Chapter 5: ‘Well, I can see who wears the trousers.’

So there I was, in a homeless shelter somewhere in Rome, with a nun, a priest, my wife and the head of the Catholic church. So the bartender says...

Okay, there was no bartender. Too bad, because this was supposed to be a vacation, damn it! A honeymoon! But what do I get? I get to go from one potential aneurysm to the the next! Someone walks in on me fucking my wife! Then there’s an orgy in my apartment! I seem to be on a painting made well before I was even born and to cap it off THE BLOODY POPE DECIDED HE’D HAVE A GIGGLE AND PULLED AN ALLEN FUNT ON ME! OR A JEREMY BEADLE OR A RALPH INBAR, DELETE AS APPLICABLE.

I was fuming, I really was. As soon as I understood this was really the Pope, something snapped. I legged it out of the kitchen, found a backdoor that led to a courtyard where they kept the bins and looked for something to kick. A green, plastic recyclables container had a distinctly vexatious attitude, so I kicked that for a bit. Then I checked Wikipedia to make extra sure George was in fact the Pope. And then I checked the last edits on that page, to make extra extra sure his picture hadn’t been put in there half an hour ago. Well, I think you know what I learned ... The real St. McCoy.

I like to think I’m a good sport, that I can take a joke. It’s not that easy to catch me out, but Kate and Kelly manage it often enough and Mel has her moments, too. But this shit, for over THREE hours? That was just mean. I slapped the Pope on his back, while a heavily armed guard was standing behind me! I could have been capped like a ginger rapper. A nun lied to me. A NUN! Okay, a novice. But still. Meanwhile, they had me working like a dog in a sweltering kitchen while I was starving.

“Was that old geezer really hurt or was that part of it?” I demanded of Melody, who was sent after me to calm me down. She had her arms crossed and wore her ‘Mrs. Huxtable’ expression, as we call it when she can’t hear us. That expression means she’s not taking your shit right now, and it has been passed on from black mothers to their daughters since time immemorial, getting scarier with each new generation.

“Don’t yell at me. I had a perfectly horrible afternoon as well. I nearly kill a priest, I have to communicate with far more Italians than anyone on their honeymoon should ever have to deal with and when I come back to my husband I find him backslapping the pontiff! Jesus Chr ... AAAH! This is what you get for ignoring the news, Martin!”

“Well I’m sorry, but I was a bit busy when he got hired! Here, look at this: he was consecrated or whatever they call it on March 13th, 2013. Do you know what I was doing then? I was on stage at the Hertford Theatre and then I found out Diana was married! And I didn’t find time to read the news the next day either, because that’s when you and I had our row!”

“Yes, I get it, you missed the fact he became Pope. But he’s been in the news since then, you know! Unlike that German bastard, this one is actually alright! But that doesn’t get a whole lot of coverage in PC Monthly or on Slashdot! I knew that habit would come back to bite you, but this is ... infuriating! The POPE, Martin! Take an interest!”

“He wore a WIG! And sunglasses! How was I to know?! Said his name was George!”

“Funny, but he wasn’t wearing a wig when I came in!”

Father Vincenzo popped his head round the door.

“We can hear every word inside, you know. The Holy Father requests your presence.”

He was about to go back inside when he changed his mind and added:

“And a request from His Holiness should be treated as an order. Even by you.”

“Oh great,” mumbled Melody, as she pushed my shoulder to make me walk towards the door. “Now we’re in trouble with the Vatican. Nice going, Carstairs.”

“What is he gonna do, make us write ‘I must not slap the Pope’ a thousand times? Excommunicate me? I’m not even a member! Do you know what, I’ll tell him I’m a Palestinian. He’ll forget all about me instantly.”

“We can still hear you,” said Vincenzo. “In fact, we can hear you even better.”

George ... I mean Pope Francis, sat in a chair in the middle of the kitchen. Novice Sister Rebecca The Liar stood behind him, trying to look pious, and Vatican Ninja Father Vincenzo seemed to play the role of usher.

“His Holiness has something to tell you,” he announced. I happened to glance at a clock mounted on the wall behind him. Time to put in the pasta!

“Can it wait ten seconds? I got eighty litres of minestrone on the go and eighty buns in the oven.”

But George ... Francis held up his hand.

“I am sure it can wait one minute,” he said, through Father Vincenzo. “Martin, it was not my intention to deceive you for so long. I admit we were having a little fun with you, but I thought you’d notice it eventually. I am used to people knowing my face. I’m sure you are familiar with that, as a movie star.”

