Chapter Text
Please stay, I want you, I need you,
oh God,
Don't take
These beautiful things that I've got
Beautiful Things, Benson Boone
6 months and 5 days since the election of Innocent XIV
He wakes up from a troubled slumber. For several moments, he doesn’t know where he is. An ache drums against his temple. It was there when he went to bed and it appears he’ll have to suffer through it during the day.
The sounds of Parisian traffic reach him: the city, too, is rising. Thomas closes his eyes and focuses on the noise: wheels against asphalt, the occasional horn. From the window, a glimmer of light.
A song that has been in his ear since he’s arrived to France comes to him. And he thinks to himself:
5 in the morning
My body in Paris
My heart in Rome
My soul in Jordan
And I feel myself nowhere.
There’s no point trying to sleep anymore, he knows this by first hand experience. He gets up, showers, scalding hot water against skin. He thinks, I should have my holy hour, but he dismisses the notion. No point praying right now. The room suffocates him and he needs to get out.
In the mirror he sees himself, gaunt and thin, dark tones under his eyes, which only make the blue stand out brighter, like a lighthouse calling attention to his neglect of himself. The beard he’s been growing comes out in shades of brown and white. He dresses, foregoing the clerical collar, and puts on a black jacket and a white cotton shirt. As he buttons his shirt in front of the mirror, his gaze is arrested by the copper necklace around his neck and the icon of the Virgin de Guadalupe against the skin of his chest. He shakes off the thoughts it brings him, the thoughts it brings him every single morning, and hurries to leave his room.
His hotel is in St Germain de Prés. It’s early, nothing is open yet so he walks around the quartier Latin: down Boulevard Saint Germain until it meets Rue Saint Jacques, which he climbs, with Louis le Grand on one side, and Thomas’s former University on the other. Decades ago, he used to do this every morning. At the top, he reaches Rue Soufflot: to his right the Luxembourg’s gardens, to his left the Panthéon. Thomas thinks it’s a pity it’s not opened yet. He hasn’t been inside for many years. He thinks of the headline, former Cardinal seen visiting Simone Veil’s tomb, French champion of abortion rights.
He goes right. The gardens aren’t opened yet, so he takes Boulevard Saint Michel, takes a turn on rue du Val du Grâce, and checks his watch. Alright, he can start going back again, and he makes his way to the Moufettard, where he’s meeting his colleague Carolina Gurezeta as well as the International Director of the Jesuit Refugee Services, Salvador Hernández. He arrives to the café a little before 8 and sits down. He scans the menu. Like many Parisian cafés, they have lait chaud, and something tugs at his chest, something that’s always there, demanding his attention. He used to make it in Zaatari: it’s warm milk with honey and vanilla. In the camp, they’re hard pressed for vanilla, but honey and milk are fairly easy to come by. Vincent quoted from Numbers the first time Thomas made it for him: “If the Lord is pleased with us, then He will bring us into this land and give it to us—a land which flows with milk and honey.”
But he shakes the thought off. It was too early for this and his headache is just starting. He asks for a café au lait and goes through emails on his laptop.
Salvador and Carolina arrive together. Thomas frowns at this, watching as Salvador opens the door to let her into the café. Carolina and Thomas had flown from Jordan together, but they didn’t share a hotel as she was meant to be staying at a friend’s house; Thomas wonders, is Father Salvador Hernández the friend? They come, and she sits next to Thomas, with a squeeze on his arm. Salvador shakes his hand and runs his eyes through his figure. His gaze is a hard thing to take in without squirming. Dark and forbidding, his mouth twisted in constant irony. He must be, what? Older than Thomas by a year or two. Maybe 62 or 63? Born in Terragona, Catalonia, a youth spent in Nicaragua. There is a persistent rumour that in the mountains he had taken up arms with the sandinistas, but of course, there was very little in the way of actual knowing. Still, Thomas could see it. If there was a man whom he could see with a gun in his hand shooting to kill was Salvador Hernández.
“You look terrible, Thomas,” he says.
“Thank you for that,” Thomas says.
“You haven’t been sleeping well,” Salvador states.
“I haven’t slept well since 1993.”
“Anyway,” says Carolina, “can we skip the pleasantries?”
She’s protecting him. She does that a lot these days.
They discuss the matter at hand: a meeting between the French government and NGOs’ representatives from North Africa and the Middle East about the situation in the region, and the potential return from a portion of refugees to Syria. Thomas had asked Salvador’s advice who, on account of his long experience, knew something about moving populations, and he accepted to act as a consultant.
“Are Aisha and Claire on their way?” He asks, referring to their colleagues from the UNHCR.
“Their plane must have landed. They’re meeting us at Quay d’Orsay. Aisha said she’d call.”
“Right.”
