October ↓
The Vatican declares Sede Vacante on October 19th. Barely three weeks later, on November 8th, Vincent’s plane touches down in the early morning hours.He makes it to the train in half a slumber, leather bag thrown across his shoulder, a hand gripping the overhead rail. It’s dark and the wagon is nearly empty. A wet smell permeates the autumn air. Vincent’s boots squelch against the linoleum floor. There’s mud on his soles; It’s been sticking to him since he locked his door in Kabul.
His chin hits his breastbone, then, the rattle of the wagon shakes him awake again. It spits him out at central station and instead of buying a ticket for the metro, he decides to take a walk.
Even Rome is quiet in the dead of night. It’s too late to go dancing and too early to return home. Vincent’s never been a tourist in Rome, so he takes the time now to look at the buildings, streets and lanterns. His eyes fly over the details in the darkness. The city is beautiful. Maybe, in the future, he might decide to return.
The wonder keeps the exhaustion at bay. Every building is ancient, every sidewalk a relic. He takes turn after turn after turn, runs an hour through downtown and startles himself by how unaccustomed he is to a city not grazed by war.
He expects ruins and rubble in the street. Burned out buildings and bomb damage. He expects to be greeted by the signs of a well-known chaperon, confused when he doesn’t appear. Why would he? War hasn’t been to Rome in ages – it’s Vincent who is foreign.
He passes the third church on his walk, and truly understands how alien he is.
In the whole country of Afghanistan – his home since 2012 – you will find exactly one church, which is located within the Italian embassy. Vincent’s never seen it. It’s too prolific of a place for him to hold a sermon there. Instead, he’s been herding his flock in private buildings. Living rooms and graveyards, family altars and God’s corners, where he’d light a candle and say a psalm for two, three, four – sometimes five! – people. There was no chapel he prayed in; There was the foundation of one left, sometimes.
Cardinal Benítez stands facing the Basilica di San Pietro and feels like he should weep.
He’s been awake for over twenty-four hours. He’s just been informed of his friend’s death. He’s preparing for an undoubtedly exhausting week and he’s looking at the most beautiful church in the entire world.
He’s surrounded by the history of his own faith, carved in the façades of the buildings he’ll walk in, he’ll sleep in, that he’ll eat in. He’s tired. He’s scared. He’s in awe. He thinks of all the churches he never saw: In Congo, Iraq and Afghanistan. He thinks about all the private places of faith that he’ll never get to see, God willing. He thinks about the Unifying Church, about how you can stir your own pot in Baghdad, but you won’t come close to the power of the Vatican.
↑ November-January ↓
November is an uphill battle against bureaucracy. Two tightly packed weeks are reserved for diplomatic visits – Sergio Mattarella, Mario Draghi and people he had never envisioned meeting. It’s strenuous. Most of his bathroom breaks are reserved for gripping the white ceramic sink tightly between his bloodless fingers and staring blankly into the basin.
It goes without saying that December is a hell in itself.
Vincent breathes again in January, when Archbishop Woźniak hands him a battered package. It’s absolutely covered in adhesive tape and it wears three huge and beautiful stamps from Turkmenistan. His new and correct address is handwritten onto it: His Holiness, Pope Innocent, 00120 Vatican City.
“Thank you, Father Woźniak,” Innocent says and nods as Janusz bows and turns around. Vincent clutches the package in front of his chest for a few seconds, then scurries away to his own desktop in anticipation.
Pope Innocent gets mail. Lots of it, actually. But it’s not like as if he could actually deal with the influx of mail on his own – he gets the highlights. But a package definitely is a highlight. He holds it to his ear and rattles it around a little, a smile dancing on his face.
With a little knife, he cuts through the tape and is surprised to see another package underneath. Just as brown, just as battered, also covered in tape, nondescript and nearly anonymous, weren’t it for the sender: Najiba Mohabbat, his neighbor in Kabul.
Vincent sinks into his chair. Slowly, it dawns on him how the parcel must have made it into his office. He opens the second, smaller inlay and discovers letters. Lots of letters, tons of letters, well, a small package full of letters. Bills, notices, a few postcards, the newspaper, leaflets, advertising. Najiba must have put it all into a parcel and sent it to – Vincent lifts the cardboard – to Anastasiya. Of course! Anastasiya, a friend of a friend, who he only met twice in a voicemail, she must have helped as a proxy so that Najiba didn’t have to write to Pope Innocent on the package.
Vincent chuckles to himself. Three months ago, he would have been with them. He would have helped plan such actions in meticulous fashion, would have sat with his friends on the living room floor, drawing up a map in front of them. So this is the punishment of promotion. Having your life uprooted, feeling like you’re never quite waking up from a nightmare. Vincent sighs. He forgot to call Najiba – he told her he’d be out of the country for a week. She must be incredibly worried.
He empties the package on his desk – bottom up – and fishes out a loose letter that must have fallen out of its envelope.
Dear Vincent,
Congratulations to you, my friend!!! We heard from the news – don’t worry – we don’t expect a swift answer. Your new office seems kind of busy, haha!
We took it within our liberty to collect your mail and send it to you. Let’s hope that Anastasiya receives the package. How are you? What is going to happen now? Will you stay in Rome? Will we see each other again? If you need help tying up loose ends in Kabul, don’t hesitate to reach out :)
No matter what may happen now, I hope that you will call frequently. Do you know if there will be another Cardinal in Kabul? Reza keeps checking in on your flat. It seems fine, if a little dusty. Remember that stray cat who always wandered in when you held your homilies? Tahmina has officially decided to keep her! She’s healthy and is now staying at her place, listening to all of our homilies.
Take care, Vincent. We will as well… There is little to do at the moment but to wait and see. We will follow the developments with you closely. You will always have us.
God save us all, but especially you, Vincent.
Your friends,
Najiba, Reza, Sayed and Tahmina
He takes a few deep breaths, careful not to wrinkle the paper and picks up his pen to deliver a decent response.
In January, Vincent misses his sister’s wedding. It’s awful and unfair. He texts her from a dark meeting room: The fifteenth apology since finding out that he won’t be able to make it. She sends him an image of her and her fiancée back.
