#he poisons for unencumbered rooftop handjobs

[kiraalexander]

anyway i was sad so i wrote more.

bcs/young pope au part funf: this time there’s mike

Cardinal Voiello was very unhappy.

He had overplayed his hand with Ester, and now he’d lost control of Valente. He knew this, but couldn’t seem to find a way to get them back in hand. Now that the pope had revealed his knowledge of Voiello’s plan to have Esther embroil him in a scandal, Voiello had been forced to give his plan up entirely - and what was more, Valente reveled in it. When Voiello had cornered him this morning, demanding to know what the pope had been doing with the loud American lawyer on the roof of the Basilica last night, Valente had only replied, “talking, your eminence. The holy father enjoys talking with the American lawyer very much.” And then he’d smirked. Smirked. At him.

The humiliation only continued in his morning audience. After he dutifully fetched the pope his coffee, the pope made the American canonist, that Ms. Wexler, read out loud every single provision in the Code of Canon Law relevant to the ouster of a cardinal from both ecclesiastical office and from the curia. She read every line in her flat voice, then rounded it out with a recitation of Canons 331 through 335: the Roman Pontiff.

“The Roman Pontiff obtains full and supreme power in the Church by his acceptance of legitimate election…” she droned, all while Voiello ground his teeth. He wanted to snap that he hardly needed reminding about the basic tenets of the canon law, but wasn’t given the chance. As soon as Ms. Wexler’s voice faded, the pope had snapped, “you can go. Both of you.” So this was just the opening act, and Voiello was left to twist in the wind another day, wondering whether he’d be pulled back into the fold, or set adrift.

The only saving grace was that the other American lawyer - the loud one - had not been in attendance at this little show. When Voiello had caught up to Ms. Wexler’s long strides in the corridor, he’d put on the best mask of friendliness he could muster, and asked where her assistant had been, since he was always such a help to her.

“His holiness - asked that I come myself,” she said, her eyes downcast. And that was another blessing - her meeting with Sofia yesterday had completely unmoored her. And if Sofia did what she was told, he’d be rid of both American lawyers before the week was out, and replace them with proper canonists, ones who had a background in the priesthood. Yes, perhaps all this could be salvaged after all.

“And Father Amatucci - where is he?” Ms. Wexler asked.

“Ah, I fear he has come down with a stomach illness,” Voiello said. “It is very close quarters here, particularly with all the cardinals packed into the Casa Santa Marta for the election, and then awaiting his holiness’s address. Naturally we are all susceptible. I believe Don Tommaso is also ill - no confessions can be taken this morning, unfortunately.”

“I hope they both feel better,” Ms. Wexler said. “Excuse me.” And she stepped quickly away, her heels clacking on the polished floor. And as he watched her go, Voiello said a prayer, begging the Lord to let Sofia succeed where Ester had failed.

Perhaps, he thought, his failure was a matter of beauty. Sofia was very beautiful. He knew this because she told him so. They said that Ester was beautiful as well, but apparently not beautiful enough for the pope. They also said the pope was beautiful, although Voiello was sure he’d seen better days. Perhaps Kim Wexler was beautiful - Sofia certainly seemed much more eager to complete her assignment once she’d seen Ms. Wexler face to face.

Cardinal Voiello was not beautiful, and he knew it. He never had been beautiful. He’d always been squat and lumpish, easily winded and jowly, with squinting eyes and a turtle’s mouth. He’d always had that mole on his cheek, much more prominent when he’d been a child, and it had been like a target on his face for those who wanted to needle him about his doughy face and body. Perhaps all this was the hand of God, smoothing his path into the seminary - he’d never known how it felt to be wanted, and would never miss it. But it gave him a curious blind spot in that he could not understand what others considered beautiful. Certainly he felt that sunsets were beautiful, as was the ocean, and when Napoli scored against Roma. But as far as human beings were concerned, the sight of Sofia moved him no more than did the sight of Sister Bice. He’d told Sister Mary that she was beautiful twice, but she seemed to see through what he now realized were the forced repetitions of a bad liar. The only human thing he could think of that he considered beautiful was the plump cunt of the Venus of Willendorf, and that was made of stone.

He rested his hands on the swell of his belly, and turned to walk to his apartment. It was nearly time. He nodded to the Swiss Guard flanking the path, thinking vaguely of how fitting this was. He considered praying, but didn’t. He missed Amatucci’s quiet, reassuring presence, but it was probably better not to have his shadow behind him today.

He didn’t have much more time, that was certain. Perhaps the holy father could afford to dither, to cat-and-mouse him in order to drive him crazy, but Voiello could not afford to play. Now that Ester hadn’t worked, now that he could still feel the sole of that damned embroidered shoe on his shoulder, forcing his head down - he had to strike an even more decisive blow, and quickly, or else it would all get away from him.

