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It was the last day of December, twenty minutes to midnight; the dark sky over Rome was already speckled with fireworks, the cold air snappy on the skin, and sitting hidden in the Apostolic Palace, Vincent Benítez felt sleepy and exhausted but warm. The dining room of the apartments was buzzing with conversations, filled with groups of people clustered together. There was laughter, the sound of clinking cutlery and the infernal espresso machine. A bunch of nuns stood around a table loaded with canapés, giggling at a middle aged man in a priest collar who was blushing furiously while trying to explain… oh, yes. Alexander, yes. That was Alexander. He had to be telling them about his newest foray into cultivating the rose bushes in the Vatican gardens. Such a bright lad, so eager and kind. He always brought him some fresh flowers for his rooms. Would he… hm. Would Alexander… Vincent‘s thoughts were foggy and slow, like a herd of old cows in a sunny meadow; heavy and reluctant to move. He felt so, so tired. The fireplace next to him gave off pleasant warmth; together with the shawl thrown over his shoulders it made him feel rather nice, as if cradled in a pair of loving arms. From the portable speaker someone set on the table by the door, the crooning voice of Ella Fitzgerald could be heard.
Say nighty-night and kiss me,
Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me.
While I'm alone and blue as can be
Dream a little dream of me…
Vincent felt his eyes growing heavy. The melody wrapped around him, rocking him gently from side to side. The voices of the celebrants faded slowly from his mind, leaving only the sounds of the everpresent choir behind. Oh, he thought, his thoughts and memories scattering across the soft velvety darkness of his mind. This feels nice. There was dull pressure on his chest, but it felt right, grounding. The chorus reached for him, holding him in their repetitions. Sweet dreams that leave all worries far behind you, leave all worries, leave, worries behind you… sweet dreams.
A rambunctious laughter cut through the space, jerking Vincent awake. He blinked, trying to look in the direction of where the sound came from, but his glasses had fallen when he nodded off; the room was blurry in his eyes, with but a vague outline of dark figures set against the lights coming from the numerous candles and open fireplace. His glasses, where were his glasses – his hands shook as he tried to raise them from where they were propped on the padded armrests of the wheelchair. He had to see, that was – he knew that voice, that was, the red zuchetto, the – “Your Holiness? Do you need anything?” Warm, heavy hand on his forearm, a deep, clear voice. There was a man kneeling before him. He was young, maybe in his late thirties, with wide shoulders and kind face. Alexander? No, no, Alexander was the prelate always trailing after Aldo, this was… His glasses, he needed his glasses! “I cannot see. Please.”
“Of course, your Holiness.” A shift, a change in pressure and – oh! His glasses, they just slipped. Vincent blinked owlishly at the young man kneeling before him, and then chuckled, sheepish. “Oh, thank you Marcel.” The man smiled, his eyes crinkling. “You are welcome, your Holiness. Did you need anything? Are you comfortable?” Was he? Vincent tried to pull his awareness back into his old, weary body. His hips were feeling tight, however they had been like that for the last twenty years. He was warm, and the haze of the last dosage of pills still held the pain at bay. Yes, he nodded to himself. He was comfortable. But he needed something. Someone. “Who was that?” “Hm?” Marcel hummed, not looking up from where he was checking something on the oxygen tank hooked up to Vincent's nasal cannula. “Who are you asking for, father?” Vinced frowned, scrunching his eyebrows. “That person I just heard, where are they? I thought I heard… I think it was him?” Apparently finding whatever he was checking up to his liking, the young man looked up at Vincent. “Did you mean his Eminence O’Malley?” Eminence… O’Malley? Seeing Vincent’s confused face, Marcel took his hand from where it lay trembling on the armrest. “Raymond O’Malley, father. He is standing right there, with sister Genoveffe and their friends, see? It was him you probably heard earlier.” Vincent looked in the direction Marcel was pointing. There, dressed in full cassock with red zuchetto on his sparse white hair was Ray. He was leaning on his cane as he looked down at the sister conspiratorially whispering into his ear. After a few seconds, he threw his head back and laughed joyfully. Oh. For a second he thought… but no. Vinced breathed in deeply, blinking rapidly. It would do Ray a disservice to wish his presence be that of someone else. His friendship had been invaluable to Vincent during in his many decades in the Vatican. Whenever he stumbled, he was there to help hold him up, though in the last few years it was more often literal than metaphorical. Vincent was an old man and he knew it.
