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“I always knew there was something dwelling within you. Something aggressive.”
They were out past curfew, heads thrust into a breeze blowing just out of reach. Vapor flowed into the air, and the scent seemed oddly melancholic. Gone were the cartridges bearing candylike cherry flavors, and instead, it was replaced with a spiced apple.
Lawrence recalled being dragged into a Byredo shop at the airport by Aldo, testing every scent under the sun until they ended up at a Bath and Body Works with resignation.
His colleague waved his hand in the air with a flourish. “The Dean is elected, no? He shall be elected again.”
Lawrence said nothing, feeling bile rise up in his throat. Of course, he had eaten nothing, which only served to make his nausea worse. Also of course, Tedesco had brought him something to eat, which was now sitting in his lap, untouched.
“I should’ve known better. Why bother to even try to put myself out there? Mah, a waste of my spirit.”
They should have been at each other’s throats, just like how Aldo seethed at the very sight of Tedesco. But they never have. Lawrence detested the connection they had, but they both were capable of seeing through one another. Tedesco’s first comment still lingered in Lawrence’s chest, and he dug his blunt fingernails into his gut. What dwells within. If only Tedesco knew. For some reason, Lawrence had always suspected that he knew.
Tedesco turned to him, his greying curls backlit by too-cold lamps. “At least it’ll be you.”
“I’ve never known you to resign yourself so quickly. We are not anywhere close to a majority vote.” It was the first time Lawrence had spoken since venturing outside, and his voice came out mirthful, surprising himself.
Tedesco laughed. “We have dug ourselves too deep.” He then paused and gestured to Lawrence’s cornbread. “Eat,” he commanded.
“If I die of starvation, then you win, no?”
His colleague smiled, weakly. “Not a fair fight, Decano.”
Somewhere off in the distance, someone was playing music. Perhaps one of the sisters? It was barely audible, and yet the high notes of the melody managed to transmit itself.
Lawrence tilted his head out the window, breathing it in.
Music.
In his last Conclave, an aging cardinal who was now waiting with the crowd in the square, had written down the lyrics to his favorite songs, and he had cajoled some of the staff into letting him into the cantina after hours to practice. The acoustics were good in there, apparently. Perhaps it was why his confrontation with Tremblay seemed to rattle the walls, and the silence had buzzed even louder. So there had been music in that Conclave, but this one had been clinical until now.
Lawrence heard rustling on the bedsheets, and the rubbery mattress creaked. He glanced over his shoulder, finding Aldo sitting up on one elbow.
“It that fucking Grimes? After Elon?” he said, scandalized.
“Only so much louder, my dear.”
Lawrence twisted the window shut, and Grimes was muffled. A shame. His once-ridiculed single room had become a prized commodity as the Conclave had stretched, considering he had a quad-facing window and was actually allowed to crack it open. It was most possibly why Aldo came crawling at one am, the pain of Lawrence’s words still etched on his face, but neither spoke on it.
Their roles had effectively reversed, Lawrence figured. He knelt on the bed before curling under it, his arms crossed over his chest. The urge to dig was growing, to dig it out, hold it above his head like a sacrificed heart, which would be the shape of the blood blooming underneath him.
Instead of all that, an arm settled over his chest, snaking under Lawrence’s folded arms to do so. A body dragged itself flush against his back, and Aldo’s hand unfurled, a solid sensation just under his ribcage.
The urge to dig didn’t quite subside.
Years ago, Lawrence once had a feverish dream after conducting a Nativity play, except he was the Virgin Mary, and Aldo was Joseph. And everything had been happening in the hospital from Scrubs, for an inexplicable reason.
Lawrence recalled dying in his dream and waking in real life, watching Aldo through half-lidded eyes. He had delivered the baby, but his gaze was not on the strange creature in his arms.
A Wise Man injected Lawrence with adrenaline.
Off to the side, a voice that Lawrence had called Gabriel’s said: “What the hell is that?”