Not my job. It isn’t the job I want to save. It’s the Church. The Church itself.

Why he had to keep reminding himself of that was something he tried not to think about too hard.

When he entered the apartment, he had to unlock the door, but he knew his guest would be there already. He knew, because he was seven minutes late, and his guest was always on time. The air in his apartment had a sense of being subtly displaced. He tried to breath in a steadying column of air, and arrange his face to look serene. He closed and carefully locked the door, then began his search to see where in the house his guest had settled. It didn’t take long - the clack of a billiard ball sounded before he took three steps in. Kind of him, Voiello thought, not to surprise him too badly. They were both getting on in years.

He stepped into the billiard room to find his guest standing behind the table, idly rolling one ball into another, and watching the doorframe.

“Michael,” Voiello said, “how good it is to see you after all this time.”

“It has been a long time, Eminence,” said Michael, “and I gotta say, this place hasn’t changed at all.”

“You’d be surprised,” said Voiello.

Once they were settled across the coffee table with espresso, Voiello was struck with sudden reluctance.

“I understand you have a grandchild now,” he said. “Please accept my warmest congratulations.”

“Yeah,” Michael said. “Five years old. Prettiest thing you ever saw.” He fished a photo out of his wallet that had gone limp at the corners. An unremarkable blond child smiled out from it, but Voiello made a show of admiration. “She’s just lovely. Your son must be so proud.”

“Yeah. He’s dead.”

“What?” Voiello said. Amatucci hadn’t told him this. He wondered how he could have missed it.

“About six months back,” Michael said.

“I’m so very sorry for your loss. If I’d known-”

Michael shrugged. Voiello had never known him to be one for displays of emotion. “It’s good to get away, Eminence,” he said, “but why don’t you tell me exactly why you sent for me.”

Voiello sighed and put down his demitasse cup. “I’m certain you are aware that we have a new pope,” he said.

“Yeah. I followed the conclave news. Pretty young for a pope.”

“That is just the trouble.”

Michael’s shoulders straightened with sudden interest. “You didn’t vote for him?”

“Oh no. I voted for him. But… I did not vote for what we received.”

“Hm,” Michael grunted. “Seems to me you get what you pay for.”

“In some circumstances, yes, that is the case,” said Voiello. “But in circumstances when one has been defrauded, isn’t it only fair to request a refund?”

Michael didn't say anything for a minute. “Why don’t you tell me what it is you want me to do.”

“I want you to resume your position as special firearms instruction for the Pontifical Swiss Guard,” Voiello said. “I’ve already received permission for you to take up the position - it’s been too long since the guard has had a truly intensive training.”

Michael was shaking his head. “Why me? I’m used up. There’s plenty of military trainers younger, sharper-”

“No,” Voiello said. “You were the best in 1981, when we first started automatic weapons training, and you’re the best still.”

Michael was silent, and stared into his cup.

“Michael,” Voiello said gently. “Does it still hurt you to be here? After all this time?”

“You know that old dreams die hard,” Michael said.

Voiello sighed, and in it was not a little genuine regret. “You were the only one who made me feel at home during my first year at the Vatican. I still wish that I could have done something for you.”

“No,” Michael said. “It wasn’t gonna happen. I was to old. And I’m not Swiss.”

“But you helped us to protect the pope,” Voiello said. “Isn’t that something great?”

“It sure is something.”

“And anyway, I never thought the uniform would have suited you.”

Michael cracked a smile at this. “And i never thought the clown suits they make you cardinals wear ever suited you. But now look at you - you’re a real politician.”

“And you are-”

“An old soldier, an ex cop. Put out to pasture.”

“No,” Voiello said, and reached across the coffee table to take Michael’s hand. “On active duty.”

Michael stared hard at Voiello, but didn’t remove his hand. “I think you had better tell me just exactly what you want me to do, right now. If it’s not out of your mouth in the next sentence, I’m out the door.”

Voiello’s heart stopped at the words. He couldn’t know, he told himself, he couldn’t know that it’s how his holiness spoke to me. He almost called the entire thing off right there, but then it came again - the weight of that shoe on his shoulder, and he hardened his heart, and steeled his jaw.

“I want - I need you to assassinate the pope.”

Michael took back his hand and sat back on the sofa. “No,” he said.

Voiello shook his head. “If I could express to you how important-”

“Not until I understand why,” Michael said, and Voiello let out a harsh, relieved breath.

