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Lawrence rose from the prie-dieu, holding the sides to stabilize himself. His knees protested from decades of genuflection, of kneeling to God and Holy Fathers alike (though he would not dare do so in idolatry, only in respect). He was a man of seventy, nearly of retirement age. But, he had not chosen to retire—it seems every pope has asked something of him. Most men would be flattered—he is! Don’t get him wrong—but Lawrence had served and wished to rest. He wished to take his leave, for God still evaded him at times.
During the Conclave, He had come to him in moments: when he’d given his homily at the televised mass before the Conclave, when he’d broken the seals to the late Holy Father’s rooms and distributed the evidence of Tremblay’s simony, and when he’d resigned himself to being elected Pope (he is thankful that the role was not thrust upon him).
He let out a sigh when his feet were flat on the ground, bracing himself on the end table next to his prie-dieu. His time in the Casa Santa Marta was not long, but he had almost gotten accustomed to the dark, simplistic room that could be considered pitiful in comparison to his apartment here in the Palace of the Holy Office. As quickly as the thought struck him, he reproached himself for it. He was a cardinal, not some pampered child. His vanity was becoming more apparent in his old age, as if he were regressing into an overgrown child. He recalled the practices of the late Holy Father—humility and simplicity. Lawrence had felt that the late Holy Father sometimes took it too far, but who was he to judge? Maybe this was why God continued to elude him at times.
Pope Innocentius XIV, or Vincent, as he’d been told to call him in private, was similar to the late Holy Father if one was simple-minded, but the new pope was a true man of the Third World (a man for liberals and progressives, if he may add). He was as humble as Saint Francis, yet stood firm in his word when need be. Lawrence’s belief in the results of the Conclave had not wavered, and he doubted that they ever would. He and the Holy Father had grown closer in recent times (even if most of their meetings were businesslike), and Lawrence had little idea how to feel about it.
The feelings he had around Vincent were new—he had not felt them for the previous popes, nor had he felt them for anyone at all. Lawrence’s life had been given to the Church. He had grown up in a seminary, getting through puberty and maintaining his vow of celibacy with tactics he’d gleaned from a book: pretending women did not exist and speaking nothing of them, even with his closest friends.
The book had mentioned nothing of men.
It had taken Lawrence some time to reconcile Vincent as a man, but he supposed that if the late Holy Father thought nothing ill of it—Lawrence would not either. Vincent said it himself: he was made as God wished him to be, and the Englishman had no argument against that.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on his door, and he wondered whom it would be at this hour. Lawrence padded to the door on socked feet, exiting his bedroom and shuffling through the sitting room. His curtains had not been drawn, but the blinds were closed. He did not hasten; if someone wished to bother a seventy-year-old man at this time, they would have to wait a few extra seconds. He figured it was Bellini, possibly even O’Malley coming to tell him something he deemed important. The Irishman cared little for propriety in the name of information, Lawrence mused.
He cracked open the door, only showing his face and his right shoulder. He tried to keep the annoyance from his voice—it was unbecoming of a cardinal, but he had been becoming shorter as he grew older. “Whom is it?”
“Thomas,” the Holy Father greeted him with his usual tone: soft and patient. “I hope I am not interrupting?”
Lawrence paused, his mind stilling for a moment. He would have been glad for it, the ceasing of all thought, if it were not at a time such as this. The Holy Father was supposed to be accompanied by at least one person, so that someone knew where he was at all times. But the newest pope was like a housecat with a will of his own. Lawrence was almost amused.
Vincent’s eyebrows twitched, and he looked up at Lawrence expectantly. Ah, he had been staring again, blanking like the old man he was. The Englishman cleared his throat and stepped aside, opening the door for the Mexican to enter.
“Not at all,” Lawrence reassured him, a smile gracing his lips. He watched Vincent enter the room and felt the imperceptible draft that one was accompanied by when they walked. It was odd for the script to be flipped in this way: the Holy Father in his rooms, and not the other way around.
“Good.” Vincent looked around the apartment, his eyes lingering on a book left open on the table in front of the sofa. Lawrence had the page dog-eared with a few scattered annotations in the margins.