The next day, Lawrence and Aldo had laughed about the dream.
“Of course Gabriel would be freaked out about human babies! They creep me out! I hate baptisms,” Aldo had said. And then he backtracked, rambling on: “Like, it’s a cute moment, and the love on the parents’ faces…but the kid? Scary, a little scary. You know how they stare—”
But Lawrence had the feeling that what Thomas-Mary had birthed was no human and certainly not alive. Killed in the womb…but for what reason?
As always, Lawrence woke up alone, with the window cracked open for him. The voices of sisters in the quad floated upwards.
Unable to psych himself into showering, Lawrence floated downstairs, the walls feeling too far out of reach and stifling all the same. Upon entering the cantina, millions of encouraging faces smiled upon him. Clones, all of them!
In the corner, Tedesco looked at him curiously, surrounded by a gossiping entourage.
Seeing Aldo missing from the crowd, Lawrence frantically found the next-best seat, knowing that Tedesco had been eyeing him not pick up anything from the buffet.
“Good morning,” Lawrence addressed the small crowd of junior cardinals, who looked up at him with alarm. Only Vincent beamed at him, and he honest-to-God pushed the hair out of his face. His cheeks were dewy and free of blemishes. Lawrence figured that Aldo would kill for that skincare routine, which after a week of knowing Vincent, it was probably just water.
“Good morning, Dean,” said Vincent, reaching across the table to press a reassuring hand into his wrist, “have you slept well?”
Before Lawrence could answer with a lie, Lima’s Cardinal Martinez said: “Anyone else hear the radio last night? Like at one am?”
Murmurs erupted between the table, with most attendees saying they had been fast asleep.
Vincent cocked his head and replied: “I have heard. What was it? It was enchanting!”
The current youngest cardinal—a baby at 42 years of age—and Lawrence both replied with “Grimes.”
The man stared at Lawrence, very clearly distrusting. Across the cantina, Lawrence spied Tedesco’s men also refusing to look him in the eye. Even now, they had become popes. Tedesco had been right, they were both in too deep. Even when one would inevitably lose, the damage was done. Their peers would never be peers anymore.
Lawrence swallowed down his vocal chords, beginning to sweat under his robes.
This could be it. It very well could be it.
Huddled in the bathroom before the bus arrived, Lawrence pressed himself against the wall and fruitlessly sent prayers above. He didn’t know what he even wanted, so he stumbled over holy words with no reply and an increasing sense of unease. He stumbled out of the stall and found two women pause light conversation.
Funnily enough, the bathrooms on the first floor were all gender neutral, equipped with floor-to-ceiling stalls and a wide-open sink area. They had been like that since Lawrence had arrived, but only in recent years did Aldo point out that the traditionalists were starting to stir up a stink.
“You’ll be late for the headcount, Eminence,” Sister Agnes said, concerned. She looked like she wanted to reach out, but her hands remained clasped in front of her. Behind her, a younger sister snickered.
Agnes turned to whisper some reprimanding words at her, but the sister still chirped: “You look like shit!”
Lawrence nodded, much to Agnes’ surprise. It may be the last time anyone laughed at his face. He ducked his head as he went, his skirts brushing against theirs. Even as he left the building, he felt their eyes boring into him, scanning beneath his skull. In the quad, Tedesco looked him over and hit his vape.
“How much money do I need to bribe the sisters to go get me more cartridges?” Tedesco said as they boarded the bus, “I’m running out.”
Eyes of twenty-some cardinals gazed at the two of them, accusingly, like they were late to class.
“What are you all looking at?” Tedesco snapped, dragging Lawrence by the wrist to the only open seats in the bus. His hand burned against his skin, but he didn’t let go.
Lawrence imagined the two of them paddling away from a shipwreck, grasping onto a chunk of plywood groaning under their combined weight. Nightgowns drenched and sheer, floating around them, baring all their secrets to each other.
