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Cardinal Thomas Lawrence has been my patient for years now.
The first time he came, it had been with Cardinal Bellini. A lot of these men are my patients, for regular check-ups or more serious issues. Bellini, who I later learned is the Secretary of State, had apparently urged his friend to come and see me, and he'd sat with him in the waiting room. He'd been right, as it turned out. Cardinal Lawrence was diagnosed with prostate cancer.
Since then, Bellini had often accompanied Lawrence to his appointments, and a few times even came into the consulting room with him. Some other times, it was another priest, a little bit younger, who also seemed friendly with Lawrence. The treatment was—well, it was what it was; most men found it brutal for what it took from them. I can't say I don't understand; one day, it may very well be me, and being forewarned really doesn't mean being forearmed.
Still, Cardinal Lawrence went through it all with a sort of dogged fortitude; he did everything I had suggested, followed my advice, and never, ever complained.
When I tried to broach the topic of the surgery's possible side effects, he waved me off and said, "I am a priest."
"You are," I replied. "But it doesn't mean that it's easy to accept."
"I took a vow decades ago, Doctor." He was holding himself stiff as a board, his eyes somewhere to the left of my head.
"Of course. Well, if you ever need to revisit the topic or have further questions, my door is always open, and you have my number."
I moved on to something else after that; there was no reason to make him more uncomfortable than he already was. As I said, I treat many priests, and priests are no different from any other men. It can take a while before they finally come back to ask for help with erectile dysfunction, and I knew to let it rest for a while.
But, contrary to most other priests, Cardinal Lawrence never took me up on the offer. During one of his annual checkups, I asked if all was well, and said that many of my patients felt that Viagra had improved their life. Once again, his face became blank; his eyes strayed to the left. "I am a priest," he repeated.
I knew to let it go.
Today, Cardinal Lawrence is back for his checkup. He looks better than he has in years, and I tell him so; I think I can see the slightest blush on his cheeks.
"The new Pope looks like a great guy," I tell him.
I'm not particularly religious; I grew up Muslim in Lebanon, and Lawrence is aware I don't share his faith. Still, Innocent some-number-or-other has a nice smile, and is shaking things up over in the Vatican. From my office and another, loosely held, faith, it's actually rather entertaining. Quite a few of my patients have shared their admiration, rants, or bemusement with me; I'm curious what Lawrence thinks. So, is the new Pope a great guy?
"He is."
Well, that's a suspiciously short answer. "Are you still the Dean?" I don't follow Vatican politics beyond what my patients tell me. I wouldn't tell them, but I find it's more fun that way; it's a little bit like a soap opera that I watch from my office.
"Ah, yes." He pauses. "His Holiness has asked me to take on a few more duties, and I have gladly done so."
"Well, it's doing you a world of good." I point at my screen. "Blood work looks good, latest scans as well, and—can I be blunt?"
He nods, looking a little curious.
"Frankly, you look years younger. When I examined you, I couldn't see your ribs, there was no sign of recent burns, and you're not as deathly pale. You're eating better; you've stopped whatever it is we've never talked about openly, and I suspect you're spending a bit more time outdoors in the sun. Am I wrong?"
"I'm just relieved the conclave is over, Doctor. It was… trying."
"Hmm." The conclave didn't last for years, but I don't push him. "How are Cardinal Bellini and Monsignor O'Malley?" I didn't see either of them in the waiting room earlier.
"Well. They're well, thriving. His Holiness is very inspiring."
"I'm glad to hear that." I look at Lawrence; he's usually eager to leave once he gets an all-clear. He hates the hospital, and I can't blame him. He's working up to say something else; I can feel it. And after a long silence…
"Doctor," he says. His eyes have strayed to the left again; I've known him long enough to have an inkling of what this is about. I school my face so I don't show anything that might spook him.
"Yes, Mr Lawrence?" I've never called him Eminence, and I'm not going to start now. I think he appreciates the rare moments when he doesn't have to be one of the highest-ranking member of a millennia-old institution. I briefly think of the Pope, who probably never has such moments. Poor guy, really.
"I wanted to ask you about… that is…" His cheeks turn pink, then red. I can see he's biting his lip. Should I help him out and say it for him? "I know I've always dismissed your questions, but… ah…"
He's old enough to have grandchildren, and yet he reminds me of nothing so much as my nephew when he came to ask me about things he didn't dare ask his parents. "Would I be correct to assume this is about the side effects of your treatment?"
He nods. "It's just, I was wondering…"
I weigh my options. Should I keep things vague, or ask for precisions? "I can give you sildenafil." I open a drawer and take out a pill bottle. "You wouldn't even have to get it yourself at the chemist's; I understand that in your position it would be awkward. You can try these, and if it works then it works; you can come back for more when needed. However, as your doctor, I'd like to know a bit more about the situation, perhaps give you a few suggestions that I know have helped many of my patients." From the same drawer, I take out a box of condoms and set it next to the Viagra.
