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In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sanctu. Amen.
Pope Innocent XIV is leading Mass. It is December; they are inside St Peter’s Basilica. The crowds press in. A mass of the faithful, breathing in giddy anticipation, watching the Pope’s hands move in the air. Throughout his life, Thomas has closed his eyes for the opening lines of Mass. At first, it was an act of devotion; in recent years, it has become an act of terror, that he might kneel down to pray and find the Holy Spirit absent. In the last few months, however, he has found himself with his eyes open, watching Vincent.
Dominus vobiscum. Et cum spiritu tuo. Thomas rolls the words on his tongue. The rich sound of response fills the basilica. Church Latin. The late Holy Father always complained about his cardinals’ Latin. He would find nothing to complain about in Pope Innocent’s handling of the words. This Pope senses the music of the words. He does not seem to carry the weight of them; instead, he speaks them as if making them each time anew – as if it is a wonderful surprise, every time, to find that God loves them.
Fratres, agnoscamus peccata nostra, ut apti simus ad sacra mysteria celebranda. Agnoscamus, the Pope says. Let us acknowledge our sins. It is hard to imagine this Pope sinning. Thomas thought, in the aftermath of the conclave, that this might have been why Vincent was elected. Not just the Holy Spirit moving through them, but also this set of old cardinals with blackened hearts, looking upon someone they thought was truly good. They looked at Vincent and they were ashamed.
Confiteor Deo omnipotenti et vobis, fratres, quia peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo, opere, and omissione. Thomas speaks the words along with the crowd. He does not have to be here: in fact, it is an oddity that he is attending one of these public masses at all. If he were to be truthful to himself – which he finds he is doing less and less, leaving out his daily meditations and filling the time with Vatican paperwork instead – he is here to look at Vincent. It is because Vincent has renewed his faith, he tells himself He is nothing but one of the crowd; he can look, without fear that Vincent will look back. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Thomas hits his chest with particular vigour. A lock of Vincent’s hair falls as he beats his own chest. He has the strongest hairline of any Pope they’ve had for decades. Vincent tucks the hair back behind his ear, and gives the briefest, smallest half-smile as he glances down at the page. Thomas feels suddenly flush with the Spirit.
Misereatur nostri omnipotens Deus et, dimissis peccatis nostris, perducat nos ad vitam aeternam. Thomas has never been a parish priest; he has never done good work in obscurity. He has drifted from one prestigious position to the next, moving from a professorship in canon law to life in the Vatican. Watching Vincent speak, he is seized by the desire to have done good, simple work. What has he done? He has pushed paper; he has managed; he has taken meetings. Perhaps this is why the Holy Spirit ran away from him. Too many earthly concerns. Too distracted from his vita aeterna. He could leave, now. He could go to a small parish, or a monastery. But he dismisses the thought almost immediately. Vincent needs him. It would be irresponsible to go. He is thinking, of course, about the health of the Church.
***
Thomas spends a lot of time with Pope Innocent XIV, these days. Far more than with the late Holy Father.
Vincent had asked him, the same day of his election, if he would consider staying on a little. I fear I will need you, Thomas, he had said. Our cardinals may soon regret their choices, and I am a stranger to this place. It had been accompanied by the tiniest smile, as if Vincent were laughing at a joke only he understood. Thomas had blinked, and assented without a second thought. It was only later – sat in his own rooms in the Vatican, which seemed too big, too luxurious, after the cramped space of the Casa Santa Marta – that he had stared at his feet and wondered why he’d said yes.
If any other man had been elected, Thomas would be booking a flight for Pluscarden Abbey, the monastery in Scotland he has long marked out for his retirement. He would sleep in a cell; he would rise at quarter past four for Vigils, and then he would mark the day with Lauds, Conventual Mass, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers and Compline. He would engage in lectio divina, rereading perhaps Augustine or Jerome, men whose works have long rolled around the dusty corners of his mind. He would garden, probably. Perhaps he would contribute by cooking or cleaning. Such thoughts are vague: it has been a long time since he has been responsible for his own upkeep. For the past few months, the Abbey has been his talisman. After the Conclave, he had thought, he could retreat there, and all would be silence. The Holy Spirit, he thought, might deign to return to him there.
But God is cruel when He wishes to be, and the Holy Spirit has arrived to Thomas in the form of Pope Innocent, who need only smile for Thomas to abandon the Abbey, to send an email apologising to the Abbot, who had been preparing a room for Thomas after the Conclave. The Abbot – a man Thomas had known a long time ago, in seminary - replies with a long email. It ends: I will say at last, Thomas, that I understand. It is a blessing if your service is needed in the Vatican. Our new Holy Father seems a wonderful man; but I wonder if he is perhaps too wonderful, and too breakable. Someone must protect him, and God seems to have appointed you that man. But you must know – you will always find peace with us, if you need it. Thomas archives the email; he cannot quite bring himself to delete it.
He ends up as Secretary of State. This is not because he particularly desires to be Secretary of State, having known once the pressure of the position, but because Vincent attempts at first to appoint him as his Personal Secretary, which Thomas refuses, and then Vincent shrugs and says Thomas will simply have to be Secretary of State. Thomas is too startled to refuse a second time; he ends up with the obscure feeling that he has been played. Anyway, it is pleasant enough to return to his offices; he reprimands himself for the ego, having never quite let the ‘his’ slip, even when they truly belonged to Bellini.
And it is pleasant to spend time with the Holy Father. He still calls Vincent this too much, although every time it slips out when they are alone, Vincent winces and waves his hands. Not among us, Thomas. Am I to always address you as my Secretary? The phrase fills Thomas was a strange warmth. My secretary. He rationalises it as sign that the Holy Spirit has destined him to serve.
A few days after the Conclave, Thomas sits in Vincent’s living room. That day, he had toured the Papal Apartments with Vincent, and been greatly amused at the instinctive disgust that had appeared on Vincent’s face. I cannot live there, Thomas. We shall have to think of some other use for them. So they have returned to the Casa Santa Marta, where Vincent has remained since the Conclave.
“If these rooms were sufficient for the late Holy Father, then they will be sufficient for me.” Vincent says. Thomas suppresses the thought – it comes unbidden, without explanation – that Vincent deserves more than this hotel-like room, that he should not martyr his flesh with its bleak anonymity.
“If you insist, Holy Father.”
“Thomas.” Vincent says, turning to him and raising his eyebrows in light reprobation.
When their eyes meet, Thomas feels something crack open inside of him: as if a small ball of light appeared within his chest. “If you insist, Vincent.”
“Now, let us get to work.” Vincent says. In front of him, there are sheaths of documents; lists of appointees to be drawn up, offices to be assigned, official Papal stances to be taken. Thomas had entertained the smallest of doubts, at first, as to whether Vincent would suit this kind of work, the clerical shuffling and all its bureaucratic headaches. But he had forgotten that a man who has been archbishop in a warzone, who has managed charities in the slums of the Philippines and ran clinics for victims of female genital mutilation in the DRC - of course, he would know perfectly well how to get things done.
