Chapter Text
Lascia che sia fiorito,
Signore il tuo sentiero,
Quando a te la sua anima
E al mondo la sua pelle
Dovran riconsegnare
Quando verrà il tuo cielo
Là dove in pieno giorno
Risplendono le stelle
"Let thy path blossom,
Oh lord,
When thee shall have his soul
And the world shall have his flesh
Delivered
When thy kingdom come
There where in broad daylight
Shine the stars"
— F. De Andrè
Capitolo I
Tedesco is not Pope.
| Questo pontificato non s’ha da fare, Goffredo!1 | This pontificate is not happening, Goffredo! |
An insistent, sing-songy voice pierces his mind. He boards his return flight with his head hanging so low he doesn’t even allow himself to look out the plane window. He doesn’t look out during take-off, nor does he look when Venice stretches beneath him, that glittery swamp where dreams and promises go to drown. The ticket had been a last-minute purchase, as he hadn’t bothered getting a return flight after arriving to Rome by train. Call it wishful thinking. Overtaken by a pragmatism so unlike him, the Patriarch of Venice feels strangely calm, too calm. His entourage falls into an uneasy quiet: they move like shadows, clearly made uncomfortable by the abrupt silence that clings to him.
As if in a sort of trance, Goffredo makes his way out of the airport, reaches Venice, then makes his way to the Patriarchal Palace. Out of habit, or perhaps just muscle memory, Goffredo finds himself stumbling through the narrow, twisting hallways of the palace until he snaps out of it, standing in front of a door. His door. The door to his suite. Beside it, two suitcases have been neatly arranged. It seems the staff somehow beat him to it.
Goffredo fumbles with the keys for a moment, his movements too abrupt. The lock is finicky, always has been; that’s what you get when you choose to live in a centuries-old palace. He pushes the door open with a grunt and steps inside. He’s half-tempted to slam the door behind him, and almost does, but hesitates at the last moment. The swing is, however, already in motion. He fumbles to slow it, only to nearly crush his fingers against the jamb. The slam makes a regrettably loud noise. A sigh escapes his lips as he pats down at his cassock, his movements frantic. After a few seconds, he gives up, his vape probably sitting at the bottom of one of his suitcases.
He hadn’t been able to bring it on the plane with him. Sure, he could take the suitcases and start searching for his vape, he thinks, but he’s not in the mood to deal with the mess he is likely to make: clothes, towels, toiletries all strewn about the room as he looks for his red, caramel flavoured vape. No, he definitely does not want to deal with any of that. His dear vape will have to wait. This thought comes as a surprise, but he recovers quickly. Then again, he’s had enough surprises as of lately. Far too many, really.
Cardinal Tedesco hopes, desperately so, that maybe it had all been a dream. It’s a desperate thought. That Vincent had never been elected, that the roof of the Sistine Chapel hadn’t fallen upon them like Judgment Day. He hopes that, perhaps, if he just closes his eyes, squeezes them hard enough until stars dance behind his eyelids, he’ll wake up in his suite in Santa Marta, with the Conclave yet to begin. Sede vacante.
However, when Cardinal Tedesco opens his eyes, he finds himself in front of a familiar window, looking out over a familiar view: a misty, rain-soaked Venice greets him with wicked amusement.
| 'Vedi che sei tornato, Goffredo caro?' Venice barks. | 'See how you’ve come back already, my dear Goffredo?' Venice barks. |
Goffredo does not consider himself an insane man, thank you very much. Still, it has to be said: Venice has its own voice and it always wants to be heard. Maybe it’s God’s voice, or that of the Holy Spirit, Goffredo had thought the first time he had heard Venice talking back to him, many years ago. As time went on, however, the Patriarch had the displeasure of realising it was definitely not the voice of the Holy Spirit, let alone the voice of God. It was hard to figure out exactly to whom it belonged: sometimes it was soft, kind, albeit rarely; most of the time, it was scathing, bordering on cruel, just like Goffredo. Perhaps that’s why he finds it hard to hate it. Or maybe he really is just an old madman hearing voices. That’s also on the table. He tries not to dwell on it.