The Englishman felt a sudden embarrassment. His cheeks grew hot and he wished he had something to do with his hands; this was nearly as terrible as his seminary days, when the priest would inspect the dormitories for cleanliness. Lawrence considered himself a neat man—but this felt too intimate. He had no time to prepare beforehand.
But, Lawrence had not risen this far in rank by cracking under duress; he straightened himself out and smiled politely. “Pardon the slight mess, Your Holiness.” Vincent winced at the formal address, but did not comment on it. He returned Lawrence’s smile and sat in one of the armchairs next to the couch.
Vincent looked as young as the day he’d shown up unannounced before the Conclave: his hair fell loosely around his face, and his eyes were soft. He regarded Lawrence with a look that was becoming increasingly common—a look that Lawrence, despite his bureaucratic expertise, was not well-versed on. He could not discern its meaning.
“You were praying, I presume?” Vincent spoke, breaking the quiet. Despite Lawrence’s earlier complaints, the sun had only recently set and the sky was still a twilight blue. It was not terribly late, but to an old man it could be so. However, Vincent rarely behaved as an old man; sometimes Lawrence envied him for it, but he always scolded himself afterward. One should not envy .
Lawrence nodded. He moved to sit on the sofa, at the edge nearest Vincent. The soft glow of the lamp made the room feel smaller than it was, despite it being large enough to host a piano. The Englishman leaned forward to close the open book and slide it under the coffee table; he hoped the Holy Father had not seen the title of the detective fiction he’d been consuming. It was one of his guilty pleasures that he preferred to keep to himself.
When he was a boy, he wished to be a police officer. He found he was not authoritative nor formidable—he was a slender boy, a slender young man, and a frail old one. He figured he had a better chance of helping people through the Church rather than the police department.
Vincent sighed, though not unkindly. “What bothers you, Thomas? Do you want me to leave?” He always spoke in that calm, patient tone. Later, Lawrence would figure that it was just as much of a front as his own tendency to deflect.
Lawrence threaded his fingers together and placed them on his lap. “No,” he said. Truly, he did not; he just had little idea of how to navigate this situation. They had not been alone so intimately since their time in the sacristy together, when Lawrence questioned Vincent of his predicament . He did not think ill of it, but he did think of it often.
“I just find it a bit…” He racked his brain for the proper word, or something close to it. “I find it jarring that you’d visit me like this,” he said, “and in a seemingly clandestine way.” He gestured around the room, alluding to the fact that Vincent had come alone. It was almost like the mysteries in his books, when the protagonist would meet with a witness, or their paramour.
Lawrence frowned at the thought, not meaning to do so outwardly. Vincent’s eyebrows drew up again, and Lawrence figured he looked like a madman to the Holy Father. Vincent did not speak, and the Englishman would not willingly open himself up; it was not something he just did . He was seventy, for God’s sake (forgive him, Lord, he had not meant to use thy name in vain)!
“Would you like some tea?” Lawrence said abruptly, rising to his feet. He ignored his joints’ protest at the sudden movement, but Lawrence needed to do something with himself. He did better when he had something in front of him, no matter how mundane.
Vincent did not respond for a moment, and Lawrence could feel sweat beading at the small of his back. Thankfully, he was granted a smile and nod. “That would be welcome, thank you.”
The Englishman kept his face pleasant, he would not slip-up as he had done multiple times in the short time the Holy Father had been here, and walked toward the small kitchenette that housed a sink, stove, and other small necessities that made the life of a man easier. He preferred preparing his own meals, truthfully. He enjoyed having control over things—his own meals included.
The coffee machine sat on the counter, unplugged; he rarely used it for coffee and preferred to use the hot water function to make his teas. It was a gift from O’Malley, but he could not recall the reason why he’d been given it. He busied himself by going through the simple motions of making tea, except this time it was for two.
His traitorous mind drifted to Vincent again, wondering what he was doing in the sitting area; he dared not turn around, in fear that they’d lock eyes and the Mexican would give him a scrutinizing, but not unkind, look again.