It’s an ugly way to celebrate a family union, thinks Vincent and sighs. Forgive me, he amends silently, It’s an ugly way to be stuck across the world.
Francisca Isabel Benítez marries the love of her life on the 13th of January 2022. Vincent had planned to take an early flight and crash at their place. He had bought a wedding present that he now had sent in the mail and that will take ages to arrive. He had looked forward to seeing his sister again. He is not free of envy.
Francisca taught him how to read, then later quizzed him on the bible. Francisca helped him steal candy from the kitchen and she took him out for ice cream after Sunday service. Francisca is his oldest friend.
Vincent takes a deep breath and places his head into his hands.
He is neither a saint, nor is he holy. He has been a liar for the majority of his life – but never to Francisca. When his mother had asked in letters and on the phone: “Are you safe? How are you feeling?”, Vincent had said: “I’m fine. I’m doing well”. When his sister had asked, he had said: “I can hear gunshots in the neighborhood. I don’t know what’s happening”
After twenty-something years of crappy phone calls, delayed emails, wrinkled postcards, and sometimes word-of-mouth alone, Vincent Benítez was supposed to hold his sister tightly in his arms at the Veracruz airport.
He is not free of envy. He is neither a saint, nor is he holy.
But he is employed (in the broadest sense) and he is supposed to have his shit together (at least vaguely) and he is used to missing his sister.
He opens one of the windows facing the gardens and sends a shaky selfie back to Veracruz: “Italy is very beautiful this time of the year – you should spend your honeymoon in Rome!”
↑ February ↓
Rome is huge – Rome is tumultuous – Rome is laden with tourists and most importantly: Rome is anonymous. Four months after his election, by February, Vincent has gotten very well versed in sneaking into the city.
Sneaking into the city – he has to savor that thought slowly. It’s as if he were a child again: A protection detail following him everywhere he goes, there’s people cooking and cleaning for him, there’s even a curfew! It’s dreadful. It’s overbearing.
He wakes and he prays, he goes to work, he meets and discusses, he holds a vesper and then he watches the tourists filter out of the Piazza San Pietro from his window. By six or seven, they slowly begin to depart, by eight or nine, there’s only a few left and by ten o’clock, nearly all of them have found their way back to their hotels and restaurants.
By eleven or twelve, Vincent has donned a pair of jeans and a turtle neck, has slipped into trainers and taken his leather bag, ready to slip through the gates of his domain into real life, into Rome.
He can never venture far, but the few meters he does walk feel heavenly.
Here’s some food for thought: Pope Innocent adores his job, his role, his responsibility. Pope Innocent relishes in his ambitions, his spirituality, in his church. Vincent Benítez misses an honest smile. Vincent misses a normal social interaction, without some title standing in the way. Vincent misses the blurry lines of the neon signs he sees all over Rome in the night. He misses being ignored by a taxicab.
He sets one foot in front of the other like always. And in the tepid night, he feels like a princess, mixing in with the common folk. He feels the dirt under his feet, he feels the wind crashing through his thin shirt – he feels alive.
It’s a bad habit, he knows. Born out of insomnia in Baghdad, it rapidly grew into a habit to pass the time. A habit to calm his mind, to look at the bright nighttime sky and to be thankful to be alive, despite all circumstances. Now, it’s a method to keep him feeling like a human being. Vincent looks up and he can make out the moon, but the stars are looking faint in Rome.
Two or three hours later, he slips back into the Vatican undetected. He’s not a complete idiot.
He makes a good habit out of keeping in contact with his family and friends. This is to say, in lonely moments, he skypes his mother.
The first time he had called her, he didn’t even know what to wear. His white cassock? With the mozzetta? Maybe… but definitely not with the zucchetto! God have mercy, he had thought as he stood between his vestments and his pajamas. It was his mother, not the prime minister!
This time, he knows not to wear his cassock. Still, he makes an effort to appear put-together. He washes his face and puts on his best Sunday-smile. He sits on his papal bed, pulls out his phone and has to laugh at the comic absurdity of it all.
This is Vincent’s routine; His movements practiced and her number memorized. This is how he’s met her for most of his adult life. He hugged her goodbye for seminary in 1995 and has only seen her a handful of times since. He doesn’t remember her unfiltered voice, how it must sound when it’s not coming out of a lousy speaker.
Logically, Vincent knows her voice has changed, but the telephone doesn’t pick up on the fine details of intonation. She will sound the same to him; Like from the hot and humid community center in Mbuji-Mayi and their worn payphone to her shaky reassurances reaching him in a hospital in Baghdad. He thinks about leisurely calls from an improvised pew in Kabul. He thinks about all those places as he strokes the embroidered bedspread under his fingertips.
The line connects. A video comes to life. Maricela looks at Vincent the same way she’s always done: With slight contempt towards technology and utmost adoration at her oldest son. She sits on her patio, surrounded by greenery. Her gray hair cropped short now in old age, she wears her favorite neon yellow top and reading glasses with a frame similar to Thomas’s.
The picture is predictably grainy. The connection lags behind. The audio comes out garbled and Vincent is dead tired, while the afternoon sun shines across his mother’s face. It’s perfect.
She says: “How are you?” and “How are your coworkers?”, “Are you safe?”, “Have you eaten dinner?”, “Is Rome as pretty as they tell you?”
He nearly starts to cry, nearly.
He answers: “I’m fine, but how are you?”, “How is your heart? Are you taking your medication?”, “It’s beautiful, mamá, I wish you could see it.”
She shows him her herb garden. She shows him her new painting. She shows him her sun-catcher that deflects the light across the tiled floor, rainbow over terracotta. She tells him that the dog keeps barking at the sparkles. They say their goodbyes when the clock strikes 1 AM. He’s never been closer to his family, geographically, and yet he couldn’t be farther away.
Sometimes, when his fingers get too restless, when he feels so dehumanized by his job, when every bible passage reads like a memo for a video conference discussing sales and demands, when his nightly strolls don’t cut it anymore, then, Vincent plays pretend at life.
Then, he throws a coin into a Eurospin shopping cart and starts roaming the aisles. He collects a full week’s worth of groceries, before putting it all back and starting all over again. Sometimes, he pretends to hold a shopping list. Other times, he’s actually written one.
