lawrence’s chest when he imagines the role. A life spent for the sake of posterity, a life spent at the pope’s side. Lawrence wonders if he is worthy of it. He exhales, then: “Monsignor O’Malley, this is—this is excellent. If you will give me an evening to consider, please.”
O’Malley shrugs. They reach the bottom of the stairs and spill out into the semidarkness. The first raindrops fall, and Lawrence watches as they splash against a marble statue. “Take the time you need; the next steps do not involve me, Your Eminence.”
Lawrence furrows his brow. “May I ask what those steps are?”
“You’ll need to discuss with Pope Innocent; you are still the Dean of the College of Cardinals, until your resignation is accepted—”
Lawrence interrupts by sighing loudly and wonders if he will have to call Cardinal Nakitanda back. A raindrop hits him squarely in the eye. “Forgive me for interrupting, Ray, please continue.”
“Cardinal, if I may be frank…I don’t foresee there being an issue with His Holiness accepting your request. The two of you, the way he—” O’Malley pauses and reconsiders. Lawrence is unsure what O’Malley is getting at, and it unsettles something in his gut. “He’ll accept it. I’m sure of it, Your Eminence.”
“I appreciate that, Ray.” They’ve drawn close to their apartments near the edges of the Vatican. Lawrence stares at the cobblestones beneath his feet as he walks. “And then?”
“And then, you go to the archives—you know where they are, yes? Through the north hall of the Apostolic Palace, past the Lapidary Gallery.” Just past the Secretary of State’s office, thinks Lawrence. It will be good to work near Bellini—like old times, like seminary.
O’Malley continues, “Just speak to Archbishop Giordano there, sometime in the next few days, and you can solidify the arrangement.” O’Malley gives a humble smile as he opens the door of their shared building.
Lawrence nods back and steps through. “I am thankful, Ray. Truly. Your efforts do not go unnoticed.”
“Thank you, Your Eminence,” O’Malley responds.
They stand in the fluorescence a moment longer before splitting towards their respective apartments. Lawrence climbs up the stairway to the second floor and thumbs at the rosary in his pocket.
He thinks of leaving the apartments now and heading to the Casa Santa Marta. Benitez, after his election, had followed in the footsteps of the previous pope and rejected the ostentatious papal suite in the Apostolic Palace. Instead, he continued to reside in the small apartment where he lived during the conclave.
Lawrence knows he could go there now and speak with him, leave his tenure as Dean in the past—so easy, suddenly, to be stripped of the role that caused him such malaise. It seems too fast to Lawrence; he’d spent decades embroiled in bureaucracy. Bureaucracy moves slow; like turtle footsteps across a marble floor. Lawrence needs time to adjust.
As Lawrence walks towards his quarters, he hears rustling behind an apartment door. He glances over to read the room number. It’s Bellini’s room, he realizes.
Lawrence has not made a serious decision—accepting his role as Dean, allowing Benitez into the conclave, choosing who to vote for—without first speaking to Bellini. At least, not in his memory. It seems an appropriate time to consult with his oldest and dearest friend. They have not spoken in a short while, and Bellini always seems to be running somewhere with his overstuffed briefcase and his nervous twitch.
Lawrence knocks.
More rustling, a mumbled obscenity, then: “Come in!”
“Aldo, how are you?” Lawrence asks as he steps inside. The room is an uncharacteristic mess. There are empty espresso cups, crinkled papers, and half-packed suitcases strewn around the room. Bellini stands in the middle of it all, rubbing his temple.
“I figured it was you, Thomas,” says Bellini. “I’m sorry about—all this. I’ve just returned from a trip to the States.” He’s in his navy blue robe, and his angular face is purpled with sleeplessness.
“I didn’t realize you’d left—was it good to be home?” Lawrence asks. “We’ve missed you at Mass.” He thinks of Sabbadin and of the empty space beside him in the pew.
