Abemus Papam
Chapter 1 – The Pope's Death
The Pope is dead. They announced it
early this morning, but I already knew it for hours. I could feel it in the air, in the silence of the rooms,
in the way the secretaries' footsteps echoed in the corridors of the Vatican.
I recited the prayers with the other cardinals, but there was
only one thought in my mind: now the Conclave begins. We gathered in the Sistine Chapel. The
doors closed behind us, slow, heavy. Nobody spoke. Each of us
knew what was about to happen: vote, pray, wait, and then vote again,
again and again, until the Holy Spirit would give us the right name.
I wasn't prepared. No one ever is, they say. But I felt something different,
a deep, inexplicable agitation. It wasn't fear. Not yet.
Outside the world looked at the chimneys, inside the silence was almost violent.
I looked at the faces of the other cardinals and realized that many hoped not to
be chosen. Me first. But then why, when I
saw that first vote with my name, did my heart start beating fast?
Maybe I had always known it. And perhaps this was my greatest fear.
Chapter 2 – The Conclave and the choice
The votes continued to rise. Every time one of the cardinals
said my name, my stomach would clench a little more.
I tried not to look at anyone, to appear calm, but
something uncontrollable was moving inside me. "Melville." Still. "Melville." And again.
I started hearing a ringing in my ears, as if the world outside was receding.
Everything became muffled, slow. I could no longer follow the
rhythm of the voting. My breath was short, but I didn't want to look up.
Then the moment: 2/3 of the votes. Election confirmed.
They all looked at me, waiting for my response.
I only had to say one word: "I accept." My lips moved on their own. I don't
even know how I did it. I felt hands on my shoulders,
smiles, whispered prayers. They took me into the room
to dress up as the Pope, but I couldn't look at myself in the mirror.
"You need to get ready. You'll be entering the world soon," someone told me.
I nodded, but my heart was a stone. And as I walked towards the balcony,
something in me broke. I couldn't do it.
Chapter 3 – Rejection
The red curtains were in front of me. One step was enough. It was enough to look out.
The master of ceremonies was ready. The crowd in the square, in the rain,
was waiting for that moment: "Abemus Papam." I was there, dressed in white. But inside
I only felt darkness. My head was spinning,
my breathing was short, my hands were cold. “Your Eminence, it's time,”
someone whispered behind me. I wasn't moving. I couldn't. I didn't want to.
The words ricocheted through my mind like an echo: "You are the Pope. You will lead millions of people.
You are the voice of God on Earth." But I… I don't have it. I don't have
that voice. I don't have the strength. I took a step back.
I whispered, "I can't. I'm sorry. I can't."
Silence. One of those moments that seem eternal.
Then, chaos. Hands trying to stop me, voices
calling me, cardinals looking at each other confused. I walked away. I wasn't running. I was walking slowly,
towards a corridor, towards something that even I couldn't explain.
I went back to my room and closed the door.
I sat down. The Pope has been elected, but the Pope is not there.
Chapter 4 – The psychoanalyst in the Vatican
The next day I didn't leave my room. I didn't touch any food. I didn't say a word.
I heard knocking every now and then. Then nothing more. Just the sound of my breathing.
Then, in the afternoon, they knocked again. But this time they entered:
a cardinal and a stranger. A distinguished man, elegant jacket,
thin glasses. He wasn't a priest. "He's a psychoanalyst," the cardinal said,
seeking my gaze. I nodded slowly.
Maybe that's what they wanted: someone to fix me.
The man introduced himself in a calm voice. He said I wasn't sick, that I wasn't
I was alone, who was there to listen to me. "I don't want to be Pope," I said.
It was the first sentence after hours of silence. He wasn't surprised. He just asked, “Why?”
But I didn't know the answer. It wasn't fear of power. It wasn't weakness.
It was something deeper. A lack. A void.
We talked for a while. Not much, actually. Then he said that time was needed,
that crises are not resolved in a day. I thought: they aren't resolved at all.
That night I had a dream. And when I woke up I decided to go out.