It’s a bit like meditating, but more importantly, it’s a familiar motion that he can let himself fall back into.
He knows the movements, he’s hard at work here. Should he buy the waxy, primarily waxy or the starchy potatoes? What does he have planned with his groceries? What’s he going to cook the next week? It’s a delicate dollhouse world. All day, he’s a little hand-sewn puppet stuffed by God into the throne of the pope. At night, Vincent-the-puppet brings his strange life to completion.
It’s a fascinating game he plays with himself. He grabs beetroot after sprouts after vegetable broth after farfalle after salami after toothpaste and cat food.
Sometimes, mostly older ladies, come up to him.
“You know,” say those he can’t quite fool with his attitude of a busy Rome native, “You do look familiar!”
For them, he puts up his best tourist-smile and cranks up the Mexican-Spanish accent to say: “¿De verdad? Many people tell me that!”
So far, they have all backed off after that.
The pope has no income. Vincent knows that. At some point, he has to wriggle himself out of his stupor and realize that his shopping meditation is stupid and contra-productive. So far, he has always made it back to Vatican City. He is a little afraid of a day coming, where he can’t convince himself to go back.
↑ March-April ↓
March is spent indoors, which annoys Vincent endlessly. It’s rainy and gray, the gardens uninviting and his desk repulsive. March is a month for understanding the organization of the Holy See, for understanding the ways of the Curia. March is a month spent studying laws and regulations, meeting colleagues he had never seen.
When he isn’t signing, discussing or drafting something, Innocent spends his time in passing, engaging in quite possibly the most enriching conversations of the whole day: In the hallways, kitchens, chapels, on balconies and cubbyholes that he otherwise would never see.
Frederica tells him about the truly abysmal cable management in offices 107, 108 and 211. Nicolo tells him how much of a pain it is to clean the rugs in the Cardinal’s rooms. Sanaa tells him that not everyone has the same patience he has. Vincent nods and smiles and thinks about it as he’s ushered out of the kitchen for trying to load the dishwasher.
March is a great month for sprawling out on the couch, burying his nose into Thomas’s side and hearing him grunt as Vincent closes his eyes.
“You’re thinking about something,” he says, setting aside his book and adjusting his glasses.
“I guess,” his voice small and reluctant, “I’ve been meeting so many people recently”
“Oh, yes, the Curia can be quite overwhelming at first”
“No, I’m not talking about the Cardinals or, like, other bishops and archbishops and… I’ve been talking to some electricians and the cleaning staff…”
Thomas sits up, jostling Vincent in the process.
“We’re hiring electricians?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised, Thomas. I talked to the people doing waste management. It’s that they all have an opinion about this place, just that no one’s asked them about it yet. I don’t know. I’ve been here for six months and I want to… well, I’ve been given the chance to shape the church with my deeds”
Thomas smiled: “So you’re staring small”
“Don’t mock me”
“I’m not mocking you, Vincent, I find your efforts admirable”
“Admirable maybe, but fruitless so far”
“I guess so,” he leans back again, letting Vincent rest on his shoulder, “you’ll just have to take it step by step. All in due time.”
The cold sandstone façades glister under the April sun. Pedestrian areas paved with cobblestone slowly thaw, timidly warming up for the high season of tourism. Rome is a series of slow movements in spring.
Vincent darts across the street in a blur of motion. His tramping steps ring out between ice cream parlors, cafes, boutiques – he takes two sharp left turns, squeezes himself through a busy residential street – he has no mind for the beauty of his neighborhood.
He forces himself to calm his racing heart as he stands before his destination. In an insular plaza, he makes eye-contact with Santa Barbara. A baroque face towers over him. He is still out of breath as he claws open the heavy door to the tiny church.
Calm washes over him – It always does when he enters a holy place. He’s home, he can breathe again. The descriptor of tiny may actually be an understatement: Santa Barbara dei Librai, placed in an overlooked nook in an overlooked alleyway is more miniature than real; Barely eight pews make it onto the marble floor. Vincent turns his head and follows his gaze into the confessional.
The door to the priest’s booth opens with a deep groan, making Vincent sit up straight.
“Forgive me, son, this isn’t the most usual time for confessions,” the man says, his voice old and heavy – it puts Vincent’s mind at ease. “It’s quite alright”
The man sighs and sits down, puffing out his cassock. Woody silence follows. He can hear the dust particles dancing in the meager light and God crouching in the space between them. Vincent closes his eyes. He had forgotten what it was like letting a stranger hear his secrets, then again, that was why he had come here.
“Bless me father, for I have sinned.” He wets his lips, “My last confession was two days ago,” the words, practiced and familiar, tumble over his tongue like his own name. A muffled creak permeates the air.
“What brings you here?”
“Uhm,” Vincent laughs nervously, “It’s my first time in the Santa Barbara. I simply can’t confess this sin to anyone I know.”
Silence as he gathers his thoughts. “I’ve gossiped. I’ve talked badly about one of my, uhm, employees. I’ve denounced him. I hold grievances towards him that I can neither proffer nor dismiss"
The priest smacks his lips. “I see. What caused you to talk badly about him?”
“I work… we work with the church. We have sworn ourselves to the teachings of the bible. Father, he is a reactionary populist, spewing rehashed bait under the pretext of defending Christian values. I want to hold myself to a high standard, let my faith keep myself from lashing out, but I seem to revert to my most human traits. He has sworn himself to the values of the Church, instead he’s butchering his spiritual mission and I can’t let myself watch him”
The man took a deep breath: “We’re all vulnerable underneath the cassock. It’s good to hold our fellow brothers within the lines of our faith”
Vincent pauses. “And he vapes.”
“I’m sorry?”
“He vapes. Constantly. He has this… forgive me, this quite frankly obnoxious cherry scented e-cigarette that he’ll carry around with him everywhere. And he’ll blow the smoke directly towards you”
“Oh, yag!”
“Yeah”
“Forgive me...”
“Don’t mention it”
“Well, not to judge a man who is not present in the confession, that does seem… unbecoming”
“I know. But it shouldn’t mean that I too can butcher my mission. My gossip was indecent. I want to atone”
“Let me ask you this, son: Does it agitate you, the way your… employee talks?”
