Tremblay genuflected to the altar, crossed himself, wished Lomeli a cold goodnight, and walked out of the chapel, leaving the Dean of the College of Cardinals to listen to the dwindling echo of his footsteps on the marble floor.
For the next few hours, Lomeli lay on his bed, fully dressed, and stared at the ceiling. The only source of light shone from the bathroom. Through the partition wall came the sound of Adeyemi snoring, but this time Lomeli was so preoccupied with his thoughts, he barely heard him. In his hands he held the pass key Sister Agnes had lent him on the morning he’d returned to the Casa Santa Marta after the Mass in St Peter’s, when he’d discovered he had locked himself out of his room. He turned it over and over between his fingers, praying and talking to himself at the same time, so that the two merged into a single monologue.
O Lord, You have charged me with the care of this most sacred Conclave… Is it my duty merely to arrange my colleagues’ deliberations, or do I have a responsibility to intervene and affect the outcome? I am Your servant and I dedicate myself to Your will… The Holy Spirit will surely lead us to a worthy pontiff regardless of any actions I may take… Guide me, Lord, I beg You, to fulfil Your wishes… Servant, you must guide yourself…
Twice he rose from the bed and went to the door, and twice he returned and lay down again. Of course, he knew there would be no flash of insight, no sudden infusion of certainty. He did not expect one. God did not work that way. He had sent him all the signs he needed. It was for him to act upon them. And perhaps he had always suspected what he would have to do in the end, which was why he had never returned the pass key but had kept it in the drawer of the nightstand.
He got up for a third time and opened the door.
According to the Apostolic Constitution, no one was to be left in the Casa Santa Marta after midnight apart from the cardinals. The nuns were taken back to their quarters. The security men were either in their parked cars or patrolling the perimeter. In the Palazzo San Carlo, barely fifty metres away, two doctors were on standby. Should an emergency arise, medical or otherwise, the cardinals were supposed to press the fire alarms.
Satisfied that the corridor was deserted, Lomeli walked quickly towards the landing. Outside the Holy Father’s apartment, the votive candles flickered in their red glasses. He contemplated the door. For a final time he hesitated. Whatever I do, I do for You. You see my heart. You know my intentions are pure. I commend myself to Your protection. He inserted the key into the lock and turned it. The door opened inwards a fraction. The ribbons, affixed by Tremblay with such speed after the Holy Father’s death, tautened, preventing it from opening fully. Lomeli studied the seals. The red wax discs bore the coat of arms of the Apostolic Camera: crossed keys beneath an unfurled parasol. Their function was purely symbolic. They would not survive an instant’s pressure. He pushed the door harder. The wax cracked and broke, the ribbons came free, and the way into the papal apartment was open. He crossed himself, stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him.
The place smelled stale and airless. He felt around for the light switch. The familiar sitting room looked exactly as it had on the night the Holy Father died. The lemon-coloured curtains, tightly drawn. The scallop-backed blue sofa and two armchairs. The coffee table. The prie-dieu. The desk, with the Pope’s battered black leather briefcase propped beside it.
He sat at the desk and picked up the briefcase, rested it on his knees and opened it. Inside were an electric razor, a tin of peppermints, a breviary and a paperback copy of The Imitation of Christ by Thomas à Kempis. It was famously – according to the report issued by the Vatican press office – the last book the Holy Father had been reading before his heart attack. The page he had been studying was marked with a yellowing bus ticket, issued in his home city more than twenty years before:
Of the dangers of intimacy
Do not tell others what is on your mind but seek advice from someone who is wise and fears God. Keep company with young people or strangers sparingly. Do not admire the wealthy, and avoid the company of celebrities. It is better to keep company with the poor and simple, the devout and the virtuous…
He closed the book, put everything back in the briefcase and replaced it where he had found it. He tried the central desk drawer. It was unlocked. He pulled it all the way out, placed it on the desk and rummaged through the contents: a spectacles case (empty) and a plastic bottle of lens cleaner, pencils, a box of aspirin, a pocket calculator, rubber bands, a penknife, an old leather wallet containing a ten-euro note, a copy of the latest Annuario Pontificio, the thick red-bound directory listing every major office-holder in the Church… He slid open the other three drawers. Apart from signed postcards of the Holy Father that he used to give out to visitors, there was no paper of any kind.
He sat back and considered this. Although the Pope had refused to live in the traditional papal apartment, he had made use of his predecessors’ office in the Apostolic Palace. He used to walk to it every morning, carrying his briefcase, and invariably he brought work home with him to study in the evening. The burdens of the papacy were never-ending. Lomeli clearly remembered being with him when he was signing letters and documents in this very seat. Either he had given up work entirely in his final days or the desk must have been cleaned out – no doubt by the ever-efficient hand of his private secretary, Monsignor Morales.
He stood and walked around the room, summoning the will to open the bedroom door.
The sheets had been stripped from the massive antique bed, the pillows had no covers. But the Pope’s spectacles and alarm clock were still on the nightstand, and when he opened the closet, two white cassocks hung ghost-like from the rail. The sight of these simple garments – the Holy Father had refused to wear the more elaborate papal vestments – seemed to break something inside Lomeli that had been pent up since the funeral. He put his hand to his eyes and bowed his head. His body shook, although no tears came. This dry convulsion lasted barely half a minute, and when it passed, he felt curiously strengthened. He waited until he had recovered his breath, and then turned and contemplated the bed.
It was formidably ugly, centuries old, with big square posts at all four corners and carved panels at the head and foot. Alone of all the fine furniture to which he was entitled in the papal apartment, the Holy Father had chosen to have this ungainly object shipped to the Casa Santa Marta. Popes had slept in it for generations. To get it through the outer door must have required taking it apart and then reassembling it.
Carefully, as he had on the night the Pope died, Lomeli lowered himself to his knees, clasped his hands together, closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the edge of the mattress to pray. Suddenly the terrible solitariness of the old man’s life seemed almost too unbearable to contemplate. He reached out his arms in either direction along the wooden frame of the bed, and gripped it.
How long he remained in this position he could not afterwards say with certainty. It might have been two minutes; it might have been twenty. What he was quite sure of was that at some point during this time, the Holy Father entered his mind and spoke to him. Of course, it could have been a trick of the imagination: the rationalists had an explanation for everything, even for inspiration. All he knew was that before he knelt he was in despair, and afterwards, when he scrambled to his feet and stared at the bed, the dead man had told him what to do.