“I am, as it happens,” I admitted. “It’s quite annoying. Can’t even blow my nose in public without someone taking a picture.”

“Exactly. Hence my disguise. I know it looks ridiculous, but for some reason it works. Once a week I try to spend time with men and women such as Father Luigi and Sister Rebecca, and to meet the poor and the needy without all the pomp and circumstance of my official role, as I used to do when I was still a bishop. I understand you know very little of the church, but do you know what a Franciscan is?”

“Not really. I thought those were the guys with the bald spots.”

Sister Rebecca bit her lip and made a sound as if someone was trying to start a car with a dead battery. That startled her.

“Mi dispiace molto, Santo Padre,” she whispered.

“You mean the tonsure?” asked Vincenzo, annoyed. “That’s not really a thing anymore. And could you please let His Holiness finish?”

One pan hissed, as it boiled over and some soup hit the gas burner.

“Hold that thought,” I said, as I rushed to the stovetops and turned down the knobs as far as they went. While I was there, I figured I might as well add the pasta: two kilograms per pan seemed about right, so eight bags. But then it needed a stir, so all in all I was busy for two or three minutes. It smelled wonderful, especially combined with the bread that was nearly done.

“Okay, okay, okay,” I said, taking my place next to Mel and wiping my hands on a tea towel, which I then hid by tossing it onto an empty chair. “I’m good. I’m ready. Go.”

“GO?” hissed Vincenzo.

“Tutto a posto, amico mio,” said Francis. “Digli che vorrei offrirgli una benedizione per l’aiuto che ci ha dato. Ed in luna di miele, nientedimeno.”

“His Holiness would like to bless you for helping us, even on this, your honeymoon.”

I made eye contact with Melody.

“Yeahhhh ... I think ... we’re good ... right, Mel?”

The look on Melody’s face told me we were not good and that I was about to get blessed or concussed, one or both.

“The Pope wants to apologize to you,” she hissed. “You will be gracious about it or else!”

“His Holiness does NOT apologize,” said Vincenzo, haughtily. “He is infallible. But he would like to bless you and your marriage.”

At that particular point my marriage needed all the help it could get, so I just nodded. Everyone relaxed.

“Please kneel before His Holiness,” said Vincenzo, pointing to a spot in front of Georg ... Francis’ chair. And that’s when I fucked up. I didn’t mean to. It just happened.

“Excuse me? Kneel? What kind of apology is that?! UNGH! Mel, that hurt!”

Mel had punched me in the kidney. She probably hadn’t meant to aim quite so well, but she had. And she wasn’t sorry, either.

“SERIOUSLY?! Are you THAT Dutch? AAAAAARGH! You know, I have had to put up with a LOT by having a Dutchman for a boyfriend and a husband. You people debate EVERYTHING. You’re INCREDIBLY blunt, oh no sorry, ‘honest’. You refuse to spend money on clothes, hell you won’t even take a cab unless the underground is no longer running! And then there’s the liquorice and the sodding cheese sandwiches for lunch and the frankly insane volume of dairy that we go through in a week and moaning about bread and all the rest of it, but I signed up for that so that’s fine. But the egalitarianism ... There is a LINE, you know! That HAS to stop SOMEWHERE! It’s the POPE! Could you PLEASE, for ONCE in your life accept there is someone who outranks you and act accordingly? Besides Kate and Caroline, I mean? Please? But ... AH! Just ... I’m sorry Your Holiness, it’s just that this man can be so...”

First I thought the Pope and Father Vincenzo were in a rugby scrum of two. They were leaning on each other’s shoulders, heads close together as if they were heaving a secret conversation. But then it dawned on me they were laughing. Both of them! Vincenzo sat on his haunches next to the Pope’s seat and they were bobbing up and down, like those nodding dogs you can get for your dashboard. I couldn’t understand what they were trying to say in between howls of laughter, but I’m pretty sure they were making fun of us. The outside door flung open and one of the Swiss guards, his hand reaching to something under his jacket, near his armpit, stepped in.

“Che sta succedendo?”

Sister Rebecca, who wasn’t laughing but seemed to be recovering from the fright of her life, came up to him and, speaking quietly in Italian, ushered him outside. The egg-timer we had set for the ovens, a weird little thing in the shape of a black chicklet with cartoonish eyes that seemed to be wearing the top half of an egg for a hat, rang like the lunch bell in a foundry.

“Mel, those need to come out. Now!”

“Yeah, okay. I guess we’re forgiven. Look at them! They’re like two teenage boys.”