“Of course it does”
“And is his rhetoric harming those the Church has sworn to protect?”
“Yes”
“And who did you gossip with?”
“My other… My friends”
“Priests as well?”
“Yes”
“And in your gossip, did you lie? Did you exaggerate? Did you blaspheme?”
“No”
“Then, I don’t see a reason for you to atone”
“Father, I would feel better if I could”
“I can give you a Magnificat”
“Thank you, father”
Usually, Vincent would get up now, thank the priest, straighten his cassock and make for an exit. But this isn’t usually and Vincent doesn’t budge. So, the priest’s soft voice returns: “There is something else, am I right?”
He chuckles. “You’re good at this”
“I wasn’t born yesterday. Out with it.”
Vincent kneads his knuckles. “I’m… in the position to dismiss him of his duties” It takes him a while to elaborate. “I want to give him a second chance, I really do”
“But?”
“I feel like all he’s ever known are second chances. I don’t think he’s ever faced a consequence”
“So, how do we learn if not for the consequences of our actions,” Vincent knows the man must be looking at him through the lace barrier, yet he can’t bring himself to return the gaze, “How do we learn, if not for the consequences of our words? Do you think he has something to learn? Do you think he needs an enlightenment? A bit of time to think about what he’s said?”
The priest audibly leans back again. “You can give him a second chance, when he’s proven himself capable of change”
Vincent swallows.
“I guess you’re right. Thank you, father”
“Always. That’s what I’m here for. May I ask your name?”
“My name is Vincent. What’s yours?”
“I’m Father Rakoto. Alain”
Vincent bows his head: “Thank you, Alain. This has helped me greatly”
“Consider it pro bono publico,” he says with a smile building on his face, “And Innocent?”
“Yeah?”
“Ditch the tourist’s accent. I might have to consider the shtick a lie, otherwise”
He giggles, as he made his way outside the confessional: “I’ll confess it with my Dean, father.”
↑ May-June ↓
The swifts’ soft screams accompany Vincent’s sermon. He is woken by the birds, he is sung to sleep by them too. The days get longer and longer, the birds not any less hungry.
He steals a glance towards the chapel’s roof, then returns his gaze to the mass. He spreads his arms for benediction and feels the warm gusts of wind coming in from the opened door.
Summer, again. The noises so familiar and yet so strange.
The birds scream tiny accents into the air, a zipping srii haunting the sky. The swifts would come to the Congo in October, staying for the warm December and leaving when February would hit.
To Iraq, they would come in spring. Loud and energetic, greeting the new year with rapid wing beats. Two of them, Vincent remembers, would breed in his roof’s eave. The chicks’ pervasive screams defining his summers.
He had never heard them in Kabul, but in Rome they’re a welcome companion.
He hears them at lunch and at dinner; In the hallways and during prayer. Their calls had come in through the shattered window mere minutes before he became the Innocent that stands in front of the people now.
It’s summer, again. Vincent has to collect himself, a goofy smile splitting his face in half. May is a very good month.
Two weeks later, Aldo shows up to a vesper with a brand new rosary.
Vincent eyes it for the duration of the procedure; During the hymn, the psalm and the responsories, his eyes won’t leave the ornament. It is displayed proudly, slung over his neck, the tiny cross dangling over his chest. He has a hard time drawing his eyes away from the novelty.
And apparently, so does Thomas. He is standing next to Aldo, both their heads bowed in prayer, but their shoulders turned to each other. Vincent barely suppresses the smile he wishes he would be granted.
Afterwards, as he shakes the hands of all attendees – his colleagues, the Curia, staff members whose shift just ended and those whose shift just begins – he stands before Aldo and takes his new piece of jewelry between thumb and forefinger.
A red checked wooden bead next to a green-blue one, next to a bead in the form of a flower, all strung up on a leather ribbon.
“Cool, right?” says Aldo, lifting his brow and grinning mischievously. Vincent has to giggle.
In the past few months, Vincent has learned that a cardinal’s rosary is a little bit of a big deal, when you don’t get to have much to distinguish yourself with.
He knows that Cardinal Sabbadin wears a metal one, engraved with little floral patterns on each bead. They clink together occasionally and produce a beautiful sound, akin to one the one a wind chime makes.
He has seen Thomas’ rosary so often, he could describe it in his dreams: A small piece of jewelry made with true Italian glass beads on a little silver chain. A gift from the late Holy Father to a young Englishman who had recently moved to Rome, Thomas had explained once.
Vincent himself is still wearing the same rosary after forty-five years: The one he was gifted by his parents for his First Communion when he was nine years old. It’s missing three beads and two others are nearly cracked in half. He wouldn’t dream of replacing it.
Aldo however, doesn’t seem to have the same inhibition. He stands in front of Vincent, dressed in a black cassock and a homemade rosary, presumably crafted by someone under the age of seven. He wears it with utmost adoration – his smile sparkling contagiously.
“Aldo,” Thomas calls out as he comes closer, “I couldn’t help but notice your new piece of jewelry!”
“Oh, really? Do you have anything to say about this masterpiece of craftsmanship?”
“It’s beautiful,” he laughs, “You should wear it for Pentecost!”
“You should. Just for the headlines,” Vincent agrees.
Aldo throws his head back, painting the front page into the air: “The Cardinal’s Secret Child – Kindergarten Art Project Revealed On Pentecost”
Thomas giggles; Vincent hides his behind his hand.
“Just thinking about that is giving me a headache,” Thomas says, grimacing, “Let’s keep it tucked away on the days with more attendance”
Aldo pulled out his pointer finger: “Don’t let my niece hear that. It came with a crayon letter professing my necessary unlimited duty towards this rosary”
“Well, in that case, this seems to be a binding legal contract,” Vincent smiles, thinking about how he hadn’t even known that Aldo has a sibling, let alone a niece.
“Your Holiness,” comes the voice of a Swiss Guard, before Vincent can lose himself in the philosophy of family relationships, “Eminences, I’m so sorry, but we plan to close the chapel soon”
“Of course,” Vincent says, “No worries,” and drags his friends out into the light.
The sunshine reflects on Vincent’s garments, bright and pristine. Together, always together, they make their way across the courtyard to their offices.
