Chapter Text
The climate summit, Vincent has decided, will be fun. He will speak from the heart, listen with the authority of the Church, and uplift the voices of those who can guide the world towards a better future. God's love is in the work, and this is work that he can do joyfully.
The interminable meetings about it, however, are a little less joyful.
"Your Holiness," Leonardo Varalli begins as if lecturing a child on their manners, "I cannot help but notice--"
He continues in that vein for some time. Thomas listens carefully, which is good of him. Vincent understands the wisdom of appointing his own Curia in a single sweep, but if offered the chance to replace Varalli now with a plank of wood, he might not resist temptation.
Varalli's Italian is sonorous and commanding, a poet's voice for a poet's language. Vincent tries to enjoy this. It is a form of worship to recognise and appreciate what is beautiful in each of God's creations.
Thomas is tilting his head courteously, his body language conveying, What an excellent point, thank you so much for raising it, with an elegance Vincent cannot help admire. Thomas could so easily be rude to Varalli here - he knows that Varalli is on the way out, and has no particular love for him nor incentive to keep the peace - but chooses instead to give Varalli this grace.
It makes Vincent think again of the first time they met: Thomas's immediate kindness, his steady conviction that Vincent had a place with them. He had thought this memory would be tainted by the knowledge that Thomas desired him, but to his relief, that is not the case. Whatever Thomas felt or wanted, his actions were without agenda - the kindness of a man who chooses to be kind.
It might even be a little charming that Thomas saw him so utterly dishevelled, exhausted, lost, and found beauty there, if indeed he did.
"What an excellent point, Leonardo, thank you so much for raising it," Thomas says. "Your Holiness, if I may?" he asks, only the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes as he looks to Vincent for permission.
Vincent nods to him, hoping his own humour is not too obvious. Perhaps the interminable meetings can be a little joyful, here and there.
Vincent does listen to Thomas's answer - strong tradition established by Saint John Paul II; to communicate in this modern age we must surely appreciate; as you yourself have so wisely said - but he cannot piece together from it what Varalli's original point was, if indeed there was one lurking under the scolding.
That is not a very collegiate sentiment, as Thomas might say.
"I couldn't agree more, my dear Thomas," Vincent says, grateful once again for his diplomat and friend.
Each year Vincent was in Kabul, a new and devastating wave of "natural" disasters - droughts and floods, unseasonal frosts and unpredictable rainfall - hit farms across Afghanistan like a bully pummelling a victim already on the floor. In Bukavu, he had seen far too many women and girls from all areas of DR Congo who had thought they were safe from the conflict only to be flooded or starved out of their homes and directly into the path of violence. The most recent round of floods in Mexico City have hit Iztapalapa hard - Carlos, the only one of his three living brothers still there, had lost power due to the floods last week.
He finds the joy has left him.
"I think we're done for today," he says, suddenly too tired for pleasantries. "Thomas, please-" He waves a hand, imperious, and allows Thomas to take care of everything. This is not the kind of Pope he wants to be - it is not the kind of man he wants to be - but it is better than the Pope and the man he would be if this meeting continued.
Thomas hovers at the door after ushering everyone else out.
The sight of him, too polite to intrude, too concerned to leave, soothes something of the pain in Vincent's heart.
"I'm sorry about Leonardo," Thomas says from the doorway. "If you'd rather not work directly with him, I can drop a couple gentle hints about redistributing some of his terribly heavy workload."
"Come in, my dear Thomas," Vincent says. He wishes for one brief, absurd moment that he could simply lie his head on Thomas's lap and let himself be gentled into stillness.
Thomas comes in. Hesitates, then sits down not opposite Vincent but next to him, close enough that their arms almost brush.
"We have a tendency in the Curia," Thomas says, "towards self-importance."
Vincent wants to slump against Thomas. His anger abates, and in its place he feels a deep well of loneliness.
"For Leonardo, what we are doing to the climate is an abstract topic, I fear. One of man's many sins against God." Thomas is choosing his words carefully. He does this sometimes when speaking to Vincent, his voice taking on a certain cadence that tugs at Vincent's heart. "You lead us with experience and compassion. If Leonardo is too petty and closed-minded to see that, then - forgive me - he is unworthy of your time."