By the time the tea had steeped enough—to Lawrence’s liking, he didn’t know Vincent’s—he held the mugs in both hands and slipped sugar packets between his fingers. He felt that making two trips would have been too awkward.
Vincent murmured a thanks when Lawrence handed him one of the mugs and a few sugar packets; he noted that the Holy Father left them unused. Lawrence did not comment on it.
The Englishman sat in his spot on the sofa, nearest to Vincent, and emptied four sugar packets into his tea. He had always had a sweet tooth, and he considered it to be one of the vices he could never shake from his boyhood. He took a sip from the cup in his hands, the warmth seeping through and running up his forearms.
Vincent held his mug in his hands, resting on his lap. He traced the rim of the cup, his mouth set into a thin line. The room was quiet, filled only by Lawrence’s quiet drinking and Vincent’s soft breathing.
“I… came to speak with you,” Vincent broke the silence, looking up to meet Lawrence’s eyes. The Holy Father seemed to shrink in on himself a bit, almost like the man at the beginning of the Conclave in the too-large robes.
Lawrence blinked, and a million thoughts went through his head: the Holy Father was going on a trip outside of Rome, or he was ill, or someone had figured his secret, or—
Vincent sensed the Englishman’s alarm and quickly reassured him, setting his mug down on the side table and waving his arms, “No, nothing is wrong, Eminence!” He looked as if he were going to get up but thought better of it at the last minute. “I came to speak to you as Vincent , not as…” He gestured vaguely. “Not as the Pope.”
“Tell me,” he began, locking his hands and resting them on his knees—mimicking Lawrence’s earlier position. “How are you, really? I know that asking you to serve as Dean again was selfish of me,” he lamented, “but I am grateful for your service nonetheless. You had all the right to decline, yet you did not.”
Lawrence lowered his mug from his lips, noting that his cup was only half filled now. He sighed, trying to find an answer; really, he did not know himself. He thought to say no, and he had even half-heartedly told him not to make promises of office so early; but, the Mexican had gone through with it anyway. Lawrence could not figure out why he had said yes, and why he had not asked to resign as Dean, knowing that Vincent would allow it. He’d been telling himself that he would eventually; that he would continue until Vincent was ready to handle the papacy without his guidance specifically.
Vincent watched him. He had not touched his tea, but Lawrence didn’t want to change the subject in such an obvious way. He had some tact, and despite Vincent’s social awkwardness, he figured that the other man would see through it.
“I did not,” Lawrence echoed, setting his mug down on one of his coasters. He mirrored Vincent’s position: hands in lap, body angled forward. He thought back to Vincent’s question—the one he’d asked, not whatever unspoken words lingered in the air—and hummed.
“But I am well,” he said. “As well as any man of my age can be.” Lawrence had taken to forgetting things on occasion—not in a concerning way, but in the way age explained. He’d taken to writing things down, even little things. It was a good habit to have, especially when O’Malley wasn’t always available. He didn’t wish to burden Vincent with his problems, however. So, he left it at that.
Vincent let out an airy snort. “You speak as if you’re senile.” he said, voice laced with a smile. Even when his mouth was not split into a grin, the corners of his eyes crinkled; it was something Lawrence had come to look out for. For why, he did not know.
“Aren’t I close enough? I’ve got friends that are retiring ,” Lawrence added, finishing off with a soft chuckle. He had the immature desire to make Vincent laugh , to see something other than his mildness. He quickly shooed the thought from his head, blaming it on his newfound solitude.
With Aldo still serving as Secretary of State but having moved out of the Palace of the Holy Office, Lawrence had come to miss conversations such as these. Tremblay and Adeyemi no longer served in the Curia, and had returned to their respective places; their scandals had done dents in their reputations—mostly Tremblay. Lawrence had few friends that visited often.
“What about you?” Vincent asked. It could have meant a multitude of things: “ Are you going to retire, too?”; “Are you going to move out?”; “Will you abandon me?” (The last one may have been a stretch, a cultivation of his mind.)
Lawrence swallowed.