The grass – dry and dusty – rubs uncomfortably against his knees. It takes a few tries for his lighter to ignite. His hands shake as he brings the grave candle to the flame: Bright yellow joins soft red under the darkening sky. He stands with stiff knuckles, looking down onto the potter’s field.
Vincent folds his hands and prays for mercy, for absolution in death. For the edenic promise of eternal life. He prays for his father.
His hands fall lifelessly to his sides. He should have brought a jacket.
Vincent crosses his arms and pouts just as a man joins him. It’s too dark to make out anything about him, still, Vincent’s eyes trace his motions as he places a cheap bouquet to the abundance of anonymous gifts the mourners have left.
It’s a little bit evil that everyone will die someday, Vincent thinks. It’s a little bit evil that I have to outlive some people and that others will have to outlive me.
A lighter clicks.
Lid opened, he angles the candle, but the lighter extinguishes. The man snuffles. Thumb over friction wheel, the candle is picked up, falls down. The lighter clicks. Darkness. The lighter clicks, again, the man’s hand shaking too hard to sustain the flame. Vincent can’t look at it any longer.
“Here. Let me help you”
He takes the lighter, ignites it, lets the man hold the wick until the wax melts and helps in putting the metal lid back onto the flame. The man wipes his nose, then places the candle where he wants it to sit. Neither man moves.
It’s been two years since his father’s passing. Vincent is pretty sure that it’s been less than that for the man next to him. You couldn’t pay me to go through the grief of the first few months again, Vincent thinks.
“Thanks,” says the man.
“Always,” Vincent responds.
Darkness envelops them. A steeple in the background strikes twelve. Behind the high brick walls, the bustling nightlife continues. The birds scream. It smells faintly of petrichor, peonies and soil. A strange kind of longing nestles itself into Vincent’s heart; The kind that one is not quite able to place. June is a very strange month.
June is for dissecting canon law. It’s for days and nights spent with juridical experts. It’s for thinking about legalities, gray areas, ambiguities in paragraph after paragraph after paragraph. It’s for sitting at lunch and asking yourself: Aren’t red table cloths forbidden outside of Easter season? And then immediately having to shudder at the prospect of becoming, for a lack of better description, holier than the pope.
June is a month for meeting and discussing and understanding how to push 1.39 billion people into one direction. It’s a month for grasping the true definition of herding to one’s flock. June is a month to consider acquiring a sheepdog or two.
It’s the first time in a long time that he’s talked this much straight. He spends hours filling his time with speeches and gestures. He stands in front of councils and world leaders and appeals for peace, prosperity, for common sense and respect. He knows it’s more of a symbol than any real action, so he throws himself twice as hard into the legal aspects of the Vatican.
In June, he thinks a lot about Najiba in Kabul; How she’s doing, how her Easter went. He thinks about Tahmina and her cat. He thinks about the children he saw every day on their way to school. He thinks of his old neighborhood, about how he is grieving it too, in a strange yet familiar way.
It’s some kind of theme in Vincent’s life: Digging something up. Something nearly forgotten under the accumulated dust. He doesn’t expect to find himself in these situations again; It’s not his first home he misses from a continent away. Then again, it’s not his first summer wherein the swifts surprise him in returning.
He sends a letter, a selfie and a check to Najiba and gets a swift answer back: Will you appoint a successor as Cardinal of Kabul?
It stays on his mind for longer than expected.
The wooden door springs open with a loud crack. Vincent feels like a spy, breaking and entering a strange apartment, even though it is Thomas who unlocks his own flat.
The rooms are tall and narrow, Vincent strips his shoes on the parquet, dodges hallstand, dresser and the doorsill as he follows Thomas into the kitchen – Aldo at his heels.
Thomas drops himself into a chair, legs scraping against terrazzo floor. “I could eat a horse”
Vincent opens the window’s glass and shutters for the evening, a cool breeze blowing through the room. From the third story, he sees the terracotta flats reflecting the day’s last orange sunshine. Potted greens frame each balcony and down below, he can see a playground in the courtyard.
“Vincent?”
He turns back.
“Sorry. It’s a really nice place to live”
Thomas’ smile is soft: “That’s why I haven’t moved out”
With practiced fingers, Aldo fishes a little battered espresso cooker out of the cupboard and starts the stove. Clearly, this is not his first rodeo in Thomas’ kitchen. He, in the meantime, rummages in another cupboard for something edible.
Vincent leans back. A well-oiled machine is whirring away just a meter in front of him. He feels like a voyeur; Dirty from just watching them work together.
“Oh, no.” Thomas groans, closing the cupboard and opening the fridge.
Aldo stops, a spoonful of ground coffee suspended mid-air above the Moka pot: “What is it?” His face forms a grimace.
“We can go shopping,” the door snaps shut forcefully, “Or we can try powdered soup in the flavor creamed mushroom”
Judging looks fly across the room: Apprehension, disgust, hesitation, realisation, and then, acceptance. Twenty minutes later, Vincent shovels a beige non-liquid onto three plates and stems his arms into his hips.
A confused silence lingers. Uncertainty, if the plasma masquerading as soup could actually be considered edible, let alone nutritious.
“Does anybody dare to bless this meal?” asks Aldo. Thomas shakes his head.
“Just scarf it down and hope that God doesn’t see. Buon appetito.”
“¡Buen provecho!”
En garde!, Vincent thinks as he lifts his spoon. It’s okay, in the end. He’ll live to tell the story. And if that doesn’t help, they still have the espresso to help wash down the aftertaste.
↑ July ↓
Antiseptic stench gathers under arid summer heat. Vincent lifts his sweaty palm from the plastic cot and breathes through the radiating pain in his wrist.
He hates the summer. He hates Thomas for being so overbearing and forcing him to the doctor’s. Above all, Vincent hates the slippery stairs to the chapels. He sets his jaw.
There is no reason for ungratefulness, he tells himself. Forgive me, he would say, if the words hadn’t become a farce within the past year. How often will he beg for it? Forgiveness – grace – condonation? He used to be so much more resilient towards the decay of the heart. Maybe it’s his age, maybe his position. Maybe the distance is getting to him; Being away from suffering that isn’t about taxes and clothing and a little sprain in a wrist. Vincent winces. It really does sting.