“Not home, no—D.C. His Holiness has been sending me on these—outreach trips, what with American politics,” Bellini says with a raise of his brows. “They tend to be rather spontaneous; I’m sorry I forgot to tell you I was leaving.” He bends down and picks up a sock, and tosses it overhand into his laundry basket.
“That’s quite alright, Aldo.” Lawrence feels awkward, fully clothed in his cassock with Bellini in a state of partial undress. He looks at the floor and is sure he can see biscotti crumbs dotting the hardwood. “How was your trip?”
“Oh, rather awful,” Bellini says bluntly, and offers nothing more. “Did you just come to say hello, Thomas?”
“Actually—I wanted to speak with you. I’ve been considering a...” Lawrence pauses, suddenly unsure. “A change in careers.”
Bellini’s jaw opens and his eyebrows draw northward. “What, a monastery, Thomas? Didn’t you tell me, just last week, that you’d changed your mind about that? I thought you wanted to stay.” Bellini speaks quickly, grappling for words. Lawrence opens his mouth but Bellini continues to talk: “What was the word you used—rejuvenated? What happened to that?”
“No, Aldo,” Lawrence says, taking a careful breath and feeling for his rosary. “I still feel that way, and I have every intention of remaining in the Vatican, as I told you. I just...”
Bellini sighs, then speaks again, gently: “Then, what is it?”
Lawrence considers for a moment and looks at his friend’s familiar face. “I never wanted to be a manager, as you well know. And I…I no longer have any desire to—to deal with politics, Aldo.”
It lands wrong. Lawrence notices a hurt gleam in Bellini’s eyes. As Bellini responds, his lips tremble but he speaks steadily: “I’m glad you feel you have the privilege to do away with politics, Thomas. Some of us aren’t so lucky.”
Oh. Lawrence feels stabbed, like St. Sebastian’s arrows have gone through his side. Bellini’s reaction—it is not about being Secretary of State, or about being an American. No: it is about something else. Something they both know about Bellini; something they are careful not to mention often. “Aldo, I didn’t mean it like that. I am sorry you feel that your existence here is politicized—”
“It is politicized, Thomas.” Bellini wraps his robe more tightly around himself, as if it is a suit of armor. His tone is insistent. “You have no idea how many times I have had to sit through meetings about whether it is acceptable for the clergy to include homose—”
“Aldo, stop. I meant nothing by it.” Lawrence presses a steadying hand to his chest, and he is sure he can feel his own pulse racing beneath the fabric of his cassock. There’s something delicate, something breakable in the air. Lawrence stands still, taking in shallow breaths.
These conversations—when they must happen—leave Lawrence feeling adrift. He does not want to overstep the boundaries Bellini draws, does not want to shatter the carefully-crafted stained-glass windows Bellini uses to conceal himself. But Bellini is a dear friend, and Lawrence aches when he thinks of what Bellini might leave unspoken.
Bellini looks at him through glimmering tears. “I—I know. I’m sorry, I’ve had a long day.” He pauses, then sinks onto the corner of his bed. “I’m tired, Thomas.”
“I know,” Lawrence replies, then echoes: “I’m sorry.” He looks down for a moment, and continues, clumsily: “If you ever—if you ever need someone talk to, I’m here.”
“Thank you,” Bellini says, lifting his glasses and wiping the back of his hand across his eyes.
“And besides, with the new position I have been offered, we’ll be working rather nearby,” Lawrence adds with a careful smile. Bellini raises his chin to gaze at Lawrence. He says nothing, just waits for Lawrence to continue. “At the Apostolic Archive. My time as Dean…I am just not cut out for it, not anymore. I have been offered a role as an archivist.”
“That’s excellent—you always did like history, didn’t you?” Bellini says earnestly, then yawns. That fragile tension is gone from the room. “What would the day-to-day look like?”
“This particular position concerns the affairs of the current pontificate. I would be somewhat of a personal archivist to the pope. You know: taking notes, recording his schedule, interviewing him, writing reports,” he says, keeping his tone light, echoing O’Malley. “Things of that nature.”
