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Abemus Papam

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Chapter 1 – The Pope's Death

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The Pope is dead. They announced it

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early this morning, but I already knew it for hours. I could feel it in the air, in the silence of the rooms,

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in the way the secretaries' footsteps echoed in the corridors of the Vatican.

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I recited the prayers with the other cardinals, but there was

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only one thought in my mind: now the Conclave begins. We gathered in the Sistine Chapel. The

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doors closed behind us, slow, heavy. Nobody spoke. Each of us

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knew what was about to happen: vote, pray, wait, and then vote again,

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again and again, until the Holy Spirit would give us the right name.

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I wasn't prepared. No one ever is, they say. But I felt something different,

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a deep, inexplicable agitation. It wasn't fear. Not yet.

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Outside the world looked at the chimneys, inside the silence was almost violent.

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I looked at the faces of the other cardinals and realized that many hoped not to

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be chosen. Me first. But then why, when I

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saw that first vote with my name, did my heart start beating fast?

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Maybe I had always known it. And perhaps this was my greatest fear.

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Chapter 2 – The Conclave and the choice

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The votes continued to rise. Every time one of the cardinals

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said my name, my stomach would clench a little more.

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I tried not to look at anyone, to appear calm, but

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something uncontrollable was moving inside me. "Melville." Still. "Melville." And again.

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I started hearing a ringing in my ears, as if the world outside was receding.

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Everything became muffled, slow. I could no longer follow the

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rhythm of the voting. My breath was short, but I didn't want to look up.

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Then the moment: 2/3 of the votes. Election confirmed.

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They all looked at me, waiting for my response.

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I only had to say one word: "I accept." My lips moved on their own. I don't

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even know how I did it. I felt hands on my shoulders,

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smiles, whispered prayers. They took me into the room

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to dress up as the Pope, but I couldn't look at myself in the mirror.

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"You need to get ready. You'll be entering the world soon," someone told me.

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I nodded, but my heart was a stone. And as I walked towards the balcony,

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something in me broke. I couldn't do it.

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Chapter 3 – Rejection

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The red curtains were in front of me. One step was enough. It was enough to look out.

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The master of ceremonies was ready. The crowd in the square, in the rain,

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was waiting for that moment: "Abemus Papam." I was there, dressed in white. But inside

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I only felt darkness. My head was spinning,

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my breathing was short, my hands were cold. “Your Eminence, it's time,”

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someone whispered behind me. I wasn't moving. I couldn't. I didn't want to.

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The words ricocheted through my mind like an echo: "You are the Pope. You will lead millions of people.

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You are the voice of God on Earth." But I… I don't have it. I don't have

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that voice. I don't have the strength. I took a step back.

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I whispered, "I can't. I'm sorry. I can't."

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Silence. One of those moments that seem eternal.

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Then, chaos. Hands trying to stop me, voices

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calling me, cardinals looking at each other confused. I walked away. I wasn't running. I was walking slowly,

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towards a corridor, towards something that even I couldn't explain.

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I went back to my room and closed the door.

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I sat down. The Pope has been elected, but the Pope is not there.

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Chapter 4 – The psychoanalyst in the Vatican

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The next day I didn't leave my room. I didn't touch any food. I didn't say a word.

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I heard knocking every now and then. Then nothing more. Just the sound of my breathing.

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Then, in the afternoon, they knocked again. But this time they entered:

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a cardinal and a stranger. A distinguished man, elegant jacket,

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thin glasses. He wasn't a priest. "He's a psychoanalyst," the cardinal said,

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seeking my gaze. I nodded slowly.

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Maybe that's what they wanted: someone to fix me.

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The man introduced himself in a calm voice. He said I wasn't sick, that I wasn't

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I was alone, who was there to listen to me. "I don't want to be Pope," I said.

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It was the first sentence after hours of silence. He wasn't surprised. He just asked, “Why?”

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But I didn't know the answer. It wasn't fear of power. It wasn't weakness.

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It was something deeper. A lack. A void.

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We talked for a while. Not much, actually. Then he said that time was needed,

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that crises are not resolved in a day. I thought: they aren't resolved at all.

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That night I had a dream. And when I woke up I decided to go out.

