Behind closed doors at the Conclave

by David Benjamin

THE VATICAN, 29 April—The first day of the conclave of cardinals to choose a successor to Pope Francis has ended in traditional disarray. Afterward, two furtive figures, recognizable as a Monsignor O’Malley and Cardinal Bellini, an American prelate who bears an eerie resemblance to Stanley Tucci, enter the Chapel men’s room. Msgr. O’Malley looks under each stall to make sure none is occupied. Moving on tiptoe, he locks the door.

O’MALLEY: I think we’re alone now.

BELLINI: (Singing nostalgically) The beating of our hearts is the only sound…

O’MALLEY: (Puzzled) Why are you singing to me, Your Eminence?

BELLINI: Oh, c’mon, man. Tommy James? (He breaks into a dance vaguely reminiscent of the Mashed Potato, as he keeps singing) Look at the way We gotta hide what we’re doin, ’Cause what would they say If they ever knew…

O’MALLEY: Your Eminence, please, we don’t have much time.

BELLINI: You’re tellin’ me, Seamus? This bunch of geezers has gotta be the biggest concentration of decrepit bladders in all of Rome right now.

O’MALLEY: Your Eminence, can we focus?

BELLINI: (Feet still shuffling to the tune in his head). Focus? Focus on what?

O’MALLEY: (Lowering his voice conspiratorially) I think I have an idea for breaking this stalemate among the electors.

BELLINI: Hey, lighten up, Seamus, it’s only Day One. These things always—

O’MALLEY: But, Your Eminence—

BELLINI: Seamus, look. We’re in the toilet, for Christ’s sake. Call me Stan.

O’MALLEY: Oh, er … well, Stan, I was thinking …

BELLINI: (After humming a few bars of Shondell harmony) I heard you the first time, Seamus. You have an idea. Spit it out.

O’MALLEY: Well, Your Em—I mean, Stan, with the death of Francis (He pauses for the Sign of the Cross), we’ve ended a dark period of Jesuit subversion and pastoral compassion. We have, literally, beaten the Devil. Now, we can once more open our hearts and coffers to the great donors who underwrite the vast wealth of the Vatican—corporate tycoons, social-media monopolists, fascist kleptocrats, Sicilian “businessmen,” if you know what I mean …

BELLINI: I know who butters our bread, Seamus. Get to the point.

O’MALLEY: Well, uh, Stan, these friends, the ones who pay for our silken raiment and grease our lobbyists in Washington, they’ve been pissed off for twelve years, ever since we plopped this Argentine peasant on to the throne of St. Peter.

BELLINI: I know that. And now, they’re threatening to cut us off cold if we elect another goddamn “people’s Pope”? Am I catching your drift.

O’MALLEY: Exactly.

BELLINI: So, Seamus, I gather, you’ve come up with the perfect candidate?

O’MALLEY: I have, indeed, Stan. Are you ready for your mind to boggle.

BELLINI: (Sighing patiently) Boggle away, monsignor.

O’MALLEY: Donald J. Trump.

To keep from falling, Cardinal Bellini has to grab hold of a wash basin.

BELLINI: (Gripping the other by the cassock) Jesus Christ, O’Malley! (They both pause for the Sign of the Cross). Trump?! He’s not a priest, or a bishop or—for God’s sake, he’s not even Catholic.

O’MALLEY: So what? Half the Catholics in America didn’t think Francis was Catholic. I mean, the Pontiff liked homos, Stan. Is that Catholic?

BELLINI: (Taking a deep breath) All right, Seamus. What makes you think the College of Cardinals would even think about electing—

O’MALLEY: Wait. Stan, you’ve been a cardinal for what, fifteen years?

BELLINI: Seventeen.

O’MALLEY: Right. And how many people outside your family know you’re a prince of Rome? How many of your fellow cardinals would recognize you if you showed up in a luau shirt and a pair of baggy Bermudas?

BELLINI: Well, I understand, Seamus. But I wouldn’t recognize them, either.

O’MALLEY: My point precisely. Everyone in the world—billions—know Trump. Seventy million American consumers voted for him—three times! He commands a Jim Jones cult who call him Messiah. He’s their friggin’ “savior. God deflected Trump’s bullet and killed a luckless nobody in the crowd. He’s the orange Second Coming of Christ Our Lord.

BELLINI: Don’t say that. It’s blasphemy.

O’MALLEY: Not if we make him Pope, Stan. Think of it! On Day One, he would be the most famous Pontiff in history. And the most beloved.

