The Last Pope - By Lus M. Rocha Page 0,2

Sister Vincenza, and to his favorite doctor, Giuseppe de Rós. Don Giuseppe came to Rome every two weeks, traveling almost four hundred miles to see his patient. “I don’t know how you do it, Don Albino,” the doctor said. “Are you sure you still have birthdays? Every year I find you healthier and hardier.”

“I’m beginning to doubt you, Don Giuseppe. You’re the only one who doesn’t notice my ailments.”

Vincenza carried out all her duties with humble pleasure. To her, Albino Luciani was a good man who treated her with gentleness and affection, more like a friend than a mere assistant. For that reason he had brought her with him upon moving into his new residence, considerably larger than the preceding one and much more sumptuous, of course. That magnificence and ostentation irritated Don Albino. He wasn’t a man who appreciated a profusion of useless objects. He was interested in spiritual issues. However, like everyone else, he sometimes had to deal with practical matters, if only to make life more livable for those around him. Albino knew that in time he would have to organize his home either to his taste or to that of others.

A heart attack less than a year ago had left Vincenza lying in a hospital bed. She didn’t heed her doctor’s advice not to go back to work, but just to supervise the work of others, and preferably sitting down. Instead, she continued to personally take care of Don Albino.

In spite of her kind disposition, Sister Vincenza frowned at the suggestion that she abandon the common chores she enjoyed doing, like bringing him that tray of coffee through the half-lit galleries so early in the morning. Of course, in order to keep doing them and to be near Don Albino, Sister Vincenza had to join the congregation of Maria Bambina, in charge of the pope’s residence. Elena, the mother superior, along with Sisters Margherita, Assunta Gabriella, and Clorinda, all had been very kind to her, but none of them wanted to be in charge of anything having to do with Don Albino’s daily matters. Only Sister Vincenza, with her skilled hands and delicate touch, was willing to take care of him. Usually when the nun reached the door of Don Albino’s private quarters, she set the tray on a small table placed there especially for this purpose, and gently knocked twice.

“Good morning, Don Albino,” she almost whispered. And she waited. A similar greeting would come from the other side of the door; Don Albino usually woke up in a good mood. Sometimes he stuck his head out to Sister Vincenza for his first smile of the day. Other times, when important Vatican business dampened his spirits, Don Albino mumbled his “good morning” and, to avoid complaining about the treasurers’ or politicians’ lack of diplomacy, lamented the swelling of his ankles.

But that morning, that morning, Don Albino kept silent. With Sister Vincenza’s fastidious penchant for precision, any departure from the daily routine annoyed her. She leaned her head on the door, straining to hear something on the other side. But she heard nothing. She considered knocking again, but finally decided against it. This is the first time Don Albino slept late, she thought as she was leaving. After all, it wouldn’t be such a tragedy if he slept a few more minutes.

Sister Vincenza silently walked back to her room to say her morning prayers.

It was already four-thirty in the morning.

MUTTERING THAT he couldn’t sleep, the man was tossing and turning in bed. This was so unusual. He had always been able to fall asleep anytime, anywhere, whatever the circumstances. Sergeant Hans Roggan was methodical, steady, reserved. His mother had come to Rome that day to visit him. He took her to dinner and it was probably the coffee he had with dessert, he thought, that was keeping him awake. At least that’s what Sergeant Hans wanted to believe, but in fact it had been a tumultuous day, the afternoon in particular, with many prelates coming and going in and out of the private quarters of His Holiness.

He finally decided to get up. If sleep won’t come, what can I do? I’m not going to lie here forever, waiting for it, he told himself. He opened his closet and put on his uniform, which had been designed in 1914 by Commandant Jules Repond. If Commander Repond had known then that decades later people would attribute his design to Michelangelo, who knows whether he would have enjoyed the honor