There’s an indecipherable look on Bellini’s face. Lawrence takes a few steps forward, moving delicately around a glass of water and several open books on the floor. Lawrence can see the small muscles in Bellini’s jaw moving as he seems to think of what to say. “Thomas…do you have—do you have concerns about your objectivity?” Bellini’s gaze is downcast and he asks it with a rarefied politeness.
Lawrence’s brows knit together; it’s entirely unclear what Bellini could mean. His objectivity? “Aldo—”
Bellini blanches and rushes to speak. “Never mind, I simply meant—you and I, and he; we are unified in our...theological frameworks. Our politics. Perhaps the job is better suited for a moderate.” There’s something hollow to his voice.
Lawrence accepts the explanation and nods. “No, I...I think I have had enough of my own political gambits for one lifetime. I think you’ll find that I will not allow my own beliefs to imbue my work.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Cardinal Lawrence. And I’m sure Pope Innocent will choose a worthy successor as Dean,” Bellini offers. “I look forward to being down the hall from you.” He yawns again, covering his mouth.
“I agree, Your Eminence.” Lawrence fears that the dark circles beneath Bellini’s eyes have grown darker since the beginning of their conversation. “I’ll leave you to rest. Will I see you at Mass in the morning?”
Bellini nods and slides further onto his bed. “Yes, if I’m not too jet-lagged. Benitez writes lovely homilies, doesn’t he?”
Lawrence finds the pope’s given name somewhat jarring when spoken aloud, but nods his assent anyways. “He does.” It is the truth, after all.
Bellini stares at him for a moment. “Goodnight, Thomas.”
“Goodnight, Aldo,” Lawrence responds. As he turns to leave, he accidentally kicks several leaves of paper off of the floor and into the air. They flutter back down gently, like snow.
—
Lawrence knows that the pope goes to sleep early, most nights. After shutting Bellini’s door, he looks down at his wristwatch and notes the time. Good—he should still have an hour or so to intercept Benitez before he retires for the evening.
It’s a wet, chilly walk from Bellini’s apartment to the pope’s quarters. Lawrence knows he should have stopped at home for his umbrella, but he didn’t want to keep the pope up any later. As Lawrence walks through the courtyard, his zucchetto, his thinning hair, and the shoulders of his cassock fully saturate with rainwater.
He arrives at the pope’s quarters shivering and damp. The Swiss Guards recognize him and step aside for him, allowing him to knock on the simple wooden door of the apartment. Lawrence stills his shaking hand, reaches out, and raps gently, three times.
“Thomas?” comes the pope’s voice, and there’s a kind of meekness to it.
“Ah—yes, Your Holiness,” replies Lawrence, taken aback. Pope Innocent opens the door and ushers Lawrence in. He is wearing simple black pajamas, and, for once, looks more human than angel. When the Swiss Guards attempt to follow Lawrence in, the pope waves them off. “How did you know it was me?” Lawrence asks.
Benitez guides them over to two simple chairs and a low wooden table. “You always knock so softly, Cardinal, I supposed it was you—but, really, you are…” The pope pauses and shuts his eyes for a long moment. Lawrence notices the room is lit entirely by flickering candles. “You are the only one who visits after working hours.”
Lawrence cocks his head. “Surely that cannot be true.” He tries to come up with a name, any name, but comes up dry. The other cardinals with whom Benitez had grown close during the conclave—they are back in their dioceses, in Manila and Maputo and Jakarta and God knows where else. Bellini must not visit, then; he is somewhere between busy and bitter, and besides, he must see plenty of Pope Innocent in a professional capacity.
“It is true, Your Eminence.” The pope’s face glows in the warm candlelight. He pushes a lock of inky hair out of his still-half-shut eyes.
Something clicks, then. “Your Holiness, the…the homily this morning? About loneliness?” Lawrence pauses, understanding that he is toeing a line. “It was rather personal, wasn’t it?”