BELLINI: And the most hated.

O’MALLEY: Exactly. I’m talking win-win here. Picture the gratitude that every anxious American patriot would feel toward the Vatican for yanking that squirrelly psychopath out of the White House and taking him off their hands. All over the world, the popularity of the Catholic Church would skyrocket! Think of all those MAGA zealots and Christian nationalists who would flock to the nearest Catholic rectory to convert to the faith of their Savior. Just selling missals and catechisms, we’d clear billions. And rosaries? Each one with a little Trump medallion right above the crucifix? Ka-ching!

BELLINI: That’s really cynical, Seamus. The Church is not entirely about money.

O’MALLEY: Of course, Stan. But that’s beauty part. Trump is all about money. That’s why he’ll jump at the job.

BELLINI: Wait. You’re suggesting that we give the Pope a salary?

O’MALLEY: Think of it as a commission. Stan. We’ll offer him a fat rakeoff on our Sunday collections and merchandise. Holy cards, scapulars, Masses, pagan babies. Picture this, Stan: Little red beanies just like the ones we wear, each stitched with the words “SAINT DONALD”. Retail: $50. Masses for the dead, a hundred dollars. And baptisms? Five hundred. Stan, for six figures, we can market indulgences guaranteed to get you into Heaven.

BELLINI: Seamus, please. You can’t buy your way into Heaven.

O’MALLEY: Trump doesn’t know that.

BELLINI: (Scowling skeptically) Even if we offer him a fortune, I’m not sure he’ll bite. I mean, right now, he’s the most powerful person in the world.

O’MALLEY: Money in the bank, Stan, is money in the bank. Power comes and power goes, especially in U.S. politics. Right now, Cadet Bone Spurs is riding high. But internationally, he’s a dictator-in-waiting and he’s up against two real dictators, Putin and Xi. Sooner or later, he’s gonna bend over for both of them. Every day. millions of Americans are in the streets cursing his name. Courts are reversing and stalling his royal proclamations as fast as he can deface them with his Sharpie. He’s goin’ stir-crazy in the Oval Office. But, sit him down in the Holy See, fitted out in St. Peter’s little red shoes. All of a sudden, he’s not signing “executive orders” that any Tom, Dick, or ACLU Jew can challenge. He’s issuing encyclicals inspired by God. The Pope is never wrong. Nobody can argue.

BELLINI: (Thoughtfully) Hm, that’s right. The Pope is infallible.

O’MALLEY: There ya go, Stan. And once we elect him, he’s there for life, surrounded by the Swiss Guards. He’s safe from Democrats, from the fake-news media, from having to give a rat’s ass about Don, Jr. and Eric.

BELLINI: I can see him now—tooling around, doing his mug-shot scowl, clutching his six-iron—in the Popemobile, the golf cart to dwarf all golf carts.

O’MALLEY: With Melania in the rearview mirror!

BELLINI: And the crowds. Pope-size crowds.

O’MALLEY: Ten times bigger than any rally before which he strut and fretted his hour upon the stage, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

BELLINI: I give in, Shakespeare. He’s got my vote. But how do we sell this putz to the the Church’s holiest gathering of wise men. We’d be nominating a pathologically mendacious non-Catholic felon who—among his countless mortal sins—porked a porn star in a hotel room and paid her off to keep her mouth shut. It kinda makes my skin crawl, Seamus.

O’MALLEY: Come on, Stan. It isn’t as though we haven’t had our share of horny popes.

BELLINI: Still, it’s a tough sell. How do we get the votes?

O’MALLEY: Well, I’ve lined up the Italians already, Stan. Rudy Giuliani has made a few phone calls. He might be a few beads short of a rosary, but he’s still got some juice among his paisans.

BELLINI: But all those cardinals, from Africa, Latin America, India…

O’MALLEY: No sweat, Your Eminence. The blonde is on our side.

BELLINI: Blonde? What blonde?

O’MALLEY: The Meloni girl. Turns out she’s Trump’s latest BFF.

BELLINI: The Prime Minister?

O’MALLEY: (Nodding knowingly) What if, tomorrow morning, all those aliens—I mean, cardinals—were stopped outside the Chapel by Italian Border Control? What if their papers aren’t in order? What if their visas aren’t stamped? What if they got arrested thirty years ago during a student protest in Belgrade?

BELLINI: You mean…”

O’MALLEY: Hast la vista, baby.

BELLINI: Oy vay! El Salvador?

O’MALLEY: Funny you should say. Y’know, it’s Spanish for “Savior”!