So Thomas bows his head, and picks up the first sheet of paper. This is where he belongs.
***
It is Aldo who first asks the question.
He and Thomas are having a glass of whisky, in Thomas’ rooms. Thomas does not, actually, live in these rooms all that much, these days; he sleeps most nights in one of the bedrooms in the Casa Santa Marta. It is a practical arrangement: he spends so many long nights working with Vincent, or simply talking to him, that the walk back to the central Vatican complex seems too far. It is easier simply to fall into the narrow bed beneath its wooden cross, and sleep fitfully until the morning comes and he can start to work again. Now, though, his apartments in the Vatican itself seem too spacious: he cannot imagine that he ever lived here.
Aldo has taken up a temporary position at one of the pontifical universities in Rome, teaching a class on interpretations of canon law. Thomas had attempted to persuade him to stay within the Curia, but Aldo had shaken his head. I have learnt my lesson, Thomas; I should not seek personal gain. He did, however, accept a position as Prefect of the Dicastery for Legislative Texts; purely, Aldo had claimed, because the last Prefect had been an utter fool.
“Our Holy Father has been absent from Rome, a long time.” Aldo says. Their conversation has been cautious, has stayed on temporal terms. Aldo has bemoaned his students; they have commiserated over the irritations of the Secretariat. The matter of the Conclave, Aldo’s shattered not-quite-hopes, Thomas’ moment of near-ascension, the new Pope himself – they have avoided all these things. It is only now, with the sun drawing in, and a crystal glass of brandy in Aldo’s hand that he dares broach it.
“I do not think this affects his ability to govern.” Thomas replies. He knows it is too defensive; he cannot help himself. There are so many people who adore the idea of Vincent, who admire the work he has done, and yet faced with the man himself, they seem to do nothing but put obstacles in his way.
“Thomas, I am not attacking him.” Aldo says, lightly ironic.” I am merely wondering – what he may know. About how things are, in Rome.”
Thomas takes a sip from his own glass, and winces. He has been more parsimonious than usual, for the past few months; his schedule has been too busy to occupy himself with minor concerns such as food and sleep. He eats if he happens to be with Vincent for the papal meal-time; otherwise, he finds that the idea of food disappears from his mind. “What are you asking, Aldo?”
Aldo rolls his eyes. “You know perfectly well what I’m asking. I am asking whether the Pope knows that the Vatican is full of flaming homosexuals.” Aldo illustrates this with a flick of the wrist. His hand gestures always become more effusive when he discusses this particular topic.
Thomas inspects his own glass. The liquor is pale; there is a speck on the side of the crystal, some remnant of soap. “I have not had reason to ask him about this.”
Thomas is not a fool. He knows well how men in the Vatican behave. Most of the Curia are gay, whether or not they would dare to use the term. It is a certain sort of man who is attracted to a life cloistered among men. It provides a neat explanation for why one is uninterested in women. It provides a good excuse to wear wonderful clothes. It pleases one’s mother.
For some of them, it is a late-onset tragedy: to look back and realise they have been gay all along. These are sad, pathetic figures. Their desires bloom too late. They have missed their chance at happiness, and now they are entombed in their choir dress. For others, being a Prince of the Church is only the smallest technicality; they do not feel it should get in the way of their pleasures. Tedesco is among these. Thomas has heard the filthiest things about the Patriach’s palazzo in Venice: beautiful young men ferried in and out; drug-fuelled orgies; Russian oligarchs coming to pay their respects. For a final group – perhaps the largest – they indulge their desires, whisper their love into the bodies of disposable men, and then self-flagellate, often by publicly stating their disgust for homosexuality.
Thomas himself does not indulge. But he has read reports on these activities; he has listened carefully to the gossip. As Dean, he had a handwritten list tucked underneath his mattress of active dalliances. When Aldo reports that two cardinals have had a falling out, Thomas crossed out their pairing with a pencil. This was not a matter of prurience, or at least, not in the way that Thomas conceptualises it to himself. He was Dean of the College of Cardinals. It behoved him to know how his cardinals were behaving. It was suitable that he catalogued their desires. Now that he is Secretary of State again, he does not listen quite so carefully, but it is hard to miss. At a conservative estimate, four-fifths of the Vatican are some kind of homosexual, whether practising or not.
Thomas has not thought about this question, in relation to Vincent. He wonders why not. It is perhaps because Vincent is too luminously good. Thomas cannot imagine him having such base, feeble desires. It would not be fitting. Thomas knows that he adores Vincent, worships him. But it is Vincent. He is a brother, saint, miracle.
Aldo breaks into his reverie. “People are wondering, Thomas. Is he one of the parish?”
“I – you are talking about the Pope, Aldo.”
“The Pope is a man like any other.” Aldo says, dry.
“I do not think Vincent – has such thoughts.” Thomas says.
Aldo pauses. “And you?”
“Me?” Thomas is startled by the question. Vincent matters. He cannot think why anyone might think he matters; he is an old bureaucrat, merely kept on by a Pope looking for a familiar face. He fully expects that in six months, he will be replaced by someone younger and more vigorous, and he will be at peace with that decision.
“You spend a lot of time with – Vincent.” Aldo makes a meal out of the first name, as if trying to make some kind of point. Thomas will not fall for the bait. There is nothing inappropriate in a Secretary of State referring to the Holy Father by his first name. The Pope must be allowed to retain some humanity.
“I am his Secretary of State.” Thomas says. It feels right. It feels as if he is denying something, though he doesn’t know what.
Aldo raises his eyebrows. “You know, when I was Secretary of State, the late Holy Father and I had many disagreements. I would never have said I was his.”
“I do not know what you are implying, Aldo.”
“Oh, nothing, Thomas. I know you’re a good boy. I am just curious about our new Holy Father, as I know many others are. Particularly his degree of – tolerance.” Aldo waves a hand, and they move onto something else.
But the question bothers Thomas, when he is lying in bed that night, with his arms crossed, in his accustomed sepulchral position. It has been several months, and Vincent has made no particular indication of his thoughts on sexuality. His focus has been on war zones, victims of human rights abuses, speaking out against the ravages of capitalism and the threat of impending climate disaster. Amongst all this, Vincent has hardly had the time to make a statement on sexuality, and it would never occur to Thomas to ask.
He wonders, though. Whether Vincent looks at homosexuals with pity or with disgust. Whether Vincent has ever gazed at a man with lust. Whether Vincent has had to destroy every part of him that was capable of love or want or simple desire, in order that he might live in harmony with the Church. Whether he has been tempted by all the copious opportunities for sin that the Church offers. Whether, when Vincent lays at bed in night, in his small, anonymous room in the Casa Santa Marta, when he has undressed, his cassock unbuttoned and his zucchetto placed neatly on a bedside chair, the white mozetta he wears more often than the red hung in the small wardrobe – whether, in the simple white linen pyjamas Thomas knows he wears, for he has seen Vincent in them enough times, when Vincent asked him back to his rooms for some last urgent question, always gentle, always apologetic, but with an indefatigable work ethic – whether Vincent ever feels desire thrumming through his body, whether he ever gives in, whether he pleasures himself in the way that Thomas has long since denied to himself, for Vincent has been in war zones, he has said he expected to be long since dead, and one could not criticise such a man for reminding himself of life.
