Chapter Seventeen: Habemus Papum
Michel had been cardinal for several years, and he had much for which to be thankful. The Michelian movement had grown steadily in popularity as did his. Yet Michel saw no improvement in the direction of Church either in popularity or influence. Of particular concern to him was the Church’s response to the attacks, verbal and violent, that had become de rigueur. The secular press delighted in reporting stories of pedophile priests while ignoring similar atrocities committed by leaders of other religions. Muslim terrorists were routinely killing Catholic priests and nuns with only the merest of reportage by the press and, astoundingly, only the slightest condemnation by the Vatican. For the Pope to fail to recognize the inherent weakness of Islam and attribute the terrorism only to some in the Wahhabi sect was a political miscalculation. In Michel’s mind, the Vatican failure to meet the threat bravely and publicly made the Church appear feckless.
Of particular concern to Michel was the Vatican’s virtual silence in the face of the 2006 Muslim bus burning in his own city. Within hours of the onset of the rioting, Michel received a call from the Vatican asking him to be “most restrained” in public condemnation of the rioters and to “encourage the most humane” response by the police.
Upon receiving the call, Michel typed a letter to Pope Benedict.
"… the Church should make it perfectly clear that Islam, which preaches violence and death to Christians should not be tolerated by any group or institution. History has not always been kind to the Church when it seemingly allowed evil to coexist within its sphere of influence. There are those who rebuke the Church for not being more active against Hitler. Are we not doing the same in the face of this Moslem jihad? I am not sure what more Pius XII should or could have done, but I think something more than pious words were needed. The Church cannot rewrite history, but it can keep from making the same mistake by failing to call for action. Had the Church many years ago taken a proactive stance against the Mafia, that particular virulence would not still be infecting the globe….”
However, that letter was never sent, and while Michel was convinced it should have been, it would have been unpolitical to have done so. And that angered him greatly. He was as cowardly as those he would condemn. Was he so corrupt that he allowed politics to control his best instincts? He had become a priest to honor and give glory to God, not men, and ironically in order to accomplish the former, he had to honor the latter. Politics is an exercise in ungodly pragmatism, and Michel loathed that part of him that knelt before it. Sleep finally closed his eyes on the barbed leather strap hanging on the side of the closet.
Michel’s sleep on the night of September 14, 2010 was fitful, uncomfortable, and filled with darkly disjointed dreams. In the morning he prayed as he always had at his kneeler, on this day more asleep than awake. With heavy legs he shuffled down to the chapel unconsciously touching the sculpture of St. Michael the Archangel on the way to say mass. The wine tasted like vinegar, and he hoped, as he walked to breakfast, that his toast would kill the horrid taste that. On the breakfast table next to the table setting, Michel flipped open his laptop and scanned his email. The one from Cardinal Belli stood out. The Pope was gravely ill and that his death was expected in a few days at most.
Michel would leave for Rome that day. He would not wait to fly with the other French cardinals who would arrive at Orly the next morning, and while being with the others would probably have made the trip to Rome less daunting, his solitude would allow his thoughts free reign.
The prospect of meeting the other electors of the world to elect a new pope was exhilarating as it was daunting. Michel’s voice was to be one of many, but the choice he would have to make, as he did when he voted for Benedict XVI, would be of profound import. It was, however, a choice he again felt ill prepared to make. He knew only a handful of the other 120 or so cardinals, and with the exception of his fellow Frenchmen, he knew few of them well enough to determine who would be best to lead with absolute power the world’s largest religion. The urgency of his situation became more pronounced when he learned on the way to the airport that the Pope had died.
There would be the papal funeral and days of mourning, and that would provide extra time in advance of the conclave to learn about the others. Michel wondered what the media would make of his chances. They would of course publish the names of those they thought most likely to be elected, but how could they know who among them was truly papabile?
Michel had some opinions about likely candidates, and none of them was from among the four other French or thirteen Americans candidates. Both nations suffered from the reputation of being too domineering and parochial. A parochial Cardinal, and they are the majority, tends to identify too strongly with his own culture and sees the world through the prism of his traditions. The Church prides itself in its being truly catholic, universal, and therefore seeks a candidate who has demonstrated a well-developed world view. Michel thought it likely one of the Italian Cardinals would be the next pope although the Jesuit from Brazil had a chance and perhaps even the South African.
Jesippi Cardinal Norbert of Milan was one of the most influential Italian cardinals and led one of the oldest and most influential archdioceses in Italy. He had arranged for a car to drive Michel to the Vatican where he would be housed until the new pope was installed. Despite Michel’s being the more experienced cardinal, the Milanese and he were of equal rank in the College of Cardinals because each had been elevated to Cardinal Bishop.[1]
As Michel walked though the Aeroporti di Roma to the luggage carousel he saw quiet groups of people gathered around TV monitors at each of the gates. The news was arresting and it seemed that nothing else had any meaning. How many of the TV watchers would have guessed that walking by them was a French senior citizen who would cast a vote for the next Pope?
But as Michael descended to the luggage claim he noticed a difference. There was no TV, and the only thing on the minds of his fellow passengers seemed to be getting their bags and getting out. Without the media, the world moved on.
A uniformed chauffer carried Michel’s luggage to a black Mercedes with “Vatican” license plates. Behind the car parked at the curb was a gray sedan with two swarthy men who Michel thought might have been Middle Eastern. He made eye contact with the man in the passenger side who wore a white, long-billed cap and had a large camera hanging from his neck. He gave Michel a slight nod and smile as he snapped several pictures. Michel instinctively smiled for the camera.
They had been driving a few minutes when his driver mentioned that the gray car seemed to be following them. “Paparazzi,” he exclaimed with derision.
“They already got a picture,” answered Michel in Italian. “At the curb before I got in.”
“Patsos!” returned the driver.
Michel looked over his shoulder at the car which was following closely and certainly not making any effort to mask the effort.
“Driver, slow up,” said Michel. “Let them pass.”
They slowed to 30 kph as did the gray sedan. They obviously wanted Michel to know they were tailing him.
“All right, driver, let’s speed up,” called Michel. Still they stayed close.
It was not until they approached the Vatican City gates did the gray sedan turn off.
l
Organizations are a collection of traditions, and a portion of the strength of religious tradition is how it functions during the most significant times in life: birth, marriage, and death. The ceremony and rubrics surrounding the death of a pope have become particularly elaborate with both public and private displays illustrative of the gravity of the event. Thousands of somber faithful stand for days in any weather outside St. Peter’s to get a glimpse of the cardinals with their bright red robes and birettas set squarely on their heads to begin the period of mourning. Reporters and cameramen by the hundreds from every part of the globe jostle each other for the best locations.
Before Michel had stepped off the plane, the tradition had begun and would follow its prescribed course for the next two weeks. The Pope was declared deceased by the attending physician after having attached an electrocardiogram to the dead Pope and watching for twenty minutes. He then declared mechanically in a loud voice, "The Pope is dead."
That occasioned the Carmerlengo Tomaso Russo, the Dean of the College of Cardinals, to tap the deceased Pope three times on the face, calling his given name. After a long moment and in an otherworldly basso profundo voice, the carmerlengo declared the Pope dead and removed the Pope's ring. An aide placed the ring on the floor and with a mallet struck the ring once, breaking it. In centuries past the pope’s ring was a signet used to authenticate documents, but now it had become only a symbol of papal authority.
