The Confessor

certain monsignor from the Congregation for the Clergy was misusing his motor-pool privileges. Each time Brindisi paused for a breath, the Pope murmured, "Ah, how interesting, Eminence," all the while wondering why he was being informed of a problem at the motor pool.
    "I'm afraid I need to discuss a matter of some"--the fussy cardinal cleared his throat and patted his lips with his napkin--"shall we say, unpleasantness, Holiness. Perhaps now is as good a time as any."
    "Please, Eminence," the Pope said quickly, eager for any change of subject that might soften the drumbeat of Curial monotony. "By all means."
    Brindisi laid down his fork like a man surrendering after a long siege and clasped his hands beneath his chin. "It seems our old friend from La Repubblica is up to no good again. In the course of preparing a long profile on Your Holiness for the newspaper's Easter edition, he has uncovered some"--a reflective pause, a glance toward the heavens for inspiration--"some inconsistencies about your childhood."
    "What sort of inconsistencies?"
    "Inconsistencies about the date of your mother's death. How old you were when you were orphaned. Where you stayed. Who cared for you. He is an enterprising reporter, a constant thorn in the side of the secretariat. He manages to uncover things that we've done our best to bury. I have reiterated to my staff that no one is to talk to him without the approval of the Press Office, but somehow--"
    "People are talking to him."
    "That appears to be the case, Holiness."
    The Pope pushed away his empty plate and exhaled heavily. It had been his intention to release the full details of his childhood in the days after the conclave, but there were those in the Curia and the Press Office who thought the world was not ready for a street-urchin pope, a boy who had lived by his wits and his fists until he was drawn to the breast of the Church. It was an example of the very culture of secrecy and deceit Lucchesi so despised about the Vatican, but in the opening days of his papacy he had been unwilling to waste valuable political capital, so he reluctantly agreed to paper over some of the less saintly details of his upbringing.
    "It was a mistake to tell the world that I grew up in Padua, in a loving home filled with much devotion to Christ and the Virgin, before entering the seminary at fifteen. Your friend from La Repubblica is going to find the truth."
    "Let me deal with La Repubblica. We have ways of bringing wayward journalists into line."
    "Such as?"
    "Banning them from accompanying Your Holiness on foreign trips. Locking them out of press briefings. Revoking their privileges at the Press Office."
    "That seems awfully harsh."
    "I doubt it will come to that. I'm sure we can convince him of the truth."
    "Which truth is that?"
    "That you were raised in Padua, in a loving home filled with much devotion to Christ and the Virgin." Brindisi smiled and brushed an invisible breadcrumb from his cassock. "But when one is battling this sort of thing, it can be helpful to have the complete picture so that we know what we're up against."
    moment, as if preparing himself for a reading from the Gospel. "I oppose revisiting the issue because it will do nothing but give more ammunition to those who wish to destroy us."
    "Our continued deception and evasion is more risky. If we do not speak forcefully and honestly, the work of our enemies will be accomplished by our own hand. We will destroy ourselves."
    "If I may speak forcefully and honestly, Holiness, your naivety in this matter is shocking. Nothing the Church can say will ever satisfy those who condemn us. In fact, it will only add fuel to the fire. I cannot allow you to tread on the reputation of popes and the Church with this folly. Pius the Twelfth deserves sainthood, not another crucifixion."
    Pietro Lucchesi had yet to be seduced by the trappings of papal power, but the blatant insubordination of Brindisi's remark stirred his anger. He forced himself to speak calmly. Even so, there was an edge of rage and condescension in his voice that was plain to the man seated on the other side of the table. "I can assure you, Marco, that those who wish for Pius to be canonized will have to pin their hopes on the outcome of the next conclave."
    The cardinal ran a long, spidery finger around the rim of his coffee cup, steeling himself for one more assault on the ridge. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, "The Pole apologized on numerous occasions for the