And then Thomas wonders, as he lies there in the silent dark, knowing he should not follow this thought, and following anyway, what Vincent might think of, were he to pleasure himself. Perhaps there would be theological significance to it: if Vincent is God’s mouthpiece on earth, then his fantasies must mean something. Thomas thinks of young, firm bodies; the Swiss Guards who have clearly been appointed on the basis of their looks, or the young women who walk the streets of Rome with short skirts and bright smiles. Vincent is the Pope; he can have everything and nothing. As for Thomas himself – he is too long out of practice. He does not know what he might desire, and it is too sad to ask that question at seventy-four.
***
Vincent is stood in the Papal Apartments, looking out of the window. They have come here to have more space; there has just been a meeting of the Dicastery for the Eastern Churches. Their Patriarchs came to express their disapproval with Vincent. Thomas had been prepared for a fight. Instead, Vincent had disarmed them all with a smile, welcoming them in, promising to hear their objections, and then calmly dismantling each one. Several months ago, Thomas would have been startled. Now he knows that Vincent’s soft exterior hides a sharp, calculating mind. He flew from Kabul to the Conclave, knowing he could never return. He knew what he was walking into.
Now the Patriarchs and the Archbishops have gone, and Vincent is standing by the window, looking out onto the courtyard. It is a late afternoon in April. The sun has taken on a thick, glutinous quality. The windows are all open: from the courtyard, they can hear vehicles reversing, distant tourists babbling, the footsteps of Swiss Guards changing position. Vincent has cast off the cassock and mozetta, unbuttoning himself almost the moment the Patriarchs had left. Now, he is wearing only a top and trousers of loose white linen. He has even taken off his shoes, and he curls and uncurls his feet. His dark, thick hair falls wayward around his face; removing the mozetta has left strands sticking up all over the place. His skin is illuminated by the sun, almost fiercely golden. Thomas has a strange and sudden thought: this is how he thinks the Holy Spirit might look.
“Do you know what eunuch means, Thomas? I mean originally.” Vincent asks, suddenly.
Thomas inclines his head. He has grown used to Vincent’s abrupt manner of questioning. It amuses Thomas, trying to work backwards and deduce Vincent’s thought process. Perhaps it was the question one patriarch asked about the Church’s position of transgender rights; the patriarch had used less delicate terms. Thomas had tensed, as he always does, when a question like this comes up; he had tried not to glance immediately at Vincent. But the Holy Father gave no sign that the question meant anything in the particular to him, instead reminding the patriarch that the Church’s principles of tolerance and love extended to all those who were blessed with life.
“I believe it means bed-keeper.” Thomas says. He remembers a drunken discussion about this with Aldo; the irony had amused the Italian.
“Certain cardinals believe priests in remote locations should be allowed to take a wife. Better priests with wives, they say, than no priests at all.” Vincent says. Thomas blinks. He does not follow the logic, here.
“I have always felt consistency to be the best policy.”
“Perhaps all our priests should marry, then.” Vincent says. He smiles while he says, but Thomas does not know if he is joking. Sometimes, it is difficult to tell with Vincent; he says so many things with a mischievous smile and perfect sincerity.
“You are not serious.” Thomas says, just in case.
“It is not a Biblical restriction. A medieval innovation, to put an end to simony.” Again, Vincent says this lightly – as if it does not contradict five hundred years of settled canon law.
“We still have plenty of simony to go around.” Thomas says. Safer to stay on other sins.
Vincent laughs, free and easy. Thomas thinks that this might suffice, as the foundation of his Church: Vincent’s laugh. “Ah, this is true enough, Thomas. You have been such a crusader against it.”
At this, Thomas feels his cheeks redden. The events of the conclave seem so bizarre in retrospect. Could he really have engaged in such subterfuge? Did he really need to give every cardinal a copy of Tremblay’s accounts? It betrayed a certain flair for the dramatic, which was never quite successfully beaten out of him as a child.
“I am only joking, my friend. Come, let us walk. I have not inspected our turtles for some days. They will feel terribly neglected.”
And so Thomas walks with him, and marvels at the turtles, and removes all other thoughts from his mind – even the self-loathing, which for seventy years has thought too tangled with his soul to ever prune.
***
A week later, Thomas stands in the back of the room, watching Vincent give a Papal Audience. As ever, the room is crowded with pilgrims; before Vincent entered, it buzzed with Italian and Spanish and Pinoy and Portuguese, Mandarin and Afrikaans and Nahautl. When Vincent entered, of course, the room fell silent. It still gives Thomas shivers, to see how they adore him. The most loved, of any Pope in living memory.
Today, Vincent has read from Proverbs 21:13; Whoso stoppeth his ears at the cry of the poor, he also shall cry himself, but shall not be heard. He is speaking in Italian; he has a gentle, lilting tone in this language, with a slight accent. Thomas has spent longer than he would like to ponder cataloguing Vincent’s voice in his different languages. His softness in English. The slippery fluidity of his Spanish. The naturalness of his Latin, as if the language was not dead; it has merely been waiting for Vincent to be resurrected.
Thomas thinks back to Augustine, words that he ran his finger under in Latin for the first time when he was seventeen years old. Da mihi castitatem et continentiam, sed noli modo. Give me chastity and continence, but not just yet. Halting, schoolboy Latin, all in the plummy vowels of an English public school. His classmates giggling at the word castitatem. Thomas mispronounced it at first. The Latin master, also the school chaplain, correcting him gently. It had thrummed with significance, even then. His body, so ugly and gangly, so overflowing with disgusting fluids, so wracked and pathetic with wants. Deum et animum scire cupio; nihil aliud. Augustine again. I want to know God and the soul, nothing more. With God, at least, he might not be embarrassed. He might not be humiliated by the sick desires that flooded his body.
When he was fifteen, he confessed to the chaplain that he had had impure thoughts about another boy, Jack. Nothing could ever have happened: Jack was two years older, captain of the cricket team. Thomas had seen him walking across the school field in cricket whites and it had been like a bolt of lightning had split him in half. Ad Deum, qui laetificat iuventutem meam. To God, who gives joy to my youth. Thomas had expected to have the chaplain nod solemnly, as he did at all of Thomas’ transgressions – his lies, his jealousies, his unfair frustrations, his greed – and tell him to pray on it, to ask forgiveness, and to seek to be better. It had surprised him, when the chaplain had simply looked a little sad, and told Thomas he might be suited for a life in the church. At fifteen, he had thought the chaplain had meant that celibacy would be a good idea. When he arrived in Rome for the first time, he had realised that the chaplain meant precisely the opposite. Inside the Church, men did as they pleased. They simply made up for it by demanding that every other homosexual on earth suffer.
