Tedesco from the start took up a position alongside Adeyemi on the table of African cardinals. As usual, he held his plate in one hand and hoisted food into his mouth with the other, occasionally pausing to stab the air with his fork as he made a point. Lomeli – who was seated in his customary position with the Italian contingent of Landolfi, Dell’Acqua, Santini and Panzavecchia – didn’t need to hear what he was saying to know that he was expounding on his familiar theme of the moral decay of Western liberal societies. And to judge by his listeners’ solemnly nodding heads, he was finding a receptive audience.
Tremblay, meanwhile, a Québécois, ate his main course on a table of fellow French-speakers: Courtemarche of Bordeaux, Bonfils of Marseilles, Gosselin of Paris, Kourouma of Abidjan. His campaigning technique was the opposite of Tedesco’s, who liked to gather a circle around him and lecture them. Instead, Tremblay spent the evening moving from group to group, seldom staying more than a few minutes with each: shaking hands, squeezing shoulders, indulging in general bonhomie with this cardinal, exchanging whispered confidences with that. He did not seem to have a campaign manager as such, but Lomeli had already overheard several of the coming men – such as Modesto Villanueva, the Archbishop of Toledo – announcing in loud voices that Tremblay was the only possible victor.
From time to time Lomeli allowed his gaze to drift to the others. Bellini was sitting over in the far corner. He seemed to have given up trying to influence the undecided and was indulging himself for once by taking his meal with his fellow theologians, Vandroogenbroek and Löwenstein, no doubt discussing Thomism and phenomenology, or some similar abstractions.
As for Benítez, the moment he had arrived in the dining room he had been invited to join the Anglophones. Lomeli couldn’t see the Filipino’s face – he had his back to him – but he could observe the expressions of his companions: Newby of Westminster, Fitzgerald of Boston, Santos of Galveston-Houston, Rudgard of the Congregation for the Causes of Saints. Like the Africans with Tedesco, they seemed to be engrossed in what their guest was saying.
And all the while, between the tables, carrying trays and bottles of wine, moved the blue-habited, downcast-eyed nuns of the Daughters of Charity of St Vincent de Paul. Lomeli was familiar with the ancient order from his years as a nuncio. It was run from a mother house in the rue du Bac in Paris. He had visited it twice. The remains of St Catherine Labouré and St Louise de Marillac were buried in its chapel. Its members had not given up their lives in order to become waitresses for cardinals. Its charism was supposed to be service to the poor.
On Lomeli’s table, the mood was sombre. Unless they could bring themselves to vote for Tedesco – which they all agreed they couldn’t – they were in the process of gradually reconciling themselves to the fact that they would probably never again see an Italian Pope in their lifetimes. The conversation was desultory all evening, and Lomeli was too preoccupied with his thoughts to pay it much attention.
His dialogue with Benítez had disturbed him profoundly. He was unable to get it out of his mind. Was it really possible that he had spent the past thirty years worshipping the Church rather than God? Because that, in essence, was the accusation Benítez had levelled against him. In his heart he could not escape the truth of it – the sin; the heresy. Was it any wonder he had found it so difficult to pray?
It was an epiphany similar to that which had struck him in St Peter’s while he was waiting to deliver his sermon.
Finally he could stand it no longer and pushed back his chair. ‘My brothers,’ he announced, ‘I fear I have been dull company. I think I shall go to bed.’
There was a muted chorus around the table of ‘Goodnight, Dean.’
Lomeli walked towards the lobby. Few noticed him. And of those few, none would have guessed from his dignified tread the clamour resounding in his head.
At the last minute, instead of going upstairs, his footsteps suddenly swerved away from the staircase towards the reception desk. He asked the nun behind the counter if Sister Agnes was still on duty. It was around 9.30 p.m. Behind him in the dining room, dessert was just being served.
When Sister Agnes appeared from her office, something in her manner suggested she had been expecting him. Her handsome face was sharp and pale, her eyes a crystalline blue.
‘Your Eminence?’
‘Sister Agnes, good evening. I was wondering if it might be possible for me to have another word with Sister Shanumi?’
‘That’s impossible, I’m afraid.’
‘Why?’
‘She is on her way home to Nigeria.’
‘My goodness, that was quick!’
‘There was an Ethiopian Airlines flight to Lagos from Fiumicino this evening. I thought it would be best for all concerned if she was on it.’
Her eyes held his, unblinking.
After a pause he said, ‘Perhaps in that case I might have a private talk with you?’
‘Surely we are having a private talk at the moment, Your Eminence?’
‘Yes, but perhaps we might continue it in your office?’
She was reluctant. She said she was about to go off duty. But in the end she led him around the back of the reception desk and into her little glass cell. The blinds were down. The only light came from a desk lamp. On the table was an old-fashioned radio-cassette machine, playing a Gregorian chant. He recognised Alma Redemptoris Mater: ‘Loving Mother of our Saviour’. The evidence of her piety touched him. That ancestor of hers martyred during the French Revolution had been beatified, he remembered. She turned off the music and he closed the door behind them. They both remained standing.
He said quietly, ‘How did Sister Shanumi come to be in Rome?’
‘I have no idea, Your Eminence.’
‘But the poor woman didn’t even speak Italian and had never left Nigeria before. She can’t simply have turned up here without someone causing it to happen.’
‘I received notification from the office of the Superioress General that she would be joining us. The arrangements were made in Paris. You should ask the rue du Bac, Your Eminence.’
‘I would, except that, as you know, I am sequestered for the duration of the Conclave.’
‘Then you can ask them afterwards.’
‘The information is of value to me now.’
She stared him out with those indomitable blue eyes. She could be guillotined or burnt at the stake; she would not yield. If I had ever married, he thought, I would have wanted a wife like this.
He said, gently, ‘Did you love the Holy Father, Sister Agnes?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, I certainly know he had a special regard for you. In fact I think he was rather in awe of you.’
‘I don’t know about that!’ Her tone was dismissive. She knew what he was doing. And yet a certain part of her could not help but be flattered, and for the first time her gaze flickered slightly.
Lomeli pressed on. ‘And I believe he may have had some small regard for me as well. At any rate, let’s say that when I tried to resign as dean, he wouldn’t let me. I couldn’t understand why at the time. To be honest, I was angry with him – may God forgive me. But now I believe I understand. I think he sensed he was dying and for some reason he wanted me to run this Conclave. And, with constant prayer, that is what I’m trying to do – for him. Therefore, when I say I need to know why Sister Shanumi came to be in the Casa Santa Marta, I am asking not for myself but on behalf of our late mutual friend the Pope.’
‘You say that, Your Eminence. But how do I know what he would have wanted me to do?’
‘Ask him, Sister Agnes. Ask God.’
For at least a minute she did not reply. Eventually she said, ‘I promised the superioress I wouldn’t say anything. And I shan’t say anything. You understand?’ And then she put on a pair of spectacles, sat at her computer terminal and began to type with great rapidity. It was a curious sight – Lomeli would never forget it – the elderly aristocratic nun peering closely at the screen, her fingers flying as if by their own volition across the grey plastic keyboard. The percussive blur of clicks built to a crescendo, slowed, became single beats, until with a final aggressive stab, she lifted her hands, stood, and moved away from the desk to the other side of the office.