His face burned, and he begged for forgiveness. Sorry for thinking of your Church as a shipwreck…
Radio silence.
Clearly the Holy Spirit had not heard Lawrence desecrating the Universal Church, because as the scrutineers read the results, Lawrence found each tally on his name matching the tallies for Tedesco. Equally matched at last, with only a few votes scattered upon the other electors. Lawrence and someone else were voting for Aldo, and a previously-formidable player on the conservative side had similarly gotten a few votes.
A cold wave of relief crashed over Lawrence, and he shuddered in his seat. Sweat dribbled between his shoulderblades. Somewhere, he could feel Aldo’s disapproving gaze. Why give up a majority?
Thomas was a self-christened name, and Lawrence couldn’t exactly pinpoint what had drawn him to it. At least this was not the time to think of another new name yet again.
The scrutineers announced an immediate transition into a new round of voting. Lawrence didn’t bother praying this time, feeling the chapel chill with each of his breaths.
He ended up gaining one vote, most likely a loss from Tedesco’s side.
Glancing down at his paper before turning it in for destruction, he finally noticed the elephant on his page. There were no votes for Vincent. Even yesterday, he had about eight. The red-handed looks of the young cardinals surrounding their new prophet zapped back into his mind, and without even thinking, Lawrence swore under his breath. “Bastard!,” he whispered.
The solid harshness of the floor rose up to meet his knees, and Lawrence’s hands fisted in soft, dark-wash denim. The heat of Vincent’s thigh emanated through the thinning fabric, and perhaps he could feel his nails digging in.
“Please take my confession!” Lawrence begged, unable to look at Vincent’s bewildered expression.
Vincent knelt, meeting Lawrence where he had melted. “Shh, it’s alright. Not so loud.”
The candlelight darkened half of Vincent’s face, and Lawrence knew the candles to be scentless, but soot burned down his nose and into his lungs. If he coughed, he thought a black tar-like substance would emerge.
“Thomas, what is it you could have possibly done? This cannot be about Tremblay—”
Gasping, Lawrence said: “I have desecrated your name behind your back! You have done nothing to me, and I called you names and—”
Vincent ran cold, so cold, and the palm that was now pressed against his face felt like dry ice. It obliterated his membranes and welded itself there. “This is a high stress situation. I can’t say I’m happy, but I understand.”
“Why did you tell them to vote for me? If you knew, you wouldn’t have done it. I’m not fit for the papacy, I—” Lawrence trailed off, realizing he had gotten himself stuck in brambles. “Just take it back, alright? That’s all.”
“Thomas, I have voted for you since the beginning.”
“Just because I was nice to you!” Lawrence snapped, immediately feeling the regret seize his gut. Dig, dig, dig! The refrain repeated itself endlessly, and if it weren’t for the thick layers of silk and wool, he would have done so.
Vincent’s serene face didn’t falter, but Lawrence could see some gears turning. “My first vote, sure. Isn’t that everyone’s first vote? But I have seen you in action, and insult me all you want, I find you to have the courage necessary for the job. Would you rather I voted for that other man? I’ve heard what kinds of things he says. I’m not deaf, Thomas.”
“Why must you sacrifice me? I’d have to be a Celestine…do what I can before I leave before they find out. I cannot withstand this level of scrutiny!”
Lawrence was being dragged across the floor, even though he knew that Vincent was actually helping him stand under his own power and venture farther from the thin door. Candles danced against walls, cheering like some sort of sports tournament. Everything felt like violence in his head. He squeezed his eyes, fighting a wretched feeling crawling up his throat.
“Thomas, tell me. Find out what? It will not leave this room, confession or not.” Vincent’s jaw was clenched, and he had ducked his head to look directly into Lawrence’s eyes, even as he sat slumped on the single bed.