He lets himself fall on the bed, unceremoniously, the old bed frame creaking and squeaking as it adjusts to his weight. Goffredo looks out the window: Piazza San Marco is beginning to flood, and police officers are putting up walkways, as tourists scramble about, holding their suitcases above their heads while their feet get soaked. He observes them in quiet contemplation.
That’s another thing that Goffredo finds unusual and, in better circumstances, he would have also found quite amusing: he is hardly contemplative. An uncontemplative Cardinal, now that’s an oxymoron. He is aware of the irony. But contemplation, to Goffredo, only belongs in the church, at the altar, not in the secular world. He tries to pinpoint what exactly he’s so fixated on as he looks at the main square, but the answer eludes him.
He looks around dumbly, as if seeing the room for the first time. The flat he has called home for over 14 years. The wooden ceiling that looms above his head is richly decorated: hunting scenes, clear blue skies, a hint of clouds. It’s to make the rooms appear larger, taller; that’s what he had learned during his art history studies. The people who built the palace in the 17th century had apparently felt the need to recreate the heavens. But today, the open skies are having the opposite effect on Goffredo. They press down. The room folds inward, its walls warping and twisting at the edge of his vision. They feel too close, and his thoughts too loud. The painted ceiling, whose purpose was to make this gilded cage look like an endless sky, feels like it’s about to fall, like the shattered stained-glass of the Sistine Chapel.
Goffredo inhales, letting his head fall into his hands. He breathes in again, deeply. His hands smell like synthetic caramel and smoke: it’s a stubborn smell, impossible to get rid of, unless he quits vaping. And that’s definitely not happening now.
“Fuck,” he exhales, trying to keep his breathing controlled. It’s so controlled it feels unnatural, as if he were in a guided meditation. He removes his glasses and places them on the bedside table without even folding them. Strangely, he feels empty. He thought he’d be angrier. More disappointed. Sadder, even. So why does he feel so… collected? He had half-expected to collapse on the floor in his room, sobbing ugly, angry tears. Instead, he sits on his old bed, cassock still on, face dry as the desert. He ponders the results of the election: the new Pope is young, too young, far younger than Goffredo anyway. His chances at becoming the Supreme Pontiff of the church have dwindled to a pathetic pile of ashes. And he’s not going to phoenix his way out of this one, so he'd better get used to rolling in his ashes.
He really wants to sleep right now. Without even taking his garments off, to just lie on the bed, arms splayed out, waiting for sleep to take him—sweet, sweet Morpheus. But he can’t. Not yet. It’s not even 15:00. And just because he failed to get elected doesn’t mean the Church is handing out days off out of pity. Not that he wants people to pity him. He hates the idea of facing the staff members, of saying Mass tomorrow morning. Hates the thought of looking at them in the eyes. But it’s not like he can keep staring at his shoes forever, so, sooner or later, he’ll have to man the fuck up and pretend like this Conclave never happened. Yes, that sounds like the healthy, sensible thing to do, Goffredo thinks.
A good place to start is setting his current priorities straight: food. He hasn’t had lunch yet, and his stomach’s protests haven’t gone unnoticed. He picks up his landline phone (because why get rid of a perfectly working phone?) and dials up a fast food restaurant. It’s a last resort, but only fast food joints tend to be open at this hour. He gets two burgers, a Diet Coke (he swears it tastes better than the normal one) and something sweet: caramel ice cream. He convinces himself he needs it in these times of great disappointment. Goffredo then picks up his other phone, the tiny devil’s contraption in his pocket, and calls his assistant, letting him know of the food soon to be delivered before the steps of Saint Mark’s Basilica. Thirty minutes later, his assistant knocks on his door and, without saying a word, hands the Patriarch a warm, greasy plastic bag.