It is the carmerlengo, in charge of the Church in the interim, who decides the exact date that the conclave can meet to elect the new pope. Usually two weeks, the delay had been to allow for the funeral and for cardinals from around the world time to travel to Rome.[2]
As tradition dictated, the funeral arrangements for the Pope were coordinated by the carmerlengo’s staff. Several masses besides the funeral itself were to be offered and would present opportunities for some cardinals, selected by the carmerlengo himself, to give a sermon that would by followed closely by the media and would provide for that cardinal international exposure as well as another means by which other cardinals could judge him. No cardinal can vote for himself, and in that spirit sermons at these funeral masses are never designed to elevate one’s chances to be voted pope. There is an old saw that says a man who enters the conclave as a pope leaves as a cardinal.
Michel, recognized as a very fine speaker and gifted communicator, thought he might be selected to deliver a sermon and was relieved to learn he had not. The effort in preparation would have been burdensome given his anxiety about having to make a choice in the scant two weeks he had. Carmerlengo Russo chose speakers who had been personal friends of the deceased Pope for many years. Two of them were past eighty-years-old and had no chance of being elected pope.
All cardinals are expected to visit Rome at least once a year and meet with members of the Curia. Depending on the business being conducted, an audience with the pope would be arranged. Thus, cardinals living in Rome and working in the Curia knew most of the cardinals, but unless cardinals from other countries met in committee, they knew little of each other. Though Michel had worked at least part-time in Rome as director of the Legion of Christ, and while he knew several cardinals who worked regularly at the Curia, he knew few of them well. The Legion, being a relatively new, had yet to establish the networking other institutions had.
On his third night in Rome, Michel joined Belli and a several other cardinals for dinner at the Cardinal Bishop’s residence across the street from the Vatican’s Eagle Fountain. The 500-year-old gray limestone house sat behind a stone fence and blocked from street view by ancient elms and beeches. The dining room accommodated thirty at its baroque maple table, over which were hung three glittering Murano chandeliers. Twenty-six cardinals sat at the table, 13 on each side. Belli sat in the middle of the table, with Michel sitting on his right, opposite the indelibly stained marble fireplace. Michel knew a only a few of the men well, some only by name, and others not at all. Belli, it seemed, was good friends with all of them.
It was casual dress for cardinals which meant a clerical collar, red shirt, and black slacks. Some of the men from Africa and the East wore black shirts and red skull caps. The mood was generally more light-hearted than Michel would have thought given the nature of their business, but the tone had been set by the host, and perhaps that had been Belli’s intention. There would be enough time for gravity thought Michel as he poured himself a second glass of Chianti.
Michel and Belli spoke in Italian as did the other three Italians, but the rest spoke English. There were four Americans, two British, and an Australian. The remainder came from 14 other nations. Michel was the only Frenchman.
Belli was loud and spoke as if everyone wanted or should want to hear what he had to say. He had little trouble engaging the farthest from him, and seemed particularly desirous of doing so. The conversation was always light with Belli inquiring about a past illness, a complimentary statement about a recent publication, a soccer victory, and the like. He spoke only in Italian unless English was absolutely needed, and his conviviality and absolute lack of pretense was infectious. The men were enjoying the party.
Michel could not help himself. “I suspect we are dining with the next pope,” he leaned over and whispered to Belli who was cutting into his chicken leg with a knife and fork.
“God knows,” he answered without looking up from his carving.
“Yes, I know God knows,” replied Michel. “Do you?”
Belli looked at Michel from the corner of his eye and whispered, “Well I worked on the arrangements.” Then, against the possibility of having been overheard, the Italian stentor proclaimed, “All the cardinals will dine here before we meet. Tomorrow we will have 30.”
“I hope they get something better than this broiled chicken,” quipped Michel, his chetnut eyes gleaming.
“I should think with your austerity program you would approve of the fare,” shot Belli with a broad grin flashing his small, perfectly flat teeth.
“Touché,” admitted Michel. Belli guffawed, proud of his success.
Cardinal Addie, the South African sitting on Michel’s right mentioned an article Michel had written about the Muslim threat to Catholicism.
"Do you see a solution in the near term?” asked the cardinal of Johannesburg in a broad English accent.
Michel’s answer was measured. “I have grave doubts there is a possible immediate solution. I would suggest, however, that the Church be more forceful in its condemnation of Muslim clerics who say little to dissuade their more radical counterparts.”
“There has been published a modern version of the Koran which seeks, I believe, to soften the language --- make it in some way less violent,” said Addie, a pale wisp of a man with thin white hair and pale blue eyes. Michel thought he looked rather like Peter O’Toole.
“Yes, but the text was written by a woman whose major change deals with changing the word for beating to leaving,” replied Michel. “Her attempt was to prevent their men from beating their wives and using the Koran to justify it. I have not read it, but she did not alter the words of Muhammad regarding his commandment to kill infidels.”
“No, it does not,” said Addie, his thin fingers wrapped around his wine glass and raising it to his lips.
“And, being written by a woman, I suspect it will be received with the same irrelevance as the words from the Church,” Michel added too hastily. If the words from the Church were irrelevant, how could there be any value in the “more forceful condemnation” Michel just recommended? He would allow himself no more wine.
Addie’s response, “But there are only words to persuade,” was met with loud silence, but he added piously, “I suspect the late Holy Father knew that there will always be those who attack the Church. His direction was to help the poor and spread the Word.”
"The poor you will always have with you, Mathew 26:11, and Mark 14:7," Michel said with a quick smile. “And while we must fight to raise them from poverty, we must also fight to protect our priests and nuns who go out into the world, who feed and teach the poor, who bring them into the fold. The two fights are not mutually exclusive,” exclaimed Michel, the words pouring from his lips like wine. “Indeed there are many fronts.”
“As you wrote,” added Addie in agreement, “we are defenders of the faith, and implicit in the term defenders there is the notion of assertion if not aggression. I particularly enjoyed that line of reasoning in your article.”
“That is kind of you to say, but I fear that I failed in that article to stress the love that we must use in all of our dealings, from the poor in the rain forests to the most radical Shiites in Baghdad,” Michel said. “Without caritas we loose our way --- we loose Christ.”
“It is implicit in what you write, I am sure,” said Addie kindly.
“There is a trap, I suspect, in the effort to move others to action,” said Michel. He held his hands in front of him as if they were holding a large bowl. “In one’s zeal to provoke, to narrow the focus to draw one’s point, one can lose sight of the broad, the universal.” His hands moved closer together, his fingertips touching. “It is love that Christ commands, and it is love upon which He has built His Church and which sustains it. No action may be taken without its subordination to the love of Christ.”
“Well said, Michel,” Belli said leaning over Michel’s shoulder. “The battle rages not only from without but from within.”
When dinner was over and the cardinals were leaving, Michel shook hands with each man using the first name of as many as he could. Belli had asked Michel to stay after everyone left, and when the two were alone, Belli, with a look of guilty pleasure, brought out a bottle of Manzanilla sherry.
“I got this last month from Spain. It’s a 1974!” Belli said proudly.
“1974,” Michel repeated. “Did anything happen in 1974? I can’t remember that long ago.”
“They bottled this palomino fina; that’s what happened in 1974,” Belli answered as he poured it into the brandy glasses. “It has been uncorked since before dinner.”
“And you no doubt thought of little else since then. You are, I’m afraid, an irascible libertine,” provoked Michel.
“And you are, I’m afraid, a politician of the first order,” responded Belli, raising his glass in a salute.
“How so?”
“I heard your conversation with Addie.”
Michel shrugged. “If I am a politician, I am an honest one.”
“There are no honest politicians, my good friend,” replied Belli with a smirk. “Only good or bad ones; you, Mike Abruzzi, are a good one.”
“I spoke the truth.”
“Of course you did. Your honesty is incontrovertible, but it is not the issue.”