“You must understand,” Voiello said, “we elected him because we thought he would be a compromise between the liberal and conservative factions within the curia. But he’s revealed himself to be so reactionary - he’s threatened to remove two-thirds of the clergy for homosexual attraction. Attraction! Not action! It goes against thousands of years of doctrine. He wants to shut out the people, take us back into the dark ages, when priests jealously kept all knowledge, language, doctrine, out of the reach of the common man. Do you understand what that means? He wants a monopoly on God. I know you remember how it felt, to be denied a position in the Swiss Guard, even though you are the best marksman who’s ever entered the Vatican? Just because of the arbitrary fact that you are not Swiss? He wants to do that but on a worldwide scale - and not just for the Guard, but for heaven itself.” Voiello pointed one stubby forefinger skyward. “I thought that you of all people could understand why this cannot go on.”

“Voiello,” Michael said, “you’re asking me to kill a man.”

“No,” Voiello said. “The Church is a body. If a body becomes cancerous, do we allow that cancer to kill the body? Or do we cut out the cancer? Even if it is living tissue, part of that body?”

Michael shook his head again, but slower this time. A little more, Voiello thought, a little more, and he’ll say yes.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Michael,” Voiello said, “after all this time - don’t you trust me?”

Michael took a loud breath in, out, in, out. He drained his cup, letting the dregs of the espresso settle in a grainy stew at the bottom. “If I’m going to kill a man,” he said, “I need to look him in the face first. It isn’t that I don’t trust you,” he said, interrupting what would have been Voiello’s indignant protest, “but I have to decide for myself. Give me an audience - then I’ll decide.”

“Michael we don’t have time-”

“We?” said Michael, looking out from under a brush of brow. “Is it we who don’t have time? Or just you?”

Voiello stared back, and considered saying that no, it wasn’t just him, it was the Church herself.

“I’ll get you an audience,” he said.

“Good.” Michael stood. “In that case, I’d better go find my quarters. Thanks for the coffee.”

Voiello walked Michael to the front door, and held it open for him. He stepped out, then turned back to Voiello.

“Do you know how my son died?” he asked.

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Voiello said. “As I said, if I had known-”

“He was shot,” said Michael.

Voiello was suddenly overwhelmed with the memory of standing before Michael and his wife, both of them beaming, the tiny child in her arms. Voiello had been the one to baptize him. It could have been Wojtyla, they could have insisted - but Michael had asked for him instead. He remembered anointing the child and thinking of how tiny he was, how pink, how helpless. “Shot,” he repeated.

“Assassinated,” said Michael, and he left.

Voiello was in a rotten mood for the rest of the afternoon, and when the pope called him in for yet another audience, it was all he could do to catch every other word he said.

When they were finished, his holiness asked after Amatucci. “I understand that he’s ill,” he said. “Isn’t that too bad? I’m always seeing him in the garden, in the Apostolic Palace - just wherever I go, somehow, there he is. I missed him very much today. Please, won’t you tell him to get well from me?”

“I’m sure he would appreciate that very much, holy father,” said Voiello.

“And Tommaso, sick as well,” said the pope. “It’s really just too bad. You know, I think I might be coming down with it myself?”

“Oh, no, holy father,” said Voiello, and he was at least halfway to being genuinely concerned. “You are nauseated? Vomiting?”

“Mm,” said his holiness, “no.”

“Then - a headache, or trembling?”

“No,” said his holiness. “Is that what Amatucci is complaining of?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so - the doctor says he must stay in bed for at least another few days.”

“I see,” said the pope, putting an undue emphasis on the words, in Voiello’s opinion. “Maybe I’m not coming down with what he has after all. In fact, I’m just having trouble sleeping. Can’t you tell?”

He pointed to his eyes, which looked normal to Voiello.

“No, holy father, I’m happy to say that you look perfectly healthy to me.”

“Oh, that’s good - because my eyes feel so dry. Excuse me,” he said. And he took a small bottle of Visine from his pockets, making an exaggerated face as he let a drop splash first into one eye, then the other.

“Ah,” he said, “that is so much better.” And he carefully placed the nearly empty bottle in the middle of the desk.

Voiello stared at the bottle, and thought back. Tremors. Nausea. Vomiting. A racing heart, dilated pupils. And how to make someone just sick enough to be confined to his bed, but not to kill him - yet.

“I’m so happy to hear it, holy father,” he said carefully. “And I think you will find that you won’t see Amatucci quite so often in the future. He must be getting to his own duties once he gets well.”

“That is so good to hear,” said his holiness. “Good bye, Voiello.”

Voiello went straight to Valente, and begged him to allow the new automatic weapons trainer for the Pontifical Swiss Guard to have an audience with his holiness as soon as it could be arranged.

But there was still one thought that nagged him, all on his way back to discuss this problem with Girolamo. Why was it that Father Tomasso, who had to his knowledge never done the pope any harm, gotten ill as well?

He didn’t know, and not knowing made him unhappier still.