Cardinal Tedesco eats like a man starved. He doesn’t even bother blessing the food. He unwraps his burgers and inhales them in just a few bites, the ice cream soon facing the same fate. Hunger. It’s the one thing Goffredo hates, more than anything else. That same hunger that never escapes him, body and mind. It’s not a physical hunger, not always. That kind of hunger can be sated easily. The kind of hunger that gnaws at his soul can’t be fixed by cheap fast food. It’s a deeper hunger, one he struggles to understand, no matter how introspective he is during prayer or how many times he confesses, he seems unable to locate its origin. So he eats, calming at least part of it.
| 'Cardinal Maiale, Eminenza reverendissima,' Venice quips, its voice a cruel mimicry of his own. | 'Cardinal Pig, most reverend Eminence.' Venice quips, its voice a cruel mimicry of his own. |
“Shut up,” Goffredo mutters under his breath, his voice sounding a bit hoarse. He crumples the wrapping paper and tosses it in the general direction of the rubbish bin. He promptly misses. Alright, the world has it out against him. With a huff, the man gets up and then bends down to pick up the sad little ball of greasy wrapping paper staring up at him from the floor. He pointedly ignores the way his knees creak. Goffredo hasn’t spoken to anyone since Pope Innocent XIV was elected, granted, it’s only been a day, yet it feels like the longest stretch he’s gone without pestering anyone.
The rest of the day, unsurprisingly, drags on painfully slowly. The fact that his vape remains locked away in his suitcase doesn’t help; his fingers twitch, and his throat feels parched. He doesn’t do much, not really: he mostly answers useless e-mails, hears a few confessions, and, at around 18:30, he decides to take a stroll around the city. He dresses in casual clothes, finally retrieves his vape from the mountain of clothes that had been forcibly squashed in the suitcase, and quickly stomps out wearing his dark galoshes, lest the water and mud ruin his new shoes and trousers. He exhales, caramel vapour curling into the dusk like incense. Not quite prayer, but close enough.
Goffredo decides to head east. The city is less crowded than usual thanks to the rain. He follows the winding streets, avoiding the slippery canals where he can. He reaches the Arsenal, its centuries-old gates looming like sentinels. It’s unusually still today. The empty dry docks now only reflect the grey sky and the calm waters of the lagoon, an echo of their former glory. The Biennale Exhibition is closed, as it always is on Mondays. This allows Goffredo to fixate quietly on the imperceptible ripples in the stagnant water without having to hear the excited chatter of art school kids and critics echoing underneath the docks. He grunts. Hits his vape. Goffredo feels calmer already.
Nevertheless, this moment of unexpected inner peace is interrupted very soon, as his phone starts ringing. It’s a loud and obnoxious ringtone, one that Goffredo never bothered to change. He contemplates hurling the phone into the dark waters of the lagoon. Reluctantly, he checks the number: it’s unknown.
If it’s another call center, Goffredo thinks, I swear, by everything that is holy, I will destroy this phone with my bare hands.
Already annoyed before even picking up, Goffredo accepts the call.
“Pronto?” He responds.
“Cardinal Tedesco,” the other voice answers. Goffredo’s stomach churns as recognition clicks in. He lets out a dry chuckle.
“Lawrence.” He almost laughs. God really has it out for him. “Why…?”
The question catches in his throat. Why are you calling now? Why did you even speak up during the Conclave? Why couldn’t you just stay quiet, for once? Why am I not Pope, Tommaso? These are the questions that Goffredo would like to ask. But he doesn’t. Instead, the questions linger in the air, like static, unsaid.
“I…” Thomas hesitates, unsure how to answer the incredibly vague question asked by his fellow Cardinal.
“What? Have you dug up a scandalo that could potentially ruin my career, eh?” Goffredo switches to English, his accent thick and his speech punctuated by Italian words that he uses whenever he sees fit. It’s not a matter of ignorance, it’s a matter of pride.
“No, Tedesco, you’ve got it all wrong.” Goffredo hears him sigh, and probably shakes his head. “I’m calling on behalf of the Vatican.” he clears his throat, “We—uh—the Secretariat asked me to check in. Just to make sure you are… all right. Are you all right, Goffredo?”
