I just read a fantastic article about a new movie: Cloud Atlas. In the article the writer discusses originality and creativeness in the lively arts and how almost everything out there today on TV, in the movies and the theater is all remakes or reworkings of old shows. It's a great piece and I wanted to share with anyone who visits my site.
Here's the link:
Strangely enough the article appeared in a weekly newsletter I receive from a video gaming site. I guess video games are really the most original form of art around now a days when you think about it.
Friday, September 21, 2012
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
September's Pope
Chapter 2
Like it so far? It's available for sale as a paperback or ebook at www.lulu.com |
As the dawn stole over St. Peter's the
next morning, the crowd had already begun to arrive. It was early morning, but
already the heat and humidity of a late summer day had gotten a foothold.
People jockeyed around trying to get a good view of the little chimney that
jutted from the roof of the Sistine. This chimney would be the center of
attention for the Roman Catholic world until it belched forth white smoke
signaling the election of the latest successor to St. Peter.
The crowd was a happy one, filled with
expectation and excitement. After all, this was an historic event, and they
were here for it...Something like this may not happen again for another 10, 15
maybe 20 years.
Most of the people carried a daily
paper, or at least the pullout section with a gallery of all the Cardinals, and
were pointing to and, in a few cases making bets, on who they thought would be
the winner.
The mood within the walls of the Vatican
could not have been in higher contrast. Here too, had gathered a crowd from all
over the world, the College of Cardinals. They had risen before dawn to
celebrate mass together and sat in solemn silence through the morning meal,
still sizing each other up for the great burden one of them would soon be
elected to bear.
There were some, the high profile
Papabile who were looking forward to getting on with the balloting and see what
their chances of winning the crown really were.
There were the younger Cardinals, who
had never experienced anything like this before, who had asked the advice of
their elder brethren on how to choose the most worthy man. In many cases their
votes would reflect the thinking of the 'over eighties', the Cardinals now
excluded from the voting by Paul VI's new rules.
There were a few, like Giuseppe Cardinal
Siri of Genoa, who had been present not only at the conclave which elected
Paul, but, as a newly created Cardinal, had also voted in the one that brought
John XXIII to the throne. Always placed high on the 'A' list of Papal hopefuls,
Siri had never won, and saw this as his last chance.
And finally, there were the majority of
the 111 voting Cardinals, those who had no idea who to vote for and had spent
the past two weeks since Paul's funeral meeting and talking with as many of
their fellows as possible in order to zero in on one likely candidate.
This was the group Albino Luciani
belonged to. And, like the others, he had spoken at length about the church and
the condition it was in at this point in time with several of the leading
candidates. He had formed a decision on who would be his likely candidate long
before this, however: Aloysio Cardinal Lorscheider of Brazil. He had known
Aloysio for several years and admired him for the strength of his character,
his honesty and his personal holiness. But, ever the open-minded type, he
decided it would be only fair to meet with others and garner their views on the
church's future before making a final decision. What he learned made him even
firmer in his support of the Brazilian prelate.
After breakfast there was a brief break
so the Cardinals could vest themselves for the voting.
Finally, at a little after eight AM, the
sea of red and white was assembled in the Sistine and the Cardinal Deacon,
Pericle Cardinal Filici intoned the rules of the balloting.
Each Cardinal would remove one ballot
from the folder on his desk and write the name of the man he felt was best
suited to be nominated. This would be folded in half. Then, in order of
seniority, they would be called forward, holding the ballot aloft as they
walked to the front of the chapel, where they would declare aloud that this was
their vote and then deposit the ballot on a gold paten, to be dropped into a
large chalice by one of the three bishops assigned as scrutinizers. After the
last vote was cast, the first scrutinizer would extract the ballots one by one
read the names aloud, pass them on to second scrutinizer, who would, again read
each aloud, and then pass it on to the final scrutinizer who after reading the
name aloud a final time, would check, double check and then triple check that
the vote was entered correctly before piercing it with a gold needle and
pushing it on to a string. When all the votes had been strung together and
counted again, and results tallied and once more triple checked, the final
tally would be given to Cardinal Filici who would announce the results.
If someone had attained the number of
votes necessary for nomination, he, Villot, the Prefect of the Papal Household,
the Papal Master of Ceremonies and the members of the scrutiny team would
approach the nominated man and ask if he accepted the nomination. If he did the
conclave would be over. The necessary number of votes for nomination was 75 or
more. They would continue with the voting, two ballots in the morning, two in
the afternoon, burning the ballots after the second vote was completed, for as
long as it took for someone to attain the necessary number of votes.
With this business completed, Filici
took his seat, and Villot rose to lead the assembly in a prayer that God would
come to their assistance and help them to elect a successor to the See of Peter
wisely and swiftly.
A low 'amen' rumbled through the ancient
chapel and Villot once more changed places with his portly brother, who
instructed the Cardinals to remove the first ballot from their folders, so they
could begin.
In the plaza the sun was getting higher,
the temperature climbing with it and the sense of anticipation in the crowd was
keeping up with both.
People were checking their watches;
"They must have begun by now," was the thought in everyone's mind.
Groups were discussing the various
Cardinals among themselves and one could hear many a name, Siri, Benelli,
Pignidoli, Filici and even Villot, being bandied about along with the qualities
that made each a good or bad choice.
"Finding someone to replace Pope
Paul won't be easy," a woman in the crowd remarked to her companion.
"Still," the man beside her
replied, while fanning himself with his cap, "There's many a Cardinal in
there....," he said pointing towards the Sistine, "...who has the
brains for it."
"That's very true, sir." An
elderly nun who was standing nearby and had overheard the conversation
injected. "But he must have more than just 'the brains'. He must have the
heart for it too," she concluded, touching her arthritic fingers to the
crucifix, which hung over hers.
"Like John XXIII, you mean
Sister?" the woman whose statement had started the conversation asked.
"Ah...Well...Yes...In a
way..."
"You don't sound very sure about
that," the gentleman with the hat stated, as he plopped it back on his
head.
"John, God rest his soul, was a
great man and a wonderful Holy Father...," the nun said attempting to
explain herself. "He was the perfect man...for that moment in time."
The couple nodded in unison, so she
continued.
"But now we need someone completely
new...not a...a...how would you say it...a retread of any previous pope, but a
new pope. One with new ideas, new ways of thinking and looking at
things...Someone unique and truly holy."
The woman nodded but the man didn't look
convinced and asked, "Do you think there's someone like that in
there?"
The nun's wrinkled face crinkled up with
a smile as she responded, "Yes!” vehemently. "Oh, he may not be one
of the one's the media has been favoring...he could be someone that no one
outside his own diocese has ever heard of...but he's there!" She said
pointing to the chapel. "And God will find him and inspire his brothers to
elect him."
"C'mon, Sister...Oww!" the man
cried as his companion dug her elbow into his ribs, a combination of
exasperation and embarrassment on her face. But he would not be silenced, and
continued his question, while rubbing his sore side. "Do you really
believe that?"