The doctor’s fingers are probing, warm and gentle, but not careful enough. He tries not to flinch and instead drills his fingernails into this left palm. He closes his eyes and prays for strength first and a painkiller second. Well, maybe it hadn’t been unwise of Thomas to suggest a doctor. After all, it was probably for the better if they had a pope who could hold a pen.
“Yes,” the doctor says, opening a digital copy of Vincent’s X-ray, “that’s definitely broken”
He looks up. “Broken?”
“Certainly,” she huffs cheerfully, “Did you not notice?”
Timidly, he averts his eyes and shakes his head. Admitting to having failed at recognizing an injury feels worse than mispronouncing Dómine, diléxi decórem during mass. Vincent would know.
Staccato clicks perforate the air; The doctor’s nimble fingers type her way across the keyboard. She rattles the mouse around and pulls out a piece of paper.
“So, Mister…”
“Benítez”
Her raised eyebrows force him to clear his throat: “B-E-N-I-with an acute accent-T-E-Z. Vincent.”
“Mister Benítez,” she sighs, “you’re getting a soft cast in a minute. I just need to get a few personal details… Who is your general physician?”
Vincent stutters: “Uh… I don’t have one, at the moment”
Pausing in unease, the doctor swallows. “Okay,” she ticks something, “that’s something to consider in the future, alright? I need you telephone number and you address”
Another question he doesn’t know how to answer satisfactorily: “I don’t… I can give you my mobile number?”
She shrugs. “Whatever works best for you”
“Yes,” his left hand scurries across his torso: Breast pockets, trouser pockets, front and back, then comes to a rest feeling the device in his jacket, “Of course. One second”
Searching for his own number in his contact list, he shifts nervously like a bug under a magnifying glass: “My address is just Vincent Benítez, zero zero, one hundred and twenty, Vatican City”
He meets her confused eyes, her lips slightly parted: “Oh, so you are…”
“Yeah,” he cringes.
Her eyes soften in sympathy. “Okay, well, let me check. I think there are some specific policies for… local clergymen… Are you privately insured, then?”
“I don’t know,” he stutters again.
She sighs and Vincent feels awful. This is just making her job unnecessarily harder. Why hadn’t there been some briefing about healthcare? What – they had had time to put him into new fancy clothes and parade him around town but there hadn’t been time to explain his insurance policy to him?
“This is your first time in a hospital in Rome, presumably?”
“Yes,” he pulls himself from his thoughts.
“Have you been living here long?” her voice had turned familiar and casual.
“Nearly a year,” he smiles.
“Do you pay your insurance fee?” There is a fee?
“I haven’t had the chance to – I don’t even have an income”
“Okay, listen,” she turns to him, “Relax. We can put you down as a non-citizen, meaning that you may have to pay for the cast. Can you call someone? Like, a friend or a coworker who might know more about your… situation?”
Huh, yeah. Vincent hadn’t considered that. “Sure,” he says and the doctor smiles.
“I’ll step out for a bit”
If Thomas loathes anything more than scheming Cardinals, it’s endlessly ringing cell phones.
This is the third time he had been interrupted today: First by Aldo, excusing a late arrival; Then by a spam caller, talking about his non-existent car. Thomas rolls his eyes at the vibrating device and reluctantly turns it over.
He freezes. Vincent? His fingers hover centimeters above the screen. Why would he call in the middle of the day?
Thomas picks up the phone and rises from his chair: “Lawrence?”
His friend’s voice comes through the speaker, small and a little rough around the edges: “Am I insured?”
Worry shoots through his body like ice. “Insured? Why, Vincent? Yes, of course you are. We all are,” he lifts his thumb to his lips, gnawing lightly on the skin.
Static for a moment, then a feeble sniffle: “And how does that work?”
This is ridiculous, thinks Thomas. “Where are you?”
“I’m at the doctor’s,” he swallows, “You suggested it, actually.”
“My friend, you are not making any sense. Why would you be asked for your insurance?”
“What?! Thomas? Have you ever been to a doctor?”
Yes, he nearly says, I have been quite recently, thank you very much, but decides against it. Whatever qualm Vincent has would not be solved with forceful words.
“Vincent,” he takes his nose bridge between thumb and index, “Explain to me why the in-house physician, who has been working with the Curia since John Paul the second, is asking you if you are insured?”
Silence – long silence on both ends, until a near explosive question erupts from Vincent’s lips: “Who?”
“What?”
“I said–”
“Who–”
“Yes.”
“No! What do you mean, who? I mean the physician that nearly all of us see! Vincent, where are you?”
Background static and a small laugh: “Uh, I’m downtown. Like, in a hospital. I didn’t know we had a doctor”
Well, it doesn’t happen to him a lot, but the words do render Thomas seriously speechless.
“The one, like, right in front of the basilica,” Vincent explains, “Like, right at the Tiber”
“Santo Spirito? That one?”
“I don’t know, Thomas,” his voice strained and tired. Thomas makes out an ambiguous thud in the background before Vincent sighs: “You told me to go and see a doctor with the wrist and I did that and then she took some pictures and then she told me that it was ‘definitely broken’ and that I’m kind of an idiot not to notice and now I’ll get a fucked-up cast but not before I can name my insurance and I don’t even–”
“Vincent.”
“And she’s just stepped out so that I can call you and I don’t know how or if I’m insured or whatever but she really needs to know and it hurts and…”
He takes a breath. “Vincent”
“I’m so sorry. Sorry. I’m being incredibly uncharitable to you. Forgive me. Fuck. Yeah, I don’t know, that’s all I called you for: Am I insured? If yes, how?”
Thomas closes his eyes and nearly misses the addendum: “Also, could you pick me up?”
He presses his lips together. He hates the way Vincent implies no expectation for mercy. Thomas grabs his shoes and keys: “Right at the Tiber, you said?”
Vincent shivers. Sure, the noon sun feels oppressive in its heat even indoors, yet, Vincent might just have been doused in ice. His shoulders tremor no matter how hard he wills them not to.