“You are very perceptive, Thomas. Yes.” A melancholic smile spreads across Benitez’s face—such a holy face, thinks Lawrence—and he places his hand, palm-up, onto the table between them. Lawrence understands that this is an invitation to place his hand into the pope’s, but he is shaking, badly, from the weather outside or from something else. He instead picks up Benitez’s hand, feels the soft weight of it in his palm, and presses a dry kiss to the anulus piscatoris. Cold metal, parched lips. He places Benitez’s hand back onto the table.
The pope sighs, and speaks again. “I have served the church in…some difficult places, as you know. Car bombs, the aftermath of genocide; sights that I wish I could not remember. But in all of those places—in the Congo, in Kabul—I was surrounded by people. Now, I am safe, of course, but I have found that reverence is not a foundation on which friendship is easily built. I am treated as an island, Tomás.” He pauses and stares at his ring. “It is true; I am lonely here.”
“I am sorry to hear that, Your Holiness,” Lawrence replies. He searches his mind for a Bible verse, but nothing feels appropriate. A cacophony of rain slams against the windowpanes, filling the silence.
Benitez bends his head. When his hair falls forward to shroud his face, he looks exactly how he did in the Room of Tears. A beat passes, then:
“I miss when you still called me Vincent.” The pope’s voice is small, almost child-like, so unlike the voice he uses during Mass. The sentence burrows into Lawrence’s gut and burns a hole there.
“Vincent, I—” The name is unfamiliar to his tongue already, as though the shape of it has atrophied. “I am here. I intend to be here, and if there is ever anything—”
“Your presence is enough,” Benitez says, simple as anything. His hands are folded on his lap. Lawrence notices that the window is cracked open, just slightly, and there is rainwater dribbling down the plaster wall. “My friend, are you still struggling with your work?”
They’ve spoken about this briefly, though Lawrence is hesitant to complain about anything to the pope. There are reasons for this: first, why should he concern the closest man to God on Earth with the petty concerns of an aging bureaucrat? It is not worth his time. And second, Benitez has seen so much worse. Benitez has seen war; Lawrence’s unrest is trivial in comparison.
Lawrence stares into the candle in the center of the table for a moment. “Actually, Your H—Vincent, that was what I wanted to speak to you about.”
“Please, my child,” he says, and Lawrence offers a tepid smile in return.
“I no longer believe I am the right man to be the Dean of the College of Cardinals,” starts Lawrence. “I would be happy to supply you with a list of suitable replacements.” Before the pope can respond, Lawrence continues: “I have been offered a position with the archives, and I—”
“Thomas—Thomas, slow down, please. Have you prayed for guidance?” Benitez reaches out and places a hand on the damp sleeve of Lawrence’s cassock. His touch is warm; his touch is sun on the horizon after forty nights of deluge.
“Yes,” Lawrence lies, and tells himself he will confess this later. “I…I came here to officially tender my resignation.”
Benitez purses his lips and waits a long moment before asking: “But you are not leaving?” One of his hands still rests on Lawrence’s arm. Lawrence can tell that his other hand is fidgeting with the rosary in his pocket.
“No,” says Lawrence, shaking his head gently.
Benitez exhales. The rain outside abates, if only slightly. “You said there is a role available to you? In the Apostolic Archive?”
“Yes, Your Holiness,” says Lawrence. “If you accept my resignation…I will be working nearly entirely with you. Recording the—the intricacies of your papacy, for posterity.” Benitez is looking up at him, eyes wide and doe-like. “It would be an honor,” Lawrence says quietly, averting his gaze. He stares out the cracked window, and thinks of how he could hear the calls of morning birds during that final vote of the conclave.
It had felt like hope, then. It feels like hope, now.
“Cardinal, if this is truly what you want,” the pope says, “then I will accept your resignation.” Lawrence turns his head towards the pope and smiles. The sleeve of his cassock has begun to dry beneath Benitez’s fingers. “And, if I may be frank, your presence is—a great comfort to me, my friend. I look forward to seeing you more often.”
Relief fills Lawrence; it’s the feeling of great plumes of white smoke spilling forth from the Sistine chimney. The ballot-burning is over, the new era is ushered in. “Thank you, Vincent.” He shifts his arm to take the pope’s hand in his own. “Thank you.”
