by Doug Walker
AN AMERICAN POPE
Copyright 2012 Doug Walker
Cover Image: Anthony M. under
Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic License
CHAPTER ONE
The Pope was dead. No question about that. The Cardinal Camerlengo had verified this by calling the Pope three times by his name. With a nod to modern times, the medical staff double-checked, issued a death certificate and made the event public by notifying the Cardinal Vicar for the Diocese of Rome.
The Camerlengo then sealed the Pope's apartments, saw to it that the “ring of the fisherman” and the Papal seal were both broken, which is always done when a pope goes to heaven, then prepared for the novemdieles, the nine days of mourning. During the so-called interregnum, the Camerlengo is responsible for the government of the Church plus directing the election of a new pope.
This considerable power was in the hands of one Cardinal John Black, who happened to be an American. After twenty days of mourning and talking about what kind of a pope would fit the Church’s current needs, the College of Cardinals turned to the task of electing a new pope, usually one of their own.
About that same time a train was traveling south through France, making its way to Rome, carrying a thirty-two-year-old American student, Justin Scott, on a week-long holiday from studies of French and Italian. Scott hoped to enter the U.S. Foreign Service.
Fixing his gaze out the window, farms, woodlots, cows, assorted farm animals, the occasional village, Justin attempted to ignore the five companions in his compartment. The young Italian couple, writhing and clutching, almost in a sexual mode. The prim schoolmarm type with round glasses, owlish eyes, pointed nose and suspicious look. The old bearded man, immaculately dressed in an out-of-fashion suit and wide tie. One could almost smell the mothballs, but in Europe any attempt at elegance is welcome.
Then there was the sweet young thing across from him with an English accent and beaming good health. She had told him her name was Jane and she intended to see the sites in Rome, with an almost lascivious emphasis on seeing the sites. Obviously she didn’t want to see the sites alone, and if the opportunity for a head start on romance cropped up, so be it.
“Where will you be staying?” she asked, tapping him on the knee to break his concentrated stare out the window.
Justin considered his options. He had a girl in the States and he had attempted to be faithful. But a Roman holiday, what the heck. “Probably a B&B, or maybe a hostel. Nothing too elaborate.”
“Me too,” Jane bubbled. “Maybe we could look together. Two heads are better than one.”
“Do you have a guidebook, or anything like that?”
“I do,” she replied. “It’s in my bag and we can get it out at the station. It’s a bit close in here for reading and sharing.” She made a sidelong glance toward the young Italians who continually nudged into her space with their contortions. Then she added, “‘Roma, non basta una vita,’ that means, Rome, a lifetime is not enough.” She giggled. “I read it in the guidebook.” It had been a long ride, but they would soon be in Rome.
CHAPTER TWO
Cardinal John Black as Camerlengo wielded considerable power, but he was unable to break the deadlock between the wrangling cardinals. More than a hundred of them (those over 80 were excluded) filed into the Sistine Chapel, took seats around the wall, each taking a paper ballot on which was written “Eligo in summum pontificem” – I elect a supreme Pontiff – but they didn’t.
Cardinal Giovanni Piovanelli was the most popular among the lot. During early balloting it seemed many cardinals were voting for themselves. Rules of secrecy were strictly adhered to, but the old rule that Cardinals had to remain in the Sistine Chapel under uncomfortable circumstances had been overturned. They were now housed in comfortable hotel lodgings, reducing the urgency for a rapid conclusion.
As the balloting advanced, Piovanelli was becoming the standout favorite. He was a hail-fellow-well-met type, always with a good word for his fellows, a joke or an original remark. The life of the party type, certainly the material for a popular pope.
At this point Cardinal Black as Camerlengo felt it his duty to speak out. “We all know and admire Giovanni,” he began. “But as a bishop many of you will remember he shielded many child molesters. He moved pedophiles around his territory as if they were chessmen, shielding them from the public and from the law.”
Cardinal Giovanni Piovanelli jumped to his feet in outrage and insisted he had done nothing wrong.
“I understand that,” Black asserted, ”The good cardinal sees nothing wrong with a sexual relationship between a man and a boy. He has often said that he was in such a relationship as a choirboy and is none the worse for it. Maybe so, but the good cardinal has an unusual mental toughness and outlook on life, possibly with the help of our Savior, that carries him through these situations. But if we should elect a person who condones and has actually condoned child molestation as pope, God help us.”
A ripple of assent passed through the gathering, and because the cardinals weren’t confined to the Sistine Chapel as they would have been in bygone days, a motion for a two-week recess in balloting was carried.
The hiatus would give Piovanelli an opportunity to convince other cardinals that he was a reformed man begging forgiveness. On the other hand, Black, in charge of the transformation from dead to live pope, was hoping for a religious miracle while banging his head against the reality of Vatican politics, no different from any other rough and tumble political scrap. His task was not unlike herding cats.
CHAPTER THREE
Meanwhile Justin Scott and Jane had been tearing up the Roman scenic scene, a good part of their time spent in violent encounters on a double bed in a cheap hotel, occasionally glancing out the gritty window or laying on their backs in exhaustion and listening to the melody of street traffic blended with the almost constant blaring of horns. They were in the pulsating heart of life and loving it.