His wrist is still screaming at him – He understands the whole paperwork-situation, but he would really appreciate an ibuprofen right about now. With nothing else to do, he lets his head fall back against the wall, only perking up when the door opens and a nurse enters.
Vincent greets him and he greets back. He carries an empty metal tray that he places on one of the counters and opens a cupboard. The plastic rustles as he collects what must be syringes, caps and gauze pads. He throws Vincent a second, longer look, a timid smile hugging his lips: “Tough day?”
“Really stupid day,” says Vincent, looking away. He hadn’t meant to stare. Rubbing his nose with his sleeve, he feels a little like a hormonal teenager again.
“Hey, come on,” the guy says, turning to him, “Cut yourself some slack – No one cares if you’re sobbing on that cot. I know I probably would,” the words making Vincent smile.
“Uh, I’m just seeing here,” the nurse says, “that we still need some form of ID from you. Do you have anything with you… passport, driver’s license, staff badge?”
“I think I have my work ID with me?”
“That’s fine,” he says, coming up to where Vincent sits, “As long as it has a photo and name on it, we can use it”
Fighting with his fingers, fishing the plastic out of his wallet with limited mobility, Vincent admits: “You have to promise not to laugh, though. I look really stupid”
“I don’t laugh at injured people,” says the man, “on principle,” but Vincent shakes his head and cradles the plastic to his chest, shielding it from prying eyes.
“Not good enough. You have to promise me for this”
The man chuckles anxiously. “How bad could it be?”
“Really bad. They refused to allow me to take off the hat”
He furrowed his brows. “The hat? You had to wear a hat for your picture?”
Vincent nods.
“Okay. How about we exchange. I’ll show you mine, and you’ll show me yours.”
Clipping his work badge off his belt, he hands his ID to Vincent with a sigh.
“Wow,” he comments at the prison-like headshot. It’s a little overexposed and there had clearly been a no-smile-policy involved, but it presents passably, especially for work.
“This isn’t too bad,” he says as he hands over his own piece of plastic.
One look - shocked silence – an unexpected snort – and roaring laughter.
Vincent spreads his arms. “Hey, come on. You promised!” he laughs.
“Oh god,” giggles the man, “the hat really does it!”
“Tell me about it!”
“Wow! This is…” he takes the plastic closer and squints, “You really were trying to get everything in, weren’t you?”
Vincent laughs.
“Twenty gold bars were killed in the making of this robe. The staff is crazy. Is that embroidered?”
Vincent leans in conspicuously: “It’s the Vatican. Of course it is.”
The nurse’s laughs abade. He straightens up and turns the card over.
“You know, I have a very similar picture of myself. Only I was six years old and it was taken on carnival and I was very unhappily dressed up”
“Well,” Vincent slants his head, “You get three guesses as to how I felt”
“Well at least you’re smiling!”
Making his way over to the computer, he chuckles. “Crazy,” he says to himself, “I met the pope at work. And his unhappy government-ID-self. Urgh,” he grimaces as he sees Vincent’s X-ray pop up on the screen, “that’s an ugly fracture. Hey, I’m coming back in a second. I’ll go look if I can get you a painkiller,” he points to Vincent’s wrist, “that looks like it hurts”
He gives a relieved smile. “That’d be great, actually”
The door clatters shut and Vincent is thrust into silence again. Like the cut strings of a puppet, his limbs pretty much drop immediately.
The tension somewhat returns to his posture when he spots a familiar red zucchetto over thinning gray hair in the doorway. Like a lifeline, Thomas enters the small exam room and makes a beeline for Vincent.
He debates getting up, tumbling the few steps his way and crashing into Thomas’ embrace, but decides against it. He’s tired and besides, he’s made enough of a scene for today.
“Hey,” Thomas’ voice rumbles. Gently, he places his hand in Vincent’s hair and cards it through the soft locks. Without meaning to, Vincent immediately leans into the touch. It’s incredible, the effect that the man has on him. With utmost compassion, Thomas presses a discrete kiss into his hairline.
“I should have explained the whole thing to you before ordering you to a physician”
“It’s alright,” he whispers.
“No, it’s not. I’m sorry”
Thomas turns to sit down to Vincent’s right, but reverts when he notices his wince.
“Hey, why isn’t that in a cast yet?”
“Told you,” Vincent keeps his voice low, “they wanted to clear the insurance situation first”
Silence lingers between them, but Vincent is by far too spaced out to notice its extended length or Thomas’ wild eyes searching his face.
“Well, that’s bullshit,” he says, turning around, clearly looking for some personnel to question, but Vincent hooks his left pointer into a fold in his cassock and pulls him back.
“Don’t you dare,” he glares, “I’m not making a fool out of myself because my guard dog can’t help but make a scene” Vincent would have liked to accentuate his words with a stern look, but the two sentences of forceful language had drained him of his energy enough to foil those plans. Thomas sighs anyways and takes a seat to his left, instead of berating some poor nurse.
“Sorry,” he says.
“Don’t be,” Vincent smiles, looking up at his friend, “Besides, it’s kinda cute”
It takes a while, but Thomas does return the gesture.
“So what, we’re just going to wait until someone shows up?” he finally offers as Vincent buries his forehead into the bony shoulder: “Yeah. That was my plan.”
Thomas' hand comes back to Vincent’s hair. He sighs contently; The pain in his wrist not exactly forgotten but definitely dampened by the warmth that’s spreading throughout his chest.
“You know, I had to show someone my ID earlier”
“Oh what, that ugly thing from work?” Thomas chuckles.
“Yeah”
“And?”
“Got laughed at. But he showed me his and it wasn’t significantly better”
His cheek still resting against Thomas’ black fabric, his eyes locked to his face, to the crinkles around Thomas’ eyes as he smiles, he smells Thomas washing agent and can’t help but feel at peace. It’s definitely not a great day, there’s obviously some room for improvement available, but also maybe, just maybe, it’s not quite his worst yet.
Some time later, the nurse comes back with the doctor, for which Vincent briefly opens his eyes. By the way they deliberately ignore Vincent’s left side, he can tell they’re a little bit intimidated by Thomas’ cassock.
The doctor gives him some kind of painkiller whose name Vincent cannot recall even two minutes later, then quietly, gracefully sets his wrist and splints it. Vincent subsequently lets his head rest on Thomas' collarbone again.