Vincent raises his hand in benediction, half joking, half not. "You are forgiven, my child."
"I should have said something worse," Thomas says lightly.
When Vincent lowers his hand, he lets their arms touch. Thomas does not shift away.
They sit together in silence. Vincent thinks about the passage from Isaiah he meditated on this morning: The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He does not faint or grow weary; his understanding is unsearchable. He gives power to the faint, and strengthens the powerless.
He cannot collapse into Thomas, cannot throw himself down on the couch dramatically and complain until his voice grows tired. But where Thomas's arm meets his - that single, still point of connection - there is comfort for the taking.
"I think I do not tell you often enough how much I value your spiritual leadership," Thomas says into the shared quiet. "It feels at best presumptuous, at worst blasphemous. Who am I to offer the Pope my approval? But given that some of our brothers offer their disapproval quite freely, I hope I can at least act as a counterweight."
It is not the disapproval Vincent minds. It is the obstinacy, as if all their self-righteous preening is more holy than the simple act of helping those in need.
But Thomas continues: "You feel the suffering of the world so keenly - and rightly so - that the internal politics of the Church is not just a frustration to you but an insult. If I had allowed a fraction of that insight into my life earlier, I would have been a far better man and a far better Christian. You are the Pope I prayed for, and we are all more holy for your guidance."
Vincent swallows thickly and looks down at his hands knotting together in his lap.
They return to silence. Thomas does not seem to need a response, and Vincent does not have one to give him.
#
With a week to go until the climate summit, Thomas’ mind should be abuzz with a hundred tiny but important details - last minute changes to the delegate list, ongoing arguments about the phrasing of Vincent's opening remarks, new updates on the planned protests. Those are all there, all clamouring for his attention, but they cannot compete with his mounting horror at his own dreams.
Last night he dreamt that Vincent- No, he can't even think it. Vincent has made it extremely clear that he finds the idea disgusting, and even if he hadn't, even if his entire moral compass swung suddenly out of true, Thomas isn't sure he'd want to, either.
In the dreams, Vincent is the instigator. He kisses Thomas and it feels wrong - not just sinful, but unpleasant, unwanted by both of them. He puts his hands on Thomas with an intent that feels utterly alien to the love Thomas bears him. As if Thomas has knelt for the communion wafer and instead been force fed chocolate cake.
If God is sending him clarity, it is a strange kind. He is no less foolish over Vincent - or feels no less strongly, Vincent would want him to say - but his dreams grant him some insight into what he does not long for.
Time and tide wait for no man, and even if they did, Thomas would not be that man. He reviews the changes to the delegate list, making sure to keep apart those most inclined to clash in unproductive ways. He is polite but firm to those who still think they can persuade Vincent into more conciliatory opening remarks: hope does indeed spring eternal in the human breast. And he tries to follow Vincent's example in seeing the protesters as a blessing, not a problem - they have been hurt by the Church, and their voices must be heard.
Ray brings him lunch at his desk. "His Holiness suggested you might prefer a light salad," he says, accompanying this with what can only be called a speaking look. Ray and Vincent have very similar views on Thomas's lack of appetite, and neither is above invoking the other one to encourage him to eat.
Sometimes this irritates Thomas, unworthy as such a reaction is. Today, he is able to take it in the manner in which it is intended.
"Thank you, Ray. And please thank the Holy Father for me if you should see him before I do."
Ray leaves lunch and a pair of reading glasses on Thomas's desk. Thomas picks up the phone to call Aldo about the delegate list - much quicker than the laborious process of typing out an email.
There is a knock - Vincent's knock - on his open office door a minute or so later, and Thomas looks up to see that late afternoon shadows have appeared and he has eaten a good half of his salad.
"Thomas," Vincent says with a warmth in his voice that makes Thomas feel some uncomfortable mix of happiness and guilt. "I'm going to run away to sea. Will you join me?"
"Of course," he says, hoping that the truth of it is hidden in the joke. "I've always felt I missed my calling as a boatswain." He thinks he has the right word for it - contramaestre - but he's still relieved when Vincent laughs.