There is a lull after an hour of discussion. They have to be at the palace in 2 hours. Salvador suggests they walk. Isn’t it like an hour away, Carolina asks, doubtful. But Thomas agrees, yes, let’s walk, we can take the river.
Thomas has forgotten how French civil servants can be even more byzantine than the most seasoned monsignor at the Curia. After listening to one senior policy advisor to the Minister drone on for 10 minutes about a subject he barely understands, Carolina slips him a note that reads, “this is why énarques should be bullied”, which almost – almost – brought a smirk to his lips.
There is a coffee break at one point. Someone approaches him: a man in his 40s, broad shouldered, with salt and pepper hair. Thomas feels like he’s seen a face like this dozens of times today. I used to be an attaché at the French Embassy in Rome, he says. I remember you, father Lawrence.
Thomas stiffens.
“We all admired you greatly, your work as secretary of state was notable.”
“That is very kind of you to say,” Thomas says.
“Forgive me the impertinence, but I heard that in the French Embassy in Rome they were hoping you’d return with the new Pontificate.”
“I’m afraid my time in Rome is a thing of the past. My duty is in Jordan now.” The sentence sounds wrong and grandstanding to his ears.
“But of course you and Madame Gurezeta know the new Pope?” The man extends a glance at Aisha and Claire, sitting nearby. “You all worked together in Zaatari, did you not?”
“Yes,” Thomas says. He looks down at the cup in his hand and is almost shocked to see it steady. “We did. His Holiness was working for the UNHCR, actually.”
“That is absolutely fascinating. It must be unheard of, for a Pope, or a Cardinal even, to work for a non-Catholic agency!” The other man says. Thomas thinks he might be called Simon, but he’s not entirely sure. “I am sure they are ecstatic at the UN. It is good to have such patrons.”
Thomas notes that Carolina is coming in his direction, but before he can thank the Heavens for small mercies, Aisha, who’s been half-listening to their conversation, says to everyone and no one in particular, “did you see the new video with Vincent?”
The room perks up at that. For the past months, videos of the Holy Father – especially from the Zaatari years – have been cropping up on social media. They were the natural consequences of existing in the world in the age of social media. The videos had, for the most part, only served to endear the world to the new Pope. The first, a video of Vincent dancing the dabke had made some people mad because one of the dancers in the group donned a black and white Keffiyeh; but those voices, often from very conservative backgrounds, were a clear minority in the public opinion.
The video Aisha was showing them was very different. It was taken at one of the caravans in the camp, where a ramshackle maternity ward had been set up. Vincent was holding a baby, who happened to start crying as soon as Vincent attempted to sit down. “Alright, alright,” Vincent said in the video and the person filming – a woman, probably one of the nurses – gave a soft laughter. “Alright,” he said again and began walking around the space with the child in his arms. Then, five seconds later, he started to sing: Frágil como un volantín, en los techos de barrancas, jugaba el niño Luchín, con sus manitos moradas...
“It’s Jara,” says Salvador, who’s standing next to Thomas as they all look down at Aisha’s phone. “He’s singing Victor Jara.”
Thomas watches, transfixed. He can, from the clothes Vincent is wearing and the way his hair is trimmed, pinpoint when this took place. Thomas was already at the camp; this was after Norwich. And Vincent, singing, holding the baby as if it was the most natural thing in the world, as if God had made him for this specific kind of tenderness, was going to put the child to sleep, and later on, he would return to their cabin, where Thomas was waiting for him.
He turns abruptly to return to his seat.
“Well, now that we have been privy to His Holiness’s musical number, perhaps we can return to the matter at hand?”
The whiplash is immediate: Aisha blushes in embarrassment, Carolina fixes exasperated eyes on him and Salvador turns his head to him, and his is the gaze Thomas can’t sustain. The effect is that they all return to their seats and the discussion goes on, uninterrupted, for another 2 hours.
At the end, Thomas shakes a few hands and escapes to the bathroom, a golden-laced monstrosity that could only have been conjured by some Second Empire architect. He stands in front of the mirror, washes his face on the sink, and takes a deep breath. The door opens, Thomas braces himself, and he finds Salvador, a vulture, standing behind him. In the mirror, he sees them: Thomas pale and white, like a spectre; Salvador sun-kissed by a lifetime in Latin America and the Mediterranean. Thomas is a tall man, but Salvador manages to be taller than him, and almost as thin. Unlike Thomas, he is clean shaven and has close-cropped hair. Like Thomas, he’s not wearing a clerical collar.
Thomas waits for the inevitable rebuke.
“When was the last time you went to confession?”
The question surprises him. He turns around to face him. “That is none of your business, Salvador.”
“Carolina says you used to attend Mass every day at the camp, and now you only go on Sundays. A canon lawyer should know better.”
“And Carolina should know better than to gossip.”
