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I haven’t written a fic in many, many years. I hope that you enjoy this one. I know Tedesco is a little OOC. Thanks to Piersanti for letting me borrow their Thomas. Planned as standalone piece but let me know if you think there is something work continuing!
Suscipe: Take Lord, and receive all my liberty, my memory, my understanding, and my entire will, all that I have and possess. Thou hast given all to me. To Thee, O lord, I return it. All is Thine, dispose of it wholly according to Thy will. Give me Thy love and thy grace, for this is sufficient for me.
Ignatius Loyola
______
The satellite phone rings while Thomas is on the porch, sitting in the hammock and watching the tree-line fade in the purple dusk. Calls are so rare these days that Thomas takes a moment to find the phone, peering through the darkened rooms, bare feet on the floorboards, until he finds it half-buried in the cushions. He is surprised — and a little concerned — to see Aldo’s name on the caller ID.
Since their mutual retirements, Thomas to the Brazilian jungle and Aldo to his little Jesuit chapel on the outskirts of Rome, hidden in the shadow of St. Paul Outside the Walls, they have been in touch only sporadically. Tourist postcards with cheesy images of the Colosseum and the Trevi Fountain make their way to Thomas’ bungalow ever few weeks, bearing short updates on those marriages and baptisms that Aldo had so looked forward to, the novels that he’s finally had a chance to read (The Great Believers was a recent favorite). Though his notes are brief, Thomas sees in them some of the contentment that he has found out in this distant corner of the world with Vincent, the re-connection with his vocation that Vincent first fanned to life all those years ago in Za’atari. Some semblance of the man that he met decades ago in seminary comes through in these little notes, his gripes about his parishioners and the notable absence of any Vatican gossip, and Thomas is glad, glad that their friendship, once so fragile and riven by their own doubts, has stabilized, that the portion of his mind in which he always worries about his high-strung friend can be put mostly to rest.
But when Thomas finally manages to pick up the call, smashing the phone’s clunky silicon buttons, contentment is far from Aldo’s voice. Any worry Thomas might have had about an accident is defrayed, too — Aldo gets right to the point. "I am calling," he says, voice shaking minutely, "to talk about Tedesco."
~
"Ah," thinks Thomas. Perhaps this call is not such a such a surprise after all.
He had heard, of course, about Goffredo’s retirement, but any shock he might have felt at the news was tempered by his own calamitous circumstances — his reunion with Vincent, the expansion of their intimacy, their preparations for their new ministry in the Amazon.
Goffredo had waited for four months after Vincent’s resignation before submitting his own. To Thomas’ knowledge, he had spent those interim months in relative seclusion, speaking to journalists only to repeat what he had already said in that very first press conference after the resignation — that the pope emeritus was exhausted, that he had served well, that he was confident that the man once known as Innocent XIII was acting under the guidance of Christ, that the Lord would guide him well in his new ministry. He had participated in the conclave that elected Re, but had made no public statements concerning his participation. He had clearly not been considered a candidate, and Thomas privately assumed that the shame of his outburst beneath the mural of Lepanto was enough to restrain the man from campaigning ever again.
Though Thomas would never forgive Goffredo for what he had done to Vincent, for his cruel excavation and manipulation of Vincent’s medical history, for his own awful anxious months in Naples to follow, his anger can only be so strong — after all, it is only with the prompting of that excavation that Vincent had resigned, that he was able to discern this new calling, which had brought the both of them together and that had brought joy and closeness with God back into Vincent’s life. And Thomas has known Goffredo for nearly fifty years. There is only so much resentment he can harbor for a man that, as awful as his political opinions can be, he has known since they were wearing black seminarian’s zuchettos, who he understands to be an earnest, hard-working servant of God, committed to the unity of the Church — even if it is often this drive that Thomas believes brings out the worst in him.
That is to say — Thomas did not give it much thought when he had heard, via a video call with Vincent and Ray, that Goffredo had offered his resignation. The man had served through five papacies and was over seventy years old, past the age of expected clerical retirement: perhaps he had decided that he had had enough Vatican politicking for a lifetime. That, certainly, was a fatigue that Thomas could understand.
