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Shanumi had always been a sentimental woman, and deep down, she knew it. Of all the things that had made her cry like a helpless newborn like having her child taken from her in his first moments of life she never expected that she would shed the truest and heaviest tears over having to leave a certain French woman.
She wanted to properly say goodbye before flying back to her homeland, but she felt ashamed of everything that had been exposed about her. She had no shame in having had that child; on the contrary, but had something about Agnes likely having learned about it through the Dean to whom she had confessed her past deeply unsettled her.
As she started packing her meager belongings back into a worn-out carry-on suitcase, she noticed she was still holding, without realizing it, a small plush sparrow she had once bought in the hope of giving it to her son one day. That made her remember how much Agnes also loved birds, and, unintentionally, tears began to roll down her cinnamon-colored cheeks. She had left behind the few people she had grown attached to throughout her life, and she had naively hoped that, perhaps this time, things could be different.
Her knees soon gave in to the floor, along with a rosary, bringing her face to face with the uncomfortable mattress that she and, most likely, many other sisters had to use. Her tears began to stain the bedsheet, and just as her hands were about to join in prayer, she noticed, without warning, the door to her small quarters in the Casa Santa Marta being swiftly opened. A woman, equal in height to her, with skin as white as milk, entered the room, holding a master key that explained her intrusion.
"May I join your prayer?" The usual severe voice had been replaced by a noticeably gentler tone. "J'ai prié pour que tu sois toujours là" — "I prayed that you would still be here." This last part was spoken only for Agnes to hear, in a rare use of her mother tongue. Shanumi thought the language suited the woman standing before her.
"I am not worthy of your company or the brief friendship we have cultivated. It is not right for someone like you to pray beside someone as stained by sin as I am," she confessed with a choked voice, turning her face toward the suitcase. After all, that was a sign that she came from ashes, and to ashes, she would return.
Matthew 8:8-9: "Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof; but only say the word, and my servant shall be healed." To her, the presence of the Cardinals' governess was purer than any other, second only to that of her God. She felt her insignificance with her so close, so unworthy of those indescribably colored eyes.
"That's ridiculous. I am no more deserving of such words than any of the other sisters here—perhaps more than some Cardinals, but still. Of course, you are worthy. Just look at everything you went through to be here," Agnes said, her frustration evident at having to state something that, to her, seemed so obvious.
"If that is the case, allow me to give you a small token for the time we spent on this mission together," Shanumi's tearful voice was still present for those with ears to hear, but fortunately, Agnes seemed unaware of it. She rarely missed anything, and that did not go unnoticed.
The Nigerian woman placed one hand on the mattress to retrieve the small, plush sparrow she had been carrying. She felt foolish for not having something better to gift the Frenchwoman. To her, someone so beautiful deserved much more than what Catholic humility allowed them to possess, and she felt no shame in that thought, sinful as it might have been. Reluctantly, she handed the toy over to Agnes, their fingers briefly brushing against each other.
"It's silly compared to the kind of thing you deserve to receive, but I noticed while we worked together that you are fond of birds, especially the most common ones. You see us all so clearly, yet you never allow yourself to be seen, knowing that..." She fell silent as she was interrupted by a touch.
Her train of thought was shattered by the same hands that had just brushed against hers. Agnes turned her face toward her, cupping her tear-streaked cheeks in her palms, pressing them gently yet firmly. Shanumi blushed wildly at the touch, and it was safe to assume it had not gone unnoticed.
"How do you still have the audacity to call yourself unworthy? Look at your heart," Agnes commanded, and Shanumi instinctively glanced at her chest, searching for the truth within her heart, feeling foolish for doing so. However, there was no time for embarrassment when her mind went blank as the other woman's fingers tenderly wiped away her tears, almost religiously.
"I thought you would immediately refuse to speak to me ever again after everything that happened. By now, you must know of the mistakes I made when I was barely more than..." Again, she was interrupted, this time by the pressing of the other woman's lips against her own mouth.
It was official: she had just been kissed by Agnes. The Frenchwoman's rosy lips had reached her before she could finish her sentence, pressing against hers without preamble, accompanied by those same hands, those hands... which pressed against her cheeks with an endearing clumsiness. The Nigerian woman found it adorable; Agnes had likely never kissed anyone before. Because of that, the kiss was brief, too brief to be reciprocated, and that felt like a waste she would later regret.
"Do you still think I am worthy of anything after that? Some kind of saint?" Agnes had, once again, unintentionally sounded too harsh. Acting on impulse, she had kissed her and now hurriedly tried to articulate an appropriate, almost desperate, apology. "I'm so sorry... I didn’t mean for things to take this turn..."
To Agnes's torment, Shanumi said nothing. So, she took it upon herself to act. She hurried to submit her resignation desperate actions required even more desperate measures, as the Cardinals' governess liked to say.
Just as she was about to rise from the cold floor, which she hadn't even realized she had reached, strong hands grasped her wrists, pinning her down like a predator cornering its prey until there was no other option but surrender. And in that specific moment, surrender did not seem like such a bad choice.
"Let me say goodbye properly, then," Shanumi pleaded in a tearful whisper, and Agnes could deny her nothing. That was all the Nigerian woman needed to capture her lips again, this time with burning passion, introducing her tongue into the other woman's mouth in a deep, fervent kiss, as if giving a lesson on how such an act should truly be done.
