Chapter Text
Since the first day of the conclave, only his second conclave as a cardinal, Mario had not been able to forget about Andrew Dussolier. Indeed, at every official gathering after that, even the less dull ones, even when there were countless other things to think about, what with this strange, cruel, shameless new pope, and Voiello, despite his better efforts to hide it, looking for once in his life at a loss for what to do, his eyes always found a way to drift in the red-haired cardinal’s direction. It was curiosity, Mario told himself, for he had a feeling that he hadn’t seen Dussolier before—the American was young, and this could very well be his first conclave—but he had to admit that he didn’t really know. He could hardly remember the last conclave at all, not because it had been so long ago, but because at the time he had been absorbed in a conscious and rigorous effort to detach himself from things: from society, from church politics, and most importantly from his fellow man. He was a new cardinal then, wary and frightened even more than he was curious about the secret and mysterious order of his new surroundings, and this detachment had seemed necessary to protect himself, from fear as well as from danger.
It was a bit too late for all that now. Even at the beginning of the conclave, when Spencer had seemed destined for the papacy, Mario had known that these would be difficult years for him and those like him. And after that first meeting with Belardo, the meeting he had dreaded and prepared for, he didn’t even want to think about any of it. Being careful—that perpetual vigilance, that shrewdness which had guided him through the past ten years as surely as the Ten Commandments—now almost did not seem worth the effort. Because when being careful collided with everything represented in those commandments and all the others, and all the thousands of pages of scripture and interpretation and doctrine and feeling always running in the back of his mind like the hum of a great engine, well then. You could only be so careful.
And so in order not to do something decidedly careless, he did something only slightly careless, which was to watch Dussolier. Even amid the shock of Belardo’s first address as Pope Pius XIII, Mario never quite lost sight of the redhead on the other side of the aisle. After the speech, in fact, making as if to discretely stretch his back, he leaned forward in his seat just slightly in order to watch Dussolier approach the papal throne, kneel, and kiss the pope’s foot. Dussolier and Belardo had been close in the past, as Mario understood it, although he had to confess that as far as Belardo was concerned, he was uncharacteristically uninformed. In preparation for the conclave, he had taken care to read up on the major contenders—the popular Hernandez, the conservative favorite Spencer, the liberal champion and his longtime ally Voiello, even old Caltanissetta—but had neglected to consider Belardo as a serious possibility warranting investigation. After Belardo’s election, he had tried to pick up the lost ground, but had made little progress; he could find almost nothing online, no photographs, only a few stray newspaper articles: New York’s Archbishop Michael Spencer Called to the Curia, Replaced by Young Protégé Lenny Belardo, New York’s Archbishop Lenny Belardo joins the College of Cardinals, Replaced by… The gossip surrounding the new pope was even sparser. After a while, he had given it up and resolved to wait and see, to let Belardo reveal himself on his own terms. Some good that had done him. And now here he was, listening to the deranged ravings of an egotist, waiting for his turn to kiss the pope’s satin slipper, waiting to be stripped of his hard-earned position and sent God knows where, maybe Greenland if he was lucky, maybe Syria if he wasn’t, as punishment for something about himself which he couldn’t control, namely that he was an honest man; and yet concentrating instead on another face: the sunken eyes, the furrowed brow, the pained smile twitching on his lips as he made his way back to his seat. Archbishop in Tegucigalpa. Cardinal at 45. American college, American seminary. Active in missionary work. Not one to miss out on a good time, at least according to one Monsignor Dupont—yes, Mario had done his research, even though Dussolier had never had half a chance at the papacy. Yes. Always late. Always a little sloppily dressed. Always ready to bend the rules. A kind man, a good man, Mario believed, with a force of conviction usually reserved for higher things, which surprised him. He hadn’t allowed himself to develop such an attachment in years, much less to a man he barely knew. A handsome man—and he had to repress a smirk. He would have to be careful.
As Voiello approached the papal throne, Belardo tensed almost imperceptibly, the subtlest of sneers spreading across his face. Again, but for a different reason, Mario leaned slightly forward for a better view. The longtime Secretary of State knelt, then hesitated, leaning back to look Belardo in the eye. Belardo raised his foot and brought it down on the old man’s back, pressing his face into his shoes. Something inside Mario recoiled at that sight, even though Voiello was not always his friend. What was wrong with him? He tried to clamp down on the feeling, tried to empty his mind, tried repeating the word “obedience” in his head. That was his duty, however poorly it might be rewarded. It would be his turn soon, and he could not afford to hesitate. Because even if he was careful, even if the pope was merciful, in this church, he would never be more than a hair’s breadth away from humiliation.
At last, Mario stood up, removed his hat, and advanced towards the throne, careful not to make eye contact with Belardo but not to stare at the floor either. Careful to smooth every trace of fear, of anger from his face, to assume the expression of neutral, serene reverence which he reserved for these kinds of ceremonies. When he reached the pope, he dropped gracefully to his knees and kissed the foot gently, trying not to think too hard about it. He got to his feet and turned back. See, not so bad, he said to himself. Not too different from anything you’ve done before, even if this particular custom has not been practiced for hundreds of years… And it couldn’t be degrading if everyone had to do it. Everyone except Belardo, of course. His eyes drifted over the mass of red to which he would return. They landed on Dussolier. Their eyes met. Dussolier flashed him a wry half-smile, and his own face erupted into a uncontrollable grin.