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Chapter 5 – Escape to the City

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At dawn, before the Vatican woke up, I opened the door and went out.

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Without the white robe. Without ring. Without escort. Just a dark coat and a cap.

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Nobody stopped me. I entered a

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bus, like an ordinary man. Sitting among the people, I listened to the voices,

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the sounds, the real world. Nobody knew who I was.

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For the first time, in days, I was breathing.

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Rome was different from how I remembered it. Or maybe it was me who was different.

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I walked aimlessly, following only my legs. I found myself in a square,

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then in a park, then in front of a theater. A company was rehearsing a show.

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I stopped to watch. A woman noticed me: "Are you looking for someone?"

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“No, maybe myself,” I replied, smiling. He invited me inside.

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I looked at the evidence. The actors who made mistakes, laughed, started again.

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Nobody was perfect. Nobody had to be. One of them asked me: "Do you work in the theater?"

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I hesitated. "No, but I have often played a part." That evening, for the first time,

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I didn't feel like a symbol. And for the first time I thought:

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maybe I'm not meant to be Pope. But how do you say this to the whole world?

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Chapter 6 – The world waits

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Meanwhile in the Vatican it was chaos. Television stations around the world

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kept repeating: "The Pope has been elected,

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but he has not yet appeared. There was white smoke, but no blessing,

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no name, no voice. Only silence." The cardinals were trying to protect the secret.

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"He's praying," they said. "He needs concentration."

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But by now it was clear that something was wrong.

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I watched all this from a small room in a hotel near Trastevere.

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The TV on. My face everywhere, even if blurred, stolen.

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Journalists were looking for answers. The faithful prayed. Some were already disappointed.

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I... I still didn't know what to do. I spoke to the

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psychoanalyst every day, on the phone. I told him about the walks,

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about the laughter I heard among the actors, about the strange dreams I had.

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"What if I don't come back?" I asked him one evening. "What if you come back instead?"

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"But as a man?" He replied.

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That phrase stuck in my head for hours. As a man.

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Not as a symbol. Not as a mask.

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But outside, meanwhile, time passed. And the world waited.

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I had chosen to escape. But now I had to choose whether to face.

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Chapter 7 – The return

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I returned to the Vatican early one morning, as I had left: in silence.

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Nobody applauded me. Nobody hugged me.

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Only low looks, sighs of relief and a lot of tension.

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They welcomed me into a small room where the closest cardinals were waiting for me.

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Words, decisions, a signal awaited me. But I didn't have anything ready yet.

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“What do we have to say to the world?” one of them asked, trying to hide his anxiety.

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I looked at them. And for the first time I spoke with sincerity:

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"Say that the Pope needs time. Say that he is human."

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Silence. Then some murmurs. Disappointment, perhaps.

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But also respect. I asked to see my psychoanalyst,

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this time inside the sacred walls. He came without hesitation.

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We sat across from each other, like old friends.

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"Have you decided, then?" he asked me. I nodded.

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"Yes. I've decided not to pretend anymore. And so… I'm not ready.

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Maybe I never will be." He didn't answer.

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He just looked at me with a calm, almost serene look.

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I had found my voice. Now all that remained was to use it. In front of everyone.

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Chapter 8 – Courage and truth

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That day the square was full again. Umbrellas. Hands clasped. Eyes

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fixed on that empty balcony. The cameras captured every detail.

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The journalists talked about everything, just to fill the wait.

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And I, behind those red curtains, was breathing slowly. I was no longer afraid. I only had truth.

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The master of ceremonies nodded to me. I could go out.

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But not to become Pope. To tell the world that I wouldn't be.

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I appeared. The entire square held its breath.

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I looked at that ocean of faces and felt small.

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But finally real. I took the microphone.

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"Brothers and sisters," I began, my voice firm,

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"I can't do it. I can't accept the role of Pope.

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Because a Pope must believe, he must lead, he must speak with the voice of God.

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I only hear mine." A murmur. Then a long silence.

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But I continued: "I ask you for forgiveness.

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But I also ask you to accept my humanity, my limits, my emptiness."

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Then I lowered the microphone. The world wasn't ready.

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But I do. And in that moment, for the first time,

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I felt a new strength within me: not to be Pope, but to be me.