Did the Vatican truly think him so volatile? So unstable they had to send the fucking Dean of the College of Cardinals, of all people, to check in like he was some fragile liability? Check in?! Was he being watched like a man on the verge of collapse? Was he being put on suicide watch?
“Are you afraid I’ll throw myself off the Ponte dei Sospiri, Tommaso?” Goffredo asks.
“I’d actually prefer you didn’t, Goffredo.” Thomas pauses for a moment, like he’s debating whether he wants to say what he says next, “And the fall probably wouldn’t kill you anyway, it’s not tall enough.”
“You always know how to brighten up the mood, Lawrence.” Despite himself, Goffredo smiles ever so slightly.
“I’m sorry,” Thomas says, and it does sound like he means it, like he’s embarrassed by what he just said. “But you are well, right?” he sounds almost genuinely concerned, and maybe that’s the part that stings the most.
“As well as one can be, Tommaso. Is this really the only reason you called?”
“Yes, actually. Vincent—I mean, His Holiness, asked me to check in with all the cardinals who were particularly… ambitious during the Conclave. The ones who had a real shot at the papacy. He said that some people, no matter how good they are at rationalising, just can’t handle not getting what they want. That’s… that’s what his Holiness said,” Thomas explains, and it sounds like he’s running out of breath, the poor man. It makes sense, Goffredo thinks. But why would the Pope Innocent worry about his opposition?
“His Holiness…” Goffredo croaks.
“What about him?” Thomas asks, an edge of defensiveness to his tone.
“He’s going to do great damage. Try to change shit he shouldn’t.” Goffredo doesn’t care that he’s being vulgar. He is allowed to be angry. He is.
“You can’t know that, Goffredo.”
“Fidati Tommaso, lo so. I’ve seen it, you’ve seen it. A liberal Pope gets elected, tries to change things, fails, gets consumed by spite and anger and dies young.”
“The former Pope didn’t die young. And he did manage to make significant changes.”
| "L’eccezione che conferma la regola." | "The exception that proves the rule." |
“What makes you think that His Holiness won’t also be an exception?”
“Eh, a hunch. He’s too soft. Too…” he moves his hands as if trying to summon the right word, trying to explain himself through the sheer power of hand gestures. Thomas can’t see him, of course. “You know what I mean.”
“I’m afraid I don’t, Goffredo, and I don’t care to know.” He hears Thomas sigh.
“Vabbè,” Goffredo inhales. “I am fine, by the way. Tell His Holiness I’m eating burgers, sleeping poorly, and vaping in public. I’m thriving. I’m sure he will be pleased knowing that,” he says sarcastically.
A pause.
“He will.” There is no sarcasm in Thomas’s voice. Goffredo hates that he means it.
“So was His Holiness afraid I might sulk myself to death?”
“He thinks grief wears different masks,” Thomas says gently. “Some of them look like pride.” That stings. Maybe because it’s true. Goffredo refuses to acknowledge it.
“I’m not proud,” Goffredo answers, half-heartedly.
Thomas is quiet for a few too many seconds. The silence stretches awkwardly. Oh well, there’s his answer.
Thomas hesitates for a moment more, then says:
“Goffredo. I know we don’t see eye to eye.” The Patriarch of Venice snorts at that, “But… don’t be a stranger. If we keep behaving like petty children, nothing good will ever come out of this. Not for you, not for us. Not for the Church.” He pauses. “This is… off the record, by the way.”
Goffredo doesn’t respond immediately. He can’t decide if the words are meant to help or wound. It does sound like a genuine olive branch. One Goffredo isn’t sure he wants to take.
“You’re less unbearable than most liberals.” he chides.
He hears Thomas sigh. He has clearly reached his limit. “I should have never bothered, I’m going to hang up now, goodbye, Carinal Tede-”
“It was a complimento, cretino. Cia’,” Goffredo interrupts and hangs up before Thomas has a chance to answer. He doesn’t bother saving the number.