His friend above him accepts something from the nurse, Vincent feels his arm jostle a little bit. A click, then a rhythmic sort of scratching. A clipboard, then, probably. Some form that Thomas is probably filling out for him. He can feel him gently humming, his ear leaning so close to his carotid. He lets his eyes rest, for now. It’s fine. Thomas can deal with the paperwork, for once. Thomas will do this for him. He’ll apologize in the morning and he will be excused.
Forgive me, he will say, as if the words haven’t lost all meaning with Thomas. Forgive me for letting you do your least favorite activity. Forgive me for being untaught about the healthcare system in Italy and the Vatican. Sorry, actually, for falling asleep on top of you at the– but Vincent truly loses consciousness before he can end this train of thought.
↑ August ↓
He cannot concentrate.
The words keep dancing off the page. He clicks his pen and leans back, sighs like as if it could drain the exhaustion out of his body.
Nervosity, he recalls his sister’s voice, is the response to a lack of information in crucial situations. She is right, he thinks, he is woefully underprepared for this one.
He takes a glance at the fridge, the door and the couch, then picks the pen up again.
“Don’t you dare.” warns Aldo’s exasperated voice from behind him. “You haven’t been able to write a single sentence since sitting down. Leave it be.”
Vincent grimaces bleakly. He had worn a dog-ear into the corner of his notes. Great.
“When is your sister’s plane touching down, anyways?” Aldo mumbles, sorting a stack of paper into some arbitrary system. Vincent would love to multitask here, ask what those papers are for and help Aldo in organising, but today, all his thoughts revolve around Francesca.
“In fourteen hours,” he smiles without checking the time. Aldo lifts a brow.
“And you’re going to keep worrying until then?”
“M-hm.”
His mind keeps running away from him. One thought starts, runs into another and crashes with a third, before he can even lift himself from the chair. He opens the flight radar again. She should be right over the Atlantic by now.
Vincent closes his eyes and worries at his bottom lip.
He had made rice pudding and hibiscus tea in the morning. He had put a fresh cover on the guest bed and bought a second toothbrush. Its handle shines in lime green - a feeble attempt at choosing what once was her favourite colour, so that she might, might, feel less estranged here with her brother who she hasn’t seen in six years. On the other hand, it also might turn out to be a well-meaning failure. He’ll just have to see.
She cannot concentrate.
Her fingers keep fidgeting with her phone charger; She’s got her head thrown into her neck, observing the airport lounge upside down. In her nervosity, she had visited the drugstore, the perfumery, every bookstore, fast food joint, gift shop, duty-free shebang, just to keep her mind busy.
She checks her phone again. He hasn’t read her latest message, yet. It’s just a quick note anyway: “Landed in Amsterdam. Boarding to Barcelona in 15 Minutes. Touchdown in Rome ca. 2330.”
How will he look? Her thoughts gravitate relentlessly towards her destination. Stressed or annoyed? How grey is his hair? Will he hug her the same way as always – diagonally with enough force to crack a rib? Or will the drift between them be too big to overcome? She shakes her head. Better not think about that possibility.
Who will she meet?! The same Vincent who would drink straight from the tap, his hair falling into the sink? Probably not, she reasons, This place has staff and all. Will she instead meet a stranger with a stick up his ass?
She had always thought she would bury her brother. She had imagined funerals in the Congo, Iraq and Afghanistan, she had imagined a casket either closed or empty. She hadn’t expected to see him again so soon - so near - so alive. But this is the state of affairs. She will see her brother, in nine hours no less.
International travel had made her tired. Eyes falling shut, she resigns herself to a quick minute of rest, before the worries could continue.
In the end, it’s a little anticlimactic.
Rome Fiumicino Airport is big, labyrinthine and overall a liminal experience. Francesca takes dragging steps through the sterilely lit hallways and only notices her brother as he’s standing right in front of her.
He is smiling. He looks tired. He hesitates before hugging her. She can’t help but giggle. What a surreal experience. She feels another step closer to the end of all interactions with him - and yet - another step farther away.
She doesn’t want to let go of him and still retracts her arms somewhen. A steadying breath nearly helps her not to cry.
“Here,” he says. His voice is warm, more so than she’d expected. “Let me help you,” he slings her humongous backpack over his shoulder.
“You look… good,” Francesca notices. Less hungry, she means – but that’s not quite appropriate to mention, is it? More at ease, maybe. Like he had caught up on a lot of sleep. He strengthens his grip on her arm. “You too,” he says and smiles like he knows exactly what she is thinking.
“You cut your hair,” he states as they’re sitting in a metro car on their way back downtown.
“Yeah,” the lights flicker and the hand straps swing in the empty hallway, “Point five millimeters at the sides. Do you like it?”
She looks at him and her own face, their father’s face, looks back. They have the same eyes, the same chin and cheeks, their voices are similar enough to get mixed up on the phone. It feels good not to have an undersea cable separating them.
Vincent leans back and ruffles through her buzzed hair: “I love it.”
The steps to Vincent’s flat are taken in astonishment. Her awe punches out any lingering fatigue.
“I kind of forgot the church was crazy rich,” she whispers as they pass the fifth marble bust.
“To be honest,” Vincent murmurs back, “I also had before I saw all this”
His door springs open with a crack! Contrary to her expectations, he does not live in a palace, but in a definite upgrade from his flat in Kabul. Not that she has a lot of mental capacity left to think about opulence – her focus is set on eating and then sleeping.
“Come on,” he gestures to the kitchen, reading her mind, “I made dinner. And your bed. You must be tired”
His kitchen isn’t very big and it doesn’t take a doctorate to find his cutlery drawer. He sets a full bowl of rice pudding down in front of her and she digs in with a green plastic spoon she silently already declares hers for the week. The pudding is perfect.
“Did you get the recipe from mamá?” she asks as she shovels another helping into the bowl.
“I do know how to use a cookbook,” Vincent scoffs while turning on the tap. His pointer finger darts through the stream, gauging the temperature. “But yeah,” he shrugs, “I asked her for it,” and plunges his head into the sink to sip from the tap.
Francesca smiles. That answers those questions.