Laughing gently the nun shook her head
at the young man's question and turning her gaze back to the chapel, responded
only with the words, "You'll see, my son...you'll see."
"Koenig - 8; Baggio - 9..."
Filici recited the tallied totals for the first round of balloting,
"...Pignidoli - 18; Luciani..."
Luciani’s gaze moved quickly to Filici
as he intoned the number "23" followed by, "Siri - 25" and
then silence. He had come in second on the first ballot. He, who hadn't
expected to receive even one vote, had come within two of the leading
candidate!
Those seated near the leading contenders
whispered their congratulations, while Filici was instructing everyone to
prepare for the morning's second ballot.
Siri nodded complacently to his
well-wishers, his eyes focused on his closest competitor. "We'll
see," he responded to the supporters around him, "We'll see."
After all, he'd come this close before, only to have the prize snatched away.
"This poor little fellow though, really doesn't seem to want it," he
thought to himself as he watched the flustered Luciani reacting to the
encouraging words of those around him.
"It's nothing," the Patriarch
protested weakly, a nervous smile on his face and his voice, which was always
shaky at best, worse than ever. "It's just a summer shower...it will
pass...there's no real danger. It's just the first ballot; you'll see...I
probably won't even be mentioned this time 'round. (I hope!)," he
whispered under his breath as he pulled out his ballot.
Siri finally turned back to his desktop
and sedately removed his ballot from the folder. "Poor little man,"
he reflected, "I almost feel sorry for him."
The crowd was growing more excited by
the minute. It was nearly noon, many remarked, checking their watches and then
gazing expectantly at the chapel chimney. "Something should happen
soon," one man remarked to his companion as he shielded his eyes against
the brutal sun with his hand.
"Yeah," his friend agreed,
"They'll be breaking for lunch soon, so there should be a signal any
minute."
The third scrutinizer finished reading
aloud the final ballot and pierced it with the needle. Now there would be a few
minutes while they compared notes and wrote up the final count.
Cardinal Siri sat back in his seat, a
resigned expression on his face. His name was among the most repeated during
this go-round, but someone else had emerged as the clear leader. His eyes
shifted, almost lizard-like, to the man who had been chosen over him and he
shook his head in a combination of despair at his loss and exasperation at the
college's choice. "Why in the world had they decided on him?"
That same thought was on Cardinal
Luciani's mind as he waited impatiently to hear the totals and see how close the
dread moment of decision may be. He had tried to keep a running count in his
head, but once the total passed 25 his mind had begun tallying up all the
reasons why he shouldn't be elected rather than the number of votes that were
piling up and pulling him closer to the chair of St. Peter.
Now he sat stiffly, his elbows resting
on the desk top, his clenched hands pressed tightly to his parched lips, his
eyes staring blankly at the Papal seal on the cover of the red leather folder
in front of him. The idea of his own coat-of-arms soon resting beneath the
triple tiara and the crossed keys of St. Peter did nothing to brighten his
spirits.
"This can't really happen," he
whispered to himself softly, "Please, God," he prayed softly, closing
his eyes to shut out the world for a few seconds. "Please don't let it
happen."
"Baggio - 1."
Luciani's eyes shot open and he turned
his gaze to Filici who had finally received the final tally and was quickly
rattling off the names of those who had received one or two votes. He came
quickly the all-important final four: "Wojtyła - 4."
Luciani gave a friendly smile to the
young Polish Cardinal who was seated across from him. Wojtyła returned it along
with a playful sigh of relief.
"He would make a good Pope,"
Luciani thought to himself, as he turned his attention back to Filici,
"Perhaps when he's a little older."
"Pignidoli - 15," Filici
continued.
Luciani's eyes sought out Pignidoli in
the assembly. He was smiling, but you could sense his disappointment.
"Siri - 24."
The Patriarch grew stiffer, every muscle
in his body seemed to be drawn as taught as possible. If Siri had dropped to
second place...
"Luciani - 53," Filici
concluded with a broad smile. They were closer to the end of the conclave than
anyone had ever expected...just another 22 votes for Luciani and it would all
be over.
"22 votes short! Thank God! There's
still a chance it won't happen," Luciani whispered to himself as he
slumped back into a relaxed heap, his face buried in his hands to hide the
tears of relief, while all around him hands were patting him on the back and
voices were whispering congratulations on his early lead.
Filici was saying something about
burning ballots and breaking for lunch, but all that was going through
Luciani's mind was how close he had just come to disaster and that there was
still a chance of avoiding it...at least he hoped there was.
Those in charge of the stove had already
started the fire. Now the string with the ballots was tossed in followed by the
chemicals that would assure that the smoke was black.
The smoke made its way up the aged pipes
and ascended into the almost white sky over St. Peters to the combined sighs
and shrugs of the thousands present. The outcome of the morning's balloting had
been as they expected, indecisive. Slowly, the crowd began to disperse in search
of lunch and a cool place to take a siesta before returning to the plaza for
the afternoon session, which, the majority felt, would probably have the same
outcome.
The Cardinals too had dispersed. Back to
their cells to divest themselves of some of the finery they had worn in the
chapel. They would reassemble in the dining hall and then break for well
deserved siestas before reconvening in the late afternoon.
Food and sleep were the furthest things
from Albino Luciani's mind as he sat on the solitary straight-backed chair in
his cell, his mind racing over the drama of the morning's session repeatedly;
trying to understand what had gone so terribly wrong.
"It's ridiculous!" he finally
whispered to himself in frustration. "There's not one good reason...not one,"
he added emphatically, a single finger stabbing the air to illustrate the fact
to no-one except him, "...why I should be elected. I can think of a
dozen...no...A million reasons why I shouldn't!"
"Albino," he addressed himself
very seriously, "...you're talking to yourself. And, as you know, that's
of absolutely no help in this situation." He chuckled to himself and
stood. "There are still two more ballots this afternoon...a great deal
could change."
He checked himself out in the small
mirror over the wash stand. He didn't want to go to lunch looking as nervous as
he felt.
"Calm down, Albino...," he
commanded his reflection. "You're in God's hands. He knows what is best.
You have only to believe that and trust Him."
Feeling his confidence had risen to a
sufficient level, he decided to brave the dinning hall. Tossing his zucchetto
haphazardly on to the back of his head, he blessed himself, opened the door and
stepped into the hall, which was filled with Cardinals making their way to
lunch.
A large man with a thick Hungarian
accent fell in step beside him, his heavy hand resting on Luciani's shoulder as
he poured out words of congratulations and questions about how it felt, knowing
he would soon be the Supreme Pontiff.
Luciani smiled and tried to shrug off
the idea. "After a good meal and a nap..." he replied, with a slight
chuckle and not a small hint of nerves in his voice, "...everyone who
voted for me this morning may awaken to realize their mistake!"
The big man beside him roared with
laughter and slapped him on the back so hard he nearly doubled over. He did
need to grab his glasses, which flew from his nose as though shot from a
catapult.