"We can -" And then Thomas can't quite get the details, though it is clear from context and the words he does recognise that Vincent believes they will between them hoist the main sail and perhaps even shiver some timbers.
"I would gladly follow you," Thomas says, "but I'm afraid my poor Spanish cannot."
Vincent laughs. "And my English is similarly land-locked. We must find a ship that will speak only in ecclesiastical Latin and requires only the lessons we have learned from Peter and Noah."
He looks now at Thomas's plate.
"I'm glad you're eating, my friend. We will need our strength for the coming summit."
Thomas obediently eats another cherry tomato, earning himself a smile he fears he will see again in his dreams. He stills for a moment, hoping he is not obvious to Vincent.
Vincent steps forward from the doorway and walks round to place a hand on Thomas's shoulder, comforting and kind. "Thank you for letting me care for you," he says, as if it is Thomas's generosity and not Vincent's that is at play here. "You are very good to me."
Thomas does not lean into the touch, not wanting to sully this moment with his own desire for closeness.
"I have something to say that you are not going to like," Vincent says eventually.
This time Thomas is certain Vincent feels him freeze. His guilt wars with his knowledge of Vincent - he may deserve a rebuke for his desires, for his dreams, but Vincent will not be the one to give it to him.
"I would like to meet with the protesters."
For a moment, all Thomas can feel is a wry amusement at his own solipsism. Of course Vincent is not concerned with Thomas's petty sins. He is focused, as ever, on the people and the things that matter.
A year ago, maybe even six months ago, he would have advised Vincent against this. The intention is good - the intention is right - but the Church has its pathways for a reason. Men and women who dedicate their life to the Church have a right to procedural justice, and not to see their Pope publicly align himself with people who would brand them all monsters. A year ago, six months ago, he would have been concerned with the internal politics of the Church, with the right way to get things done without causing unnecessary division.
He is not a fully changed man. He cannot pretend that he is not worried about the impact this will have on the Church and all the good it does. Even aside from that, he is concerned this will distract from the summit itself, moving the story away from climate change. But he is changed enough that when he finally speaks, what he says is:
"I will join you."
#
Vincent's heart has always been in God's hands. He is not quite so devoted to his Corinthians as to believe that service without love is nothing - the hungry are still fed no matter what is in the heart of the chef - but he knows that his own service would be impossible without love.
Maisha emails him. It’s a short update about her life (busy, romantically complicated, professionally satisfying) and a long rant about her latest passion project (increasing access to long-acting reversible contraceptives in the local area). He is quietly pleased that she still trusts him to care about this - she does not waste words justifying the need, nor go out of her way to shock him into a reaction.
Sisters Agnes and Francesca stop by his offices with some figs. Sister Agnes has strong feelings about seasonal fruit and vegetables, Vincent has learned over his time here. She is not given to indulgence - no dessert or second helpings for her - but every few weeks she will state firmly that now and only now is the correct time for wild cherries, or that for the next few days green beans will briefly be worth eating. Sister Francesca pretends she cannot taste the difference.
He feels a swell of love for both of them. Sister Agnes, who does not need to share this side of herself with him, who has folded him into parts of her world with a stern generosity he is endlessly charmed by; Sister Francesca, whose calm cheer and fondness for a running joke will serve her well under the scrutiny and challenge of being one of the first female members of the Curia.
The figs are delicious. The Sisters - both extremely busy - do not stay long, though before she leaves Sister Francesca raises a few minor details about how their work in the Brazilian floods is going.
"Our mission agreed with the Red Cross that we would focus on clean water and emergency sanitation measures in the immediate aftermath," she tells him. "As far as they can tell on the ground, they're seeing less gastrointestinal illness than we'd expect at this point." Then, her tone turning dry, she adds, "We must be grateful that God granted the Dicastery the experience and foresight to act so swiftly."
Everyone, Vincent included, agreed that Sister Francesca's soon-to-be predecessor should be allowed to save face when capitulating on the issue. Vincent did not and does not mind, but it is always pleasant to be reminded that his friends are also his allies.