Aldo, however….the emotion already present in Aldo’s voice suggested that Thomas’ sense of relative emotional remove from the situation was not a shared one. But why had he chosen to call now, when the brief memorandum announcing Tedesco’s resignation had already been in circulation for months?
—
"Hello to you too," says Thomas, chuckling gently. "And what exactly is it that you need to tell me about Tedesco? I had thought that after his retirement, you would finally be free of one another. Has something happened? Is he ill?"
It would be odd for Aldo to be concerned, if that were the case, but Thomas struggles to imagine another pressing reason for this call. Tedesco’s retirement had happened without fanfare, and the man had retreated into private life afterwards, turning over his quarters at the Palazzo Patriarcale over to the new leader of Venice and emptying out his small apartment in Rome. As far as Thomas knew, he had returned to Basilicata, staying in an old family home with some of his remaining siblings.
"I- I do not believe that he is ill," said Aldo, with some uncertainty. "Or at least, he did not appear to be. But perhaps- perhaps an illness would explain- at least the urgency-"
"He did not appear to be?" inquired Thomas. "Aldo, are you saying that you have seen the man? Why on earth would you have sought him out? Now that you’ve gotten away from all the Vatican scheming…I was under the impression that you had found peace in your new parish!"
"I did not seek him out!" protested Aldo. "He came to me! And yes, I was feeling very, peaceful, thank you, or I was until yesterday, which is why I am now calling you!"
Thomas heard him take a deep breath in, followed by a hearty exhale. When he spoke again, his voice was a little calmer. "Thomas, I apologize for shouting. I know that you are confused. This has been very startling for me, a disruption to the life I’ve just started to carve out here. I had just been feeling like myself again and then, well — there are things I’d like your opinion on, but perhaps it’s best that I tell you the full story."
—
Aldo was having a very pleasant day. It was a Monday in June, the Monday after Pentecost, and he was looking forward to returning to the calm rhythms of ordinary time. Even at the modest chapel he served in his semi-retirement, the octave of Easter could feel burdensome. He had given a simple Mass this morning, attended by just a few of his loyal faithful, and had passed a pleasant hour on the church steps afterwards making conversation with the older women who attended his services daily. He’d stopped for an espresso on the square, enjoying it in the sunshine with a book — a luxury after the many hurried coffees he’d thrown back in his years as the Secretary of State. A trip to the market had yielded some beautiful greens and a modestly sized branzino, and he had spent the early evening hours preparing the fish in his galley kitchen, enjoying the quiet rhythms of gutting, cleaning, de-scaling, roasting. Now, the sun just beginning to lower as it turned 8 o’clock, and he was pouring himself an aperitif, looking forward to a quiet supper.
As he turned to return the bottle to the cabinet, however, he heard a faint knock on the rectory door. He moved towards the stairs, curious. Visitors were not unusual here, but they were usually announced: Ray, coming for a smoke and a gossip; an envoy from the new Secretary of State, seeking a little under the table advice; one of his new parishioners, stopping by for spiritual direction. Perhaps he had forgotten such a meeting. As he descended the stairs, glass in hand, the knock came again. A little timid. He pulled open the door.
Felt the glass begin to slip from his hands, and had to grasp at it to keep it from shattering on the doorframe.
Standing outside the door was Goffredo Tedesco, hand raised to knock again.
This was shocking enough. Aldo had not seen Tedesco for many months — not since the he had left the Vatican, started to rebuild himself. He had, of course, seen the short announcement about Tedesco’s retirement several months ago, and while he had found it surprisingly brief in its detail, he had felt a certain sense of relief — this would not be another progressive papacy dogged by the obstructive efforts of the Patriarch of Venice. He had heard he had left Rome, had imagined that the man had returned to the Palazzo Patriarcale, to live out the remaining years of his life surrounded by the old-world luxury he so loved.
The greater surprise was Tedesco’s appearance. Gone was the ferraiolo, the cassock — even the collar. The former Patriarch stood before him in a simple linen shirt and unremarkable trousers, his feet clad in woven leather shoes. He looked unremarkable; like any other Italian man in the summer. Aldo had the foolish thought that he was unsure if he had ever seen Tedesco wear anything other than red (of course he had — the man had not been a cardinal all his life!). Equally disarming was the expression on his face, a mixture of hesitation and determination, as if he would rather be anywhere else but was steeling himself to see this through.