“I wonder what those two are plotting,” Marcel said conversionally. He still held Vincent’s hand, except now he was also gently pulling at his fingers and massaging the swollen joints. Vaguely, Vincent recognized those from the physical therapy that he went to last year, when his right hand stopped just spasming and feeling tight but instead slowly curled up, refusing to move. What was it they said? …ah, he couldn’t remember. But it did not matter; he had Ray, and sister Genoveffe to help him out. And the technologies, they’ve gotten so far in recent years! Oh, he should tell Aldo about them, he always complained now about his hands shaking too much. Yes, he should do that. “Marcel, tell sister Genoveffe that she should talk to Aldo’s secretary, tell him about the wonderful dictation programme you got me, yes?” Marcel smiled at him and nodded, slowly working Vincent's tightly curled up fingers with his big hands. It felt nice, really nice. Vincent sighed deeply and leaned back onto the headrest, closing his eyes. Everything felt nice. His body didn’t hurt and he could feel his chest expanding freely, filling his lungs with air. The cough that has plagued him for months now was gone. He wrinkled his nose, twitching it. The music was so pretty, but there was the hiss of the machine folded in. Marcel checked the tank and the pump both, he knew, but he could still hear it. There it was, slithering in the back of his mind. He didn’t like it, he… he wanted it gone. “Could you take the pump away?” The fingers digging into the meat of his thumb stopped and Vincent made a quiet sound of discontent. “Father, I do not think that is a good idea.” Vincent shook his head, frowning. No, no. He didn’t want it, he didn’t need it! The warmth, so pleasant just a few moments ago, sat heavy and muggy in the back of his head, his throat, slowly dripping down to fill the entire ruin of his body. Hissing, there was only the hissing, the voices of everyone being overtaken by it; he could feel it crawling up his face, in his nose, sliding down and coiling inside his lungs. Your Holiness? Father? He only screwed up his eyes harder. ...Vincent. Yes, that is his name, do not wear it out.
“No, I do not want it. I feel fine.” There was a quiet sigh.
“But it helps you, Vincent. You know what the doctors said.” Vincent scrunched up his nose and turned his head to the side, towards the warm glow of the fireplace. He could see it even through the eyelids of his closed eyes.
“I said I feel fine, Thomas.” There was no reply. Vincent let his mind wander, but there was the guilt again. He should not have been so crass with his dear Thomas. After all, he only meant the best for him. But he was just so tired from the constant procedures, the tests, the pills and the probing… with his eyes still closed, he felt two calloused hands slowly unhook the oxygen cannula from his face.
“Okay, Vincent. If that makes you feel better.” It did. He did not want Thomas nor Aldo to know, but he hated how bound up the wires and the tubes made him feel. Oh. Oh! Yes, Aldo! Turning his head back around Vincent looked up at Thomas. But he was gone; there was just Marcel, coiling up pieces of thin plastic tubing.
“Marcel, my boy,” Vincent frowned over the frames of his slipping glasses. “Have you seen Thomas? I was just talking to him. I wanted to… someone needs to tell Aldo about the dictation tool. I feel like he would find it so helpful.” Vincent cast his eyes around the room, but Thomas was nowhere to be seen. “Marcel, where is Thomas?”
Putting the tubing down into the side compartment hooked to the bottom of the wheelchair, Marcel covered Vincent’s shaking hands with his big warm ones. “He just ducked out. Needed to deal with some urgent matters. Nothing important, do not worry, but you know his Eminence; he would fret and worry about it until he fixed it.”
Vincent listened to his words, nodding. Yes, that sounded like his Thomas. “Okay, thank you my boy. But he will come back?”
“Yes, once his business is finished, holy father.”
“Good, good. I need to tell him.. I need to…” His words got interrupted by a yawn. Oh, how tired he felt. Sitting down in a warm place with conversation in the background always made him sleepy, but he had to wait for Thomas. He had to wait for him, and Aldo, and then he could sleep. He had to tell them something first, but then, finally, he could rest. Blinking slowly, he watched as Alexander took Ray by his arm and helped him to sit down heavily in the chair that they pulled up for him. The old man huffed, taking a moment before he used the curved end of his cane to probe the leg of sister Genoveffe, who immediately bent down and continued on her whisper campaign. What a bunch of chismosos, honestly.