He has a full hour now - a luxury - to edit his opening speech for the climate summit in light of recent discussions with Aldo and colleagues. Instead, he opens up his personal email.
What a blessing you are to the women and girls of Rabat, he writes to Maisha in plain but competent French. He speaks it better than he writes it, but he will not improve if he does not try. The politics do not surprise me, but I am very cross on your behalf! I do not envy those who stand against you, my friend.
He amuses himself briefly with the thought of how these emails would be taken by his brothers and sisters in the Vatican. Even ever-loyal Thomas would- Well. Maybe that thought is less amusing. He does not wish to pain Thomas with his views more than he has to.
I am at a crossroads, he writes instead of working on his speech. I know the direction I must turn, but not where it will lead me.
He finishes the email without needing to consult a dictionary - a marked improvement on earlier this year - and signs it off as ever: Your aide-de-camp, V
He has kept a fig aside for Thomas, because of course he has. Two figs, in fact, because Thomas won't eat if Vincent doesn't. Sisters Francesca and Agnes did not comment on this - he has no idea if they even noticed - but still a distant twinge of self-consciousness makes itself known.
He cannot blame Thomas for recontextualising their friendship - he will not find fault where there is none - but nor can he pretend it has not changed. It is a strange and disconcerting thing to see his love for Thomas through the lens of Thomas's interest.
He finds Thomas in his own office, writing in red pen on what appears to be a printout of an email. His reading glasses have slipped to the tip of his nose, framing his face in the afternoon sunlight.
Vincent knocks lightly on the open door.
"Can I interest you in a fig?" he asks, heart clenching at the unguarded smile that blooms across Thomas's face. "Sister Agnes has declared them in season."
Thomas's mixed feelings are clear on his face. He is already standing to greet Vincent, too polite to remain seated, too old to make the gesture entirely seamless.
Vincent does not have the right to chide and bully Thomas into eating. But he would like it. He would like the right to bring Thomas a glass of ice water when the weather is hot; the right to know if he slept well and fuss if he didn't; the right to the small and quiet intimacies of care that stitch the world together.
It is a kind of love, a kind of possessiveness, that he is more used to channelling into his work. He learns the people he serves and gives himself to them in the ways they need him most. But here and now he faces a different kind of work, a flock so large that he must find new ways to serve its members, and a friend so dear that he cannot bear the distance between them.
"Come sit with me," Vincent says, taking ruthless advantage of Thomas's manners. Thomas has a very beautiful dark leather couch in his office, its arms ornately carved and embossed. It is old and comfortable without losing any of its elegance.
Thomas sits. Vincent sits beside him, deliberately close. He hands Thomas a fig.
I am at a crossroads, Vincent thinks in his plain but competent French. That was not what he meant in his email to Maisha, but he cannot resist the thought of how she would laugh at him if she could see him now. Sitting chastely next to a man who has never asked anything but friendship of him, wracked with the desire to fuss over his comfort.
No, that is not fair to Maisha, who would not sit in judgement at another's vulnerability. She would treat him with fondness and care - and he must do the same.
"I would like to care for you," Vincent drops into the polite silence between them, a boulder into a still pond.
Thomas jolts. "I- Vincent. Your Holiness." There is confusion in his voice, but also genuine distress. He lifts and drops his hands, face clouded. "You have shown me nothing but grace and care since we met."
"I would like the right to care for you," Vincent corrects himself. "As your particular friend."
The confusion on Thomas's face turns sour, unhappy. "I'd never ask that of you, you must know that." He speaks forcefully, taking up his position in a debate Vincent would like no part of.
"I am asking it of you." Vincent has the trick of keeping his own voice calm, steady, in circumstances far more dangerous than those to be found in the Vatican. He trusts Thomas not to take this steadiness as dispassion. He is speaking as honestly as he can. "This is not a euphemism. I do not wish for-" For a moment, he regrets speaking from the heart. If he had planned this, perhaps he would have found a phrase to use here that was neither prudish nor vulgar.
"Vincent," Thomas says again. "Please don't debase yourself out of some kind of- I don't know. I don't know. What on earth is possessing you to speak like this?"
