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It may come as a surprise, but Italy is very Christian. Subsequently, people argue, the country deserves to meet its pope. It’s a ruse. Of course it is.
The newspapers proclaim “Pope Comes To Florence”, which, to a fellow cleric, might just be synonymous to “Papal Inquisitor Inspects Churches Across Italy” or even “Heads Up To The Big Bugs In The Parish Councils; The Recruitment Agency Comes To Read Your Résumé!”.
Vincent is not exactly zealous to meet rich beggars. If he’s being honest, he is tired of observing the same dick-measuring contest. Grant me strength, he prays, for I don’t want to spend my summer holiday as a sinner.
September is sweltering. The dry noons smell of pines, asphalt and hot garbage, no matter which city he’s in. September is spent between tropically uncomfortable nights and the stuffy air of a tour bus.
September is great. Vincent barely manages to close his mouth for the press picture as the wonder overwhelms him in front of Florence Cathedral.
He cringes a little, thinking of his initial worries.
Mass is held, where he celebrates the Eucharist and greets excited people, kids, families, old and young devout believers. He shakes hands with the mayor and leaves the city the next morning. Every day outside of Rome is fascinating.
His forehead rumbles against the window. He sees the land rise, then fall again. Vincent watches the endless wheat fields pass by, before they morph into a more metropolitan landscape. The driver stops near a little church that gifts them a crate of plums from their orchard. Vincent and Ray spend the rest of the ride to Milan in the back of the bus licking the sugary residue off their fingers.
In Milan, he eats the best risotto of his life.
Innocent knows his strengths. He is candid. He is young. He’s approachable. People shy away from his white robes, but a smile and a compliment draw them back in. Visits like these are about connections - and connections are his best quality. The sister in the white habit blushes profusely after he thanks her for the ossobuco. Consequently, they spend a smoke break together under the cooling midnight sky.
She sees through his attempts to inquire about the archbishop with a piercing smile. God forgive him, Thomas’ snooping must have rubbed off on him.
“He is fine,” she says, “Or maybe I’m not the right person to ask.”
She holds out her cigarette in his direction - an invitation - but he declines with a wave of the hand. She shrugs.
“Everybody has a skeleton in their closet. Even those aspiring to wear white.”
“Hm,” he nods. The conclave’s revelations had certainly made the rounds. “And you?” He asks, “Do you aspire to wear something different?”
The sister chuckles a husky laugh. “Me? What other clothes do you have in mind?”
Vincent’s eyes soften and he inclines his head. “You would be able to choose, wouldn’t you? In a fair world?”
“Don’t be wanton. They call you Innocent not Naive. When has the Catholic church ever been fair?”
She stubs her cigarette out on the wall. “Goodnight, Holy Father,” she murmurs and disappears again before he can retort anything clever.
A week later in Venice, Vincent greets a familiar disgruntled face.
He stands to the sidelines, shamed and embittered in what once was his cathedral. Vincent notices that his cape had been an imposing garment, which now lacks him. All along the sermon, Goffredo chews on the insides of his cheeks. There is a stress in his shoulders that won’t leave him, even as the day drags on. Vincent tries approaching him, but Goffredo skillfully dodges all one-on-one confrontations.
It’s late at night when Vincent seizes the opportunity of the empty church to take a closer look at the golden ceilings when he notices a presence coming up to him. For a moment, there is silence.
“You’ve quit the vape,” he finally prompts, having seen him twitch and scurry but never reaching for the trademark red cartridge.
Goffredo grunts. “Ah… Who has the time to smoke anymore?”
Vincent turns his head with a smile, but his gaze is averted. “It’s good to see you.”
He scoffs. “Is it now?”
“Well,” he surveys his face, then the ceiling again, “You beat a bunch of deacons begging for a promotion.”
Goffredo’s face softens at that. He nods and Vincent squints in scrutiny. So, the mettle to malign his colleagues hadn’t quite left his heart, then.
“But I don’t want to waste your night. Goodnight, Father Tedesco.” He smiles, knowing how much those words must chip away at him.
Vincent steps aside when Tedesco captures his wrist. Slowly, deliberately, he raises his hand to his lips and kisses Vincent’s Piscatory Ring.
It must be a trick of the light, but, to him, the church feels strangely light and warm then and there.
Bari, situated on the warm Adriatic sea, feels simultaneously familiar and yet very strange. Vincent steals himself away for an evening just to play backgammon with an older gentleman in a little byroad.
It’s not looking too good for Vincent’s checkers.
“You seem to have much on your mind,” the man laughs after sending two of Vincent’s stones back to the beginning.
“I do,” he shrugs. Looking up, he sees the sun setting over the terracotta roof tiles.
"Ah. I used to too, at your age.”
Vincent halts, his hand suspended mid-air. “At my age?”
He laughs again and rolls a ten. “Good heavens! What would I do to be this young again. You have to relax. There is no worry big enough to keep you from breathing”
Vincent smiles and strains his ears. His Italian is, albeit better than a year ago, still quite poor and the man’s accent makes the words bleed into each other.
“You can still play, no?” He asks, “Why the stress, then?”
For a second, he considers his words. Then, Vincent rolls double sixes and snatches an edge. “You’re right,” he agrees as the man throws his hands up in despair. It’s not as if his job runs away from him.
Palermo is too humid for Vincent’s liking but Naples, Naples is very nice.
His wristwatch strikes eight thirty as Thomas spreads the beach mat onto the dew wet sand. Four full hours of free time would grace their morning - a rarity these days. Vincent intends to use it to its fullest.
He had long since made his peace with the assumption that one of the Swiss Guards had sewn a tracker into his robes. With how often he went missing, someone surely had noticed. He just hopes that they don’t come driving after him today, it would be a shame to cut such a morning short.
Aldo next to him strips his shoes, opens his thermos and hands it to Vincent. The smell of coffee is heavenly. He scalds his tongue and shivers a little in his sweatshirt. His back hits Thomas’ shoulder, who doesn’t even register the disruption, his nose already absorbed in a dime novel from the gas station.
Vincent closes his eyes for a moment and lets the soft sound of the crashing waves sing him to sleep.
He wakes with the awful feeling of tight skin after a nap in the sun and a bunch of sand in his face. He props himself up on his elbows and kicks the little football that’s made its way onto their mat back to two girls.
Vincent spots Thomas and Aldo at the shoreline. With their trousers rolled up to their calves, they try to make the slick stones jump over the waves.
Strengthened by his nap, he follows suit and holds a few sea shells under their noses as they hunt for more and better stones to skip. Privately, Vincent doesn't believe their ill success has anything to do with the stones, but he possesses enough piety not to voice those remarks.
They march back downtown as the sun creeps closer to its zenith and the beach grows more crowded by the minute. Vincent’s shirt is crusted with dried sea water and his face hurts from smiling all day. He feels wrung out, sunburnt, exhausted and hungry. His shoes could fill all the sandboxes in Naples’ preschools. Vincent feels happy and fulfilled, exceptionally alive.
Aldo slings an arm around Thomas as they walk in the shade of the fig trees.
They are nearly punctual for the staff meeting at one pm and he very nearly doesn’t laugh as residual sand keeps trickling out of Thomas’s collar onto his notes.