“Me?” He laughed, keeping his tone light. He refused to hear his sacrilegious thoughts, ones he couldn’t control; it hadn’t been this bad since he was thirteen and experiencing the temptation of puberty. To think of the Pope in such a way, to overestimate his importance to the man…
Lawrence shook his head and smiled. “I’ll serve for as long as He wills me to.” It was a prosaic response, one that was expected of him. The words felt like a falsehood on his tongue, but he wouldn’t allow himself to say what he truly wanted to: I’d serve for as long as you willed me to. But he would risk idolatry, even if Vincent often felt like the closest thing he had to God.
If God would not speak to him, Lawrence thought, would God speak through Vincent? Or was he looking for signs that weren’t there? Was he being, as the rationalists say, fanatical? The Englishman barely heard Vincent’s response, caught up in his own head.
The Holy Father’s voice was quiet. “As expected,” he murmured, almost as if he had been expecting a different response. He stared at Lawrence, holding his gaze.
Vincent’s eyes weren’t a simple brown, but almost amber . They weren’t as warm as amber would be, but were closer to the color of birchwood—not that Lawrence was a poet. He wanted to look away, but looking into the Holy Father’s eyes felt like looking into the eyes of God, or the closest thing to it. Lawrence had been so far from Him, so far from His word, His guidance that he’d search for crumbs wherever he could find them.
It was not idolatry if he did not worship the man, right? Lawrence felt something dark rise in his throat, the oily substance of guilt. If he had to question it, then it was likely wrong; it was likely sacrilegious, and he should have been ashamed of himself. The guilt threatened to rise and clog his throat and spill into his lungs; he hesitated. Lawrence felt that if he spoke, he risked vomiting his guilt all over the floor, contaminating the room in his transgression, risking tainting the Holy Father with it all.
Vincent may not have been dressed in his white robe, but Lawrence would stain him nonetheless. The Holy Father would not be angry with him, not at all: the man was quick to forgive, and would merely laugh it off and wipe himself clean; he would not see the darkness that would remain under his nails forever, the sickness that would run through him because of Lawrence.
So, he did not speak.
Vincent glanced at the window with the closed blinds and open curtains; he gave Lawrence a gentle smile. He would not push—he never did. Lawrence wondered if they would play this game forever, until one of them (hopefully himself, the Englishman prayed, for he did not think he could bear it if it were His Holiness) died.
The Mexican stood, and held up a hand before Lawrence could follow. He shook his head, ever-humble. “I’ll see myself out, Thomas,” he said, not unkindly. As he passed, he placed a brief, but gentle, hand on Lawrence’s shoulder. The warmth spread through Lawrence’s shoulder and sent a chill down his spine; but, it was gone as fast as it had come.
Lawrence turned to watch the Holy Father leave, and he noted how the man squared his shoulders before opening the door to Lawrence’s apartments and stepping out. When the door clicked shut behind him, Lawrence recalled that the man never explicitly said a goodbye. He didn’t know if should have been offended or not.
He did not feel any better after the awkward, but not unpleasant, encounter with the Holy Father; his tea sat cold on the table, and His Holiness’ was left untouched on the side table. Lawrence also thought that maybe he should have taken offense, but it seemed that he was unable to be cross with His Holiness. Not at all.
The Englishman rose to his feet on wobbly legs, doddering toward his prie-dieu again. The wooden structure mocked him, almost, and a bible sat on the little shelf. He steadied himself on the pieces of furniture on his way: the sofa, the armchair, the wall, and then the side table adjacent to the prie-dieu. He kneeled, feeling his knees against the wood—he had not wanted one with cushioning, maybe out of some masochistic desire, and closed his eyes.
He tried again, tried to reach God. He always came when he had not expected him, but he would not cease trying. His mind would not clear itself, struck with the image of birchwood eyes and a gentle voice. Lawrence squeezed his eyes tighter, as if he could remove the thought with pure willpower.
Once, God walked the earth through Jesus. Even now, God was within everyone, Lawrence believed, and He resided in one’s heart. In Lawrence’s heart, He walked, even if His voice was not always heard, nor His will felt.
But, this time, Lawrence pondered a new thought: Was it only God who walked within him ? Or was there something else, someone else?