There is disgust now in Thomas's mien. How unfair, how desperately unfair, that Thomas should look at Vincent like that, when Vincent has worked so hard not to do so to Thomas.
"I would like to acknowledge what is in my heart and to see if it may meet with what is in yours." It comes out a little more flatly than he might like, as much rebuke as offer.
There is a moment, clear and sharp as a knife drawn across flesh, where Vincent is sure that Thomas will recoil. That Vincent has finally said something so immoral, so shocking, that Thomas will find an end to the love and charity he has given Vincent since they first met.
It does not matter that Thomas is the one whose wants and desires are so plain as to be visible from Venice. It does not matter that Vincent is not asking - truly is not - for anything other than a deepening of their friendship. It matters only that he has asked at all, and in doing so has transgressed some innate boundary in the cartography of Thomas's heart.
Well. He has spoken. He cannot control anything but that.
And then Thomas, generous, kind, evergreen Thomas, takes a steadying breath. "I think I must ask you to clarify," he says carefully. "And I think I must remember that it is not my place to judge you, only to offer you my support and friendship."
Over his many years of ministry, Vincent has borne witness to countless decisions both big and small. A young woman choosing to leave her pimp who is also her dealer who is also the only man who has ever protected her from violence. A child choosing to tell the truth in the confessional rather than offer up an expected petty sin. An armed and traumatised man of fifty choosing to apologise when his first instinct is to escalate. It is almost tangible, that shift in the air where a decision settles into place - where someone takes a deliberate step off the path in front of them.
Vincent feels it here. He is not entirely sure whether it is Thomas's decision or his own.
Thomas continues: "And I think - I know - I must remember that you are a good man, the best of men, and your moral compass has proven itself again and again to be far more reliable than mine."
Vincent takes Thomas's hand in his. They are old men together, and time is visible in every wrinkle and fold of their skin.
"You have every right to care for me," Thomas offers, tentative, gentle. A peace offering. An apology. A declaration, maybe. "Perhaps you could tell me what that means to you?"
Vincent is struck by yesterday's conversation about running away to sea, neither of them with enough of each other's language to manage more than the outline of the joke.
"I would like the right to fuss over you." That is a simple enough truth. "I would like to know how your night has been and fret when you haven't had enough sleep. I would like to comfort and be comforted in turn by a simple hug or quietly clasped hands." He looks down at their hands still pressed together and thinks, with a fierceness that should worry him, mine. "I would like to know that although our highest calling and duty is to God, we have a measure of closeness to each other above that which we have with others."
Thomas lets out a little huff of laughter. "The wicked flee when no man pursues. I'm sorry. What must you think of me." Then, while Vincent is still deciding how to answer that: "I would very much like to be your particular friend, Vincent. I think it would be a beautiful thing."
There is no change in their positions. Vincent does not leap into Thomas's arms; Thomas does not cup his cheek or press a kiss against his brow. They simply sit together, hand in hand, with a silence between them that feels like love.
#
Thomas has his annual check up with Dr de Luzzi three days before the climate summit, one day after his quite remarkable conversation with Vincent. The timing is poor, but Ray would not reschedule it for him.
Dr de Luzzi's offices are light and airy, with lush green houseplants and inoffensively abstract art on the walls. Two weeks ago Thomas came here to have his blood drawn; now he sits in the waiting room. I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that you present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God, which is your reasonable service.
Despite the name - the legacy of an Italian grandfather who emigrated between the wars - Dr de Luzzi is a Scot by birth and upbringing. He met his wife around the time Thomas was entering seminary, and moved to Italy to be with her, rather than consigning her to a lifetime of Aberdeen winters, you see.
"Father," he greets Thomas in English, standing and smiling as Thomas enters his consulting room. "Good news: your PSA levels remain scrupulously low."
A weight lifts from Thomas's shoulders. They will need to go through the rest of the exam, but this is the key result. Something he can share with Vincent, a gesture of trust that does not ask much of either of them.
The rest of the appointment passes easily enough. With low and unchanged PSA, Thomas does not need that most unpleasant of exams - he doesn't pretend to be anything but relieved.
"Your results are ok for men of our age," Dr de Luzzi says of the other blood tests. "Are you taking your supplements with a meal to help absorption?"