“I was unaware that an issue existed,” Michel said on the defense.
“Of course,” Belli answered. “I’ve made it one. But there is no need to deny it. In truth, a strong leader, which you, of course, you are, must be a good politician. You told him what he needed to hear. That is, you knew what to say to put him at ease by putting yourself in the best light --- for him.”
“It was natural; it flowed out of the discussion,” said Michel sipping his brandy. It was more pungent than usual and not terribly pleasing.
Belli studied his friend’s tasting of the Manzanilla. “Wonderful, no?”
Michel smiled. “A good politician would say yes.”
“Then you don’t like it?” asked Belli, searching Michel’s face for the truth.
“Not too much; it’s a bit acetic, maybe thinner than usual.”
Belli sipped his wine to see if he found it so. “Perhaps a bit sharp, but it is bold --- quite excellent.”
“So, I am not as good a politician as you said.”
“On the contrary, Monsieur, you sought to win the debate, to exert your power, power that lies at the heart of politics.” Belli sipped his wine before continuing. “Cardinal Abruzzi, you have become a powerful leader, a masterful intellect who uses it to get others to do what you want them to do. These, of course, are the hallmarks of a powerful politician --- a strong leader.”
“I am not so strong as this Manzanilla, however,” said Michel after sipping it again.
Belli continued, “I cannot match your intelligence, Mike; I don’t know who can. You are truly a gifted leader --- not much on sherry, of course.” Michel ignored the tease and thought about the extent of his gifts as a leader. Belli was correct; Michel was being a good politician. Could a good politician be honest? Could he be a good priest? Pragmatism once again lurked, and Michel detested it. He lowered his head and shifted in his seat.
“Of course,” continued Belli, “my palette is far keener than yours.” That gibe brought Michel back, and he shot a mock glare at the irrepressibly young old man. “Being Italian, of course, helps. The French…”
“The wine is Spanish,” said Michel, his thick lips betraying his glee.
“And being Italian I am astute enough and not so chauvinistic to appreciate the fact that the best sherry comes from Spanish soil. Of course, the French have particular difficulty in recognizing that everything French is not the best.”
“With that, my dear Italian, I must agree,” said Michel nodding his head in sad accord with the truth. “We are an arrogant lot.”
“Well,” added Belli with a straight face, “at least your are an honest Frenchman, which I attribute to your Italian lineage, of course.”
“There are no honest Italians.”
“Of course, but that’s part of our charm. We are masterful politicians.”
Both men laughed into the night, and Michel did not mind the sherry at all.
l
In the two weeks before the beginning of the conclave Michel attended five other dinners hosted by other cardinals from the Curia. Few of the cardinals from the first dinner were at the other dinners. On the tennis court after a rare victory in which Belli insisted they were allowed to win because of his seniority, the Cardinal Bishop told Michel that the dinners had been arranged with great care by the Curia so that no cardinal could say he never met the future Pope unless he failed to attend a dinner.
Michel smiled. “Then I have met the future Pope, and maybe even called him by his given first name.”
“For the last time,” remarked the sweaty Belli wearing his Nike tennis shorts below his gut.
“For the last time.”
Michel realized that Belli attended only his own dinner and asked why that was so. Belli admitted that he believed the first dinner contained all the likely candidates. Jesippi Cardinal Norbert attended only the one he hosted. Carmerlengo Russo attended none of them. When Michel asked why that was, Belli told him in confidence that the carmerlengo had been diagnosed with bone cancer and would not be a candidate. Norbert and Belli, having lived their lives at the Vatican, knew all the candidates and were themselves so well known that their attendance at the dinners might detract from the others getting to know one another.
A few days before the conclave was to begin, Michel took his morning walk this time outside Vatican City to see the extent of the new restoration project at the Temple of the Virgins in old Rome. It would be about an hour’s walk, and he would enjoy seeing the outside world for a change. But before he left the city, only a few hundred yards from his residence, he heard a voice call to him. It was in French.
"Your Eminence! Can we get a moment to talk?" It was Pierre Langone, the reporter from many years ago. He had aged greatly, had lost most of his hair, and his tried eyes were draped with sagging skin. He was now writing for La Monde and was accompanied by a photographer. Langone made the case that the interview would explain to the public a situation which happened years ago but which still was of interest. Michel's mind raced. Would an interview for the French press be considered bad form? It would be about the “miracle,” of course, and that was so many years before.
“As long as the questions deal with the past,” said Michel, beginning on his walk. “I hope you don’t mind walking as we talk.”
The interview went well, the tone of the questions deferential, but Langone could not help himself.
“And, Cardinal, whom do you think will be elected? Will it be you?”
“I’m afraid, Monsieur Langone, you have violated our agreement. You have the story you asked for.” Langone apologized sheepishly and went off with what he considered a coup: an interview with the most celebrated cleric in France and who was a realistic candidate for election to the papacy.
Michel had completed his tour of the western sector of Old Rome and thought about the great people who had over the millennia trod that very ground. Had Julius Caesar or Caesar Augustus ever visited the Temple of the Virgins? Had Michel’s grandfather walked these streets before moving his family to France? The Eternal City was aptly named, the new thrust against the old but unable to overtake it. Why would any Italian leave? Paris was more beautiful, but Rome was blessed with the power of the ages. It was truly the temple of Western Civilization.
Michael waited at the curb to cross loud, trafficked Via Arenula, lined with stores and offices and pedestrians rushing about without looking up. In English, the word pedestrian could mean two things, and Michel thought that here both were a propos.
Then, like an echo emerging from the recesses of the mind, a line from a Wordsworth poem he had been required to memorize for English class came to his lips:
“I’d rather be a pagan suckled in a creed outworn
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn,
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea
And hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.”
At least, Michael thought, the pagans had an understanding of the spiritual world, of something grander than themselves. Modern Rome had lost that modesty and now worshiped only the tangible. Could the Holy Mother the Church ever again teach its children the supremacy of the sublime incorporeal over the pedestrian?
The Langone article Michel read the next day on La Monde’s website was accurate. It quoted Michel directly in disavowing any miracle and complimenting the work of Dr. Fornier, who was the real miracle worker. Yet, the report pointed out, there were many who insisted it had been a miracle and that, for reasons of modesty, Cardinal Abruzzi disavowed God’s work through his hand. There was no mention of the election except to say Cardinal Michel, despite being French, had a good chance to be the next pope.
The article was accompanied by a photo of Michel standing in front of a gathering of onlookers on the ancient Ponte Sisto crossing the Tiber. Then Michel noticed the white hat. In the background of the picture he saw the photographer who followed him from the airport on his arrival in Italy. The picture was grainy and the man’s face was in a shadow, but Michel was quite sure it was the same man. The Middle Easterner did not have his camera, but he wore the same white sports cap.
l
The conclave, literally “locked in with a key,” began on the morning of September 30 after a special mass conducted by Carmerlengo Russo. The hot summer weather had subsided, and Rome was comfortable at last. And Michel was elected pope on the seventh ballot.
The Sistine chapel, used as the meeting area for the conclave of cardinals, and the nearby living quarters were temporarily walled off with plywood permitting only one entrance for provisions and any emergency that may arise. The living was monastic; a bed, a chair and a small desk were all that were provided. Care was taken that no cardinal’s quarters differed significantly from the others. Permitted no communication with the outside world, the electors were totally isolated until they accomplished their duty.
Canon Law requires that the carmerlengo plus three other cardinals dictate the rules for election. The three cardinals are given a tenure of three days. Every fourth day another set of Cardinals, appointed depending on the seniority, leads the group. Michel along with Belli was chosen in the first group of three.[3]
Michel received 20 votes on the first ballot which placed him third among the top four vote getters. Jesippi Norbert, scion of the ancient and influential Roman family, led the vote with 35. Behind him was Antonio Belli with 31. The Jesuit Cardinal Franco Botella from Rio de Janeiro got 18.