"A Pope with a sense of
humor!" the Hungarian said enthusiastically, "What a delightful
idea...What a truly God-inspired choice!"
With that the big man smiled and left
him to find his seat.
Luciani watched him move away with a
sense of relief and hoped he would not have to deal with similar enthusiasm in
the course of the meal. He had managed to regain his composure before leaving
his room, but now all the discomfort and fear were creeping back into him. As
he took his place at table, he could feel every eye in the room on him. Some
looked at him with an expression of satisfaction on their faces; others as
though they were still sizing him up. Still others, Baggio, Pignidoli and Siri
among them, the 'A List' as he had playfully referred to them prior to the
conclave, wore expressions of envy that verged on out and out hatred.
Cardinal Villot had risen to lead them
in prayer and Luciani used it as an excuse to close his eyes tightly and shut
out the penetrating stares of his brothers. The Frenchman quickly rattled off
the "Grace before Meals" and then there was the rumbling of the
chairs moving as the 111 men took their seats.
The difference in atmosphere from
breakfast was astounding. While the room had been almost completely silent and
filled with tension at the morning meal, everyone now was talkative and
animated. If there were any tension in the room, it was centered in one man,
who sat moving the food on his plate from one side to the other, but seldom
lifting any to his lips. He was also the main topic of the conversations that
surrounded him.
"Another Pope John!" one
Cardinal remarked enthusiastically.
"He's the only Italian who truly
understands what Vatican II was intended to do...and he will finally bring it
to its full realization," said another.
"He is an honestly holy man,"
another said respectfully, "...a true priest."
"He would be a wonderful pastor for
the church," added another.
While the other tables buzzed with such
conversations, the subject of all this scrutiny sat stolidly, still playing
with his food rather than eating it and downing cup after cup of black coffee
as the others at his table took advantage of his presence to bombard him with
questions pertaining to his opinions on pertinent subjects: "What do you
think about...?" "What is your opinion on...?" "What would
you do about...?" The topics alone were enough to make his head swim:
collegiality; contraception; discipline within religious communities; married
priests; ordination of women; codifying the documents of Vatican II and
implementing them, which would mean a complete revision of canon law; ecumenism
and the list went on...endlessly it seemed to the rattled Patriarch.
To each questioner he gave a shy smile
and a brief reply, if he could, or he simply stated the truth, "I've never
really thought about it."
It was with an audible sigh of relief
that he heard Cardinal Villot ask for everyone's attention to announce that
they would reconvene at 4:30 in the chapel. Then, after reciting the
"Grace after Meals", he released everyone for a rest period.
Luciani jumped at the chance to escape
from his interrogators. "If you'll excuse me, my dear brothers," he
said pushing in his chair and smiling, "I believe I'll go to my cell to
reflect on some of your questions and take a brief nap...If I can get to sleep
with all this excitement! I'll see you all this afternoon, God willing."
The men at his table watched as he
walked quickly towards the door, followed closely by Cardinal Siri, the only
other ''serious" contender who had emerged from the morning's voting. Once
Siri had caught up and locked arms with Luciani to lead him out and down the
hall, the Cardinals who had shared the Patriarch's table began to evaluate him.
"He's a good man, but I'm not
sure..."
"Oh...he'll be fine, as long as he
has a good Secretary of State to help him settle in and get used to how things
run."
"He doesn't know the Vatican...but
he does know the Church. He has a feel for what the people want and need. I can
think of no one better qualified than that. Really!"
"God's candidate," one of them
declared, happily raising his water goblet in salute.
"Yes!" Came the response from
the remainder of the table, and they clinked their glasses in a toast to their
absent brother.
Meanwhile, "God's candidate"
was making his way through the maze of hallways back to his cell, Cardinal Siri
clutching his arm and chattering away incessantly about the great
responsibility which would soon rest on his narrow shoulders.
"So, Albino," Siri asked
cheerfully, "How does it feel to know that you will soon be Pope,
eh?"
"If I thought for a moment that
could really happen," Luciani responded in his most hopeful tone of voice,
"I'd be terrified. But I think everyone will come to their senses this
afternoon and start steering a course away from me..." he stopped, hoping
to hear Siri agree. When he said nothing Luciani tacked on an optimistic,
"Don't you?"
"No," Siri replied flatly,
"I think you'll be elected this evening...ah! Here's my cell." He
released Luciani's arm, which fell like a dead weight to the Patriarch's side.
"Good," Siri thought to himself, "my statement had exactly the effect
I had hoped for."
"I tell you, Albino," he
continued aloud to the obviously shaken Luciani, "It is a great load off
my mind knowing that they've set their sights on you rather than me."
"Indeed," gulped the agitated
Patriarch.
Siri smiled at him, but there was no
comfort or kindness in it. He honestly seemed to be enjoying the rising level
of fear he sensed in his younger brother, as a matter-of fact, he was relishing
it.
"Don't worry, Albino," he said
in mock comfort, "It will all work out for the best...after all...It's
God's will, is it not?"
"God's will..." Luciani
whispered hoarsely, "...yes."
"Go to your cell, Albino and rest.
You are in God's hands now, there's nothing you can do to change anything...so
why worry? "Eh?"
He put his hand on Luciani’s shoulder
and turned him in the direction of his room. "Go on now..." he said
softly, as if speaking to a child.
He gave Luciani a gentle push to get his
stiff legs to move, and the stunned man began to walk slowly away.
"That's better," Siri said,
turning to open his own door. "Sleep well...Holy Father," he tacked
on as a final stab at the already wounded Cardinal, and then disappeared into
his room before Luciani could turn to face him.
Turning dejectedly away from Siri's
door, he spied what he thought might be a chance of yet escaping this terrible
fate...Down the hall, approaching him with hands behind his back and head bent
forward in thought, as always, was his friend Giovanni Bennelli, the Bishop of
Florence. He had once been Undersecretary of State to Pope Paul. He knew the
"Vatican People" and they would listen to him. If he told them
Luciani's election would be a disaster for the church, they would believe him.
"Giovanni?" He called softly
as his friend plowed past him down the hall, oblivious to all around him.
Bennelli grunted and raised his eyes to
see who dared disturb the intense conversation he was having with himself and
smiled broadly when he saw who it was.
"Albino! My dear brother..."
he said, throwing his arms around his agitated comrade, "It has been too
long...eh? But...what's this," he asked, his eye filled with concern as he
held the Patriarch at arm's length and stared deeply into his troubled eyes,
"... you're trembling. What's wrong? You're not ill?"
"Yes..." Luciani replied with
a sly smile, "...I am ill. I'm having an allergic reaction to all those
votes I received this morning!"
"Ah," Benelli laughed, relief
washing over him, "You’re joking!”Good!" he added, squeezing his
friend's arms firmly. "That means you're all right...and you must be well
to assume your new post this evening, eh?"
Luciani’s smile vanished as quickly as
it had appeared. "But...I had hoped... you might...speak with some of the
others...," he stammered, "...dissuade them from..."