Lawrence had fallen. Gone were confrontations, standing tall as others remained seated. He was a child yet again, curled in the chair at the psychologist’s office, who had been doling out brand-new research papers to his baffled parents. His very first confession almost exactly mirrored what he told Vincent then, which was…well…the truth.
He told him everything, start to finish. The life of Thomas Lawrence squeezed into a self-deprecating marble, and the force of everything compressed and forced to interact siphoned the remaining energy out of him. The shuddering ceased, and his muscles relaxed with resignation. Like a black hole, he thought faintly, recalling his infatuation with physics during his illness. Which was, in fact, not the illness they had told everyone else about. His stint with astrophysics didn’t last either; seeing a string of Lagrange optimization problems made him definitively decide he was stupid.
“I dug myself into this hole after it,” Lawrence was rambling, “I thought the cancer was a punishment for…altering my body the way I did. The aesthetic crafting done to make my—” he gestured to his chest “—like a normal man. Now, all of it erased. It looks uncanny. They’ll uncover it, and then more. They'll know I was never supposed to be here.”
Aldo had protested when Lawrence came up with the idea of masking his reality. “Men get breast cancer, too, you know.” But he had always kept up with the white lie.
And Vincent listened, unwavering. Then, he sat back and briefly bit at his lip. “I won’t say we’re different at all, in some ways. Thomas, please listen to me…”
“What if I don’t accept my election?”
Even for his small room, the shower was disproportionally large and equipped with guardrails and short benches, perfect for geriatric fools like himself. Both him and Aldo could stand comfortably, but they were huddled together instead, with Aldo’s arm wrapped around his hip as if preventing Lawrence from falling.
They both knew why Lawrence had asked Aldo to join him, and yet again, neither spoke on it.
Aldo hummed, and he brushed back the hair that had been plastered to Lawrence’s forehead. “And why would you do that?”
As Aldo would continually reminded him over the past few days, “I know it is not in your nature to want the crown, but we also both know you wish for changes.”
“I would violate the Holy Office,” said Lawrence, watching Aldo’s features contort into a frown.
Even under the thundering, astronomical water pressure of the shower, Lawrence still heard Vincent’s speech in his head. “I am as God made me,” Vincent had said, a faint smile finally appearing on his face.
“And I am not,” Lawrence replied, still snappy. Even now, he couldn’t understand why Vincent had thought they were one and the same. But maybe, just maybe, if it were Vincent in his position right now, maybe he would too be devolving into panic. Lawrence kept that thought as a comfort.
Vincent had shaken his head and said: “If you were to be elected, it would be the will of the Holy Spirit, so no crime would be done.”
Lawrence hadn’t known how to tell him he wasn’t quite sure anything divine still visited their Conclave.
At least Aldo didn’t entertain such fantasies. Instead, he pressed his thumb into Lawrence’s cheekbone and said: “You know a Tedesco papacy would send a lot of good men away. It would be destructive. And I know you say it isn’t a war. Perhaps it’s not, but he thinks it is, at the very least.”
“I think he knows,” Lawrence blurted.
Aldo blanched, the hands on his face stilling and digging in. “How? Is this a blackmail scenario?”
“No. I just think…there’s no indication he knows anything. I just think he does. For like, oh I don’t know, as long as I’ve known him.”
“Thomas, I know you have anxieties like this sometimes…”
Lawrence didn’t know how to explain himself. It wasn’t anxiety, it was the sense of viewing the other man as if through a mirror. But what did that mean? Was he thinking Tedesco may be like him, despite his fervent hatred of anything resembling a homosexual issue? It seemed absurd. Vocalizing it would surely make Aldo laugh, so Lawrence quieted.
Now wrapped in a scratchy, borrowed bathrobe, Lawrence flattened himself against the bed. No music came in through the open window. Aldo was still deep in prayer. If Lawrence didn’t join him, they didn’t speak on it. Dust floated in the dimly-lit air, spurred on by a faint breeze outside. In the far corner of the room, Aldo sneezed.