When the vote was read allowed by the sonorous Carmerlengo Russo, Michel, who had voted for the conservative Norbert, was more than surprised. To have received 20 votes was flattering. The second vote that evening was much the same with each of the top four receiving a few more votes each.
The first vote of the next day was virtually unchanged from the previous one, but things changed that evening. It was the fourth vote over all, and the carmerlengo read the votes in ascending order: Norbert 32, Belli 32, Botella 41, and Abruzzi 45.
Michel froze, and as he stared down at the table in front of him, he saw out of the corners of his eyes everything move more slowly than normal. How could it be? The slower everyone moved, the faster he sorted out the possibilities.
There were two main camps, one favored the more popular but liberal Belli, the other Norbert, a brilliant scholar and most pious priest. Both were senior cardinals and both were Italian, and that was advantageous. The Norbert camp would be diametrically opposed to Belli and vice versa. However, when it became clear that neither could gain a two-thirds majority, the voters looked to a second choice, someone who tended toward the man each bloc wanted. The contest became one between two less favored but experienced cardinals, a conservative from Europe and a more liberal from South America.
By the fifth vote it had become clear that Michel’s analysis had been correct. Almost all votes were cast either for him or Botella, with only a few split between Belli and Norbert. Michael led Botella by seven votes, 10 shy of the two-thirds needed. The final vote on the third day, Michel led Botella by five and was five shy of election.
The selections since John XXIII had been conservative cardinals of high achievement, and they had been European. Michel wondered whether it was now time for a change to a younger, more liberal pope from South America, a continent of growing Catholic influence; or would the proclivity remain to elect a European, despite his being French?
That night Michel lay in bed hoping he would not be elected but knowing he would be. He would not pray for an outcome, for he knew God’s will would be done. Michel prayed only that he be ready to serve if he were called. As he struggled to sleep, he imagined how his life would change. He saw himself sitting on the papal throne, the signet ring on his finger. He saw himself blessing the throng outside of St. Peter’s at Easter as John Paul had done with Michel by his side. And he saw himself leading the Curia, their faces doubtful but obedient. He would no longer be Michel. He would be answerable only to God, and the enormous weight of that responsibility made him twitch in his bed. If Divine Providence would have him pope, then he would be ready. Prayer, deep and heartfelt, would guide him through the maze of decisions on the path toward God’s will, which he would see be done. Michel fell asleep, finally, knowing the Holy Ghost would direct him.
On the morning of the fourth day, the sun was behind the clouds, and Michel, as he walked from the residence to the chapel felt rain in the heavy air. He had slept well enough but was particularly tired. His footsteps were heavy, and his head hung low seeing nothing but the ancient cobblestones before him. If it were going to happen, he prayed it would happen that day.
The morning votes had been cast and tallied, and Carmerlengo Russo intoned the results, steely-eyed and dour. All the votes were given to either of the two men, and Michel Cardinal Abruzzi would be pope.
The Sistine Chapel was silent, and Michel hung his head looking at no one. Belli tried to catch his eye, but his friend seemed in a trance. As tradition dictated, the carmerlengo directed the elected to meet with him in private in an adjacent room where Cardinal Russo formerly asked, in Latin, if Michel Abruzzi accepted the position of Pope of the Church. Michel answered in Latin, "Accepto." He was then asked what name he would take as Pope and answered: "I am Michael the First so that I might honor and follow the example of Saint Michael the Archangel. I pray for inspiration and guidance from the greatest defender of Almighty God."
Michael’s first official act was to name the next Dean of the College of Cardinals, the carmerlengo.
"You have served the Pope and the Church for many years," Michael told Carmerlengo Russo.
"I hope I have served well, Your Holiness. But my health is failing, and I can no longer serve. It is time now for another serve in my place."
"And whom, Carmerlengo Russo, might you suggest I name?”
"Pope Michael, I can name Jesippi Norbert or Antonio Belli. But there are others who would serve well."
"I am closest to Cardinal Belli," said Michael I looking into Russo’s eyes. They were tearing.
"He would be an excellent carmerlengo, Your Holiness."
"Then he is so named.”
The last official act of the carmerlengo was to stand before the crowd in the Vatican and proclaim in a loud and triumphant voice to the thousands standing in the rain in St. Peter’s Square, “Habemus Papum.” "We have a Pope." And, in a dark roiling sky with thunder rumbling in the distance, Cardinal Michel Abruzzi became Pope Michael I.
l
Michel had been cardinal for several years, and he had much for which to be thankful. The Michelian movement had grown steadily in popularity as did his. Yet Michel saw no improvement in the direction of Church either in popularity or influence. Of particular concern to him was the Church’s response to the attacks, verbal and violent, that had become de rigueur. The secular press delighted in reporting stories of pedophile priests while ignoring similar atrocities committed by leaders of other religions. Muslim terrorists were routinely killing Catholic priests and nuns with only the merest of reportage by the press and, astoundingly, only the slightest condemnation by the Vatican. For the Pope to fail to recognize the inherent weakness of Islam and attribute the terrorism only to some in the Wahhabi sect was a political miscalculation. In Michel’s mind, the Vatican failure to meet the threat bravely and publicly made the Church appear feckless.
Of particular concern to Michel was the Vatican’s virtual silence in the face of the 2006 Muslim bus burning in his own city. Within hours of the onset of the rioting, Michel received a call from the Vatican asking him to be “most restrained” in public condemnation of the rioters and to “encourage the most humane” response by the police.
Upon receiving the call, Michel typed a letter to Pope Benedict.
"… the Church should make it perfectly clear that Islam, which preaches violence and death to Christians should not be tolerated by any group or institution. History has not always been kind to the Church when it seemingly allowed evil to coexist within its sphere of influence. There are those who rebuke the Church for not being more active against Hitler. Are we not doing the same in the face of this Moslem jihad? I am not sure what more Pius XII should or could have done, but I think something more than pious words were needed. The Church cannot rewrite history, but it can keep from making the same mistake by failing to call for action. Had the Church many years ago taken a proactive stance against the Mafia, that particular virulence would not still be infecting the globe….”
However, that letter was never sent, and while Michel was convinced it should have been, it would have been unpolitical to have done so. And that angered him greatly. He was as cowardly as those he would condemn. Was he so corrupt that he allowed politics to control his best instincts? He had become a priest to honor and give glory to God, not men, and ironically in order to accomplish the former, he had to honor the latter. Politics is an exercise in ungodly pragmatism, and Michel loathed that part of him that knelt before it. Sleep finally closed his eyes on the barbed leather strap hanging on the side of the closet.
Michel’s sleep on the night of September 14, 2010 was fitful, uncomfortable, and filled with darkly disjointed dreams. In the morning he prayed as he always had at his kneeler, on this day more asleep than awake. With heavy legs he shuffled down to the chapel unconsciously touching the sculpture of St. Michael the Archangel on the way to say mass. The wine tasted like vinegar, and he hoped, as he walked to breakfast, that his toast would kill the horrid taste that. On the breakfast table next to the table setting, Michel flipped open his laptop and scanned his email. The one from Cardinal Belli stood out. The Pope was gravely ill and that his death was expected in a few days at most.
Michel would leave for Rome that day. He would not wait to fly with the other French cardinals who would arrive at Orly the next morning, and while being with the others would probably have made the trip to Rome less daunting, his solitude would allow his thoughts free reign.