At that moment, the rosary and the sparrow lay scattered on the cold floor of the room, which suddenly felt empty, almost abandoned, when Agnes pulled away, her lips still red and her breath uneven. As abandoned and cold as the day Shanumi had arrived in Rome. The cycles of her life seemed to end faster than those of others. Perhaps she believed she deserved the premature loss of everything she loved most. After all, she considered herself one of the greatest sinners.
Songs 2:14: My dove, in the clefts of the rock, in the hiding places on the mountainside, show me your face, let me hear your voice; for your voice is gentle, and your face is beautiful .
"One day, you will forget me. That is how things must be." Shanumi's voice was steady, but her hands trembled as she picked up her suitcase.
Agnes would never forget her—her face, her voice, her presence. Most likely, she was the only woman who had ever loved her back, the only one who, in all her years of silence, had truly seen her. But even so, she let her go. It all felt like the beginning of a bad joke.
2
After the fall of the main candidates in that conclave, it finally seemed as though it would come to an end, allowing Agnes and all the other sisters serving in the Santa Marta house to have a moment of rest after everything that had happened. And she, of course, would collapse into a poorly healed melancholy in the chair of her office.
The truth was that everyone there seemed to move on too quickly. After the election of Pope Innocent XIV, many within the Church celebrated enthusiastically, as if everything that had happened before him no longer mattered. But she was still trapped in something that would never return to her a lonely feeling to have. So, she decided to wander the streets of Rome in secret late at night. If the priests could and she, more than anyone, knew that they did—why couldn’t the nuns experience it as well?
Of course, that wasn’t the only reason. At a time like that, the streets would be flooded with people who had come from afar to honor their new pontiff. She herself felt a certain joy in the outcome—Innocent recognized her and her sisters' roles, and that was enough for now. Still, it was the perfect excuse to slip away in the middle of the night and blend into the euphoric crowds.
There, she would find a bar popular among local clergy. Yes, such places existed not just for alcohol, though she wasn’t planning on going into those details. To her surprise, the establishment wasn’t too crowded, but one particular figure caught her attention, a man who, like her, had lost someone important and was still drowning in his grief while others moved on with their new Supreme Pontiff.
“Eminence Bellini,” she named him, slipping into a chair across from the man, who was nearly catatonic at the sight of her there but already suspecting why. Lawrence had told him certain things, and this was definitely one of them.
“Sister Agnes, I didn’t know you drank anything other than wine when it comes to alcohol,” he said, looking at her with curiosity. There was a tone of humor in his voice, though she couldn’t tell if it was drunkenness or if the Archbishop of New York truly had his own brand of grim humor to impress her on a night already far from what she considered normal.
“And I don’t drink. I just thought I could distract myself for a moment when no one seems to need me. And by coincidence, I ran into someone who also doesn’t usually drink, taking the same approach I am. Curious, isn’t it?” she prodded, drawing out Aldo’s confession he could recognize someone like himself when he saw one.
He took a deep breath and another sip of the dry gin he had brought from his homeland before opening his overflowing heart to his esteemed governess—or at least, that was how Dean Lawrence titled her, and Bellini was beginning to understand why. He tried to articulate what he wanted to say, but nothing came out of his mouth. And suddenly, Agnes saw herself in him.
“I heard that His Eminence Tedesco is leaving for Venice tomorrow. Is that what’s bothering you? Being left completely alone now that Eminence Lawrence has a Pope to look after, and that Pope is not the one for whom you held such affection?" She laid her cards on the table. “You don’t know what to do with your love? I understand I don’t, either.”
“Then you must be drunk. Believe me, Sister Agnes, for you to have exchanged a conversation with me, of all people, you must be,” he pointed to the bottle, offering a toast to the absurdity of the situation that had brought them together a toast to the impossibilities and improbabilities of life.
“I might be, but definitely on something cheaper and for someone who treats me better than whatever it is you and the Cardinal of Venice have going on all these years,” she retorted.
Their little theater of drunkenness attracted some eyes, and soon, they were walking together back to Santa Marta. She asked why he didn’t request to serve near the Italian man she considered the height of unpleasantness but whose stubbornness she admittedly admired. Aldo replied that he wasn’t sure if his feelings were reciprocated.
Agnes had some memory of breaking multiple rules and calling him stupid more than once that night. He seemed to find it reasonable and said nothing about it. Bellini hesitated to bring up Shanumi, but the elephant was there or rather, the turtle.
After wandering through the most random places in the papal building, which was devoid of high-ranking authorities aside from the Swiss Guards (who didn’t seem to care), they made a stop at the late Pope’s turtle sanctuary.
“You know, I prefer birds,” she admitted, picking up one of the unfortunate turtles in her arms. Aldo followed suit. They would laugh about it later, when no one else was watching. Not that anyone would notice them now.
“And I prefer a warm body, but that doesn’t mean I can have one,” he mocked bitterly. Part of it was true actually, all of it was. “You’re here because of the sister from Nigeria, aren’t you? Shanumi Iwaro?”
“I appreciate your company, Aldo, if I may call you that. But I’m not ready to bring this back yet,” she said. She wouldn’t cry easily. Any tears running down her face were purely from the alcohol or at least, that’s what she preferred to believe, rather than admitting she was becoming weak.
Aldo let the turtle in his arms go and placed a consoling hand on Agnes’s back as she began what sounded like a sob. Bellini’s early-morning cries were worse than this. His sister in Christ needed to learn to express herself better, he thought to himself, as the first rays of sunlight rose along with the hangover that would soon punish them.
Matthew 5:3–12: Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.