Chastity has always pleased Thomas. It is a way of narrowing experience to a manageable slice. Much as when he restricted himself to a single meal every day, it means he is in control. And his control has not slipped for a very long time. And yet sometimes, when he looks at the Pope, with his cassock unbuttoned at the end of a long day, or when he runs his hands through his hair as he talks to his supplicants – when he kisses a baby on the forehead – Thomas feels not like one of those adoring faithful, come to see the man who is the mouthpiece of their God, but instead alarmingly like a man who desires another man, in ways that are not simply brotherly or divine. When it has bubbled up, he has dismissed the thought: he is overworked, or he is old. But sometimes, he looks at Vincent, and feels that sick thrum of want, from a part of himself he thought he had killed a long time ago.
The Pope is surrounded by people. Pilgrims, supplicants, mendicants. They look at him and see Pope Innocent XIV. Thomas finds, recently, that he can see nothing but Vincent.
***
Vincent has started to touch him.
Nothing out of the ordinary, of course. Simply a hand placed on his upper arm, to guide him into a room; a finger brushing against his, when Thomas hands over a document. A warm grasp of his shoulder, when they are speaking. Vincent hands him a cup of ginger tea in the evening, and the pads of his fingertips linger against the palm of Thomas’ hand.
And in meetings of the Secretariat, when Thomas is steering the ship, engaged in his calm bureaucratic flow, picking apart claims and gesturing for some men to talk and others to be quiet, Thomas sometimes looks over and sees Vincent looking at him. Thomas’ first reaction to someone looking straight at him has always been to shrink. He is a manager; he ought to fade into the background. The only trace of him should be his work. And yet Vincent looks at him and appears to see him. Every well-trained inch of Thomas’ body says that this is wrong.
One time, when they are sat next to each-other in a meeting of the Secretariat, Vincent’s ankle brushes against his. Thomas had been in the middle of asking the Undersecretary for Relations with States about how the new German Ambassador to the Vatican was faring; there had been some financial scandal with a German Archbishop, and it was desirable to everyone that a pleasant façade of unity was maintained. Thomas has one leg crossed over the other, and so his cassock is hiked up a little; he can feel a breeze from the open window running over his ankle. And then suddenly, there is the feeling of warm skin against his own: a pinprick against the exposed bone of his ankle, so light it could be accidental, except Thomas pauses speaking, startled, and he can feel Vincent smile next to him. Thomas blinks, and swallows, and carries on, Vincent’s ankle still brushing against his, the Holy Father apparently having no intention of moving it.
And when they leave the room, Vincent splays his hands up Thomas’ upper arm, in order to get him to stay behind. It is not necessary: Thomas would obey Vincent’s every command, eager as a dog. But still Vincent does it, holds Thomas’ arm, even as they talk, Vincent giving him some minor comment to carry to the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, and Thomas would not mind, would not even notice, for he himself has clasped many men’s upper arms while talking closely to them, it is not strange at all, but the for the fact that Thomas can barely concentrate on Vincent’s words, too focused on the feeling of Vincent’s fingers touching his upper arm through the cassock.
***
After the Papal Audience, when Vincent had spotted Thomas standing in the back (for he did not need to be here, and had intended to slip out unnoticed) and hurried over, and they are walking back to the Casa Santa Marta together, Vincent says something very calmly.
“A couple asked me to bless their marriage.”
“Oh?” Thomas is not paying all that much attention; his mind is on a meeting with the Prefect of the Secretary of the Economy, scheduled for four P.M. that afternoon.
“It was two men.”
“Then they should not have asked you. This is long-established doctrine. I am sympathetic, but some things are settled – “
Then Vincent smiles, and turns the world on its axis. “I said yes.”
“What?” It is the only thing Thomas can muster. Homosexual action is a sin, even if the Church begrudgingly accepts the desire; marriage is a sacrament, which should be sullied by no sinful acts. A marriage without the act of procreation is not marriage at all. These are the truths upon which Thomas has built his life.
Vincent shrugs. “It is not so difficult for me to do so, no?”
Thomas has a desperate thought – perhaps it is all a silly mistake, a miscommunication. They both speak many languages, after all; it is easy enough for words to slip and change in translation.
“You blessed them, but not the marriage – “
“No, I blessed the marriage.” Vincent says, looking serene, and a little pleased with himself.
“I – what were you thinking?” Thomas raises his voice, as he says this. A group of sisters, walking past, look scandalized.
“I was thinking that there are two people before me, who loved each other very much, and who desired my blessing, and to see their love sanctified by God. Did the late Holy Father not permit blessings?”
“Yes, but of a very specific kind, and blessing the people, not the – sin itself. Marriage is a sacrament, Vincent!”
“I know what a sacrament is, Thomas. I am the Pope, after all.” Vincent says, dry.
Thomas feels briefly chastised, but then his outrage takes over. “These are settled questions – oh, God, Vincent, Adeyemi – Tedesco – “
“They cannot unmake me Pope.” And Vincent takes Thomas’ arm, right in the centre of the courtyard, where anyone might see, and Thomas feels it like fire, the Pope himself clasping his hand, he has done some terrible sin to deserve this, Thomas can feel the sick panic rising, the acrid, familiar taste of bile in the back of his throat, and he is panicking, he knows he is panicking, Vincent may be infallible but he is not invulnerable, they will hate him, they will try to destroy him, and he doesn’t know at what point his concern slipped from being about the fundamental denial of settled doctrine, to his fear that Vincent might suffer as a result of this.
“Thomas.” Vincent says, peering into Thomas’ face. “Look at me. Has the sky fallen? No. Then all will be fine.”
“Holy Father. You will forgive me, but I am needed elsewhere.” Thomas bows his head slightly, avoiding Vincent’s gaze, and extricates himself from his grip. He walks away quickly, clenching his fists, not looking back to see the Holy Father wander into the Casa Santa Marta and greet his comrades serenely, as if he has not just unleashed the most unholy chaos.
***
The Curia release a statement later that week. The Church remains consistent that the fundamental human rights of homosexuals are to be protected. All homosexual persons have a right to be embraced by the community of God. The Church remains consistent that being homosexual is not a sin, but that marriage is a sacrament for the purpose of life, between a man and a woman. The statement itself barely made it through; it is only Vincent’s personal force of will that gets it out at all.
Thomas, meanwhile, sits through an outrageous number of meetings, replies to a quite shocking quantity of emails, and fields a truly obscene number of phone calls. They alternated between demanding to know if the Holy Father had lost his mind, congratulating the Holy Father on his startling new direction for the Church, and messages of plain incomprehension. He defends Vincent, of course. He says that the Holy Father merely wishes to spread a message of love and inclusivity. He does not know if he believes what he says.
A particular low of the week is when Goffredo Tedesco prowls into his office, having finally slunk back from Venice.
“What was it the late Holy Father said? This place has an air of frociaggine. Innocent, is he? He’s been corrupted. This is a disgrace, Thomas, and you know it. We are in an era of moral degradation; the Pope himself has sunk so low as to bless the most disgusting sinners.” While Tedesco speaks, Thomas thinks: I know what you are. Does this make you happy? Degrading yourself in this way, acting as if you don’t know what I know – do you think it cancels out the rest of your life?