The prospect of meeting the other electors of the world to elect a new pope was exhilarating as it was daunting. Michel’s voice was to be one of many, but the choice he would have to make, as he did when he voted for Benedict XVI, would be of profound import. It was, however, a choice he again felt ill prepared to make. He knew only a handful of the other 120 or so cardinals, and with the exception of his fellow Frenchmen, he knew few of them well enough to determine who would be best to lead with absolute power the world’s largest religion. The urgency of his situation became more pronounced when he learned on the way to the airport that the Pope had died.
There would be the papal funeral and days of mourning, and that would provide extra time in advance of the conclave to learn about the others. Michel wondered what the media would make of his chances. They would of course publish the names of those they thought most likely to be elected, but how could they know who among them was truly papabile?
Michel had some opinions about likely candidates, and none of them was from among the four other French or thirteen Americans candidates. Both nations suffered from the reputation of being too domineering and parochial. A parochial Cardinal, and they are the majority, tends to identify too strongly with his own culture and sees the world through the prism of his traditions. The Church prides itself in its being truly catholic, universal, and therefore seeks a candidate who has demonstrated a well-developed world view. Michel thought it likely one of the Italian Cardinals would be the next pope although the Jesuit from Brazil had a chance and perhaps even the South African.
Jesippi Cardinal Norbert of Milan was one of the most influential Italian cardinals and led one of the oldest and most influential archdioceses in Italy. He had arranged for a car to drive Michel to the Vatican where he would be housed until the new pope was installed. Despite Michel’s being the more experienced cardinal, the Milanese and he were of equal rank in the College of Cardinals because each had been elevated to Cardinal Bishop.[1]
As Michel walked though the Aeroporti di Roma to the luggage carousel he saw quiet groups of people gathered around TV monitors at each of the gates. The news was arresting and it seemed that nothing else had any meaning. How many of the TV watchers would have guessed that walking by them was a French senior citizen who would cast a vote for the next Pope?
But as Michael descended to the luggage claim he noticed a difference. There was no TV, and the only thing on the minds of his fellow passengers seemed to be getting their bags and getting out. Without the media, the world moved on.
A uniformed chauffer carried Michel’s luggage to a black Mercedes with “Vatican” license plates. Behind the car parked at the curb was a gray sedan with two swarthy men who Michel thought might have been Middle Eastern. He made eye contact with the man in the passenger side who wore a white, long-billed cap and had a large camera hanging from his neck. He gave Michel a slight nod and smile as he snapped several pictures. Michel instinctively smiled for the camera.
They had been driving a few minutes when his driver mentioned that the gray car seemed to be following them. “Paparazzi,” he exclaimed with derision.
“They already got a picture,” answered Michel in Italian. “At the curb before I got in.”
“Patsos!” returned the driver.
Michel looked over his shoulder at the car which was following closely and certainly not making any effort to mask the effort.
“Driver, slow up,” said Michel. “Let them pass.”
They slowed to 30 kph as did the gray sedan. They obviously wanted Michel to know they were tailing him.
“All right, driver, let’s speed up,” called Michel. Still they stayed close.
It was not until they approached the Vatican City gates did the gray sedan turn off.
l
Organizations are a collection of traditions, and a portion of the strength of religious tradition is how it functions during the most significant times in life: birth, marriage, and death. The ceremony and rubrics surrounding the death of a pope have become particularly elaborate with both public and private displays illustrative of the gravity of the event. Thousands of somber faithful stand for days in any weather outside St. Peter’s to get a glimpse of the cardinals with their bright red robes and birettas set squarely on their heads to begin the period of mourning. Reporters and cameramen by the hundreds from every part of the globe jostle each other for the best locations.
Before Michel had stepped off the plane, the tradition had begun and would follow its prescribed course for the next two weeks. The Pope was declared deceased by the attending physician after having attached an electrocardiogram to the dead Pope and watching for twenty minutes. He then declared mechanically in a loud voice, "The Pope is dead."
That occasioned the Carmerlengo Tomaso Russo, the Dean of the College of Cardinals, to tap the deceased Pope three times on the face, calling his given name. After a long moment and in an otherworldly basso profundo voice, the carmerlengo declared the Pope dead and removed the Pope's ring. An aide placed the ring on the floor and with a mallet struck the ring once, breaking it. In centuries past the pope’s ring was a signet used to authenticate documents, but now it had become only a symbol of papal authority.
It is the carmerlengo, in charge of the Church in the interim, who decides the exact date that the conclave can meet to elect the new pope. Usually two weeks, the delay had been to allow for the funeral and for cardinals from around the world time to travel to Rome.[2]
As tradition dictated, the funeral arrangements for the Pope were coordinated by the carmerlengo’s staff. Several masses besides the funeral itself were to be offered and would present opportunities for some cardinals, selected by the carmerlengo himself, to give a sermon that would by followed closely by the media and would provide for that cardinal international exposure as well as another means by which other cardinals could judge him. No cardinal can vote for himself, and in that spirit sermons at these funeral masses are never designed to elevate one’s chances to be voted pope. There is an old saw that says a man who enters the conclave as a pope leaves as a cardinal.
Michel, recognized as a very fine speaker and gifted communicator, thought he might be selected to deliver a sermon and was relieved to learn he had not. The effort in preparation would have been burdensome given his anxiety about having to make a choice in the scant two weeks he had. Carmerlengo Russo chose speakers who had been personal friends of the deceased Pope for many years. Two of them were past eighty-years-old and had no chance of being elected pope.
All cardinals are expected to visit Rome at least once a year and meet with members of the Curia. Depending on the business being conducted, an audience with the pope would be arranged. Thus, cardinals living in Rome and working in the Curia knew most of the cardinals, but unless cardinals from other countries met in committee, they knew little of each other. Though Michel had worked at least part-time in Rome as director of the Legion of Christ, and while he knew several cardinals who worked regularly at the Curia, he knew few of them well. The Legion, being a relatively new, had yet to establish the networking other institutions had.
On his third night in Rome, Michel joined Belli and a several other cardinals for dinner at the Cardinal Bishop’s residence across the street from the Vatican’s Eagle Fountain. The 500-year-old gray limestone house sat behind a stone fence and blocked from street view by ancient elms and beeches. The dining room accommodated thirty at its baroque maple table, over which were hung three glittering Murano chandeliers. Twenty-six cardinals sat at the table, 13 on each side. Belli sat in the middle of the table, with Michel sitting on his right, opposite the indelibly stained marble fireplace. Michel knew a only a few of the men well, some only by name, and others not at all. Belli, it seemed, was good friends with all of them.
It was casual dress for cardinals which meant a clerical collar, red shirt, and black slacks. Some of the men from Africa and the East wore black shirts and red skull caps. The mood was generally more light-hearted than Michel would have thought given the nature of their business, but the tone had been set by the host, and perhaps that had been Belli’s intention. There would be enough time for gravity thought Michel as he poured himself a second glass of Chianti.
Michel and Belli spoke in Italian as did the other three Italians, but the rest spoke English. There were four Americans, two British, and an Australian. The remainder came from 14 other nations. Michel was the only Frenchman.
Belli was loud and spoke as if everyone wanted or should want to hear what he had to say. He had little trouble engaging the farthest from him, and seemed particularly desirous of doing so. The conversation was always light with Belli inquiring about a past illness, a complimentary statement about a recent publication, a soccer victory, and the like. He spoke only in Italian unless English was absolutely needed, and his conviviality and absolute lack of pretense was infectious. The men were enjoying the party.
Michel could not help himself. “I suspect we are dining with the next pope,” he leaned over and whispered to Belli who was cutting into his chicken leg with a knife and fork.