Then one morning toward the end of their stay and after an exhilarating sexual romp, Jane said she would carry out her plan to visit a friend enrolled in a convent on the fringe of town. “Please give her my regards and tell her about our adventurous activities,” Scott said.
Shooting him a cheerful glance, Jane replied. “What a pity it would be to let Fiona in on our secret life. The poor girl might resign her nun’s commission and join us.”
“We’d need a larger bed.”
“No matter, I’m off. What’s your plan, my sweet?”
“The Vatican. No Roman sojourn is complete without it.”
“Ta.”
Already showered and buffed, Jane was off to visit her friend.
Justin lolled in bed, stared at the ceiling and was tempted to spend the morning napping. As a former altar boy, his better angels tugged him from the bed and into the shower stall. Thoughts of strong Italian coffee and flaky pastries danced in his head as the water rained down upon him. Jane’s lithe unclad body was also foremost in his thoughts, along with flashbacks to his girlfriend in the States.
The Vatican was only a few blocks from his tacky hotel, with a number of small coffee shops along the way. Fortified with a four-euro repast, he plodded on, his thoughts now turning to all he had heard of that famed small city-state during his Catholic youth. Perhaps a backslider, Justin yet considered himself a stalwart of that True Church.
He knew well that Nero built a circus in the Ager Vaticanus in the first century AD, and it was likely in this stadium that St. Peter and other Christians were martyred during the next seventy years, their bodies buried anonymously along the circus wall. In the year 315, Emperor Constantine, the first Christian ruler of Rome, ordered the construction of a basilica on the site and the first St. Peter’s was consecr
ated in 326.
From that date forward, a series of popes, now numbering near 270, made addition after addition, improvement piled upon improvement, and that tradition continues today with each new pope adding his personal touch to resound through the ages yet to come.
For all his knowledge gained from the good nuns and various priests of his school years, Justin was filled with awe and a profound sense of spirituality as he stepped into the Piazza San Pietro, the immense square designed by Bernini for Christians of the world to gather. There were the two semicircular colonnades, each with its four rows of Doric columns.
In the center of the piazza was the obelisk sacked by Caligula from Heliopolis in ancient Egypt. In some areas Justin’s memory was almost photographic for things he had heard and read over the years. For the moment that he stood savoring his first encounter with the Vatican, the flood of history was almost overwhelming. Details that flashed through his mind were unexpected and startling.
The faith was something he was born into and he took for granted. Never in his lifetime had he felt a strong call to serve the church in any capacity, but he felt something here, on this sacred ground. It was almost as if produced in Hollywood where angels would hum, bells might ring and shafts of light would strike through the clouds.
A deep breath and the feeling evaporated, a feeling he imagined every Catholic might experience upon entering this storied city.
CHAPTER FOUR
After making the rounds, Justin stood before St. Peter’s Basilica. He had acquired a guidebook and read what he had heard was true, that despite 150 years of work on the new basilica, despite thousands of dedicated and talented workers, St. Peter’s owes the most to Michelangelo, who took over the project in 1547 at the age of 72 and was responsible for the design of the dome.
With soft music filtering through the massive doors and pilgrims slowly entering the cathedral, Justin moved with the crowd, caught in a babble of languages, marching solemnly as supplicants, many of them in religious attire, quite a number of nuns, possibly on their one and only trip to the Vatican. What a waste, Justin thought, to be a nun and not enjoy the wonders of sex, the joy of motherhood. He speculated whether many were lesbians, caught up in their own culture. Then he snapped back to his altar boy days, and he wondered if his very thoughts constituted sin. It had been years since he had been to confession. At this time, in this setting, he felt he should remedy that soon. How many other pilgrims were of the same mind?
Justin moved with the thinning crowd halfway down the aisle, genuflected and slipped into one end of a pew.
The mass just beginning was one of a series Cardinal John Black had ordered to pray for divine guidance in search of a new pope. He was a man of the people, welcoming the involvement of the masses. Black and quite a few nobles of the church were in attendance, seated on throne-like seats facing the congregation.
Black looked out over the gathering crowd and his heart was buoyed up despite the petty politics and friction at play in naming a new pontiff. There had been sleepless nights, but the sight of this makeshift congregation, these lambs of God, these true believers, gave his soul rest.
As Cardinal Camerlengo, Black had made a vow to the Almighty that he would steer the conclave on the proper course to get the best pope possible, one in step with the times. One thing might prove a stumbling block. In 1996 under Pope John Paul II, certain rules were changed while not departing radically from the traditional structure.
One of these demanded that if no pope had been elected after a certain number of ballots the two-thirds majority rule was out the window, and a pope could be elected by a simple majority, fifty percent plus one. Black thought this might play into Cardinal Piovanelli’s hands as the most popular handshaking, backslapping, ingratiating one among them, despite his glossed-over reputation as a child molester. Some quick action might be required.