“Goffredo. The Pope wishes to extend the Church’s love – “
“To froci.”
“Goffredo. There is no need for such language – “
“Is he a fucking froce? Does he like it up the arse – “
At that, Thomas snaps. “You are talking about the Holy Father, Goffredo. Show some respect.”
It shuts Goffredo up for all of ten seconds, but it is enough that Thomas can manoeuvre him out of the office.
The thing is: Thomas does not know what to say to any of these people, because he does not know what Vincent intended to do, and he cannot ask. He has been avoiding the Pope all week, burying himself in committees and paperwork, avoiding even entering the Casa Santa Marta. He has even been sleeping in his old apartments: now he finds them too spacious, too opulent. Was it the case that he ever tolerated this?
He cannot speak to the Pope, because he cannot ask him what he intended to do, because he cannot face what his own reaction might be, cannot face the something that is lingering within him, dark and horrific and terrible, the glacier he has been avoiding his whole life. He chose God, and he had thought, foolish, insane, that he might now, with his long, unerring devotion, have been cleansed. But no: the sin has merely been waiting for him, a mass inside him like the cancer they thought they’d cut out. Those childish visions of brimstone and hellfire – when he had lain in bed and thought he could smell the sulphur – have returned. There is sin inside him, sick, filthy, unnatural desires, a disease imposed upon him by God. And what a cruel and unusual punishment, for God to turn his desires towards His representative on Earth?
Because Thomas knows – though he cannot say it, can barely form the thought, finds himself shrinking away from it, his mind skittering in a thousand directions, anything but this terrible, inevitable truth – he knows that he loves the Holy Father, not as a brother in the Holy Spirit, but as a man who desires another man, in every sick and sinful way he could imagine. And once the thought has crystallized, he finds he cannot stop imagining. What might lie underneath the Holy Father’s cassock – how Vincent’s skin might taste – what it might be like, to press his lips to another man’s, after so many years of righteous loneliness.
Because he has been lonely, and he has denied it to himself, he has declared that God has been enough, but now the feeling comes flooding through, breaking every barrier he has carefully erected. He has been lonely, he has longed for the touch of another human being, he has scorned the gay networks of the Vatican, although he knows the eyes of other men have raked him up and down. He has turned down countless subtle propositions, invitations to dinner or to share a glass of wine or to reflect on scripture. But now, as he looks back on his life, he wonders if there has been any point to such demented self-control. It seems only a terrible waste. A life of self-imposed loneliness. There was no need to live this way, and yet he did.
He lies awake and thinks of Augustine, again. Haec autem sibi non solum totum corpus nec solum extrinsecus, verum etiam intrinsecus vindicat totumque commovet hominem animi. And this lust not only takes possession of the whole body and outward members, but also makes itself felt within, and moves the whole man with a passion.
***
Thomas is with the Holy Father in the Papal Apartments. He is yet to return to the Casa Santa Marta. He is only here because Vincent had summoned a meeting of the Secretariat, and he had run out of excuses. At the end of the meeting, Vincent had asked him to stay behind. What else could Thomas do, but assent?
They are in the library. It is a vast room. A central table, pure white, in the middle. There are documents all over it. Thomas is arranging them. He cannot stand to see them messy. Vincent is watching. The advantage of this arrangement is that if Thomas is doing something, he does not have to look at Vincent. Though he knows, with bat-like precision, exactly where Vincent is in the room: it is as though he has developed a sixth sense, specifically for Vincent’s location.
“I do not know if I could create life.” Vincent says.
Thomas looks up. Vincent is leaning against a bookcase. He is wearing his pure white cassock. One of his hands – Thomas has the sudden, mad thought that his skin would be soft – is idly fiddling with the pellegrina, the capelet that is attached to the cassock. He has a very simple pectoral cross around his neck: a rough hewn lump of a cross. Vincent likes these strange, mutated shapes, as if the cross were coming alive, or had only just been formed.
“You are thinking of children?” Thomas asks.
“I suppose I have more children than anyone else. A whole flock of them. But yes, I mean – which part of me? It has never been a question, before.” Vincent smiles. His words are light as ever.
“But you think of it now?” Thomas feels his own voice going low. As if this were a secret. They are alone. The Swiss Guards are stood outside the room. And yet Thomas feels exposed. As if Vincent’s gaze possessed the ability to peel him open.
“Our teaching. That sexual intercourse is permissible only when it is an act of covenant love, with the potential of co-creating new life.” Vincent says it like a quote, its legalistic terminology, chewed over by too many archbishops.
“You disagree?” Thomas asks. He tries to speak as if this is a matter of some insignificance to him, even though it is the main cause of the bags under his eyes.
“How many of our cardinals engage in what we teach is sin? You were their Dean, you must know.”
Thomas pauses before he speaks. “A large number, Holy Father.”
“And yet – a gay couple, married, more devoted to God than half of these seek my blessing – and I am not to give it to them? Hypocrites, all of them!” Vincent throws his arms up.
“It has been the teaching of the Church for hundreds of years – “
“What am I to say to Hakim in Kabul, who cried in my arms because his boyfriend had been killed? Am I to condemn him for his sin? Hakim, I know you are the most godly, the most precious of my flock, but you are a sinner because you love. You love more than any of these men, who pluck immigrant prostitutes from the streets and discard them. Oh, don’t look scandalised, Thomas. O’Malley tells me more than you know. Or Ekomi, who worked day and night with me in the Congo, and went to bed with one of our sisters. Is it a sin, to seek comfort in the arms of those alongside whom you have been doing godly work?”
It is the first time Thomas has seen Vincent truly angry. “You’re saying you knew about sisters breaking their vows – “
“Oh, I knew, of course I knew!” Vincent cries out.
There is a weight in the pit of Thomas’ stomach. Something terrible is going to happen. They are on the edge of a precipice. “You must not let anyone else know about this,” he says.
“Or what, Thomas?” Vincent asks. He is not joking. Thomas know that well enough now.
“The African cardinals – the Eastern cardinals – it would be disaster, utter and total disaster.”
“Why? Because I have seen warzones? Because I have been witness to the worst depravities that mankind can think of, and I have seen the beauty of the Holy Spirit? To love in a war, Thomas, that is the Holy Spirit, making its presence known; that is the blessing God gives us. Love in the face of atrocity.”
Thomas looks at his own hand. It is shaking. “It is a fine teaching for a warzone, but it does not suit the Vatican.”
“You would have us all be self-loathing hypocrites, then? Is that God’s desire? Is this the working of the Holy Spirit?”
“Us?” Thomas says, before he can stop himself.
Vincent tilts his head. “My cardinal. Do you think I am blind?”
Thomas closes his eyes, and lowers his head. The worst fate. The most dreadful sin. He will burn in hell. Seventy years of devotion to God, and he has ruined it. “Holy Father. I am sorry if I have caused discomfort – “
“Ah, you misunderstand me, Thomas.” The kindness in Vincent’s voice is worse, somehow, than any alternative.