“She is worried about you. She cares about you.”
The way he says it brings a wave of shame to Thomas. Carolina, Guille and Myriam have been nothing but patient with him for the past months even in the face of what he knows is horrid behaviour.
“Her concern is appreciated,” he says. “It truly is. But I am well. I might need a holiday, or a break soon, but…”
“You are not well,” Salvador returns. “You are overflowing with…” he pauses to search for the word and he finds it, “grief. You’re grieving. It has hollowed you out.”
“I have nothing to grieve for.”
“You’re lying, Thomas.”
He wonders, in a bit of a panic, what exactly has Carolina told Salvador about him, about Vincent, about Zaatari.
“Many years ago,” Thomas says, “the late Holy Father, not Tremblay, but Clement, Clement XV…back then he wasn’t even the Pope yet, he was a Cardinal, this was during Ratzinger. I knew him well; he was often in the Curia. My father had just died and I was going to England for the funeral. I met him in the Apostolic Palace, told him what had happened, he took my hand, and said, it doesn’t get any easier; but we get used to it. So: if I’m grieving, I’ll get to used it.”
He’s in the process of undressing when Carolina’s insistent knock sounds at his hotel door. He opens the door in shirtsleeves.
“Put your jacket on,” she orders, “we’re going out.”
“Out where?”
“Out.”
She waits until he buttons his shirt back up and puts his shoes on. Carolina takes him to the metro. We’re going to Rue Saint Martin, she says, and Thomas realises, with a degree of annoyance, that they’ll have to face Chatelet station, which he remembers as the busiest, most insufferable metro station in the whole of Paris. “It’s a Thursday,” she says, “it will be fine.”
It wasn’t exactly fine, it was hot and crowded, but thankfully they do not have to change lines and darted to the exit quickly. “Where are we going?” Thomas asks, outside.
“A bar.” The bar is called L’Everest. Francisco told me it’s nice, Carolina says, and also, there’s some great falafel in a restaurant nearby if we get hungry.
Thomas hasn’t had alcohol in a while and he makes the mistake of ordering a cocktail with mezcal, which goes to his head too quickly. Carolina prattles on about how this street has changed in the past 15 years, how she used to come here all the time during her university years, how there’s a lesbian bar just up the street, which became her favourite because the 2000s were not a great time to be a woman who likes to go out, and lesbian bars were cool.
“Carolina, why am I here?”
“You should be thankful you’re not in a lesbian bar.”
“I would rather be in bed.”
“Would you?”
He sighs. “I was…curt today. I sent a message to Aisha apologising.”
Carolina sips from her beer. “How long has it been since you’ve talked to Vincent?”
“You mean, the Holy Father.”
“I mean Vincent, our friend.”
“It’s been three months. Give or take a week.”
“And you think that’s a good idea?”
Thomas leans back in his seat. For the last couple of months, Guilherme and Carolina have been walking on eggshells around him. The subject of the Holy Father has been avoided altogether. In a way, he is relieved that they’re bringing this into the open. He’s starting to get tired of dissembling all the time.
“And the alternative is to be sucked into Vincent’s world, feel the same sense of…guilt and impotence I feel now, but magnified?”
“If you went back to the Vatican, he’d welcome you with open arms.”
“We’ve talked about this. I can’t go back. I cannot over emphasize how much of a hindrance I would be. To him, to the Church, to the Papacy…”
“Maybe you are overestimating yourself.”
“Maybe I am,” Thomas says and he lowers his voice to a whisper. “But do you think, truly, that it’s a good idea for the Pope’s…intimate friend to live by his side at the Vatican? Even people who don’t know the Curia like I do can see this is a terrible idea. Don’t you remember what you once told me? In Zaatari, during my birthday party? You said, and I quote, you look at him like it would drive mad to stop looking. If you noticed, people in the Vatican, people who will be looking for every scrap of gossip and scandal, will notice it too.”
Carolina is silent and Thomas sees that she understands it. He feels, suddenly, a burst of affection for her. He’s very lucky to have her as his friend.
There is a lull and when she speaks again, she does so very softly, “Thomas, you are not well. Anyone can see it. You don’t sleep well, you barely eat. These things take their toll.”
“It will get better.”
“Will it?”
“Yes. It has to.”
9 months and 8 days since the Election of Innocent XIV
It doesn’t get better.
Back at the camp, it is now the height of summer. Thomas lives, still, in the prefabricated shelter he shared with Vincent, but which he now occupies by himself. He doesn’t exactly know why he wasn’t assigned another roommate. He suspects his two programme officers, Carolina and Guilherme, had a hand in that, maybe by asking someone high up in the camp management to do him this one kindness.