Chapter 5 – Escape to the City
At dawn, before the Vatican woke up, I opened the door and went out.
Without the white robe. Without ring. Without escort. Just a dark coat and a cap.
Nobody stopped me. I entered a
bus, like an ordinary man. Sitting among the people, I listened to the voices,
the sounds, the real world. Nobody knew who I was.
For the first time, in days, I was breathing.
Rome was different from how I remembered it. Or maybe it was me who was different.
I walked aimlessly, following only my legs. I found myself in a square,
then in a park, then in front of a theater. A company was rehearsing a show.
I stopped to watch. A woman noticed me: "Are you looking for someone?"
“No, maybe myself,” I replied, smiling. He invited me inside.
I looked at the evidence. The actors who made mistakes, laughed, started again.
Nobody was perfect. Nobody had to be. One of them asked me: "Do you work in the theater?"
I hesitated. "No, but I have often played a part." That evening, for the first time,
I didn't feel like a symbol. And for the first time I thought:
maybe I'm not meant to be Pope. But how do you say this to the whole world?
Chapter 6 – The world waits
Meanwhile in the Vatican it was chaos. Television stations around the world
kept repeating: "The Pope has been elected,
but he has not yet appeared. There was white smoke, but no blessing,
no name, no voice. Only silence." The cardinals were trying to protect the secret.
"He's praying," they said. "He needs concentration."
But by now it was clear that something was wrong.
I watched all this from a small room in a hotel near Trastevere.
The TV on. My face everywhere, even if blurred, stolen.
Journalists were looking for answers. The faithful prayed. Some were already disappointed.
I... I still didn't know what to do. I spoke to the
psychoanalyst every day, on the phone. I told him about the walks,
about the laughter I heard among the actors, about the strange dreams I had.
"What if I don't come back?" I asked him one evening. "What if you come back instead?"
"But as a man?" He replied.
That phrase stuck in my head for hours. As a man.
Not as a symbol. Not as a mask.
But outside, meanwhile, time passed. And the world waited.
I had chosen to escape. But now I had to choose whether to face.
Chapter 7 – The return
I returned to the Vatican early one morning, as I had left: in silence.
Nobody applauded me. Nobody hugged me.
Only low looks, sighs of relief and a lot of tension.
They welcomed me into a small room where the closest cardinals were waiting for me.
Words, decisions, a signal awaited me. But I didn't have anything ready yet.
“What do we have to say to the world?” one of them asked, trying to hide his anxiety.
I looked at them. And for the first time I spoke with sincerity:
"Say that the Pope needs time. Say that he is human."
Silence. Then some murmurs. Disappointment, perhaps.
But also respect. I asked to see my psychoanalyst,
this time inside the sacred walls. He came without hesitation.
We sat across from each other, like old friends.
"Have you decided, then?" he asked me. I nodded.
"Yes. I've decided not to pretend anymore. And so… I'm not ready.
Maybe I never will be." He didn't answer.
He just looked at me with a calm, almost serene look.
I had found my voice. Now all that remained was to use it. In front of everyone.
Chapter 8 – Courage and truth
That day the square was full again. Umbrellas. Hands clasped. Eyes
fixed on that empty balcony. The cameras captured every detail.
The journalists talked about everything, just to fill the wait.
And I, behind those red curtains, was breathing slowly. I was no longer afraid. I only had truth.
The master of ceremonies nodded to me. I could go out.
But not to become Pope. To tell the world that I wouldn't be.
I appeared. The entire square held its breath.
I looked at that ocean of faces and felt small.
But finally real. I took the microphone.
"Brothers and sisters," I began, my voice firm,
"I can't do it. I can't accept the role of Pope.
Because a Pope must believe, he must lead, he must speak with the voice of God.
I only hear mine." A murmur. Then a long silence.
But I continued: "I ask you for forgiveness.
But I also ask you to accept my humanity, my limits, my emptiness."
Then I lowered the microphone. The world wasn't ready.
But I do. And in that moment, for the first time,
I felt a new strength within me: not to be Pope, but to be me.