He glances at the box and looks away quickly. "Oh, er. I don't think these will be, ah, needed."
"I am concerned about your health; that's my job. Many of my patients are also priests, and many have needed protection. You're not going to father children after your treatment, but STDs are a real risk." I pause. "If you have several partners," he shakes his head, "or if your partner has had several partners…" He shakes his head again. "Mr Lawrence."
"Doctor," he replies dryly. He glances up at me, a small smile of his face acknowledging the humour in the situation. "I apologise; this is not something I thought I would ever be discussing."
"I understand." So it must really be his first, then; no wonder he's so awkward. A wave of tenderness washes over me; here he is, bravely asking about things he must find deeply shameful to talk about, knowing he's coming at them half a century later than most people his age. I'm glad he's asking, and I hope I can give him what he needs. "Perhaps you and your partner should get tested? Just to be on the safe side."
"Neither of us have ever…" He clears his throat. "Been in any position to, ah. Be exposed to. Those." He meets my eyes again. "I trust him." Then his eyes widen as he realises what he's just said. "Them."
I wonder briefly if he's talking about one of the friends I've met before, but I quickly put my curiosity aside. It won't help here. "I understand it's not an easy topic to bring up in conversation. All right, we'll put that aside for now. Forgive me for asking, but… you're not feeling pressured into anything, are you? If all this is new to you…"
He looks faintly scandalised, presumably on behalf of his partner. "No, absolutely not."
"That's good to hear. Now, even without the treatments you underwent, erectile dysfunction is a fairly common issue for men in your age bracket. Let me see…" I open his file again and give it a quick look. Cardiovascular health is good, brief incontinence after surgery as is often the case but it resolved in a matter of weeks; no diabetes… Not a smoker, definitely not overweight… "I think we can rule out most of the usual causes. But how were things before your cancer? It will give me a better idea of what changed, exactly."
"Things? Ah." I start to wonder what's so interesting about the wall behind me; he's always looking to the same spot when he's embarrassed. Perhaps he's looking at the framed ghazal, but it's Arabic calligraphy; it probably doesn't mean anything to him. It's only a cheap print, anyway, nothing worth his fascination. "Things were… not happening."
"No erections?"
His blush returns with a vengeance. "Ah, er. Yes. But I never…" He licks his lips. "You know."
"No sex?" He shakes his head. "Masturbation?" He shakes his head again, vehemently so. "All right, so things were working; you just didn't make use of them. And now?"
I almost jump out of my chair when he chuckles; the sound surprises me so much I first think he's choking, but no. He looks… happy. "Now, it's… the opposite."
"You have sex, but you don't have erections." He nods, eyes firmly to the wall, or the poem, again. "Do you have orgasms?"
This time he does kind of choke but I know he's fine, just finding it hard to talk about this. "Sometimes," he finally whispers. "Often."
Most of my patients find it hard to separate orgasms from erections after a lifetime of associating the two; perhaps having avoided the former at all costs for so long makes it easier to disconnect them. I give him an encouraging smile. "All this must be pretty new." He gives me the smallest nod. "It must be overwhelming."
"Yes." His face softens, and I can tell he's thinking of whoever his partner is. "It's… unexpected. After the cancer, I didn't even think I could…" He swallows. "It was fine. It didn't matter. I'm a priest. Chastity, celibacy… Keeping my vows gave me strength, but afterwards, once the only reason I kept them was because I had no other choice, what did it all matter?" He blinks furiously; I wonder if he has regrets. His eyes are a bit too shiny, but he doesn't look sad. "It's a little overwhelming, yes. And given who we are…"
I nod. So the mysterious partner must also be a priest, or at least priest-adjacent. A monk? Are there monks in the Vatican? If there are, I haven't seen them in my office. "I understand," I say again. "Are you happy?"
He nods a little shyly, still avoiding my eyes. "Yes," he murmurs. "At my age, I never thought any of this could happen to me, but…" He shrugs, smiles. "Well, look at me."
"Life keeps throwing new things at us all the time, doesn't it?"
"It really does."
I wait for him to meet my eyes again. "Now, regarding what you asked about." I set the pill bottle closer to him. "Take these according to the patient information leaflet and let me know if it works, and if you need more. You can just text or call me; many of my patients are also priests and I know that discretion is important."
"Thank you," he says, but he doesn't take the bottle.
"If you'd like, I can also recommend a friend who specialises in helping couples with intimacy. She's very discreet; I promise."
He stares at the bottle, shakes his head slightly. "No, I don't think… no, thank you." He takes a deep breath, looks up at me again. "Doctor, it's just… I will try these," he says, nodding at the bottle, "but I'm honestly not sure I need them. Things are fine now as they are. More than fine. It's, ah, mostly curiosity on my part."
"Hm. Have you talked about it with your partner?"
