The Holy Bullet by Luis Miguel Rocha Read Free Book Online Page B

him placid, or, purely and simply, his psychological makeup. There could be no question about his manipulative genius and his skill in deceiving, always for the good, of course. What could be more important?
    Ten minutes of silence. Ten. Not a word was spoken, only the heavy breathing of the old man and the rustle of Raul Brandão Monteiro’s clothes, when he shifted in the chair where he was sitting uneasily. Nothing more.

Chapter 9
    THE SECOND CONCLAVE, 1978
    Now that God has given us the papacy, let’s enjoy it.
    — LEO X, letter to his brother Giuliano
     
     
M onday marked the third day of the conclave. Already there had been six sessions of scrutiny without conclusion. One hundred and eleven cardinals under eighty years of age were participating in the vote, the same ones who six weeks earlier had chosen Albino Luciani, the deceased John Paul I. After only thirty-three days in office, his heart stopped, according to the official history, which was permanent . . . until the contrary was shown to be true.
    Work was suspended for dinner, increasing tension in the Polish Cardinal Karol Wojtyla’s shoulders. For two nights he had prayed intensely in cell number 91, which had been assigned him, that God would inspire the conclave with His infinite knowledge in the just conduct of the voting. Why was it so difficult to be a man of the Roman Catholic Church? If only the great beyond could communicate more directly with the earth . . . how to understand the signs, what was true and was not? The sudden death of Luciani still weighed on him, his genuine smile, his intrinsic goodness, his sanctity. . . . He had never thought to return to the Sistine Chapel again in his own lifetime to choose another pope, certainly not in the same year.
    Now he bent over his cannelloni without appetite, afraid that God would see in him the successor to Luciani.
    How was it possible that the conclave began that Saturday with a surprising six votes for him, and by the sixth round, before lunch, he’d received fifty-two? During the days of preparation for the conclave several cardinals calmed the partisans by hypocritically announcing during dinners and other holy encounters they were not candidates. Wojtyla and the others knew who the favorites were: Siri and Benelli—the first an ultra-conservative with a very bad reputation, the second in the liberal line of his friend John Paul I. He went over to discuss the chances of the Genovese and Florentine with Koenig, the influential Austrian cardinal.
    “The conclave is for those runners who come from behind, Karol,” Koenig answered him. “Those who enter the conclave as popes normally leave as cardinals.”
    “I know that, Franz. But I don’t believe that this conclave will have the surprises of the previous one,” Karol offered sincerely. Both spoke the living language that they shared between them, Italian. Koenig with a German accent and Karol as flawlessly as a native speaker.
    “One never knows,” Franz Koenig said, giving him a pat on the shoulder. “One never knows.”
    The first vote revealed a trend plainly along the lines of the Pole’s thinking. Siri ahead with twenty-three votes, followed by Benelli with twenty-two, Ursi with eighteen, Felici with seventeen, Pappalardo with fifteen, and . . . Wojtyla with five, probably out of goodwill, five souls whom he had treated with prudence in the recent past. Let the fact be noted we are not dealing with a sporting event or other competition, but with something done in the most sacred spiritual togetherness, and any resemblance to a disorderly dispute is false. These are saintly formulas for electing a saint. The method of communication with the Father and the description of the results are merely illustrative. When it is said Siri leads with twenty-three votes, one shouldn’t imagine fans shouting his name.
    In the second round of Saturday, Benelli had forty votes, Felici thirty, and Siri had fallen to eleven. Ursi maintained