Aldo realized that they had been frozen, staring at one another, for longer than was probably socially appropriate.
"Tedesco. May I ask what the hell you are doing on my doorstep? And for that matter, why you known where I live?" said Aldo, taking refuge in the cold tone that had served him well as the Secretary of State.
Tedesco winced, and held out his hands in supplication. "I apologize for startling you. There is something I would like to speak to you about. I have travelled all the way from Basilicata to do so. But it would be better if we could speak in private. Could I, ah, could I come in?"
He paused for a moment, eyes downcast, hand rubbing the back of his head.
"And about your house—I still have friends in the Vatican, Bellini, you know this. Again, I apologize for the intrusion. It will not happen again. Now, please — your neighbors are watching us. Can we go inside, and if you wish to tell me off further, you can do so without making new gossip for your parish?"
Conversations on the nearby balconies had gone conspicuously silent, Aldo noticed. He would rather not hear about this tomorrow — though surely no-one had recognized the man at his door as the former Patriarch of Venice. He was too curious about what had brought Tedesco to him, and in this somewhat nervous state, to send him away, as satisfying as that would be. What was this conversation, that seemed so urgent and so private? Why did Tedesco seem so determined to see it through? And — wait — Basilicata? That was not quite the indulgent retirement that he might have imagined. The absence of a collar seemed to suggest that Tedesco had retired from priestly life entirely. What had he been doing with himself?
Questions rolling through his mind, he turned wordlessly, leading Tedesco up the narrow stairs. When he reached the small sitting room at the top, he glanced at the glass in his hand and drank the contents in one gulp, setting it heavily on the sideboard. He would not, he thought, offer Tedesco a drink. Better that this be over quickly.
Finally, he turned. Tedesco was standing at the top of the stairs, shoulders a little hunched, hands clasped before him. It was strange to see such a large man — the butcher, as Thomas had once called him — attempting to make himself look so small. But the determination still glinted in his eyes, clashing with the anxiety in his voice.
"I have missed you."
"Really?" An arched brow. "You have come all the way here, have weaseled your way into my home, ferreted out my address, just to tell me that you missed me? You, who have spent the past forty years of our lives opposing me at every turn?"
Tedesco was still shrinking. At the last question, he flinched. But he persisted.
"Exactly. Bellini, we have spent the past forty years with one another, at synods, conferences, in private meetings, in conclaves"—
He cuts himself off, hands running through his hair.
"You, me, Tomasso…we are the last that is left of the old guard, of an old world. We have lived through five papacies together, have elected three popes. So many years, so many words. How many times have we broken bread together? It must be in the hundreds. It was not all bad, no? It has been our lives. We have shaped each other, yes? All that time. It means something."
Aldo has never been more confused. Tedesco has always had a lukewarm friendship with Thomas, enabled by their shared academic tradition and, frankly, by Thomas’ unwillingness to be drawn into conflict. But with Aldo — Aldo is not sure where Tedesco is pulling these fond memories from, but they are not ones he shares. There were many dinners, yes, but how many erupted into shouts and finger-pointing, chairs shoved away from the table in frustration? How many of those words have been bitter, personal insults intended to strike where it hurts?
"I do not follow," said Aldo, a chill in his voice. "You have made my life’s work more difficult, harmed the legacies of men that I loved, who were mentors to me. If it is nostalgia you are after, I am not sure why you have come here for it, when you could have darkened Thomas’ door, far away as it is. He, at least, has never hated you."
If Tedesco were to draw back any further, he would fall down the stairs. Perhaps, Aldo thinks, this would serve him right. Still, he has to admire the man. Whatever incomprehensible thing he has come here to share, he is certainly committed to it. A clear devastation has swept over his face at Aldo’s words, but he persists.
"This - I am going about this all wrong. Tomasso — he has a new life. I am happy for him. He is not the same man that I knew."
At this, Aldo startles a bit.
"That man was waiting for death, God long lost to him. The man he is with Vincenzo — yes, I know about them, what person with eyes to see does not — he is alight with the love of the Lord, with love of life. I cannot miss him — my heart is too full of gladness for him."