“Holy Father.” Thomas murmurs. There are footsteps; even with his eyes closed, he senses that Vincent has come to stand near him. He has a sudden image of himself: a gazelle, frozen to the spot while a lion observes it.
“Does it please you to call me that?” Vincent says, and reaches out a hand to Thomas’ face. He cradles Thomas’ cheek, brushes against his lips with the soft pad of his thumb. Thomas forces himself to open his eyes. Vincent is inspecting his face. Nothing but kindness. Nothing but forgiveness.
Thomas swallows. “I have never stepped over the line. Not in all my years here. What other men do is their business.”
“You have never been tempted?” Vincent asks. As if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if it were not a grievous sin, as if it would not break a solemn vow to the Lord. As if it would not destroy the foundations of Thomas’ entire, accursed life.
“I put away temptation long ago.”
“You are a model cardinal, my friend.”
The moment is about to break. Vincent is about to pull away. Thomas cannot bear it, he cannot bear the idea of Vincent being any further away, and so he asks him a question that has been bubbling in his mind for months, but that he has never been able to formulate, and even if he could have formulated it, he would never have dared asked. Only now, after this week, with Vincent’s hand still on face, their heads tilted together, can he put together the words.
“Have you?”
Vincent smiles, as if he does not understand the question. “Have I?”
“Been tempted.”
“Yes, Thomas. Are you shocked? Does it scandalize you, that I should have a body, too? That I should know the desires God has designed for us?”
Thomas wants to close his eyes again, but he does not – he cannot. “No.”
“Then why do you ask?”
“I do not know, Holy Father.”
“Perhaps you should pray on this, Thomas.” Vincent says, taps Thomas’ cheekbone, and then pulls away. “I must go. I am meeting our mutual friend, Goffredo. He is very unhappy with me, I think. I wonder how much he will dare say.” He gives Thomas a mischevious little smile, and wanders out of the library.
Thomas stands motionless as a statue, until he hears Vincent’s footsteps fade. Then, like a marionette with his strings cut, he collapses over the table, resting his forehead on its vast white surface. He repeats the Pater Noster to himself. Ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.
***
That night is torture for Thomas.
He goes to bed early. He lies on the bed with his arms crossed, like an effigy of a medieval knight. But it does not matter how much he disciplines his body, it does not matter how much willpower he exerts, or how many Hail Marys he repeats to himself: he can think of nothing at all except Vincent.
The thing is – it is impossible, what happened that day. It cannot be the case that the Holy Father stood before him and ran a thumb over his lips. It cannot be the case that the Holy Father held his cheek; the skin still burns where Vincent touched him. A vague recollection of seminary Greek, when they had been dragged away from the New Testament: Lepton d’autika khori pur hupadedromeken. Thin fire is racing under skin. It is ridiculous, to feel like this at his age. These are feelings for young men, who have not yet decided the path of their life.
And the other thing is – Vincent is good. He is the closest to a saint of any man Thomas has ever met. Thomas truly, completely believes that Vincent was not only chosen by the Holy Spirit, but that he is a manifestation of the Holy Spirit. Perhaps this is why he feels this way: he has become muddled between Man and God. But Thomas has been devoted to God for seventy years, and he has never lusted for God, he has never had a dry mouth and a desperate, shaking hand, he has never yearned to touch God, to know God’s body with his own. He does not want to disgust Vincent. He does not want to defile Vincent’s sacred body with his own tragic, pathetic wants. He should discipline himself. He can control how he eats; he can control how he sleeps, how he works, how he holds himself. All can be neat and regular. But he has tried, he has cried out to God and asked for self-control, he has prayed and asked and begged to be set free from this torment, to be able to serve Vincent as he is sure he is his proper destiny, and it has not worked. He is still beleaguered by these embarrassing desires, in almost every moment of the day. It is as if every other function of his brain has been removed and replaced with want for Vincent: the Holy Father blots out all else.
Thomas lies awake for most of the night, attempting to meditate, and thinks instead of the pads of Vincent’s fingers against his face. By the time the morning comes, he has made a resolution.
***
Thomas goes to the Casa Santa Marta, this time. He had intended to speak to the Holy Father first thing in the morning, but he had discovered that the Papal calendar was unavoidably busy. He had asked O’Malley if it wasn’t possible that he could just squeeze in an appointment, as a matter of urgency: O’Malley had simply raised his eyebrows, and said that he was sure his Eminence would cope with the wait. Thomas had not been able to avoid a stab of irritation; it seemed Ray’s loyalties now laid elsewhere.
It is evening, by the time he manages to see Vincent. The Holy Father ate dinner with some Sisters who were visiting from South Korea. Thomas had sat down in the canteen of the Casa Santa Marta with O’Malley, and pushed a serving of tortellini around his plate, attempting to look anywhere except at Vincent. After dinner, Vincent waves at him across the canteen. It is a little humiliating, Thomas thinks, that he follows Vincent’s commands like a trained dog.
They walk together to the tiny suite that serve as the daily Papal Apartments. It is not quite the bleak, anonymous room of the Conclave: there is a hanging on the wall, sent by his arch-diocese in Baghdad; small sculptures from the Congo; a set of handmade terracotta bowls from the Philippines. Every surface is covered with slapdash arrangements of paperwork, held in place by books in four different languages and random Vatican-themed paperweights (Thomas suspects, though he has never asked, that Vincent took them from the gift-shop). Thomas lets Vincent fuss over him for a minute or two, insisting on preparing him a cup of ginger tea and sitting him in a comfortable chair. It is selfish: he wants to enjoy these final moments with Vincent.
But at last, he must speak. Vincent takes the smaller armchair, opposite him. Thomas is grateful for the cup of tea: it lets him address the tea, rather than Vincent.
“I have come to offer my resignation.” He says, eventually. The words feel wrong. He should be feeling relief. Instead, he feels despair.
Vincent is silent for a moment, just blinking, but when he does speak, he does not sound terribly surprised. Instead, there is a tone of light amusement. “Why?”
Thomas winces. He did not want to explain this; he had hoped that Vincent would show mercy, and let him go without much interrogation. “I am no longer a suitable Secretary of State.”
“But you have done so well, Thomas.” Vincent says. It makes Thomas’ stomach twist; he aches with the need to please Vincent. “I will not prevent your resignation. But I must understand why it is happening.”
Thomas grimaces. “I have been – troubled.”
“You are still having problems with prayer?” Vincent’s voice is so kind. It makes Thomas feel sick.
“No. I am praying well. It is – another problem. One that makes me unfit for priestly service.”
Vincent tilts his head. “What could make you unfit?”
“I have desires, Holy Father.”
Vincent shrugs. “We all have desires.”
“Mine are unsuitable for my position.” Thomas’ voice nearly cracks. He looks down at the floor. He wishes, briefly, that it would open up and consume him.
“It helps to talk about these things. Tell me. How have you been suffering?” Vincent says, unbearably, sickeningly kind.
Thomas almost laughs. It is a ridiculous situation. “You do not want to hear these things from me.”
“A shepherd does not shy away from the troubles of his flock. You are my flock too, Thomas.”