We raced to get all the buns out, covering every available surface of the kitchen with baking plates. The kitchen became swelteringly hot. Sister Rebecca checked the time on her smartphone.

“I have to open the doors now. People are waiting.”

“Yes, let them in. Tell them it’ll be about ten minutes. Oh and take Father Chuckles and Giggles the Pontiff, if you’re not going to be of any help.”

“Ai calme down, tee hee hee...” giggled the Primate of Italy. “We take inside the soup?”

“Not yet.”

“But is finish!”

“I haven’t tasted it yet, have I? And can someone open a door? I know I’m going to have to get used to being somewhere warm, but not quite yet,” I said, as I ladled some soup in a bowl and used a teaspoon to taste it. To my surprise, the others wanted a taste as well.

“Needs more salt,” said Vincenzo.

“Si. Ies okay. But a bit ... come si dice ... scipita?”

They found a small salt shaker and added some while I was stirring the pans. It smelled okay.

“Still needs a bit more,” said Vincenzo. Francis nodded. I sighed.

“There’s plenty of salt in it! And these people probably get way too much salt in their diet as it is.”

“They’re right, Martin,” said Melody, who was the last to have a taste. Behind us we heard voices, as Rebecca had opened the main entrance doors and people shuffled into the dining hall, apparently somewhat surprised that nothing was ready at the two large tables near the kitchen, each equipped with two hotplates. There were baskets for bread, but all they contained were clean tea towels.

“Here, salt!” said Vincenzo, rummaging through the cabinets. He was actually going to pour some into the pans!

“DON’T! Listen, it has more than enough salt. It probably needs a little acidity, like lemon juice or a wine vinegar. Have we got anything like that?”

Melody found two bottles of apple cider, which would do the trick. I added a dash to the bowl and finally the old men gave their blessing. And I use the expression sarcastically, just so you know.

“Questo sì che è un bel trucco!”

“Yes! What a good trick!”

“Good. One hundred millilitres in each pan. Can someone gather up the buns and fire up those hotplates?”

Five minutes later we were up and running. The Swiss Guards has come in and kept an eye on the crowd, who were surprisingly unsurprised by the sight of the Servant of the Servants of God serving soup. And try saying that ten times fast. Melody and Francis both ladled soup from a pan, careful not to give out too much. Vincenzo and I were halving buns and the guests filed past us, mumbling thanks as they presented their bowls.

I was surprised to see the diversity of these people. There were the stereotypical homeless, men and women with faces ravaged by alcohol abuse who seemed to be carrying and wearing all they possessed on their person, but more than a few of the people I served were clean-shaven and wore clothes that were quite presentable. Later I would learn some of them even had jobs, or would have a roof over their heads at least a few nights a week. Homelessness comes in many forms and can happen for many reasons, apparently. I saw young women, who had no business being out after dark as far as I was concerned, with unkempt hair and broken nails, but also maternal types who just looked like someone’s mother-in-law. I decided I wasn’t going to check who should be here and who should not, because clearly I knew bugger all about the homeless. Pope Francis certainly made no distinction. Some people asked for a blessing, which he did quickly and with a smile. Others just wanted to touch his upper arm, or were happy with a kind word. It held up the line a bit, but nobody minded and besides, you could always pass behind whoever was chatting and be served by Melody. Since she was now calm and back to her usual cheerful and gorgeous self, quite a few people took that route. The seats slowly filled up and people began to chat. They probably saw each other here regularly.

A woman who looked like she should be in a retirement home, bent over like a human question mark, mumbled something to the Pope. He answered quietly as he held her hand:

“Mantieni salda la tua fede, sorella. Il Signore sarà sicuramente...”

At that point, a weird noise echoed through the room. A frightening squeak, followed by ominous bubbling. People sat at a nearby table looked up from their meal. The Pope stopped talking and stared at me:

“E questo cos’era?!”

“Yeah, sorry. I missed lunch, okay?” I said. The smell of soup and fresh bread wasn’t helping. I was famished, even though the sight of all the people in distress did help me to refrain from whining. The Pope finished his chat with the woman and then signalled Rebecca to take his place. He took me aside.

“My son, why you no eate?”

He pointed at the pans of soup and the bread.

“Martin, I’ll get you a bowl,” said Mel, who understood the urgency from bitter experience.

“No! That’s not for me! Who knows how many people might show up, or want seconds. We’ve served eight-six up until now and they’re still coming in.”

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This Is Your Carstairs Speaking

Ron Dudderie

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