“Shall we pray together?” Benitez asks.
Lawrence nods, and their hands break apart as they leave their chairs and shift onto their knees. They make the Sign of the Cross in perfect unison, then Benitez begins to pray in fluid Latin. His voice is soft, the kind of softness only found in myth, soft like Gideon’s fleece. Lawrence can feel God, somewhere nearby.
Benitez switches, prays in Spanish: “…and Heavenly Father, please protect my dear friend as he begins the next journey of his life.” The pope pauses and considers for a moment, speaking slowly so Lawrence is able to understand. “Please grant him guidance and light as he walks this path and bless his hands as they write, and…and Lord, walk beside us, just as we walk beside each other. Amen.”
“Amen,” echoes Lawrence. He rises from his knees slowly, and offers a hand to the pope, who accepts it and allows himself to be lifted from the floor. The rain slows to a drizzle. “Your Holiness, I cannot tell you how grateful I am,” he says.
“I am grateful to you, Thomas. I am sure you will do a lovely job, my friend.”
“I could only hope to depict your papacy half as well as you conduct it, Your Holiness,” Lawrence compliments, smile flickering across his face.
“You are too kind,” responds Benitez, and they begin to walk towards the door of the apartment. “I am certain you will serve your duty to the truth, just as you serve your duty to God.” Benitez reaches down as they walk past a side table and blows out a candle.
“That is my intention,” Lawrence replies. “Honesty and holiness are not separate virtues.” He is already envisioning himself among the towering bookshelves of the archives, already envisioning his successor undertaking his duties as Dean. He can see himself adjacent to Benitez, leather-bound notebook in hand...
Lawrence reaches for the door handle. A ‘farewell’ waits patiently on his lips.
Then—a sinewy hand around his other wrist. Oh—Benitez is holding him, stopping him from leaving. Lawrence’s breath catches in his throat as he turns back towards the pope. His dark eyes are damp and panicked. “I’m sorry, Your Eminence,” says Benitez. “It is just—before you go, I must…” He trails off, and the room is silent. “I know you will be required to be truthful in your work, Thomas. But I must remind you that—that there is a truth you will have to omit.”
Lawrence understands. His throat dries as he nods, and he wonders if Benitez can feel his pulse through the thin skin of his wrist. “Of course, Your Holiness.” Lying is a sin, Lawrence knows, but there is no other way forward, is there? He silently prays to be absolved of this, and says: “The records will contain nothing of the sort.” Lawrence hopes Benitez doesn’t notice when his eyes flick down past his waistband for a moment.
“Thank you, Your Eminence,” responds Benitez, voice wavering. He drops Lawrence’s hand. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.” They lock eyes for a moment longer and Lawrence is glad to see that the panic is gone from the pope’s face. He is once again a vision in candlelight.
“I do too,” Lawrence murmurs, and slips out the door.
Lawrence nods briefly at the Swiss Guards, walks down the hall of the Casa Santa Marta, and spills into the petrichor-scented night. Lawrence’s heart still races as he heads towards home. There is this—this morbid curiosity, he thinks—that he feels when he considers Benitez’s situation. A hideous part of him, a part he rejects entirely, wonders what exactly lies beneath those white robes.
Lawrence pushes the thought towards the deep annals of his mind and instead, considers what the morning might look like. After Mass, after a meager breakfast, his new role will begin immediately, he decides. He will walk from the Casa Santa Marta directly to the archives, past the Basilica and though the halls of the Apostolic Palace.
It is a kind of rebirth, this new role; Lawrence feels as though this is his third baptism. At his first, he was a few weeks old at his local parish, held by his mother on an unseasonably warm Sunday in England, back when the entire sacrament was still performed in Latin. At what he considers his second, he stood in the Sistine, facing a newly-elected man—a man more godly than he thought possible.
Now, he is being anointed again. An errant raindrop falls on Lawrence, and it feels like holy water.