There is brief twinge of schoolboy guilt in Thomas's stomach. He does try to take his vitamins - Ray gets upset if the level of the pill bottle does not go down, and even Thomas is not quite so churlish as to flush them when he could simply swallow them. But taking them with a meal requires effort and attention better spent on other things.
"I'll take that as a no." Dr de Luzzi switches into Italian to scold him. "We're not getting any younger, Father. A fall at our age can be devastating." He shakes his head. "Don't make me enlist Monseigneur O'Malley."
Thomas can imagine it too clearly. A call from Dr de Luzzi to Ray. A quiet word from Ray to Vincent. He blanches.
"Good," Dr de Luzzi says, as if that is an answer, which Thomas supposes it is. "Then we are agreed."
Overall, Dr de Luzzi is very pleased with Thomas's ongoing remission; mildly disappointed with his diet and exercise; and cheerfully optimistic about Thomas's health over the next year.
"If nothing gets in your way, you old priests can carry on nicely for a very long time," he says back in English. "Nothing beats the health benefits of a sense of purpose and not having to do your own housework."
"I hope the same can be said of old doctors," Thomas says. He is very fond of Dr de Luzzi, whose bluntness and kindness have both made a real difference in Thomas's life.
Thomas decides to walk back to the Vatican. It is early enough in the day that the heat is not yet radiating from the pavement, and he could use some time outside.
A gaggle of tourists block his path. The tour guide speaks in Polish - not one of Thomas's languages, but easily recognisable all the same. The tourists spill out onto the road, and Thomas stands there for a moment, watching angry drivers honk impatiently and swear with a creativity that still impresses him after all his years in Rome.
A mother and two young children in much more of a hurry than Thomas clear a path through the tourists. He follows along in their wake, grateful for their intervention, grateful for the excited chatter of the tourists and their wide-eyed sightseeing, grateful for the day.
#
Thomas dreams that he is kneeling at his prie-dieu and cannot stand up. He knows, with the certainty of a dream, that if he doesn't stand he will die here on his knees.
This part of the dream is familiar now. It is changeable without changing - sometimes he is kneeling for communion, sometimes he is an anonymous congregant kneeling on a well-worn hassock.
It is natural, fitting, good that he should die as he has lived. It is his time. Once again, his vision clouds until all he can see in front of him are his own clasped hands.
He hopes that this time the dream will end here in gentle stillness. He knows that it won't.
Someone takes his hands in theirs. As ever, they begin as an indistinct amalgam of different men; as ever, they resolve into Vincent.
"Again, Thomas?" Vincent asks in Latin that is harsh, accusatory. "How many times must we follow this dream?"
But before Thomas can respond, the moment repeats itself.
"Again, Thomas?" Vincent asks in Spanish that is soft, sympathetic. "How many times must we follow this dream?"
"Again, Thomas?" Vincent asks in Dr de Luzzi's Aberdeen accent, wry, friendly. "How many times must we follow this dream?"
"Again, Thomas?" Vincent asks. "Again? Again? Again?"
Thomas opens his mouth and a bird flies out, blue silver green feathers trailing sparks behind them.
"Vincent," he says, a plea, a prayer.
Vincent does not kiss him, thank God. He embraces Thomas like a brother, warm and true. Thomas knows with the certainty of dreams that they are safe here.
#
Vincent opens the climate summit with almost the same speech he agreed in advance. He welcomes the delegates, honours their diverse wisdom and insights, thanks his tireless and hardworking colleagues for their work in organising the summit. He uses the agreed language to describe the urgent and ongoing climate emergency and its consequences across the globe. He prays that they may have an honest and productive summit, not shying away from difficult truths or hard problems, and not losing faith in their ability to work together to make a meaningful difference.
It is all very sober and appropriate. The language is "strong" but not "divisive", Aldo has assured him.
"We are striving to do together what we cannot do in isolation. We must each bring our humility, our hope, and our openness to change."
Aldo and Thomas are both sitting close enough that Vincent can see their faces. Aldo is trying to hide his alarm at the changes in the script. Thomas's approving gaze is a balm.