“God knows,” he answered without looking up from his carving.
“Yes, I know God knows,” replied Michel. “Do you?”
Belli looked at Michel from the corner of his eye and whispered, “Well I worked on the arrangements.” Then, against the possibility of having been overheard, the Italian stentor proclaimed, “All the cardinals will dine here before we meet. Tomorrow we will have 30.”
“I hope they get something better than this broiled chicken,” quipped Michel, his chetnut eyes gleaming.
“I should think with your austerity program you would approve of the fare,” shot Belli with a broad grin flashing his small, perfectly flat teeth.
“Touché,” admitted Michel. Belli guffawed, proud of his success.
Cardinal Addie, the South African sitting on Michel’s right mentioned an article Michel had written about the Muslim threat to Catholicism.
"Do you see a solution in the near term?” asked the cardinal of Johannesburg in a broad English accent.
Michel’s answer was measured. “I have grave doubts there is a possible immediate solution. I would suggest, however, that the Church be more forceful in its condemnation of Muslim clerics who say little to dissuade their more radical counterparts.”
“There has been published a modern version of the Koran which seeks, I believe, to soften the language --- make it in some way less violent,” said Addie, a pale wisp of a man with thin white hair and pale blue eyes. Michel thought he looked rather like Peter O’Toole.
“Yes, but the text was written by a woman whose major change deals with changing the word for beating to leaving,” replied Michel. “Her attempt was to prevent their men from beating their wives and using the Koran to justify it. I have not read it, but she did not alter the words of Muhammad regarding his commandment to kill infidels.”
“No, it does not,” said Addie, his thin fingers wrapped around his wine glass and raising it to his lips.
“And, being written by a woman, I suspect it will be received with the same irrelevance as the words from the Church,” Michel added too hastily. If the words from the Church were irrelevant, how could there be any value in the “more forceful condemnation” Michel just recommended? He would allow himself no more wine.
Addie’s response, “But there are only words to persuade,” was met with loud silence, but he added piously, “I suspect the late Holy Father knew that there will always be those who attack the Church. His direction was to help the poor and spread the Word.”
"The poor you will always have with you, Mathew 26:11, and Mark 14:7," Michel said with a quick smile. “And while we must fight to raise them from poverty, we must also fight to protect our priests and nuns who go out into the world, who feed and teach the poor, who bring them into the fold. The two fights are not mutually exclusive,” exclaimed Michel, the words pouring from his lips like wine. “Indeed there are many fronts.”
“As you wrote,” added Addie in agreement, “we are defenders of the faith, and implicit in the term defenders there is the notion of assertion if not aggression. I particularly enjoyed that line of reasoning in your article.”
“That is kind of you to say, but I fear that I failed in that article to stress the love that we must use in all of our dealings, from the poor in the rain forests to the most radical Shiites in Baghdad,” Michel said. “Without caritas we loose our way --- we loose Christ.”
“It is implicit in what you write, I am sure,” said Addie kindly.
“There is a trap, I suspect, in the effort to move others to action,” said Michel. He held his hands in front of him as if they were holding a large bowl. “In one’s zeal to provoke, to narrow the focus to draw one’s point, one can lose sight of the broad, the universal.” His hands moved closer together, his fingertips touching. “It is love that Christ commands, and it is love upon which He has built His Church and which sustains it. No action may be taken without its subordination to the love of Christ.”
“Well said, Michel,” Belli said leaning over Michel’s shoulder. “The battle rages not only from without but from within.”
When dinner was over and the cardinals were leaving, Michel shook hands with each man using the first name of as many as he could. Belli had asked Michel to stay after everyone left, and when the two were alone, Belli, with a look of guilty pleasure, brought out a bottle of Manzanilla sherry.
“I got this last month from Spain. It’s a 1974!” Belli said proudly.
“1974,” Michel repeated. “Did anything happen in 1974? I can’t remember that long ago.”
“They bottled this palomino fina; that’s what happened in 1974,” Belli answered as he poured it into the brandy glasses. “It has been uncorked since before dinner.”
“And you no doubt thought of little else since then. You are, I’m afraid, an irascible libertine,” provoked Michel.
“And you are, I’m afraid, a politician of the first order,” responded Belli, raising his glass in a salute.
“How so?”
“I heard your conversation with Addie.”
Michel shrugged. “If I am a politician, I am an honest one.”
“There are no honest politicians, my good friend,” replied Belli with a smirk. “Only good or bad ones; you, Mike Abruzzi, are a good one.”
“I spoke the truth.”
“Of course you did. Your honesty is incontrovertible, but it is not the issue.”
“I was unaware that an issue existed,” Michel said on the defense.
“Of course,” Belli answered. “I’ve made it one. But there is no need to deny it. In truth, a strong leader, which you, of course, you are, must be a good politician. You told him what he needed to hear. That is, you knew what to say to put him at ease by putting yourself in the best light --- for him.”
“It was natural; it flowed out of the discussion,” said Michel sipping his brandy. It was more pungent than usual and not terribly pleasing.
Belli studied his friend’s tasting of the Manzanilla. “Wonderful, no?”
Michel smiled. “A good politician would say yes.”
“Then you don’t like it?” asked Belli, searching Michel’s face for the truth.
“Not too much; it’s a bit acetic, maybe thinner than usual.”
Belli sipped his wine to see if he found it so. “Perhaps a bit sharp, but it is bold --- quite excellent.”
“So, I am not as good a politician as you said.”
“On the contrary, Monsieur, you sought to win the debate, to exert your power, power that lies at the heart of politics.” Belli sipped his wine before continuing. “Cardinal Abruzzi, you have become a powerful leader, a masterful intellect who uses it to get others to do what you want them to do. These, of course, are the hallmarks of a powerful politician --- a strong leader.”
“I am not so strong as this Manzanilla, however,” said Michel after sipping it again.
Belli continued, “I cannot match your intelligence, Mike; I don’t know who can. You are truly a gifted leader --- not much on sherry, of course.” Michel ignored the tease and thought about the extent of his gifts as a leader. Belli was correct; Michel was being a good politician. Could a good politician be honest? Could he be a good priest? Pragmatism once again lurked, and Michel detested it. He lowered his head and shifted in his seat.
“Of course,” continued Belli, “my palette is far keener than yours.” That gibe brought Michel back, and he shot a mock glare at the irrepressibly young old man. “Being Italian, of course, helps. The French…”
“The wine is Spanish,” said Michel, his thick lips betraying his glee.
“And being Italian I am astute enough and not so chauvinistic to appreciate the fact that the best sherry comes from Spanish soil. Of course, the French have particular difficulty in recognizing that everything French is not the best.”
“With that, my dear Italian, I must agree,” said Michel nodding his head in sad accord with the truth. “We are an arrogant lot.”
“Well,” added Belli with a straight face, “at least your are an honest Frenchman, which I attribute to your Italian lineage, of course.”
“There are no honest Italians.”
“Of course, but that’s part of our charm. We are masterful politicians.”
Both men laughed into the night, and Michel did not mind the sherry at all.
l
In the two weeks before the beginning of the conclave Michel attended five other dinners hosted by other cardinals from the Curia. Few of the cardinals from the first dinner were at the other dinners. On the tennis court after a rare victory in which Belli insisted they were allowed to win because of his seniority, the Cardinal Bishop told Michel that the dinners had been arranged with great care by the Curia so that no cardinal could say he never met the future Pope unless he failed to attend a dinner.
Michel smiled. “Then I have met the future Pope, and maybe even called him by his given first name.”
“For the last time,” remarked the sweaty Belli wearing his Nike tennis shorts below his gut.