Benelli had released his grip on
Luciani’s arms, his hands traveling behind his back once more and his gaze back
to the floor.
"Don't tell me..."
"Yes," Benelli replied raising
his eyes to meet those of his flustered friend, "Yes. I am the one who
planted this seed..."
Luciani moved back from Benelli until the
wall kept him from going any further...shaking his head no to every word that
his friend now uttered with rising enthusiasm.
"I planted it...and I have tended
it and nurtured it carefully...and now it is about to flower...," he said,
moving closer to Luciani, who stared at him as if he were a mad man. But still
he went on, hoping his excitement would infect his shocked brother. "It
will flower into a papacy like the world has never known! It will be glorious!
Magnificent!" Benelli announced jabbing his index finger into his friend's
chest.
"It will?" Luciani sighed
helplessly.
"Yes! Just think of
it...Finally...A real, true priest on the throne of the Apostle. A true man of
God and of the people...Does this idea not excite you? Even a little?"
"I'm all aquiver with
anticipation," Luciani answered flatly, leaning against the wall, his face
a mask of total defeat.
"Albino," Benelli chided,
giving his friend a quick shot in the arm with his fist, "Cheer up! The
Church needs a man like you right now. These last few years of Paul's reign
were so dark, so hopeless; we need someone like you to lead us back in to the
light. To give us hope."
"Someone like
me...sure...yes..." the distraught Luciani implored, "...but why must
it be me?"
"Albino!"
"No! Seriously...there are so many
others better suited to the job, more learned, more familiar with the Vatican,
with international matters, with..."
"Like who," Benelli
interrupted him, "...who would you see elected?"
"Lorscheider..." Luciani
blurted out the name of his candidate to absolutely no enthusiasm, so he
thought quickly of others he felt were capable, "Wojtyla..."
Benelli sighed.
"Gantin?"
He rolled his eyes.
"What?" Luciani demanded in
exasperation, "All three of them are knowledgeable, capable men...Any one
of them would be a better choice...What's wrong with them?"
"Number one: none of them are
Italian..."
"Neither was St. Peter,"
Luciani grumbled, but Benelli's sharp stare silenced him.
"Number two: Wojtyla is far too
young and as for Gantin..."
"Wrong color?"
"Yes...err...ah...No! Never mind!
It's settled...you will be elected...probably this evening."
"I'll refuse to accept."
"That's your right," Benelli
said evenly, "But we'll continue to nominate you until you change your
mind...That's our right."
Luciani sank back against the wall and
shook his head in despair. Giovanni had been his best hope...but now...
"And eventually," the
'pope-maker' continued, seemingly oblivious to his companion's growing
discomfort, "Enough of us will vote for you, that everyone will realize
that the tide is not going to turn away from you, and then everyone will fall
in line with us...which will be an acclamation and that..." he stressed,
thrusting his finger firmly into the petrified Luciani's chest, "... you
can not refuse!"
"I...I can't?" Luciani asked
hoarsely.
"No one ever has!" Benelli
responded with an air of complete triumph. But then the true terror that the
situation held for his old friend began to dawn on him and he softened. Placing
an arm around Luciani’s shoulders, he pried him from the wall and began to walk
him down the hallway towards his cell.
"There now...I didn't mean to
terrify you like that...I'm sorry," Benelli whispered softly, "Its
just that...well...you do need to face the facts. And it is going to
happen."
"But why...why me? Is there no one
else...? Absolutely no one!"
They'd reached Benelli’s cell by this
time and he turned to face his distraught friend speaking with as much
compassion as he could muster.
"Albino, believe me, if there were
I would do everything in my power to sway the vote away from you...But I did
not come to the decision to put your name out for candidacy on a whim. It was
the result of a great deal of thought, prayer and reflection...and I was not
the only one who thought of you...so please..." He placed his hands again
on his companion's trembling shoulders.
"Try to calm down...for your own
sake! Go to your room and pray...Pray that God will enlighten your mind and
heart and give you the strength and courage to accept His will. And please try
to rest a little, huh?"
Luciani smiled numbly and nodded.
"Good," Benelli whispered,
giving his friend a gentle pat on the shoulder. "I will see you later in
the chapel. Rest, Albino. Rest."
With these final few words he opened the
door and vanished. Luciani was left alone in the hallway with his thoughts. And
he was not enjoying the company one bit. He turned and looked back towards the
dining hall, where a few of the Cardinals were still dawdling over their coffee
or glasses of wine. For a moment he considered going back, but then stopped
himself, realizing it would become an interrogation session much like lunch had
been. No, Giovanni was right. He should go to his room to pray and try to sleep
for a while.
He walked quickly down the hallway until
he reached the door with the number '60' tacked on it. This was his refuge from
the madness he'd experienced all morning.
Entering, he closed the door gently
behind him and tossed his zucchetto onto the chair. He started undoing his
collar, the conversations he had had with Benelli and Siri chasing each other
around in his mind. Finally removing the stiff inner sleeve of his collar he
undid the top buttons of his cassock, removed his glasses, poured some cold
water into the basin on the wash stand and splashed his face with it, in an
attempt not only to cool off a bit, but perhaps to clear his befogged brain as
well.
There was no air conditioning in the
areas where the conclave was taking place and the air hung still and heavy with
humidity. "Perhaps..." Luciani mused, as he scooped up another
fistful of water and splashed it on his burning face, "...perhaps it's the
extreme discomfort everyone is experiencing that has prompted them to fall in
line behind Giovanni so readily in his quest to make me Pope?"
"Certainly, it made it easier for
them to be coerced!" he said out loud to himself, wiping his hands
uselessly on the non-absorbent little hand towel that hung from the wash
stand's rack. Folding the towel he returned it to the rack and reaching into
his pocket he pulled out his glasses and put them back on, staring at himself
in the mirror, studying himself quite critically.
"Papa Luciani!" he said as
regally as he could and then began to chuckle. "God!" he whispered,
"If it were not so tragic it would be hilarious!"
Shaking his head, he moved to the small
table beside the bed and picked up his breviary, to pray the hours. But he
couldn't concentrate on the printed words...those spoken earlier by Siri and
Benelli and the repetition of his name that morning during the vote, kept
intruding. He tried to read the psalm out loud, but couldn't seem to get past
the opening words, "O God, come to my aid, O Lord, make haste to help
me."
He needed to pray...this he knew...but
not in any prescribed manner. Slowly he closed the book and sat down in the
straight-backed wooden chair, burying his face in his hands, all the tension
and fear finally releasing itself in tears. "Please Lord..." he
pleaded, "...Please don't let this happen. Please."
After a few moments he straightened up
and tried to compose himself as best he could. He closed his eyes and took a
deep breath. "I'm sorry," he whispered, "Forgive me. I'm weak
and afraid. Help me to see your will in this...not Giovanni's, or mine, or
anyone else's, but yours. Be my guide...my help, my strength. Show me the way.
Grant me courage. Help me, Lord...Please help me."