"Over the first year of my papacy, I have had the great honour and privilege of meeting many people from many different walks of life. Some have found great meaning and inspiration within the Universal Church; some have found their purpose outside our Church; and some, it shames me to say, have suffered as a result of the Church's action and inaction.
"I cannot ask you to trust us to host this event if you cannot trust us to live the values we claim to hold."
He and Thomas talked this through at length. It serves no one for him to use the climate summit as a platform for talking about abuse. It would be both too much and not enough: It would move attention away from the very important aims of the summit and do a deep disservice to the many climate activists who have worked with them to make the summit real and meaningful, not just a vanity project or what Aldo calls inside baseball. At the same time, a single set of remarks at an unrelated event does not have the political weight behind it needed for true movement on the Church's work to address historic and ongoing abuse. When he does speak to this publicly, he will do so as part of coordinated and meaningful change, not a sop to his own conscience.
So this will have to do. Nothing like the acknowledgement the protesters deserve - nothing like the acknowledgement the many survivors of the Church's crimes deserve - but not nothing at all.
"We are asking you to listen to those who disagree with you, those you have hurt, those who have hurt you. I hope that over time we can prove ourselves worthy of any trust you choose to give us."
Then, as if he has never strayed from his original text, he leads the summit in the agreed prayer.
The calm certainty of the moment is a relief. So much of the last year has been spent doing the job in front of him and trusting God that it is enough. Here and now, he knows he has done a good thing. He has said something and meant it, and in doing so he will make the world better for those who need it most.
Afterwards, walking to the first of the round table discussions, Aldo attempts to scold him, his words at odds with his camera-friendly body language. Vincent expected to be annoyed, but he finds he is simply amused. Aldo must be who he is and he must scold whom he must scold, errant popes included.
"I thought it was very inspiring," Thomas says blandly, cutting Aldo off mid of course you must understand.
Aldo's mask of supportive humility doesn't so much as flicker. "I miss centrist Thomas."
Thomas is not as camera-perfect as Aldo, but his natural self-containment serves him well. "And Ms Bastida's speech was excellent, of course," he says as if in reply. "Will you join me in congratulating her, Aldo?"
Aldo cedes the ground as gracefully as he can. "If you'll excuse us?" he says to Vincent, the tilt of his head only a little ironic.
Thomas and Aldo go to speak to Xiye - whose speech was indeed excellent - and Vincent finds himself briefly alone in the crowd making their way to the scheduled talks and discussions. He is scheduled for a series of short, very public conversations with assorted politicians and dignitaries, their order and exact timings the result of many weeks of fierce diplomatic negotiations. It is not his favourite duty, but if it brings them to the table, it is a small price to pay.
Ah. How jaded he has become. Poor world-weary Vincent Benítez, forced to endure the company of world leaders while sitting in a comfortable chair and drinking exceptionally good coffee! What a tragedy!
He uses his few moments of solitude to compose a few lines of his next email to Maisha. He probably can't ask the French Minister of Ecology what the French for self-indulgent nonsense is, but he can enjoy the thought of doing so.
#
Vincent and Thomas meet with the protesters on the second day of the summit. Vincent asks no questions about how this gap in his schedule has been achieved.
Guila is a tall, slim Italian woman in perhaps her sixties. She wears light blues and whites, comfortable but elegant, and her make up softens her age without trying to hide it. She is a lawyer specialising in human rights cases. In another world, she and Vincent could have been allies.
She tells her story in a clear, practised manner that does not detract from its impact. She grew up in rural Tuscany, in a small farming village with a single-classroom primary school. From the age of eleven, she had to travel to the nearest town for school, and at sixteen she was expected to leave school to work on her family's farm. She was bright, hard working, full of potential - her teachers took an interest in her and enlisted the local priest to advocate for her to her parents.
She shares what the priest did to her, what he had her do. How she felt special, grateful to him, chosen. How it has stayed with her since, splintering her away from her family and her friends, driving her to actions she describes with a clinical distance.
Her abuser was moved twice to different parishes in the abrupt and unexpected manner seen so painfully often in the Church's history of covering up abuse. It did not prevent him from rising to the ranks of bishop.