Their shelter – his shelter now – has been cleansed of Vincent’s presence, his belongings sent to Rome shortly after his election. Thomas doesn’t, in any case, spend much time there. He prefers to stay in his caravan until late at night, so late he often has to return to his shelter armed with a flashlight. In these hot months, he lies on his bed, and tries to read, tries to listen to music, but his concentration faulters. He focuses on his job with an obsessive impetus that was missing even from his earlier, ever diligent years in academia and then in the Curia. But when he reaches his rooms at night, he is so exhausted, so heartsick, that he can barely string 2 thoughts together.
It is true, he thinks often on those occasions, that he has to make more of an effort. Carolina is right. He’s not eating very well. He’s just not hungry. He is sleepy and tired practically all the time. If he’s lucky, perhaps twice a week he manages four or five hours of uninterrupted sleep, but there’s not much more he can do. He could get pills, but he doesn’t like how lethargic they make him even hours after he wakes up.
It will pass, he thinks, and he repeats it to himself so often that he forgets what exactly he’s hoping it will pass.
In the next couple of weeks, he gets worse. His fatigue increases, his appetite, the little he had, vanishes. At night, despite the heat, he shivers in bed. And he starts coughing. It’s a cold, he thinks, a nasty cold, even though it’s the middle of the summer. He thinks, the last time I was ill like this, Vincent was here, and he vividly recalls Vincent’s fingers on the back of his head, stroking his hair.
Upon waking up one day he dimly recalls that it’s a Wednesday and he’s meant to drive to Amman. Salvador will be there for a meeting with UNHCR and UNICEF. Even in his state, Thomas realises that he might not be able to drive the one hour distance from Zaatari to the capital. He will have to ask Guilherme to drive. Thomas knows he has to get up, wishes he could, but it becomes obvious that he can’t. His alarm comes and goes and he lies there, on his single bed, the slow realisation that this isn’t just a cold, that there might be something very wrong with him slowly washing over him.
Guilherme shows up. He knocks, Thomas calls out for him, and in a herculean effort, he gets up and opens the door, falling, immediately, into Guiherme’s arms.
“Thomas?” The other man says, in a panic. “Caralho, Thomas, não é possível isso.”
Thomas almost smiles at the unlikely curse; and then he won’t remember the next hours. He knows someone is called, a doctor probably. Carolina is there. She and Guilherme bundle him into a car and drive him to Amman. He thinks Carolina calls Salvador at one point. She’s driving, Guilherme sits on the passenger’s seat and keeps glancing back at him, though Thomas won’t remember that. Thomas thinks, I am lucky to have them here. Carolina is good in a crisis and Guilherme’s concern is a rough warmth.
Next they’re in a hospital and he’s on a bed. Doctors lean over him. He can’t properly focus on their faces, but he manages to croak, ana eatshan, and the next second someone is holding his head and giving him water. Thomas thinks back to a prayer in Spanish he heard years ago, help us to remember those who are hungry, those who are thirsty…
They take him to get an X-ray. They take his blood. His oxygen levels appear to generate some alarm, although he’s not sure that’s what elicited the nurse’s gasp in the first place. Yes; he appears to realise that breathing has become rather hard. He hears the doctors talk and catches a few words. “The question is,” one of them says, “whether he’ll respond to the antibiotics. If he does, he’ll likely be fine, if not, then we might have complications.”
He understands, finally, what’s the issue with him. His father, his father had died of this exact same thing: a pneumonia.
As a priest, Thomas is used to death. Not as much as if he had chosen a different life: if he had had a parish and presided over funeral masses and comforted families; something he probably should have done instead of the path that took him to academia, to the Curia, to the Pope. But death is part of the Mystery. We die to rise and live forever in God’s love. He thinks: I should have liked to confess before this. Salvador is in the hospital; he’s heard his voice. He would give him the final rites; Thomas won’t have to worry about that.
Still, even accounting for his spiritual training, he feels his impending death should alarm him a bit more. He’s 61; he’s not that old. There was more he could have done, more people he could have helped. He failed so much; so often he was unworthy of the exalted positions which were entrusted to him. But I was very lucky, he thinks. Life wasn’t bad. I did wrong, but I tried to be better. He had tried to understand people’s failings, he had tried to be kind. And he had loved. He had loved God, even if it was difficult to talk to Him. That’s just how it is with parents, he thinks. It’s not always easy to talk to them.
He had loved his brothers; he had loved his friends. He had loved Vincent. He had loved Vincent with all that was good, pure and worthwhile inside him. He wishes in that moment they could have had more time. Just a few more months, or even weeks; he doesn’t want to be too greedy. If he had known that they would be separated, he would have kissed him once more. He would have told him he loved him – told him properly, every day, looking into his eyes. Yes, this is the only regret he has. All the others seem pointless.
He thinks, Oh, Lord, into your hands I commend my spirit.