Sleep did not come quickly or easily for
the troubled Luciani, but after much tossing about he finally settled into an
uneasy slumber, filled with dreams of the horrible moment when Cardinal Villot
would put the awful question to him, and of how his life would be forever
altered by his reply. If he said 'no', the Cardinals would see him as rejecting
the will of the Almighty, Himself. If he said 'yes'...
"Eminence!"
A pounding on the door and the call of a
voice from the hallway startled him from his nap.
"Yes?" he called in response,
scrambling from the bed.
"30 minutes, eminence," the
voice replied flatly and proceeded to the next door to repeat itself.
Still half asleep, Luciani stood swaying
drunkenly in the center of the small room repeating, "30 minutes...30
minutes..."
He reached behind him to be sure the bed
was where he thought he had left it, and once reassured that it was, allowed
himself to sit down and collect his thoughts, as well as put on his shoes.
"Would they really do it?" he
wondered, lacing up the sturdy peasant boots that he found so comfortable.
"And would they do it so
soon?" was the next thing that popped into his head, as he buttoned his
scarlet cassock and adjusted the sash.
Looking into the mirror to fix his
collar, he couldn't help but smile. "I'll make an odd looking
Pope..." he said to himself, struggling into the lacy rochet that went
over all this, to be topped by a red cloak.
Staring into the mirror again, he shook
his head and smiled at how messed up all this rigmarole had left his hair. He
pulled his comb through it quickly and decided then and there that if they did
elect him he would alter the rules for conclaves so that the Cardinals would be
required to wear only their basic cassocks, rather than the "full choir
dress". "That," he said to himself, "will probably be the
greatest legacy of my papacy!" This idea made him laugh for a moment.
He moved to the chair, and picked up his
red zucchetto, fingering it tenderly. Soon it would be exchanged for a white
one, if Benelli had his way. And this thought brought him abruptly back to the
gravity of the situation.
This was no joke. These men were
seriously considering entrusting the future of the Church to him, and the idea
made him sick with fear.
"Eminence! 5 minutes!" came
the disembodied voice from beyond the door.
"Coming," he called and, as
was his habit, threw his zucchetto on to the back of his head with no regard
for where or how it landed.
Heading for the door, he snapped up his
birth and paused a moment before leaving to whisper one final plea to God,
"Please let me see your will, Lord. Please help me." Crossing
himself, he opened the door and bolted out, almost straight into the arms of
Bernadin Cardinal Gantin.
"I'm so sour...Bernadin! My dear
brother! How are you?"
The tall African Cardinal smiled and
embraced his old friend warmly. "I'm well, Don Albino," he replied,
"And you? How does it feel...?”
"Terrible!" Luciani replied
before the young Cardinal could even finish. "I tell you, Bernadin, I
wouldn't wish this on the worst enemy I had in the world!"
The two walked arm-in-arm towards the
Sistine, the taller Gantin leaning down to hear what his troubled friend was
saying.
"There is a terrible storm raging
in my mind," Luciani was saying, "I feel completely lost...and
alone...Never have I felt so alone..."
They were near the chapel's doorway.
Luciani stopped suddenly and turned to his friend. His expression one of
desperation.
"Pray for me, my young friend. That
I will see God's hand in this and sense His holy presence...because right
now...I don't...I swear I don't."
It seemed to Gantin that Luciani was on
the verge of breaking down completely. The young Cardinal placed his hands
firmly on Luciani's sagging shoulders, wondering if they were, indeed, doing
the right thing by subjecting so sensitive a man to such a demanding and
isolating post.
"I will pray for you, Albino,"
he finally assured him, "I will pray that the Lord will give you courage
and guidance."
"Thank you," Luciani whispered
in reply.
"I must leave you now..."
Gantin said and then explained, "I'm seated on the other side of the
Chapel."
Luciani smiled and nodded.
"I will pray for you," Gantin
said reassuringly, squeezing the Patriarch’s shoulder. "You will find your
way, Don Albino. God's not abandoned you...even if it feels that way right
now...He'll get you through this."
Again, a smile and a nod.
The two parted company and went to their
respective seats, were they stood waiting for latecomers to filter in and then
for Villot to lead them in prayer.
Finally, with everyone accounted for,
Villot asked God's blessing and guidance and then turned the proceedings over
to Filici.
Rising like a hot air balloon from his
seat, Filici floated to the microphone and instructed everyone to remove the
next ballot from their folders and fill it in so they could begin.
As though in a trance, Luciani obeyed
his senior brother's command, removing the ballot from the folder, printing
Aloysio Lorschieder's name once more and then folding the ballot in half to
await his turn to vote.
He felt odd. His head was pounding and
his stomach ached. He thought for certain that he was going to be ill.
When his turn to vote finally came he
could feel everyone's eyes on him as he walked quickly to the front of the
chapel. Reaching the front, he held the ballot aloft, for all to see, as the
rules stipulated, and then made the same pronouncement as did all the others,
"I call to witness, Christ the Lord who will be my judge, that my vote is
given to the one who before God I consider should be elected Supreme
Pontiff."
His voice shook more than usual as he
pronounced the words of what should have been merely yet another empty formula,
another piece of Roman Catholic ritual. But now the words 'Supreme Pontiff'
stuck in his throat and weighed heavily on his mind.
He could hear whispering as he walked
back to his place. He tried to keep his eyes aimed straight in front of him,
but now and then they strayed to either side, catching a glimpse of someone
familiar. Gantin, tall and straight with an encouraging smile; Benelli with a
conspiratorial wink and Siri with that self-satisfied smirk.
It seemed to Luciani that even Michelangelo’s
painted saints and sinners were staring at him, judging his worthiness.
Everyone but God the Father and His Son. One was busy with the creation and the
latter with the Final Judgment...they had no time to look down and give comfort
to one frightened little Cardinal.
Finally reaching his seat, he slid in
behind the small desk and leaned his elbows on the desktop, his clasped hands
before him and closed his eyes tightly, as much to block out his surroundings
as to pray.
After the final vote had been cast and
its owner had returned to his seat, the chalice bearing the votes was placed on
the table near the head scrutinizer. The somber Bishop dipped his long fingers
into the vessel and pulled out the first ballot, reading it out loud and
passing it on to the man seated to his left and then on to the third, each of
whom read aloud the name 'Luciani', and then the third pierced it with the
needle and slipped it on to the string.
This same scenario, with the same name
on the ballot, was repeated many times before the string was broken by a vote
for Siri.
Luciani's eyes popped open as Siri’s
name was then repeated several times. Perhaps there was a chance...but no.
After about six votes for Siri and his own vote for Lorscheider, the repetition
of his own name came with only a few more mentions of Siri's.
Luciani rubbed his temples, his head
felt like it was about to explode and each vote made the pressure and pain
increase. He opened his weary eyes and saw Wojtyła smiling at him
sympathetically. He returned the smile and then realized that the room had
grown silent. Looking to the front, where the two senior Cardinals of the Curia
were seated, he saw that they were awaiting the final tally, and he could feel
his body go rigid.