Maxence is a young Frenchman whose round glasses accentuate his sweetly round face. He begins to tell his story then falters, turning to his friend, who takes his hand and continues for him. He was five. It continued until he was ten. Several men were involved. They have since been defrocked, but the Church refuses to share its evidence with the French police for a criminal trial.
Maxence's friend, Sach, is of a similar age, stocky in a way that speaks of muscle under fat. Sach is wearing a badge reading "iel/ellui" and speaks with a barely-contained anger, clutching Maxence's hand.
Vanda is an older Italian woman, around Thomas's age. Her brother died by suicide when he was nineteen. The same priest who "took an interest" in him in his early teens refused to allow him to be buried in the churchyard.
It was not until the news of these horrors began to break, long after her brother's death, that she began to suspect the priest's role in her brother's death. She now believes she is aware of six men who died by suicide whose early teens were marked by interest from the same priest.
In total they meet ten protesters. Some have been harmed by the Church, some haven't. Only Guila, Maxence and Vanda share their stories.
Vincent is no stranger to these kinds of stories. His life's work has been to support them, to offer them God's love and care in the wake of man's diverse cruelties.
It is a perversion of everything he has worked towards his entire life that the Church, his Church, is the instrument of such cruelties.
"I am so grateful to you for meeting with me," Vincent says to each of them. "I am so sorry for what was done to you."
Guila regards him with suspicion. "When he said you would meet with us," she says - and oh, Vincent had not realised it was Thomas who spoke with them directly - "I made it clear this would not silence us."
"I will not ask you to be silent," Vincent says.
"There are no cameras here," she replies. "Just you and your secretary and your guards."
Vincent looks her in the eye. She is wonderfully unimpressed. If the matter were less serious, he would enjoy this conversation.
"You are right to protest," he says carefully. He has spent a year not saying this, learning the world he has found himself in before he takes irrevocable action. But they are right to protest, and he must tell them so. "Many within the Church have devoted themselves to righting the great and terrible wrongs we have done - to getting justice for those we have harmed and to stopping us from harming others. But the Church has not changed fast enough and it is not changing fast enough, and you are right to hold us to account."
"Yes," Guida says simply. "And?"
Some of the others seem uncomfortable to hear her speak to him like that. Maxence looks deeply embarrassed, though his friend Sach radiates a kind of scowling approval.
"And," Vincent says. He looks to Thomas, who is watching him with steady confidence no longer tinged with that unsettling awe of Vincent would catch in the earliest days of his papacy. This is not the look of a man who sees a symbol, but the look of a man who sees and trusts another man. He could have this conversation without Thomas, without the strength and comfort his particular friend provides, but it is so much easier with him here.
"You may be aware that no one - myself included - had any thought that I might become Pope."
Guida nods impatiently.
"Before this role, I worked in missions: first in my own country, Mexico, but then in the Democratic Republic of Congo and Afghanistan. I am used to arriving in unfamiliar, potentially hostile places where I must balance the need for immediate action with the need to understand the system in which I am working. I have hurt those I most wanted to help by thinking I knew their situation better than them, and I have made many mistakes paid for by others' misery.
"I have been cautious so far. I have more power now than I have ever had before - more, perhaps, than any one person should have - and I do not want to wield it clumsily."
All this is true, but it is not enough.
"But caution has its own risks. From the outside it looks like uncaring, a lack of urgency, perhaps even agreement with the status quo. And that is itself a form of harm.
"I am truly sorry that I have not felt able to make the change you deserve with the speed you deserve. I am just a man, and I may have judged the balance wrong. My meeting with you is intended as an honest recognition of your cause, but it is also intended as a line in the sand."
God has spoken to him through these brave people - through Guida, through Maxence and Sach, through Vanda, but also through the others here today: Noah, Casimir, Aaron, Tanje, Luuk and Martha, each giving voice to God's will through their own righteousness. God speaks to him through every email he receives from Maisha, through the sanctuary Ahmad granted him in Kabul, through Thomas's steady trust and care.
"It is time for me to act," Vincent says to Guida, to her comrades in arms, to Thomas, to God. "The Church must change, and I will change it."