Chapter 10 #2
We reached the third floor and signed in with two members of the Swiss Guards, a regiment consisting, Reggie had told me, of the only people legally permitted to live within Vatican City aside from the Pope and his army of cardinals, bishops, and lowlier-yet-still-ordained types.
I’d seen photos of these Guards, but their uniforms were even more riotously musical comedy up close: a costumer’s sketchbook of outrageously festive pantaloons and fulsomely sleeved tunics, all in the boldest stripes of five-alarm red, a rich cobalt, and a mustardy yellow, topped by voluminous velvet headgear, like squashed soufflés, and boots with laced spats.
In the outer square, we’d passed Guards who’d layered on armored breastplates and high, plumed helmets.
Wearing such flamboyance took guts. Reggie had told me these positions were prized, and the two men who were marching us down the hallway were absurdly handsome, like Caravaggio gods with the deluxe coloring of Italians at their most lushly, painfully desirable.
The Guards halted at a lacquered alligator-green door—everything in Italy could’ve been purchased at Gucci.
A man wearing the scarlet silk floor-length cassock of a cardinal, with the matching four-cornered red hat, ushered us inside, saying, “Good morning, Fathers. There’s little time to waste. I’m Cardinal Benselmo.”
Cardinal Benselmo—and I’m sorry, but I mean this technically—swished us into an antechamber with creamy walls, a frescoed ceiling, highly polished walnut floors, and an antique French desk.
“The Americans,” Cardinal Benselmo said into an intercom connected to a desktop phone, a quaintly Mad Men, Peggy-hold-my-calls touch.
“Are you prepared?” he asked us, as the sigificance of the next few seconds sank in—I was about to meet the Pope.
The cardinal brought Reggie and me through an inner door into the main parlor of the papal apartments, and I envy any job that supplies a residence—I’ve read that the editor in chief of Vogue gets a penthouse and a wardrobe budget.
The room was spacious and elegantly furnished. Nothing was fussy or garish, and like any decent New Yorker, my first thought was, I could live here, as I debated where I’d hang a flat-screen and whether the landlord allowed pets.
Seated on a high-backed, throne-like chair upholstered in white silk was a man also upholstered in white silk—His Holiness, Pope Terence.
He was in his eighties and had held office for a decade, with a reputation for humility and a cautiously progressive platform on LGBTQ+ issues.
I was divided: on one hand, Pope Terence had heralded the blessing of same-sex couples, although not as outright marriage, while also referring to “homosexual practices” as “disordered” and “unnatural.” He advocated “condemning the sin, but not the sinner,” a phrase that could also be applied to eating fried foods.
He’d been rancorously criticized from all sides, as being way too liberal and relentlessly homophobic.
Which meant, of course, that I should high-mindedly school him on queer civil rights, setting off the smoke detectors with the rigor of my I-am-a-proud-rainbow-warrior rhetoric.
Pope Terence stood and smiled, with a warmth only enhanced by his homely, regular-guy-with-a-hot-dog-cart face. He extended an arm and I panicked—was I supposed to kiss his ring, which was a sizeable chunk of gold?
“Welcome,” he said, clasping Reggie’s hand, without any jewelry-smooching.
“Your Eminence,” said Reggie, as I thought, OMG, do they know each other? From where, some weekend gay soccer league? Had they dated but fallen out over allowing prayer in the schools? “This is Father O’Rourke.”
As I writhed into something between a bow and a curtsy, I could hear my mom’s voice commanding, “Stand up straight! Be a gentleman!” But His Holiness had already taken my hand and gestured for me to rise, saying, in perfect English with a trace of his native Spain, “A pleasure. What a fine young fellow.”
Okay: Was I being cruised by the Pope? Had I been brought along as a papal snack? But I was highly overrating myself, because the Pope, as Reggie had mentioned, was entirely straight.
“The First Lady will be here any moment,” said Cardinal Benselmo, moving us toward a sitting area.
“I’m told that, as always, our world is in terrible, imminent peril,” Terence said, while we all sat. “From both known and anonymous individuals, hell-bent on destruction.”
“Sadly,” said Reggie, “that’s very true. And the First Lady is caught in the crossfire. You may be targeted as well.”
The Pope waved vaguely, replying, “So it’s Monday. How may I help?”