With these thoughts circulating in his brain as they had for many days, Black, the other officers of the church, and the congregants knelt together in that massive interior, now almost filled to capacity with 60,000 pious souls, and a hushed and solemn tone swept the crowd as the mass got underway. Whatever the outcome of this particular election, the church would survive. One century was much like another as the church crept forward from age to age.
Justin knelt in prayerful silence. In the aisle to his left he was aware of a latecomer advancing slowly toward the Throne of St. Peter, possibly a woman of middle years. He was also aware that she was supported by a walker, when suddenly that device was thrown forward and the woman sprawled spread eagle on the floor of the Basilica.
Always a fitness freak, Justin was up and out into the aisle like a shot, grasping the fallen woman on both shoulders and raising her to her feet.
There was a short pause while she gasped for breath, then a loud outcry from the depths of her being. “I can walk. I’m no longer a cripple. It must be a miracle! A Vatican miracle.”
Still holding her, Justin didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Such a turn of events certainly came as an abrupt shock, as if someone had dashed a bucket of cold water in his face.
From out of nowhere the Vatican security materialized. One thing the Vatican kept in good supply was cash, and no expense was spared to safeguard its treasures. The interior of the Basilica, decorated by Bernini and Giacomo della Porta, contained numerous art treasures, including Michelangelo’s wonderful Pieta, executed when he was but 25 years old, his only work to carry his signature.
A madman with a hammer attacked it in the early 1970s, and now it was protected by bulletproof glass plus beefed up security.
From his high seat looking out at the congregation, Cardinal Black saw exactly what was happening and immediately dialed security on his cell phone. “Hold both that woman and the man who assisted her,” he ordered. “Place them in separate rooms, treat them well. A thorough investigation will be conducted. Don’t make any mistakes, or say anything to the press.”
Aware that the cardinal was acting in the name of the dead pope, security was quick to comply with each and every request. The Vatican, after all, was a city-state, and Black, in the interim between popes, was the supreme commander. Any deviation from his orders would be dealt with quickly and harshly. He was the man.
CHAPTER FIVE
Through the years the Vatican had been accustomed to so-called “miracles” and publicity stunts. But each and every one merited serious study. The structure of the church might be said to be based on a series of miracles.
And this was how a somewhat dazed Justin was ending his Roman holiday, confined to what seemed to be a fairly luxurious hotel room in the heart of the Vatican (Domus Sanctae Marthae). Room service was available, but there was no telephone or TV. It also included a guard in the hall who was there to insure his confinement was complete, but also to insure he was well cared for.
Justin was not so disoriented that he didn’t realize Jane would be waiting for him at their shabby hotel. For this purpose he asked the guard to either supply him with a phone or lead him to a telephone. After checking and crosschecking with superiors, he was given such an instrument along with the number for the hotel.
“Jane,” he announced when she answered. “I’m at the Vatican at a type of hotel. I may have to stay here for a day or two.”
“Oh, darling, the Vatican. Wonderful. It all fits! I met the nicest man today. His name is Alfonso and he invited me to dinner. I’ll be headed home the day after tomorrow, so I won’t see you anymore. Really, Justice, I had a marvelous time.” She made kissing noises then hung up.
Justin was clearly stunned. He held the phone for a long moment, and then slammed it down so hard that the guard cracked the door open and peeked in. “She called me Justice,” he finally shouted. “She doesn’t even know my name.” He stormed around the room looking for something to break, but found nothing, not even a Gideon Bible.
“After all we’ve been through together! Sex several times a day, words of endearment. Has she
no heart?” he demanded of no one in particular. “I’ve heard that women are not the romantic sex, and by God I think it’s true.”
At this point the guard entered the room and inquired if he could do anything.
“No,” Justin shouted, then calmed down enough to say, “Take the phone away.”
“Of course, sir.”
He gathered up the phone with a strange wary glance in Justin’s direction, a suspicious look from under his brows.
Justin was aware that he was making a bad scene worse. “I’m sorry for my outburst. I’ve just had bad news.” He was fortunate that the guard spoke fairly good English. Hesitating for a moment, he questioned, “I wonder if it’s possible to get an alcoholic beverage here? You know, a drink of something strong.”
“Alcohol,” the guard repeated. “Of course. Anything you want. You are an honored guest. Would you like wine, or possibly whisky?”
“Yes, wine and whisky would be nice.”
It was the guard’s turn to hesitate. Then he replied, “Of course, sir. Coming right up.”
CHAPTER SIX
Two days had expired since the incident in the Basilica di San Pietro, hardly enough time to check on the woman’s story. But Cardinal Black felt it was high time to have a chat with Justin Scott. He had been busy warding off an onslaught of cardinals who would have elected Cardinal Piovanelli in a New York minute. There had been a backlash over weeding out priests accused of sexual abuse. After all, many argued, they were there with no women, no sexual outlet, relations between men and boys were strongly rooted in history, centuries before the birth of Jesus Christ.
There were those who favored such activities, those who would stand by and let it happen and those who were disgusted by it. Black was in the latter group, and sometimes he had a feeling of isolation although he knew it wasn‘t true. In his heart he felt there was a great silent majority among the cardinals who favored ferreting out and stamping out all child abuse.