"No. He—they…" He pauses, gives me a rueful smile. "Well, the cat's out of the bag already, isn't it? He says he doesn't mind, and I believe him. But I'd like to see how different it would be if…" He waves his hand in the approximate direction of his lap.
"That's understandable. It's good to experiment new things, too."
"It is. A year ago all I wanted was to retire in a monastery, and now I can't imagine leaving Rome. My life and my work have meaning again; prayer has meaning again; my body isn't just a tool to discipline… all thanks to Vincent." All at once, the colour drains from his face. "I mean…"
I feel my eyebrows raise a little in surprise at his reaction. So his partner is named Vincent; I understand he wanted to keep the name under wraps, but I'm sure there are more than one Vincent in the Vatican. After all, the Pope himself… oh. "Oh," I say out loud.
Lawrence looks at me with horror in his wide eyes. "Doctor," he manages, his voice breaking on the last syllable.
"Mr Lawrence." I pause. "Thomas. Even without the confidentiality I owe every one of my patients, I would never betray your confidence. I'm your doctor, and what matters to me is your health, including your mental health. You're happy; I've never seen you this happy. Of course, I'm your oncologist, but you've been in remission for years and yet this has never seemed to give you as much joy as what, whom, we've been talking about. Do you understand?"
He stares at me mutely and I can see so much white in his eyes; I can hear how fast he's breathing. Am I even reaching him? Does he even hear me? I stand up and walk around the desk, sit in the other chair next to his.
"Thomas," I repeat, hoping that the use of his given name will soothe his fears a little. "Thomas, I'm happy for you. And as for him… It's a lonely job, isn't it?" He nods minutely. "Then it's good for him, too. There can't be many people in the know, are there?"
"No," he chokes out.
I take his hands in mine and give him an encouraging smile; it startles him out of his panicking thoughts and he starts breathing a little more normally, at least. "Then it's good that you can talk to someone about it, too. Especially someone who isn't part of the Curia." From what I gather from my patients, it certainly sounds like there is a lot of ambition, politicking, and pettiness under all the sincere faith and gilded walls. "I'm glad you told me."
"Doctor…"
"Mehdi."
"Mehdi. Shukran, Mehdi," he says, with fairly decent pronunciation. Thank you.
"I didn't know you spoke Arabic."
He shrugs. "I picked up a little over the years. I wanted to read the Quran."
Well, if he's reading that, it's more than a little. "Impressive," I say. Can he read the framed ghazal too, I wonder?
"I'm just… curious."
"I can see that." I wink at him and he chuckles back; he too has noticed that he just used the word in a rather different context just a few minutes ago.
"Take the pills, Thomas, and experiment away. And… enjoy life, yes?"
He briefly squeezes my hands and stands up, pockets the bottle. "I will, Mehdi. I don't know how to thank you, but—I will. And I know you don't share my faith, but I will pray for you, if you'll allow me."
"Of course. I appreciate the gesture." I know what it means to him, even if it doesn't mean much to me.
When he's gone, I open a new tab in my browser and look up pictures of the Pope. Often, I can see Lawrence in the background, eyes on Innocent. I'm not gay, but even I can tell he's charismatic, rather good-looking for a pope, and seems to be genuinely nice.
I'm glad for the both of them.
A week later, my secretary comes in and leaves a largish parcel on my desk.
"This has just been delivered by courier," he says. "It didn't go through the regular post. Were you expecting anything?"
I shake my head and thank him, and wait until he's left to open it. I'm careful with it; something tells me this is delicate. Inside, I find layers of wrapping, bubble wrap and more bubble wrap, until I see an envelope on top of something that looks like a frame wrapped in brown paper.
I open the envelope and start reading.
Dear Mehdi, it starts, We've never met, but I owe you a lot. Thank you for taking care of so many people, but selfishly, I must also thank you for taking care of one who is particularly dear to me. He tells me you have a print of this poem in your office, and it turns out he found the original version here. He says he has often looked at the beautiful calligraphy in your office, and we thought you might enjoy having this on your wall. Beautiful things should not be hidden away in our stores if we can avoid it, but enjoyed by as many as possible. Beauty is a gift; love is a gift, and so is life. For what you've given us and many others, and as a reminder of it, I hope you will accept this present. With all my heart and gratitude, Mehdi, thank you. V.
There's another letter underneath, apparently from a somewhat grumpy conservator who tells me to never put it in direct sunlight and leave it in the dark from time to time, museum-grade UV-filtering glass or not.
I swap the copy with the original, take a picture of it and text it to Lawrence along with my thanks; he replies immediately with It belongs here. Thank you, Doctor. Thank you for everything.
I smile at my phone, then at the framed poem. They're words of mystical and spiritual love from centuries ago, and yet—no, of course, of course they speak to Thomas. He's a man of faith, even if his is not the poet's. And now he's a man in love, too.
I wish them well.