He starts again, and opens his mouth to speak—
"Bah, yes, I know, you think I am a hypocrite, because of their relationship, because you think I hate frogocianne. I am not so cruel. I have read my Freud. I attended the seminary, the same as you. My self-hatred, I know it well. I am an old man, I do not do well with change. With Innocent — this was my problem. I did not agree with his choice to become pope, it put so much in danger for the church, the scandal would have broken everything. I do not condone recklessness. But I felt the Holy Spirit in the chapel too. I know he is a better man than me. His love, the love of my friend — it is not my business. I see only two men brought back to life, back to God."
Aldo’s mind is blank. He does not know what his face looks like. He thinks that he might like to sit down, but the couch is too far away, and he does not want to sit on it with Tedesco. A part of him is shocked that Tedesco would call it love, that same part of himself that he has kept locked away for many years, since the 80s, that decade of grief. It is a word that settles uneasily in his stomach. Self-hatred — well, it is not that he did not know. It is true of the majority of the clergy, especially those of a certain age. And the man wears embroidered shoes, for Christ’s sake. But he did not quite — well, he supposes he did not think that Tedesco knew. And he is even more confused about why any of this is being told to him now, when they could just have easily retired into peaceful separation.
"Aldo — I will not take much more of your time. I can see that I am unwelcome. I, I, I suppose I should have expected that I would be. I wanted to say, ah, I have travelled to say — I have thought about this often, but it does not make the saying easier!"
Tedesco’s curls are in disarray, now, his hands gripping the gray strands at each break in his speech. Perhaps he is using the pain to steel himself, Aldo thinks — that is a tactic he knows well.
"I have always thought — yes, we have fought one another. The liberal and the conservative, the two forces of the church. In the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, in politics, at the conclave. I have been cruel. I would be so bold as to say that you have been cruel as well"—
Aldo scoffs. He wants to say, I gave as good as I got, but he finds his tongue won’t move.
—"We have been difficult. I have said and done many things I am not proud of. I am proud of my life, yes, my service to the church. I do not think regret is useful. I have loved God, I have wanted to keep the traditions he has given us. I have been misguided, sometimes. Innocent has helped me to see that. His mercy, it is abundant, but irritating, no? For one person to be so good?"
Aldo would never admit to it verbally, but he understands what Tedesco means. It is not an easy thing to be in the face of so much — innocence — when one has spent years in the grub of politics. It has the effect of bringing one’s guilt, one’s pettiness, to the fore. And it is not an easy thing to see the same man bring happiness to the person that you have tried for many decades to console.
"Sometimes, even, you have taught me things, Aldo. Maybe you have even learned something to me. The two theological minds of the Vatican — was it ever a surprise, Aldo, that no-one else joined us in debate? Who else was as knowledgeable, as passionate?"
This is pride, Aldo thinks, even as a part of him glows. Yes, how proud he has felt — the American from Queens, the froccio, called neurotic even by his own mentor — going toe-to-toe with the Lion of Venice, matching him, sometimes beating him into submission.
"For you, maybe, this was a war," says Tedesco, shrugging. "For me — our vocation. Discerning the truth, that is what you do, you Jesuits, yes? Ask ‘where is God in this?’ Did you not feel God in those arguments? In the heat of it? This is what I have been trying to say for decades, and perhaps I have failed. I do not think of the church as having sides, it is a process, yes, a debate. From collision emerges truth. Sometimes we must fail before we see the truth. Even I do not want to return to the church of the Middle Ages — yes, yes, I know that is what you think of me."
Aldo rankles at the Jesuit comment — Tedesco has not been a friend of the order — but he hears the passion in his voice. It is a sound with which he is familiar, and, were he any less surprised by this visit, one he might wish to mirror. He can admit that very, very deep down a part of himself has been missing in the move from politician to parish priest.
Of course Tedesco does not want to return to the dark ages. He has taken many conservative positions, yes, and Aldo has found some of them disgusting, other simply absurd. But he knows that Tedesco favors the preservation of doctrine over its enforcement, that he has little stomach for violence. Aldo would have feared for a church that saw the return of a Pope Pius, but he has never doubted that Tedesco does what he does out of a kind of love for the faithful. It is just, ah, a very misguided love.
