He picks up the news midmorning, Kabul time. Rasheed knocks on the door of his office, then comes in.
"Have you heard?" His face is pained, trying to brace against showing it. That is alarming
"Heard what, Rasheed?" He asks
"The news, they're saying Pope Ignatius is dead."
God rest his soul, an instinctive appeal even before the words sink in. Then they're like a chest blow. The Holy Father... gone?
He fishes in his desk, opens the Internet and flicks to the BBC.
It is there, a banner filling the screen, impossible to miss.
He clicks on it, skims the summary, shuts it down quickly. Let no one trrace it, not now
The kindly smile, the patient eyes and ears as he poured out his very soul, the touch of hands setting the Zuchetto on his head. The Weight of the Zuchetto' sitting there- what it meant.
He finds his gaze full of the grain of his desk. From the tone of Rasheed's voice, pitched slightly, he's been staring for a while. He looks up instead, meeting Rasheed's concerned eyes,
"We will say a Mass for his Soul this evening." He holds himself up a little "Thank you for passing the news."
Rasheed nods "Of course Father."
And then he is left alone.
They will know, they will be watching. After the Funeral, there will be the Convocations... and the Conclave
Holy Father, you knew I was posted here when you made me a Cardinal, you changed the Rules to keep me and others like me safe. Guide me now...
And you knew, one way or another, there would well be a Conclave while i was eligible.
Do you wish me to take up the Zuchetto, or to mind my flock?
You know I cannot do both.
Some, only a few weeks later, a group are crowded into a l;iving room in the evening, curtains drawn, refuge in quiet anonimity, and covering the sound of the radio they shouldn't be listenin to.
But they do, as the news comes up on the radio "The Catholic Church has elected it's new Pope after 3 days of deliberation, the new Pope Pope Innocent XIV, born Vincent Benitez in Mexico. The second Pope from the Americas..."
They glance around at each other,
"Vincent? Father Vincent?" Hassan asks
The radio cuts across and the male voice they hear, speaking a language the can't understand until it is overdubbed in Pashto, is their own Father Vincent. Now the Pope, the leader of not only their little church, but all the Cathlics in the world.
"He's not coming back then" a twelve year old Miryam says, the words dropping across the room like a heavy stone.
Bless the child for thinking he would, crosses Leila's mind. As much as he loved us, leaving, becoming a Cardinal Publicly rather than our Father. He could not come back.
"One day, God willing, when the Talib are gone and all may worship more freely, perhaps then he will come back." She can't bring herself to break the young girl's dreams, doesn't the World do that enough now.
But Father Benitez, Father Vincent.. Pope Innocent .. he won't forget them.
I came up with this idea, but too late to get it up for @flashfictionfridayofficial
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