After what seemed a terribly long pause,
the bishop at the end of the table rose and presented the folded piece of paper
to Villot, who glanced at it, smiled and passed it on to Filici, who, beaming
from ear to ear rose to make the announcement.
"The final tally for this ballot is
as follows...," he paused to clear his throat.
Luciani could hardly bear the tension.
He looked at Siri, who was sitting back calmly in his seat, knowing his chance
had once more passed by. His gaze moved to Benelli, who was whispering to the
man beside him, as usual.
Luciani stared down at his hands, which
were shaking uncontrollably. He clasped them tightly together on his lap under
the desk and stared at the still coughing Filici.
"Come on...come on...Get it over
with!" he whispered and the man beside him turned.
"Pardon...did you say something,
Eminence?"
"No!" Luciani yipped,
"Just talking to myself!"
Finally, Filici seemed ready to proceed,
"I apologize brothers...something got caught...." he said pointing to
his throat, "...now then...the final count is...Lorscheider - 1..."
Luciani smiled to himself, he still felt
Aloysio would be the best choice.
"Siri - 11"
Siri nodded complacently and looked
directly at the man who had 'stolen' his crown.
"Luciani...."
Albino stiffened.
"...99!"
A cheer went up from the assembly, the
same thought on every man's mind: "It's over! We're FREE!"
This thought even crossed Luciani’s mind
and he wondered how they would react to his refusal, for that was what he had
decided to do. He sank back into his seat, his body trembling, his face
flushed, tugging at his collar, which seemed to have grown terribly tight over
the last few minutes.
He watched as Villot and Filici,
accompanied by the entire "scrutiny team" left their seats and began
to process towards him, some enthusiastic Cardinals calling out name
suggestions as they went by: "Eugene" someone called out, "Tell
him to use Eugene, he was a great Pope and a Venetian."
"John!" Came another voice and
yet another offered "Gregory". Villot, finally tiring of all this,
waved his hand for silence and said, "First let him accept...then we'll
worry about his name."
The procession came to a halt in front
of Luciani's desk.
"Oh, God!" the petrified
Cardinal whispered as Villot wiggled his fingers at him, indicating that he
should stand.
Grasping the edge of the desk the
Patriarch of Venice managed to pull himself from his seat, but his head was
spinning and his legs felt like they would give out at any second. He stared
numbly at Villot as the terrible question was put to him: "Albino Cardinal
Luciani," the Frenchman pronounced dramatically and with such a rich
French accent that the nerve-racked Patriarch hardly recognized his own name,
"...do you accept your canonical nomination as Supreme Pontiff of the Holy
Roman Catholic Church?"
Taking a deep breath, Luciani exhaled,
"No!"
Villot and Filici stood blinking, first
at Albino, then at one another.
"No?!" Villot whispered in
disbelief.
"I can't," Luciani responded,
realizing he should say more in explanation, not only to Villot and Filici, but
to the entire gathering. With the initial refusal said, he now managed to find
his voice and continued without hesitation: "I'm deeply honored, truly,
and very surprised by this show of confidence, but I'm not equal to the
task...I know this..."he added vehemently.”I'm sorry, but I must
refuse...." He looked around him, making eye contact with as many of his
fellow Cardinals as possible as he added, "Please forgive me?"
Villot smiled at him gently and nodded.
"It's alright, Eminence," he said in as comforting a tone as
possible, "You're aloud to say no....it's your decision." Still
smiling, the big man nodded and pointed to Luciani's chair, much like a teacher
telling a student to be seated.
This Albino did gladly. Breathing a sigh
of relief and closing his eyes as the little parade headed back to the front of
the now completely silent chapel. Reaching their seats, Filici instructed the
Cardinals to fill in the last remaining ballot for the day.
Luciani removed the last slip of paper
from the folder, wondering what was going through the minds of the others as he
stubbornly wrote Lorschieder’s name for the fourth time that day. Folding the
slip in half he thought cheerfully to himself, "Now that that's over,
maybe Aloysio will stand a chance." Waiting patiently to place his vote,
he felt relaxed, as he had when the conclave first started. He had escaped
without any fuss and felt himself safely back on the 'C' list. After all, who
would vote for him now...after he had turned it down?
The balloting took its usual long period
to be completed and finally the last elector returned to his seat and the
chalice was presented to Villot and Filici. As the Frenchman read the first
ballot, an odd smile crossed his face...a smile that grew wider as he
continued. Filici too seemed abnormally pleased with the name that erupted from
him over and over: "Luciani."
Luciani jumped at the first mention of
his name, but then forced himself to calm down, thinking someone was being as
stubborn about him as he was about Aloysio. But then, when the only other name
mentioned was Lorschieder’s, the terror he had felt earlier took hold of him
again with even more certainty. Benelli's words came back to him,"...we'll
continue to nominate you until you change you mind..."
As the number of votes increased an even
more terrible thought occurred to him,"...everyone will fall in line with
us, which will be an acclamation and that you can not refuse!"
"...you can not refuse..."
"...CAN NOT REFUSE!"
Benelli's words played over in his mind,
blocking out the sound of his name being repeated time and again, by Filici.
"No," Luciani whispered, just
loud enough for the man beside him to hear and turn, "Please,
God...No," he whispered again, closing his eyes in prayer.
The Cardinal who had turned was Jan
Willibrands, a pleasant giant of a Dutch man who had been considered a
potential pope himself. Leaning over to the obviously troubled Luciani, he
placed a hand on the Italian's shoulder and whispered softly, "Don't
worry, Albino...If God gives a burden, He also gives you strength to bear
it."
Luciani sniffled slightly and tried to
smile. Another voice, of a Cardinal he did not know, who sat to his left, now
penetrated into his confused brain, "The whole world is praying for the
new Pope," the stranger said softly, "All will be well. You'll
see."
Folding his hands on the desk before
him, Albino smiled and whispered thank you to his two comforters. He felt a
little calmer, perhaps they were right, everything would be all right, just
relax...Villot handed Filici the final ballot..."Luciani".
The bottom dropped out of the
Patriarch's stomach. He had received every vote but his own. It was an
acclamation and he could not bring himself to refuse it. They'd trapped him.
He shook his head in disbelief while
those around him cheered and the inevitable question, in the person of Cardinal
Villot drew closer.
"Why?" he mumbled over and
over, "Why me?"
"Eminence?" Villot said
softly, intruding on Albino's isolated thoughts. The Camerlingio signaled for
him to stand, which he did slowly, whispering, "May God forgive what you
have done to me."
Villot ignored this statement and asked
his question.
Pulling together every molecule of
courage in him, Luciani took a deep breath and then responded in a voice that
was clear and surprisingly strong, "I accept."
The Cardinals broke into applause, and
Filici turned, one pudgy finger to his lips to signal for silence, so the
ritual might continue.
When the room was again silent, Villot
continued, "By what name shall you be called?"