The melody of the music changed some time ago, but Vincent could not find the strength in him to focus on it. It was just there, in the background, weaving around the voices of his friends, his people, his flock. They were in good hands, he knew. There was surely no fault in closing his eyes, just… just for a while. He was so, so tired.
There is light, and his hands are warm. The beads of the rosary are… wood, smooth and fragile under his fingers. Hail Mary, full of grace. Vincent feels… he feels soft, and small, as if his body was tenderly cradled in the palms of a giant being made out of gossamer, old linens and woollen socks. He snuggles in between the folds of his memories and feels the giant rumble with murmured speech, the language foreign to his ears. (Do you think he is… Let me check. Your Holiness?) The words land on his skin, heavy with their presence but oh so polite. Vincent grumbles and shakes them off, curling around a strand of the time in his early seventies; in it, Thomas is shuffling slowly around the gardens with Aldo one step behind, their heads angled together as if in mischief. The branches of a magnolia tree obscure their bodies from his view, and in the memory, Vincent hurries to catch up to them, the scene slowly fading until all that is left is the faint smell of Vatican summer and the sound of Aldo’s laughter. (Oh, let him be Alexander. Our old man deserves to close his eyes if he wants to.)
The words flow over Vincent’s dreams, carrying boats of meanings and decisions. But they are not his, not anymore; he lets them pass him by and instead curls closer to the feeling of Aldo’s old hand in his as they watch his great-grandniece splashing her hands in one of the many Vatican fountains, hunting for coins.
(I think it would be better to bring him to bed. Do you want me to..? No, it’s okay, I can do it alone. It is three minutes to midnight. Pour me a glass then, just in case? Okay. We will be waiting for you.)
The giant tilts its hands and with a jerk Vincent’s body falls backward. Maybe he should be frightened, but it is okay; he knows that they will catch him. As he slips through the memories, he feels his body shedding years like loose leaves, each catching on a moment in time and then being tugged away. His fortieth anniversary of papacy, and Marcel’s strong hands as he helped Vincent to light the candle on Thomas's grave. Oh, and there – his eighty-first birthday and Ray’s grandnephew wiggling up on his lap in a moment of his guardian’s inattention and demanding an answer for this and that and everything. His early sixties gently peel off his shoulders, and take the memory of Thomas laughing mirthfully with them. He is fifty-eight, forty-six, forty-three, twenty-seven, five – his mind is calm and small and full of wonder. As his feet hit the breasts of the giant, he lets the memory of his mother spinning him around as the evening sun shines in her eyes slip away into the bright darkness that surrounds them: him, the giant, the boats and their travellers, the pelicans with their beaks trawling through the waters of creation, fishing out stray moments and snapping them up, before taking off to feed their young, the blood of their breasts crystalline drops. Vincent’s body curls up in a fetal position, the pose natural and right. The giant’s breasts heave, pushing his body up and up, until they go back down, and deposit him into a soft, strong familiar pair of arms. Oh, the Vincents of years and years ago in the future mutter, Marcel is taking me home.
In the other room the voices of the sisters’ echo with joy and happiness and he thinks of his mother, of his grandparents sitting around the creaky table in the kitchen toasting each other as the clocks ticked closer and closer to twelve and his eyelids grew heavier and heavier. Cariño, his mother says, let me take you to bed, hm? But Vincent clings stubbornly to the last dredges of wakefulness. No, he can't, he has to be there for everyone to welcome in the new year, he can’t – it’s alright, my dear Vincent. They can keep guard on what has been and that is to come; you will see us soon anyway, and them as well. We will be all together, in the end. All of us? With last moments of his fading strength, Vincent peels his eyes open.
Oh. Of course.
Thomas is looking down at him, haloed by the endless light. His eyes are soft and full of wonder, just as they were when Vincent first saw him over forty years ago. And next to him, it’s Aldo! With that small but beloved smile of his. The light is so bright and Vincent is so, so tired. But it’s them – and he remembers, looking at Aldo's face. He had something he needed to tell him, something important.
Aldo? I need to… Thomas. I need to tell him something. And you too, I have to tell you too but-
A soft pressure on his chest, mounting, and Thomas’s deep voice in his mind, as if coming from where that sensation is, deep in his heart.
What, our dear Vincent?
I love you. Both of you.
We know, Aldo says, his hands steady where they cup his face. We knew. We will. Close your eyes for us, our love.
And Vincent does.
It is midnight, and then the after, and the world begins anew.