'We have been partners in this, Aldo. The truth of the Church — the work of our lives has been to uncover it, together. I may be so prideful as to say that it often took both of us. We bring something out in one another, a clarity, a drive. I have sometimes wished that it could have been kinder, like with Tomasso, but, mah, maybe the work would have suffered. I have been fulfilled by my life, Aldo, by my vocation. When I retired — it was not because I believed the church was changing too much, but because my role in changing it was done. God is moving with others now. I returned home to the South with joy. I was happy to see the sun again, my family. Real food, no stuffy room in the palazzo. The fields and the trees, yes? I think you have found something similar here."
A small smile from Aldo. He is cares about what he is building, here. Who he has remembered he is. He has found he is starting to like himself again.
"I said earlier — I am not a man with regrets. They don’t haunt me. I trust in God, that he has a plan for me. I go to confession when I do wrong. But, when I left, I realized that I would not see you again. You, with whom I have done so much. So many hours talking, words written, read. I remember them all."
The confusion that has beset Aldo since he opened his door is rising, filling his chest, causing his heart to flutter. He is used to Tedesco’s long-winded arguments, his ardent manner of speaking. Never can he remember it being so vulnerable. That Tedesco has thought their relationship so differently — that he has thought about it at all, even missed it — Aldo does not know where to put that information, what to do with it. He is entirely lost.
"All those hours on the train to Basilicata, leaving Rome, I felt like I was leaving something behind. I was certain it was my time to leave, yet…there was something out of place. I have been praying. In the chapel of my village, and in the fields. Like St. Francis! You are surprised, yes? Very simple. I am from the countryside, at heart. Maybe you had forgotten. And it came to me. I needed to see you. We are retired, yes. It is the time to think about what we have done. And I thought — he does not know, how—how grateful I am. What I have loved. It has been hard, this life, yes. But good, I think."
Sitting down would have been a good idea. That Tedesco came all the way here, to say this — so simple, and yet so staggering — it is almost as if he is asking Aldo to revisit a lifetime of memories, to rewrite them. Tedesco, grateful? And yet, for the first time in this conversation, Tedesco looks certain (Aldo cannot even begin to process what his nervousness from earlier might mean), sincere, smiling slightly, a shine to his eyes.
And then Tedesco moves so swiftly that Aldo barely sees him, stepping towards Aldo, where he stands locked in his body by the sideboard. Aldo distantly realizes that he has not spoken in many minutes. Tedesco is very close to him, now, face wearing that same warm look. Up close, his skin bears the evidence of that time praying in the fields, colored golden by the sun. His linen shirt looks very soft. And then he is cupping Aldo’s face, lifting his chin, kissing him softly. It is brief, dry. Chaste. But the liquid welling in Tedesco’s eyes as he pulls away suggests that it is born from great emotion—though which emotion, Aldo is not exactly sure. He feels he has been frozen since Tedesco first followed him up the stairs, and now he is not sure when he will ever melt.
Tedesco is already halfway down the stairs, letting himself out. It is over, and Aldo hardly knows what it was. His face in the stairwell is swathed in shadows, but his voice, when he speaks, is thick.
"Just once - just once, I needed to. Good-bye."
And then he is gone, and Aldo is alone. Night has fully fallen, now — the room had grown dark around them. Without bothering to turn on the lights, he turns towards his bedroom. He needs to lie down.
—
-
On the other end of the phone, Thomas is silent. He hears Aldo’s breathing, winded from his long speech. He finds he does not quite know what to say.
"Where—where would you like to start, my friend?" He asks, tentatively.
"Oh, I don’t know," says Aldo, muffled. Thomas guesses his head might be buried in his hands. T"he man I considered my rival for decades made a surprise visit to my apartment, attempted to rewrite the entire foundation of our relationship, suggested that something between us was the one regret of his life, and then kissed me, and left!"
"Aldo, dear, "says Thomas. He must be very gentle in this, he thinks. He wish Vincent were here. "Are you…terribly surprised?"
"OF COURSE I am surprised, Thomas! Have you not been listening?"
