September's Pope

Chapter 2

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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?"

"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!"