“For the last time.”
Michel realized that Belli attended only his own dinner and asked why that was so. Belli admitted that he believed the first dinner contained all the likely candidates. Jesippi Cardinal Norbert attended only the one he hosted. Carmerlengo Russo attended none of them. When Michel asked why that was, Belli told him in confidence that the carmerlengo had been diagnosed with bone cancer and would not be a candidate. Norbert and Belli, having lived their lives at the Vatican, knew all the candidates and were themselves so well known that their attendance at the dinners might detract from the others getting to know one another.
A few days before the conclave was to begin, Michel took his morning walk this time outside Vatican City to see the extent of the new restoration project at the Temple of the Virgins in old Rome. It would be about an hour’s walk, and he would enjoy seeing the outside world for a change. But before he left the city, only a few hundred yards from his residence, he heard a voice call to him. It was in French.
"Your Eminence! Can we get a moment to talk?" It was Pierre Langone, the reporter from many years ago. He had aged greatly, had lost most of his hair, and his tried eyes were draped with sagging skin. He was now writing for La Monde and was accompanied by a photographer. Langone made the case that the interview would explain to the public a situation which happened years ago but which still was of interest. Michel's mind raced. Would an interview for the French press be considered bad form? It would be about the “miracle,” of course, and that was so many years before.
“As long as the questions deal with the past,” said Michel, beginning on his walk. “I hope you don’t mind walking as we talk.”
The interview went well, the tone of the questions deferential, but Langone could not help himself.
“And, Cardinal, whom do you think will be elected? Will it be you?”
“I’m afraid, Monsieur Langone, you have violated our agreement. You have the story you asked for.” Langone apologized sheepishly and went off with what he considered a coup: an interview with the most celebrated cleric in France and who was a realistic candidate for election to the papacy.
Michel had completed his tour of the western sector of Old Rome and thought about the great people who had over the millennia trod that very ground. Had Julius Caesar or Caesar Augustus ever visited the Temple of the Virgins? Had Michel’s grandfather walked these streets before moving his family to France? The Eternal City was aptly named, the new thrust against the old but unable to overtake it. Why would any Italian leave? Paris was more beautiful, but Rome was blessed with the power of the ages. It was truly the temple of Western Civilization.
Michael waited at the curb to cross loud, trafficked Via Arenula, lined with stores and offices and pedestrians rushing about without looking up. In English, the word pedestrian could mean two things, and Michel thought that here both were a propos.
Then, like an echo emerging from the recesses of the mind, a line from a Wordsworth poem he had been required to memorize for English class came to his lips:
“I’d rather be a pagan suckled in a creed outworn
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn,
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea
And hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.”
At least, Michael thought, the pagans had an understanding of the spiritual world, of something grander than themselves. Modern Rome had lost that modesty and now worshiped only the tangible. Could the Holy Mother the Church ever again teach its children the supremacy of the sublime incorporeal over the pedestrian?
The Langone article Michel read the next day on La Monde’s website was accurate. It quoted Michel directly in disavowing any miracle and complimenting the work of Dr. Fornier, who was the real miracle worker. Yet, the report pointed out, there were many who insisted it had been a miracle and that, for reasons of modesty, Cardinal Abruzzi disavowed God’s work through his hand. There was no mention of the election except to say Cardinal Michel, despite being French, had a good chance to be the next pope.
The article was accompanied by a photo of Michel standing in front of a gathering of onlookers on the ancient Ponte Sisto crossing the Tiber. Then Michel noticed the white hat. In the background of the picture he saw the photographer who followed him from the airport on his arrival in Italy. The picture was grainy and the man’s face was in a shadow, but Michel was quite sure it was the same man. The Middle Easterner did not have his camera, but he wore the same white sports cap.
l
The conclave, literally “locked in with a key,” began on the morning of September 30 after a special mass conducted by Carmerlengo Russo. The hot summer weather had subsided, and Rome was comfortable at last. And Michel was elected pope on the seventh ballot.
The Sistine chapel, used as the meeting area for the conclave of cardinals, and the nearby living quarters were temporarily walled off with plywood permitting only one entrance for provisions and any emergency that may arise. The living was monastic; a bed, a chair and a small desk were all that were provided. Care was taken that no cardinal’s quarters differed significantly from the others. Permitted no communication with the outside world, the electors were totally isolated until they accomplished their duty.
Canon Law requires that the carmerlengo plus three other cardinals dictate the rules for election. The three cardinals are given a tenure of three days. Every fourth day another set of Cardinals, appointed depending on the seniority, leads the group. Michel along with Belli was chosen in the first group of three.[3]
Michel received 20 votes on the first ballot which placed him third among the top four vote getters. Jesippi Norbert, scion of the ancient and influential Roman family, led the vote with 35. Behind him was Antonio Belli with 31. The Jesuit Cardinal Franco Botella from Rio de Janeiro got 18.
When the vote was read allowed by the sonorous Carmerlengo Russo, Michel, who had voted for the conservative Norbert, was more than surprised. To have received 20 votes was flattering. The second vote that evening was much the same with each of the top four receiving a few more votes each.
The first vote of the next day was virtually unchanged from the previous one, but things changed that evening. It was the fourth vote over all, and the carmerlengo read the votes in ascending order: Norbert 32, Belli 32, Botella 41, and Abruzzi 45.
Michel froze, and as he stared down at the table in front of him, he saw out of the corners of his eyes everything move more slowly than normal. How could it be? The slower everyone moved, the faster he sorted out the possibilities.
There were two main camps, one favored the more popular but liberal Belli, the other Norbert, a brilliant scholar and most pious priest. Both were senior cardinals and both were Italian, and that was advantageous. The Norbert camp would be diametrically opposed to Belli and vice versa. However, when it became clear that neither could gain a two-thirds majority, the voters looked to a second choice, someone who tended toward the man each bloc wanted. The contest became one between two less favored but experienced cardinals, a conservative from Europe and a more liberal from South America.
By the fifth vote it had become clear that Michel’s analysis had been correct. Almost all votes were cast either for him or Botella, with only a few split between Belli and Norbert. Michael led Botella by seven votes, 10 shy of the two-thirds needed. The final vote on the third day, Michel led Botella by five and was five shy of election.
The selections since John XXIII had been conservative cardinals of high achievement, and they had been European. Michel wondered whether it was now time for a change to a younger, more liberal pope from South America, a continent of growing Catholic influence; or would the proclivity remain to elect a European, despite his being French?
That night Michel lay in bed hoping he would not be elected but knowing he would be. He would not pray for an outcome, for he knew God’s will would be done. Michel prayed only that he be ready to serve if he were called. As he struggled to sleep, he imagined how his life would change. He saw himself sitting on the papal throne, the signet ring on his finger. He saw himself blessing the throng outside of St. Peter’s at Easter as John Paul had done with Michel by his side. And he saw himself leading the Curia, their faces doubtful but obedient. He would no longer be Michel. He would be answerable only to God, and the enormous weight of that responsibility made him twitch in his bed. If Divine Providence would have him pope, then he would be ready. Prayer, deep and heartfelt, would guide him through the maze of decisions on the path toward God’s will, which he would see be done. Michel fell asleep, finally, knowing the Holy Ghost would direct him.
On the morning of the fourth day, the sun was behind the clouds, and Michel, as he walked from the residence to the chapel felt rain in the heavy air. He had slept well enough but was particularly tired. His footsteps were heavy, and his head hung low seeing nothing but the ancient cobblestones before him. If it were going to happen, he prayed it would happen that day.
The morning votes had been cast and tallied, and Carmerlengo Russo intoned the results, steely-eyed and dour. All the votes were given to either of the two men, and Michel Cardinal Abruzzi would be pope.