It may be allergies, Lawrence figured, but he had seen Tremblay’s pallid, stooped figure and Vincent coughing wetly into his napkin at breakfast. Something was going around, settling within each of them. An unlucky carrier had brought it in, and it incubated in the population before starting to emerge from its egg.
“Thomas, if it helps,” Aldo said, later, still sniffling, “you don’t have to stay. God knows you waited too long to tell me you wanted to quit, but you still can. Just give us some time to prop up someone new, I know it’s unfair but—”
He could not finish that sentence. A knock reverberated in the room, followed by Ray’s faint voice.
Blanched and a bit panicked, Aldo handed Lawrence his pajama bottoms and retreated into the bathroom, completely shutting off the lights. Lawrence didn’t think he needed to hide from Ray, but who knew if it were only him behind that door? He shuddered thinking of his friend, his partner, sitting in the humid, poorly-ventilated bathroom in the absolute dark. And of course, it had been his fault, dragging Aldo here.
Aldo’s instincts had been correct. Upon cracking open the door, Ray was flanked by other staff, including the security that lined the halls.
“Did something happen?” Lawrence said, helplessly. Of course it had! He thought of open windows, of poorly-barricaded rooftops and razorblades cut open. Death and blood, and his mind started calling out to him to dig again, finally take out the cursed organ and fling it at whoever first blocked his way.
Ray shook his head. “Um, we…we thought over telling you. But we…can you come with us?”
The lack of honorifics, which Ray always dutifully kept to despite Lawrence’s constant insistence to drop it, chilled his blood.
Clad only in two articles of clothing and slippers one step away from being barefoot, Lawrence embarked on the death march to the auditorium. Empty and darkened, it felt too hellish to belong in the Vatican.
One of the security officers sat him down, explaining how intelligence had fished out individuals who had planned attacks during voting hours. The first one had apparently failed internally, but at the time of arrest, two more had been considered for tomorrow and the day after. “Perhaps it would be wise to delay the vote tomorrow. I don’t know what’s in your power,” said the officer, “we think we found all the collaborators, but we don’t know for sure.”
“Is there any way we can get more information in the morning, before the ballot?”
“We’ll update you, Eminence.”
“Half of them are yours. Nearly half,” Lawrence said, sitting on a borrowed, threadbare rug. His companion sat up against a metal bed frame, knees pulled into his chest. A sight unseen until then, at least from Lawrence’s eyes.
Spiced apple filled the room, and in another scene unwitnessed until then, the vape was extended to Lawrence.
Lawrence accepted it, hoping the scent wouldn’t linger on him. Upon walking into the room, Tedesco had remarked that if they were seen together, the election would be up to chance.
“They see us cut from the same cloth,” he had said, “and they’ll just end up picking whoever looks prettier in white.”
He wasn’t sure if chance was preferable. He wasn’t sure of anything, really, which was why he was here, in the lion’s den.
“I know my men. I say we vote, as planned. You said they were banning vehicles in the square? As long as the people aren’t absorbing our stupidity…” Tedesco trailed off.
“You say it’s stupid, and yet you still want to do it?”
Tedesco shrugged, seemingly reaching out to touch Lawrence, but upon realizing the distance was too vast, he dropped his arm. “Decano, would it be preferable if I told everyone you wanted to hold back and hide?”
Lawrence gawked.
“And now, the cards are on your table. If I end up saying we hold back, you will turn around and do the same thing to me. You have created an incentive to cheat.”
“And I wanted to be a mindful authority, not a tyrant,” said Lawrence, softly.
“Oh sure. I believe it. Tomasso is the calm teacher, John has no choice but to be the tyrant, eh? It always is.”
How did he know? Lawrence peered at him, questioning.
Tedesco got to his feet and gathered up scrap papers on the ground. “Just a guess. Everyone is John nowadays. Predictable.”