“Please keep your contact with Ms. Pershing as private as possible,” Reggie said. “Photographs are fine, but appearing outdoors presents tactical difficulties. We’ll also need a security detail and safe passage afterward. So we can shield both you and Reata at all costs.”
“And I thank you. But your companion seems troubled, over more than just my well-being.”
What was I doing—fidgeting or making some contorted face?
Was Luc’s predicament and my attachment to the Tuxes taking an obvious toll?
Especially because I still didn’t know the scope or the full details of the battle being waged?
Was I about to be life-coached by a guy with an ultimate insider’s enlightenment?
“Life will never be without turmoil,” said Terence. “But there’s something which quiets my mind at moments of exceptional bewilderment. Please let me assist you.”
The Pope was wearing his white silk skullcap, but at his behest, Cardinal Benselmo was loaning me the more formal, tall, richly embroidered, and conical papal mitre, that big hat so familiar from Terence’s holiday Masses broadcast everywhere.
I should’ve said, “Thank you so much, but I can’t” or “I’m a Jewish guy profaning your faith, so my hair may catch on fire,” only the cardinal was already placing the mitre on my head.
First, I had to restrain myself from blessing everyone in the room.
Then, while of course I couldn’t, I was desperate to post this on Instagram.
Next, I was sure this would’ve been a great look for my family’s next Passover seder.
Finally, I stopped snarking and let the mitre take effect.
I became more—I wasn’t sure what to call it, maybe stronger, from the hat’s authority and grace.
This wasn’t a false peacefulness or unearned forgiveness—it was more of an encouraging pause, a calming hand on my shoulder, telling me I should keep doing my job as a Tux, which might help Luc.
As an actor, I’d been taught: the perfect costume can anchor a performance.
“Your Eminence?” said the cardinal—was he talking to me? No, he meant the actual Pope, to whom he was announcing, “Ms. Reata Pershing of the United States of America.”
Reata’s four Secret Service agents filed in, and I was apprehensive: If I was wanted for Luc’s possible murder and a photo of me had been sent everywhere, would these agents recognize and arrest me?
But I was ignored, maybe because, as Reggie had once said, “Those guys work hard, but they’re not the brightest bulbs in the federal chandelier. ”
Reata strode into the room, raising the temperature. Her good cheer and aplomb were as dazzling as ever, but today she wore a navy blue sheath, piped in white, with a matching coat, gloves, and a modified black lace veil, showing respect for Pope Terence.
“Your Holiness,” she said. Pope Terence offered an air kiss, which Reata’s crisp glamour demanded. “Reata,” he said. “You bless this day.”
“It’s so good to see you again, even under compromised circumstances,” Reata told him. “Here’s what I propose: let’s take some pictures and then, if I may, I’d like a word with you and Fathers Mulcahy and O’Rourke.”
She’d memorized our aliases, and swapped a meaningful look with Reggie; a strategy was definitely underway. She added, “And Father O’Rourke, your hat is really working.”
I’d forgotten the mitre, which I quickly handed off to Cardinal Benselmo.
As I sputtered to explain, Reata smiled, quadrupling my helpless awe.
At a motion from the cardinal, a small group of photographers snapped Reata and His Holiness, appreciating one another, chatting on a settee, and with Terence introducing Reata to an oil portrait of his predecessor, a much less amiable man.
“Thank you, everyone,” Reata told these select members of the press. “Make us look good.”
“God be with you,” His Holiness said, a phrase with hallowed resonance when uttered by the Pope, who presumably spoke with God regularly, like a company’s president meeting with its CEO.
Once the media contingent was gone, the Pope asked Cardinal Benselmo to wait outside, along with Reata’s dark-suited squad, leaving Reggie and me alone with two epic world leaders.
I was more out-of-body than ever, as if I were touring a Madame Tussauds exhibit come to life.
I resisted taking a selfie for my parents, with the caption “Fuck all those drama schools who turned me down.”
“Reggie,” Reata began, “and Andrew.”
She was miles ahead of us, which didn’t surprise me. “Thank you again for your valor in the Blue Room, and your apprehending that potential bomber. I apologize for not keeping you in the loop about the gravity and scale of the situation. I’ve got the Clotho.”
She reached into her navy blue kidskin purse, removing a plastic ziplock bag containing the large jewel, and I half expected her to fish out extra bags with Pepperidge Farm Goldfish, like a playground mom. And yes, I’m an idiot.