"I admit, I am a little surprised at Goffredo’s boldness. And I frankly am not sure that I thought him capable of so much emotional depth. If it is as you say…perhaps retirement has softened him a bit. But, Aldo, are you telling me you did not know that he felt, well, something for you? You have been seeking each other out since you were seminarians, and on Goffredo’s end, it has always had something of the tone of pig-tail pulling…I guess I had assumed that you knew, were uninterested, perhaps because of his political views, perhaps because of your vows, and had chosen to engage him as an intellectual equal instead."
"I am not sure I ever felt that I chose to engage him," sputtered Aldo. "I needed to! The Church was in question! You remember how he was with Clement!"
"Yes, in later years, I admit he was antagonistic. And you know how he was with Vincent. But in forty years, Aldo, can you really say that you have never sought him out? That your relationship was only one of hate? I have many memories of turning corners, seeing the two of your pouring over a document, arguing in Latin. You were my dearest friend in those times, Aldo, but even I could see that you got something from those conversations that I could not give you."
"Are we to say nothing that the man kissed me, Thomas? I find it strange enough that you seem willing to understand him as a friend, but he let slip the word love at one point. Describing our working dynamic, yes, but still! Even for you that must be shocking!"
"I need you to clarify something for me, Aldo," said Thomas." We have never spoken about this directly with one another. I know that you were surprised, and distressed, when you found out about my relationship with Vincent. I had thought that was because he was the pope, and because of the difficulties in our friendship at that time, that you felt I had hidden something from you. But I realize that I should have asked — I have always assumed, Aldo, because of your advocacy, that you were interested in men. And I have heard you speak against the requirement of clerical celibacy. Forgive me for speaking with you so bluntly. But is the problem with the kiss that it was Tedesco? Or was do you feel that he violated your vocation? Because if it is the latter, Aldo, we are having a very different conversation."
"I- no, it is the former," Aldo admitted. "I have kept my vows, though I know many do not. I have come to see that your love for Vincent enlivens you, and I am glad. I would prefer to know little about your intimate life, but I know that you have one. It might have bothered me if he was still the pope, but he is not. My own vows I have kept partly for lack of opportunity, partly because of the vulnerability of my position. I loved my work, but I was a public figure. The risk would have been tremendous. I suppose if we were listing regrets, perhaps there is a part of me that regrets that I have not had with someone even a fragment of what you and Vincent share. But I have never seriously considered it. Until now, there was no space in my life to consider it."
"So it is Tedesco, then, that is the problem? That he could have feelings for you? Or that he seems to have acted on them?"
"Of course it is Tedesco. It unsettled me. One apology — not even an apology — it does not change the memories that I have. And to think that he, that he perhaps felt something for me during those years — that he could be so cruel to me even with those feelings — Thomas, that does not make me think happily upon the kind of emotion that I inspire."
"I agree," Thomas said, "that that is difficult. I am not asking you to pursue a relationship with him. I am not asking you to do anything at all. But perhaps you might think of forgiveness as a first step. To pray on what Goffredo has said to you — including, my friend, that mention of your own cruelty — and to ask what Christ is calling you to do. Perhaps it is only a softening of the heart."
"I…suppose," said Aldo. "Certainly I feel the need to pray. Thomas, it is haunting me. The idea that someone may have cared for me — that I did not know — and that it was him — I thought these years were for peace. I did not think — I do not wish — to spend so much time in my own heart, my own memories."
"But perhaps," replied Thomas, "that is exactly what this time is for. To let Aldo Bellini, Secretary of State, fall away, and to get to really feel again. Let us not speak as if you do not have life left, Aldo. Do not let this torment you. God is with you. I sense that he has something to teach you in this, though I do not claim to know what."
"Very well," said Aldo, tiredly. "I will pray. I hope that you will too. I expect you will hear from me soon."
"Go in peace," said Thomas, ending the call. The Lord works in mysterious ways, he thought, peering out the window at the broad black sky.
—
A month later, the satellite phone pinged again. It could only receive rudimentary texts, and responding was laborious, requiring Thomas to punch out each letter via the number keys. An email would have been easier. But this message was brief, and required no reply.
“Bought ticket to Basilicata. Pray for me.”