Thomas stands. He cannot be sitting for this. His whole body trembles with nervous energy. He had not wanted to say this. “I cannot – I want. I want things I cannot have. Desires I thought I had killed.”
“Such as?” Vincent is calm, implacable.
“You do not want to hear – “
Vincent interrupts him. “Do not tell me, Thomas, what I do not or do not want. Just tell me how you feel.”
Thomas speaks to the wall. He cannot look at Vincent. His cheeks burn. “I want. I want carnally. I had forgotten that it was possible to feel this way. I am old and foolish, and I want.”
A small hum from Vincent. “Who do you desire?”
Thomas makes a strangled noise. “Holy Father. I cannot – “
“Who?” Vincent asks.
Thomas turns from the wall and looks at Vincent. His chair is positioned under a standing lamp; it gives him a halo. The sticking-up strands of his hair are golden. His skin is rich and warm. His lips are arranged into a tender smile; he has a slightly quizzical look on his face. He is the most beautiful man that Thomas has ever seen, and he is kind, and good, and holy.
“You, Holy Father.” Thomas says, and waits for the world to end.
Vincent’s smile only broadens. “It is natural, is it not?” He gives his hair a little shake. Thomas blinks. He does not really know what to say.
“It is a sin, Holy Father.”
Vincent waves a hand. “Ah, I do not think love is a sin. God gave it to us – “
“God gave us war – “
“You think these are the same?” Vincent’s tone is suddenly a little sharp.
“Well, I’m not enjoying it.” Thomas knows he sounds a bit petulant, but he cannot bring himself to care. Vincent, he thinks, is not treating this with the seriousness it deserves. He should have been excommunicated by now.
Vincent stands. The two men are facing each other, in the lamp-light of this tiny room. “I have known war, Thomas. I have seen dictatorship, and children destroyed by war, and men that kill in revenge for a passing expression. I have seen women with their bodies mutilated; I have seen families starving in the slums of cities that sloshed with wealth. Do you think I do not know the difference?”
Thomas bows his head. “I did not mean – “
“I am the Pope, Thomas.” Vincent says.
“Yes, Holy Father.” Thomas replies, although he does not understand.
“And you are my Cardinal, my Secretary of State.”
“Yes, Holy Father.”
Vincent takes a step closer to him. His face is silhouetted in gold. When he speaks, he gesticulates with his hands. Thomas has seen it a thousand times, and yet today, he finds he can look at nothing other than the movement of Vincent’s hands. “You have been my lodestone,” Vincent says. “I will not force you to stay, if you do not wish to. But I must tell you this. Desire is a gift. To want, to truly want something – someone – this is a blessing from God. This is the Holy Spirit. Do you understand me?”
“No.” Thomas says. There is nothing else to say.
“Let me show you.” Vincent says, and comes closer still.
Thomas frowns, “Holy Father, I do not – “
“My name is Vincent,” the Pope says, and takes Thomas’ face in his hands, cupping it, and kisses him.
Later, Thomas will try to untangle his feelings. It starts as incomprehension, and then becomes terror, and then a split-second later, guilt. The shock turns to relief; and then he is back to incomprehension, that someone as wonderful as Vincent could want this from him, a decrepit old fool. In the moment itself, though, all he can process is raw animal pleasure, the pleasure of a creature who has been untouched for too long, whose loneliness has been an open, festering wound, who has lied to himself countless times, who has deceived himself into thinking that even if he was not happy, he was content. It is burning fire under his skin; it is a black-and-white world flooded with colour.
After a few moments – the kiss is chaste, really nothing more than the press of their lips together - Vincent pulls back from Thomas’ lips, but keeps his forehead resting on Thomas’ forehead.
“Vincent.” Thomas murmurs. He cannot muster any other words.
“Thomas.” Vincent says – as if he is amused with himself, as if there is an inside joke here.
“We cannot – “ Thomas says, but is unable to finish the sentence. It means nothing. They have transgressed by such an order of magnitude that it seems no longer to make sense, simply to say it is not allowed. Later, Thomas will think: at least a car-bomb has not marked this transgression.
“Do you wish to?” Vincent asks, as if it is that simple.
“More than I wish to breathe – “
“Then we shall. Think of this as another form of prayer.” Vincent says, his eyes tracking back down to Thomas’ lips. And that is what breaks Thomas, really. He can deny himself; he can berate his own desires, keep himself in line with masochistic self-discipline. But he would never ask Vincent to do the same.
And so when Vincent kisses him again, Thomas kisses back. He feels like a fumbling buffoon, unsure what to do with his lips or his hands, but he lets Vincent guide him. This is a form of prayer. Vincent’s arms slung around his waist. Thomas is giddy; he feels his heart has inflated, as if his whole body has blown up and is so light that he could float off at any moment. They kiss leaning against the table, papers slipping to the floor, and when Thomas tries to lean down and rearrange them, Vincent pulls him up again and kisses him, as if he is hungry for Thomas, as if he cannot bear to be parted from him for even a moment. Vincent’s hands on his shoulders. Vincent’s hands unbuttoning his cassock. The Holy Father takes the silk-covered buttons, pausing to rest his hands in appreciation of Thomas’ chest. You do not eat enough, Thomas, Vincent murmurs. Thomas can barely comprehend the words. And then Vincent’s hands lower, brushing against his hip, skating his lower belly. And other things, actions that Thomas cannot yet name, things that have been great blank spots in his consciousness, but are now emblazoned across his mind in shimmering tones of gold.
***
Thomas spends the night in his own apartment in the Vatican complex. He walks back to under the cover of night, blushing like a school girl. Vincent had asked him to stay. It had taken what was left of Thomas’ ragged self-control to deny this to the Holy Father – to look at him, silhouetted against his white sheets, and to walk away. It would be a holy thing, Thomas thought, to spend his days and nights simply worshipping Vincent. There could be no greater service than this.
His own love repulses him. It has upset him on a bodily level; he feels weak; he feels like a disgusting object. And yet he keeps thinking of Vincent’s hands on his, reverential, treating him like something sacred. Treating him as if he were more than a grotesque old man, better left to his lonely rot. Treating him as something – someone – to be adored. Just the thought makes him feel as if there are spiders under his skin. But Vincent had whispered, Mahal kita, my Cardinal, and though Thomas does not speak Tagalog, he understood the shape of the words.
***
The next morning, Thomas does not go, as often been his custom, to the service Vincent leads at seven a.m. in the Casa Santa Marta. Instead, he leaves the Vatican, dressed only in the black clothing and dog-collar of any ordinary priest, and makes his way through the streets of Rome to the Pontifical Gregorian University, where Aldo has been teaching. Several weeks ago, he had asked O’Malley to acquire a copy of Aldo’s teaching schedule, in case it was necessary to consult him on some urgent matter. He had not, he will admit, expected that it would be of use in this particular situation. No-one spares him a glance; a priest in Rome is hardly an unusual sight.