Luciani thought for a moment, and then
the light seemed to come back into his eyes and for the first time since this
madness had begun, he smiled. "John Paul the First," he replied
decisively.
Villot smiled. "Brava!" Filici
whispered. And the room once more erupted into cheering and applause.
Traditionally, the bishop who heads up
the tallying team receives the new pope's old "red hat" along with
the understanding that he will be elevated to the College of Cardinals in the
near future. In expectation of this, the bishop who was standing to Villot's
left, now knelt before Luciani, as Filici presented the former Patriarch with
his new white zucchetto. Albino accepted it hesitantly, and removing his red
one, uncharacteristically placed the small white circle of silk on his head so
carefully that you would have thought it's weight would crush him. Now he
looked down at the man kneeling, with head bowed, before him. Leaning down, he
placed a hand gently on the bishop's shoulder and whispered, "Let's talk
about this when things calm down a little, eh!"
The bishop looked up, a myriad of
emotions crossing his face, surprise, disappointment and respect, followed one
another in quick succession as he nodded in agreement and rose.
Once Luciani straightened up, Filici
took him by the elbow and pulled out from the behind the desk. "Come, Holy
Father," he said cheerfully, "we must get you ready for the next
step."
Saying this, he passed the confused
Pontiff into the keeping of a tall, slightly hunched over bishop, with a
pleasant smile, but a long, thin face that reminded Luciani of a vulture. This
odd looking fellow, nodded in greeting and then swiftly ushered the Pope into a
small side-chapel, where a rack, much like those found in clothing stores,
stood looking sadly naked except for three lonely white simars, a garment
similar to a cassock, but with a short shoulder cloak attached.
"Take a few moments to collect your
thoughts, Holiness," the big man said in a rich French accent similar to
Villot's. "The tailors will be arriving any minute now." With that he
left the room, shutting all the celebration in the Sistine out with the close
of the door.
Luciani stood for a moment in the silent
"Chapel of Tears", as it's called, trying to take in and make sense
of what had just happened. Turning to face the main altar he moved into a pew
and knelt. Shutting his eyes tightly, to fight the tears he knew would come if
he gave in, he finally opened them and looked up at the figure on the cross.
"Thy will be done..." he whispered, "...on earth as in
heaven." Bowing his head and resting it against his tightly clasped hands
he repeated, "Thy will. Help me to understand that this is your will,
Lord. Help me to be worthy of the sacred trust you have placed in me. Show me
your way. Be near to me O Lord, for without your help, I will be completely
lost."
Hearing the sound of voices and
approaching footsteps, he blessed himself and rose to meet whoever it was with
a smile.
The two men, who entered with Filici and
the tall bishop, were not smiling but arguing. "I made them to fit the
leading candidates, who expected he would to win?!"
"Gentlemen," Filici growled
and the two turned their glares upon the Cardinal. "Remember where you
are," he added, his face flushed with either anger or excitement.
Meanwhile, the tall man had moved to
Luciani's side and taken his arm to lead him, somewhat hesitantly, into the
midst of this thorny threesome, explaining as he did so, "Holiness, these
are the Gammarelli brothers, tailors to the Papal Household."
"Uh huh," Luciani responded
and turned to look quickly at the man looming beside him. "And who are
you," he asked with a curious smile.
"Cardinal Filici didn't tell
you?"
The new Pope shook his head.
"I'm..."
"Holy Father, please..." one
of the 'Papal Tailors' called impatiently, "...we have very little
time."
"Coming," Luciani responded.
"Later," he said with a smile
to the mysterious bishop, who bowed and smiled in return.
Moving between the two brothers, the Pontiff
extended his hand in greeting. "Hello," he said pleasantly.
"How tall are you, Holiness,"
one brother barked, while the other ran a measuring tape across the Pope's
shoulders and then quickly around his waist.
"Pardon," Luciani responded in
honest confusion, not sure which way to look or what to do.
"How tall are you," the tailor
repeated impatiently, stressing each word.
"Uh...about 5' 9".... I
think," the Pope answered, glad that the second brother had left him and
was now attacking the rack of robes with his tape.
"5' 9", the other man muttered
and flew to his brother's side to join in the mad flurry of measuring and
pinning.
Filici and 'the unnamed' moved to stand
beside the befuddled Pope.
"Is there a problem," Luciani
asked.
"No," Filici laughed softly,
"I think it's probably always like this...you see, Holiness," he
continued softly, "...they make up the simars to fit one of the leading
Papabile, this time all of them were either bigger or smaller than yourself,
and now they need to figure out which one will fit you with the least fuss and
still look decent for your first appearance."
"Oh," Luciani responded and
stifled a giggle. "They're very intense about their work," he
observed.
Filici and the bishop both laughed
softly.
"Holy Father," one of the
tailors called, signaling that they were now ready for him.
The other brother stood holding the most
promising of the vestments open, as though he were about to attack someone with
it.
Luciani cast a glance back at his two
companions and, with a shrug, moved quickly across the room to where the first
brother began rapidly to help him remove his present garments and the second,
just as speedily, guided his arms into his new robe and began buttoning it,
while the other now dropped to the floor with a mouthful of pins and began
pining up the hem of the garment, which was much too long.
"We apologize for this being so
large, Holiness, but the only one that may have fit you lengthwise was far too
small in the shoulders," the buttoning brother explained, as he fastened
the top closure and secured the collar. "We have your measurements, and
you'll have a full wardrobe by the end of the week...we'll have a properly cut
simar to you by the end of the day tomorrow," he added, securing the sash
around Luciani's waist and pulling it tight to take up more of the robe's
excess cloth.
All the while this was going on, Filici
and the bishop had stood watching and smiling, at times giggling softly. It was
an amusing scene, two men working furiously on another, who in an attempt to be
as cooperative as possible was allowing them to manhandle him almost
mercilessly.
Finally satisfied with their creation,
the tailors spun him around to a face a mirror on the wall. The sight took
Luciani by surprise, so used to seeing himself either in his black or scarlet
robes, the new white one seemed like something totally foreign and the man in
the mirror, a complete stranger.
"Well..." asked the brother
who'd been doing the pinning, "...is it alright, Holiness? Is it
comfortable...at least for the time being?"
"Comfortable," Luciani thought
to himself, "This will never be comfortable!" But he smiled and
nodded; "Yes...it's fine...you did an amazing job, both of you." He
turned to face the two men, who had knelt behind him. "You have my thanks
and my blessing."
"All right then..." Filici
spoke up, "You have done an excellent job, gentlemen," he addressed
to the Gammarelli who bowed in acknowledgment, smiles on their faces that
seemed to say 'of course we did'. "You're dismissed."
Turning to face the new Pope, they bowed
and backed up to the door, where the tall bishop stood waiting. He opened the
door and then joined the tailors in bowing and backing out of the room, closing
the continuing celebration in the Sistine out with the shutting of the door.
"Who is that," Luciani asked
Filici, as the door closed.
"Hmm," Filici responded in
confusion.
"The tall fellow...who is he?"