The Sistine Chapel was silent, and Michel hung his head looking at no one. Belli tried to catch his eye, but his friend seemed in a trance. As tradition dictated, the carmerlengo directed the elected to meet with him in private in an adjacent room where Cardinal Russo formerly asked, in Latin, if Michel Abruzzi accepted the position of Pope of the Church. Michel answered in Latin, "Accepto." He was then asked what name he would take as Pope and answered: "I am Michael the First so that I might honor and follow the example of Saint Michael the Archangel. I pray for inspiration and guidance from the greatest defender of Almighty God."
Michael’s first official act was to name the next Dean of the College of Cardinals, the carmerlengo.
"You have served the Pope and the Church for many years," Michael told Carmerlengo Russo.
"I hope I have served well, Your Holiness. But my health is failing, and I can no longer serve. It is time now for another serve in my place."
"And whom, Carmerlengo Russo, might you suggest I name?”
"Pope Michael, I can name Jesippi Norbert or Antonio Belli. But there are others who would serve well."
"I am closest to Cardinal Belli," said Michael I looking into Russo’s eyes. They were tearing.
"He would be an excellent carmerlengo, Your Holiness."
"Then he is so named.”
The last official act of the carmerlengo was to stand before the crowd in the Vatican and proclaim in a loud and triumphant voice to the thousands standing in the rain in St. Peter’s Square, “Habemus Papum.” "We have a Pope." And, in a dark roiling sky with thunder rumbling in the distance, Cardinal Michel Abruzzi became Pope Michael I.
l
During times of great change, tradition and ceremony allow time for acceptance and comfort in the knowledge that while there is a certain upheaval, there is direction and order. However, neither tradition nor ceremony, regardless how carefully planned and executed, can control external forces, and on the sun-filled, happy day after Michael’s coronation, the pope's car, waiting outside the Sistine Chapel, exploded. Even the reinforced plating under it could not withstand the force of the blast, and the driver, thrown against the reinforced glass, suffered a broken neck. He was extracted from the wreck already dead. Pope Michael would have been in the car a few minutes later.
Within the hour, the explosion was headline news around the world. Speculation was as rife as it was avid.
Carmerlengo Belli, whose first duty as carmerlengo was to aid in the investigation of the terrorist plot, was of little help to the officers from the Swiss Guard, the Roman police and Interpol who gathered around him in his office. He and Tomaso Russo could tell them only that security had been maximized and that inquires had already begun. The carmerlengo was certain to have been told if Vatican security had the merest expectation that any such act had been expected.
The Roman bomb squad had already collected fragments of the bomb, and early indication was that the I.E.D. was similar to those used in the Iraq war. Vatican security assured the officers that the Pope had been moved to a safe location and insisted he be kept abreast of the investigation with hourly reports. Given the heightened security during the conclave and the advanced electronics which monitored the Vatican, it was difficult to imagine how anyone could have gotten undetected to the car to plant a bomb.
It was several hours before security deemed it safe for Michael to return to his chambers. Michael summoned Belli and told him of the man in the white sports cap who had followed him from the airport and that the same man’s picture appeared in Le Monde. He also told him that he would the next morning, as had been planned, tour the streets of Rome to greet the people.
“The Bishop of Rome will meet his flock where they live and work,” insisted Michael. “Muslim radicals, if that is who they are, will not keep the pope from his people.”
Belli hesitated before he said, “I will see to it, Your Holiness.” Trying to convince Michael not to do so would be as useless as it would be unwise. “And the police?” he added. “They will, of course, want to…”
“In due time, Antonio mio.”
“Of course,” said Belli with a nod before leaving the Pope’s private office for his own.
The police and Interpol were out in force conducting initial interviews with Vatican personnel and others who might provide any helpful information. Their leaders and the chief of Vatican security were in Belli’s office when he returned.
“The car was taken for service after hours, 9:10,” said the chief of security, Carlo Comotossi, lips quivering and ashen with dread. “In anticipation of the new pope’s using it.”
Belli’s eyes widened.
Comotossi, extremely tall and wide with red hair and freckles, was in uniform and sweating visibly. “We assumed that the bomb had been planted at the off-site garage and was timed to explode this morning.”
Belli was furious. “So the chief of Vatican security is reporting that the Pope’s car, after being serviced off-site, was not inspected by your people? How is that possible?” he demanded.
“The driver never left the area, Father,” answered Comotossi in defense.
“So the security of the Vatican depends on a chauffeur. Incredible!”
“We followed procedure, Father. The garage stays open only for us. It’s the same garage as always. There was no reason…”
“No reason?” hollered Belli looking up at huge red-head. “Obviously there was reason.”
“Yes, Father,” said Comotossi just above a whisper. “It should have been double-checked.”
“Not double-checked,” said Belli even more livid. “You didn’t check it at all. Incredible!” Belli began to pace. “And the mechanic?”
“We have men at the garage now.”
“Well, you can forget about finding him. He’s probably out of the country by now,” Belli said not able to look any longer at the sorry giant.
“Or dead,” said one of the Interpol agents. “If it’s Hezbollah, they probably killed him rather than pay him off.”
Belli told the police about the swarthy man in the white, long-billed cap. In minutes the Interpol agent found the Le Monde picture on Belli’s computer and believed it possible to refine it such that the features of the man would become more pronounced. With an improved picture, the agent said, Interpol’s access to a Cray supercomputer’s pattern recognition program would easily find a match to any known or suspected terrorist. But whether they would be able to find him was another question.
The following day, Pope Michael I toured the streets of Rome to cheering crowds. As Cardinal Michel had been “cardinal of the people,” Pope Michael I would be “pope of the people.” The faithful already loved him, their pope who escaped death and who on the very next day demonstrated publicly his bravery and love of the people. They were sure that in Michael I they had a great hero, and they were equally sure that in Muslims they had a common enemy.
[1] The three levels of the position of Cardinal in the modern church, Cardinal Deacon, Cardinal Priest and Cardinal Bishop retain little of their ancient status in the modern Church, and are not related to the ranks of deacon, priest, or bishop. The positions denote only seniority based on when one was named by the pope to be a cardinal. As a matter of political correctness, however, it was expected that cardinals would respect the traditional hierarchy.
[2] In modern times the interim allows cardinals, who usually arrive a day or two after the death, to get to know each other. Most cardinals know only a small number of the one hundred and twenty cardinals eligible to vote for the pope. Although under canon law any Catholic man under 80-years-old can be elected Pope, in the modern church the Pope has always been chosen from the College of Cardinals. Since Urban VI, Pope from 1378-89, only cardinals were elected.
[3] The rules for the election of a pope, constructed over two millennia, have become more ritualized over the last century. To be elected pope on the first ballot, the cardinal must have been elected by two-thirds of the college. When no one receives the required two thirds, the ballots are burned in a fire place whose chimney leads to a window of the Sistine Chapel. With no election, straw is added to the ballots to create a the thick black smoke indicating that there is no new pope. When straw is not added, the smoke burns white, and that signals a new pope has been chosen. Unfortunately, the fire often starts with white smoke which later darkens to the desired black, and that in the past has caused confusion among the faithful anxiously awaiting the sign. Electronic communication has solved the problem, but care is taken to preserve the tradition.
A morning and evening vote is taken until two-thirds agree on a candidate. Voting takes as much as three hours each time, with the carmerlengo certifying each count. Provisions in Cannon Law stipulate what is to be done if no man can be elected by a two thirds vote, but, as acting head of the Church, the carmerlengo can make changes in the rules of election as he sees fit.
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