The edifice of university is unremarkably neo-classical. He has no particular affiliation with this place, but the receptionist has clearly been trained to recognize senior members of the Curia, and when he enquires as to the whereabouts of Cardinal Bellini, bobs her head and says, Naturalmente, è così, Eminenza. She leads him through a warren of classrooms – here, the seminarians and the visiting sisters do glance back at him, double taking at the presence of the Secretary of State in the poky halls of their university – to the teacher’s lounge.
It is a large room, with rather magnificent arches. Thomas feels a brief pang for his past life as a professor of canon law. He might have been here in another life, debating the finer points of ecclesiastical authority over burnt coffee. Instead, he looks over the room and searches for Aldo. He finds the man with a cup of espresso in one hand and a theological journal in the other, his legs crossed and his glasses lowered.
Thomas strides over to him, and starts to speak without any introduction. “Aldo. You must take my confession.”
Aldo makes a startled noise. “Good Lord, Thomas. You look terrible. Have you slept at all?”
“Confession, Aldo. I must – I have done an evil thing.” Thomas is aware that he is using the same tone as when he was chivvying the cardinals in the conclave. Well, at least he knows his skill-set.
Aldo spends a moment looking him up and down, and seems to decide that Thomas is being serious. He sighs. “I have half an hour before I teach.”
Aldo leads the two of them to the empty classroom, in which he will shortly be leading a seminar on the Council of Nicaea. He is holding a sheaf of hand-outs; Thomas thinks briefly that this academic life seems to suit Aldo more than being Secretary of State ever had.
“Go on, then.” Aldo makes a weary gesture, and sits down.
There is no good way to lead into this, so Thomas has decided simply to state it. “I have despoiled the Pope.”
Aldo, to his credit, does not yell out, as Thomas might have done. He simply takes off his glasses, wipes them a few times while staring into the mid-distance, then places them back on his face. “You mean – “
“I fornicated with the Pope. I fucked the Pope, Aldo!” Thomas says. His tone is a little hysterical, but it is, he thinks, a rather appropriate time for hysteria.
Aldo glances at the door, alarmed. “Do try to keep your voice down, Thomas.”
“What do I do?” Thomas throws his hands up. He is aware that he is being dramatic; he is also unsure if he really expects Aldo to have any answers. Really, he has only come here because he cannot bear to hold this secret alone.
“Well, did he like it? Did you like it?” Aldo asks. He is speaking in the gossipy tone with which he and Thomas have previously discussed the dalliances of other cardinals. It is driving Thomas up the wall; can Aldo not see that this is far, far worse than anything their colleagues have done?
“I do not think that is relevant!”
“It seems to me the only thing that is relevant.”
“It is sin, Aldo. I have committed the most grievous sin, and you ask if I – like it?”
“Perhaps it is not a sin.” Aldo says, and shrugs.
Thomas scowls. “Of course it is a sin. Never mind the fact we have both sworn a covenant with God! Sexual intercourse without the purpose of – “
Aldo laughs. Thomas wants to hit him. His self-control seems to be fracturing in every respect. “Do you call it ‘sexual intercourse’ with him? I wouldn’t. It’s a bit off-putting.”
“Sexual intercourse without the purpose of procreation is a sin. A perversion.” Thomas says, but even the phrase seems hollow.
Aldo rolls his eyes. “Oh come on, Thomas. You do not believe that.”
“We teach it.” Thomas says. He is clinging to these principles. All else may be in tatters.
“And not a person in the Vatican follows it. Not even the Holy Father, apparently. It’s a ridiculous, outdated notion.” Aldo says. Thomas has a brief image of being his student. And then he pauses, looks out of the window at the street of Rome, to where so many people live their life without the slightest concern about God, and he swallows, because he knows Aldo is correct, he knows it is a foolish rule, he knows there is no scriptural basis for priestly celibacy, but it is the rule by which he has ordered his whole life, it has been the fundamental tenet of his existence, and now –
“I followed it. I followed it for my whole life,” he says, and then sits down and puts his head in his hands.
“I’m sorry, Thomas,” Aldo says. Everyone is kind to him, recently. It is as if he were dying.
“Oh, God. I am a fool. An old fool.” Thomas groans.
Aldo chuckles, quietly. “Not in the eyes of the Holy Father, apparently.”
“I should leave. Go to some quiet monastery. Garden until I die.”
“Is that truly what you want?”
“No.” Thomas closes his eyes and leans back on his chair.” I want – terrible things, Aldo. I want so much. And I cannot bear it.”
Aldo places a hand over Thomas’ hand, and squeezes it. “My dear Thomas. I think you have just discovered what it means to be a living creature.”
***
Thomas watches Vincent lead Mass, that evening. It is a formal event: there are dignitaries present. Vincent is dressed in full regalia – or rather, as much regalia as the Vatican assistants are ever able to persuade him into wearing, a pallium draped over a chasuble. When they are praying, Thomas has an unbidden thought: it is a terribly lonely thing, to be Pope. One is never quite human again. There is no-one in this room is truly sees Vincent as anything other than the Pope; he has transformed from man into symbol. Apart from him. He is the only one who sees Vincent as he really is. Who knows Vincent’s secrets. Who carries his burdens, his bitchy asides, who knows the full weight of his joy. Who would do anything in the world, bear any hardship, tolerate any loss, in order to have that soft, gentle smile directed at him.
This, in the end, is how Thomas justifies it to himself. He has been placed on earth to serve Vincent, and this is merely an extension. It does not matter why Thomas is on his aching knees, whether prayer or some other occupation. It is all in the name of God. He is devoted still to the Holy Spirit. It has simply taken on a mortal form.
Vincent will not pass the reforms he truly wants to pass. He cannot. The Catholic Church cannot hold his contradictions. But he will speak of love and tolerance, of unity, of existing in the in-between spaces, and of having the humility of doubt. And Thomas will argue with every patriarch and cardinal on earth, he will field enough emails to kill a lesser man, and he will follow one step behind Vincent, keeping his robes from the dirt.
***
Two months later, Thomas and Vincent lie together, on a narrow bed in the Casa Santa Marta. A thin shaft of light breaks into the room. There is a cross above the bed. Vincent’s Bible on the bedside table. His little ornaments, memories from Baghdad and Kinshasa and Budta. The same mechanical alarm clock that Thomas gave to all the cardinals, during the Conclave. One glass of water, from which they both sip.
Thomas curls against Vincent’s body. He can feel Vincent’s heartbeat, each breath Vincent takes. He kisses the back of Vincent’s head, because he can; he buries his face in Vincent’s hair. It is impossible, that this should happen for him. Not least, Thomas thinks, because he had thought for a long time – seventy years – that happiness was not to be his lot on earth. He was a manager, a facilitator. His own life was of no concern.
Da mihi castitatem et continentiam, sed noli modo. Give to me chastity and continence, but not yet. For a long time, he had not understood this final phrase. He has lived his life in reverse; only now has he started to comprehend love. But now, he thinks, this bed is the Kingdom of Heaven. When he dies, he shall have nothing to do but wait for Vincent, for there will be no contentment, even in the embrace of God, without him. Chastity, now, would be nothing but the absence of Vincent.
Et cum spiritu tuo. And with your spirit.