The light in Tedesco’s room was set to a much brighter configuration than Lawrence’s own. Daylight shined onto the ground, from where he had gathered pens and papers. As he moved, Lawrence caught sight of what his colleague had been working on.
“I didn’t know you drew.”
Tedesco paused. “Mah, they’re bad. These pens are garbage.” He held a page out, and Lawrence took it.
A form of a woman, in Grecian robes, her hair short and her gaze downcast. Lawrence’s chest tightened, his gaze running over the soft curves of her sketched body. A form drawn from memory, which was a realization that only stilled him further.
“Why would you deny the choice of the Holy Spirit?” Vincent’s voice echoed.
“Is she anyone you know?” Lawrence asked, immediately regretting it.
Tedesco snatched it back, flushed. “You think I must be a simple sinner! You know me, Decano.”
No, Lawrence thought, perhaps not quite a simple sinner.
“Late last night, I have received news about apprehended suspects in a planned terror attack.”
Red hems dusted the dry, dusty ground. Rain had come, and it had left. The inside of Lawrence’s nostrils felt like sandpaper with each breath.
“I made the decision to wait until morning to learn of more information. No new collaborators have been found, and it is believed there aren’t any…”
Doors stood at the end of the path, which was shimmering in a heat-induced mirage.
Open mouths gasped around him; illness had worsened overnight. Many noses were now completely clogged.
Cardinal Sabbadin had been selling pseudoephedrine tablets for 15 euros apiece, rumor told. He wouldn't keep the funds, that Lawrence knew. Like a cat playing with prey, just for enjoyment. It appeared that some of the pills had since worn out.
“As your Dean, I wondered if this would be breaking the conditions of our sequestration, but I figured I would only give enough details to assess for safety.”
The headcount was completed. All hands present, now wandering to their seats.
“Increased security had been put in place outside. I have been told there is little heightened threat to the pilgrims outside…”
Across the room, Tedesco appeared to be killing time by doodling. His pen shaded over paper, held loosely in his grip.
Lawrence’s ballot had been crushed in his hand, and he watched the poor scrutineers unfurl his slip of paper and smooth it out.
Vincent, off to the side, coughed into his sleeve, which still hung too large on him. His other hand was clutching his gut…where…where…
Floating on plywood in the ocean, Lawrence was too gone to write down the tallies. He prayed, wordlessly.
“Help me, Tomasso. It’s slippery…”
Tedesco had his head down, doodling, breathing harshly even from so far away.
Muffled voices around him erupted, and Cardinal Martinez reached from the table behind Lawrence and grabbed his back. His fingers brushed against the raw marks Lawrence had left on his back from clutching himself too hard.
Men hoisted him into standing, and those too far too reach had begun to clap. Relief everywhere. Lawrence searched for Tedesco, curiosity burning, but his frame was obscured by a swarm nearly a hundred men strong.
The vote was not over, and one of the voices announcing them wobbled, ever so slightly.
The waves parted, and in their wake stood Aldo. If Lawrence’s arms hadn’t been seized by his brothers, he imagined himself reaching out for purchase on Aldo’s statuesque figure. Or holding himself, his uncertain and unblessed body. Or wiping away the tears that were now spilling from his eyes. Heat prickled behind his face.
Aldo’s figure wavered, rippling through the tears.
He asked, once. “Do you accept your election to the pontificate?”
Never before had his voice been no comfort.
Lawrence sobbed, his voice reaching painfully-high octaves as he began to hiccup and hyperventilate.
Through the water, gazing up at the ocean’s surface, the details of Aldo’s facial expressions blurred. “Thomas Lawrence, do you accept your election to the pontificate?”
It was beginning to become unclear if the thrum in his ears was unwavering applause, concerned prayers, or simply the din of the portable air conditioning. The hands on his body pinned him, spread and flayed.
Again, “Thomas Lawrence, do you accept your election to the pontificate?”
Lawrence weeped and weeped.