"Oh! I'm sorry, Holiness, I should
have introduced him...That's Archbishop Jacques Martin, the Prefect of the
Papal Household...you'll be seeing a lot of him."
"I will?"
"Yes," Filici explained,
"He pretty much plans your life from here on...and he can call or come to
see you whenever he deems it necessary...no appointment needed."
"Uh huh. Okay. So...now what?"
Filici chuckled and took Luciani by the
elbow. "Now you receive the obeisance of the Cardinals."
"What?"
"Don't worry...there's nothing to
it. You just sit on the throne and each of us comes up and swears his obedience
to you as Supreme Pontiff, and you give us each your blessing."
"But the balcony...when do I do
that?"
"After this," Filici said
opening the door to the now silent chapel. "Don't worry so much,
Albino," he said with a broad smile, "We'll do everything that needs
doing. Just relax and let us guide you. Okay?"
Luciani smiled and nodded. He allowed
Filici to steer him to a throne that had been set up at the front of the hall
in place of the table where Filici and Villot had sat with the scrutinizers
during the conclave. Two monsignors flanked the throne, Villot and Martin
waited at its foot. The other Cardinals were standing at their seats along the
sides of the chapel.
Not at all comfortable with any of this,
but knowing it to be something he must do, Luciani mounted the few steps up to
the throne and took his seat, just on the edge, so he would be able to easily
lean forward to speak to each man as he approached.
"Ready, Holy Father," Martin
asked softly.
"Yes," the Pontiff responded
with a meek smile.
The Bishop raised his hand and the
Cardinals rose as one body, forming a line, which stretched the length of the
Sistine. One by one, they approached the throne, knelt before the new Pontiff,
swore their loyalty and obedience to him, and received his blessing in return.
While all this ceremony was going on in
the Sistine, confusion was reigning in the plaza.
In their eagerness to let the world know
that the church had a new Holy Father, the Cardinals had shoved anything that
would burn into the stove, including both the white and black chemicals. The
resulting smoke that belched from the chapel chimney was a nice non-committal
shade of gray.
"What color is that?"
"Gray? Does that mean there's a
tie?"
"Well...at least it's not
black..."
"Yeah, but it isn’t white
either!"
"Shush. Listen..."
A group had gathered around a young man
with a transistor radio, which he had turned up as loudly as possible so as
many people could listen as wanted to. The announcer was saying in a very
serious tone that the Vatican had confirmed that the smoke was indeed intended
to be either white or black, but since the Cardinals in conclave were the only
ones who knew which it should be, all anyone could do was wait. This caused the
crowd to explode with laughter. "They know as much as we do," one man
said and everyone laughed in agreement.
Among those enjoying the moment was
Father Diego Lorenzi, Cardinal Luciani's secretary. He had been part of the
crowd since early that morning; after all...what else was there to do?
He had struck up a conversation with a
couple just before the smoke had begun to ascend from the chimney and thrown
everyone into turmoil. Now the festival feeling had returned, everyone
believing that the smoke had indeed been black and that it was time to decide
where to go for dinner, since there would be no more voting that day. The
couple turned to Lorenzi to resume their conversation.
"Father, are you missioned here in
Rome?"
"No, no..."I'm here from
Venice."
"What do you do there?"
"This and that...I am secretary
to..."
Lorenzi was cut off by the sudden
deafening buzz of the loudspeakers that were placed all around the plaza. If
they were being activated, it could mean only one thing.
"Perhaps the smoke was
white..." Lorenzi observed to his new friends and pointed to the central
doorway above the basilica's entrance. It was open and two men had draped the
banner bearing the Papal crest over the balustrade. Two others were setting up
a microphone. Such preparations could mean only one thing, and the words,
"There must be a new Pope," were making their way through the throng.
The workmen vanished from the balcony
and the doors shut. People were holding their breath in
expectation. "Could it be? On the first day of the conclave, they've actually elected someone?"
expectation. "Could it be? On the first day of the conclave, they've actually elected someone?"
"Father," one of Lorenzi's
companions asked, "...do you really think..."
Lorenzi's eyes were glued to the balcony;
he put his finger to his lips and then pointed. The tourists' eyes followed.
What they saw along with the rest of the now silent mass of people, was the
central door reopening and Cardinal Filici approaching the microphone, while
the rest of the College of Cardinals filed out to fill either side of the
balcony.
Lorenzi strained his eyes to see if he
could spot Don Albino among the men along the sides, but they were too far away
for him to distinguish which was 'his' Cardinal.
Content that everyone was in their
appointed spot, Filici gazed behind him quickly at the new Pope, now vested in
rochet, scarlet cloak and the red and gold Stole of State, who stood pale and
unsure of himself, fidgeting with the ring on his finger and licking his
parched lips. Filici nodded and Luciani nodded back. He was as ready as he was
ever going to be.
Filici stepped up to the microphone and
finally announced the much-awaited words: "I announce to you great joyful
news. We have a Pope!"
There was a murmur of applause in the
crowd then all was silent as everyone waited for the all-important name:
"His Most Eminent and Reverend Lordship, Lord Albino..."
"Albino!" Lorenzi's heart
jumped into his throat...there was only one Cardinal with the first name of
Albino that he knew of....
"....Cardinal of the Holy Roman
Church Luciani," Filici continued.
His Cardinal, Lorenzi thought with
pride. He had been elected!
"...who has taken for himself the
name John Paul I."
The crowd broke into applause and joyful
shouts of "Brava, brava! Viva il Papa, Viva il Papa!"
Filici moved back from the microphone
and the new Pope took his place, his hands clasped tightly to his lips as he
looked out over the piazza filled to the bursting point with cheering people,
knowing that this was only a small number of those souls for whom he was now
the shepherd.
A priest came forward with the
lectionary and held it open. The Pope parted his hands and in a quaking voice,
cracking with emotions he was trying desperately to keep in check, he sang the
introductory portion of the blessing. “May the holy apostles, Peter and Paul,
in whose power and authority we trust, intercede for you with the Lord. May God almighty have mercy on you and
forgiving your sins, may Jesus Christ lead you to eternal life. May the almighty Lord grant you indulgence,
absolution and pardon for all your sins, time for true and fruitful repentance
and an ever-penitent heart and improvement of your lives, the grace and
consolation of the Holy Spirit and final perseverance in good deeds.”
Then looking out over the now silent
crowd, he traced the Sign of the Cross, "And may the blessing of almighty
God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, descend upon you and remain forever.”
"Amen," rumbled back from the
crowd. There was a moment of quiet and then they came back to life with cheers
and waving.
Lorenzi's eyes were filled with tears.
One of his companions put a hand on his shoulder and asked what was wrong.
Turning to the man with a smile, Lorenzi
replied, "You asked what I did in Venice...and I had begun to tell you
that I was secretary to the Patriarch...but that's no longer true..." he
looked up at the small figure, smiling and waving to the crowd.”Now..." he
crowed with pride, "I am the secretary to the new Pope!"
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