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The late evening in the Vatican was quiet and calm. Most of the cardinals were either asleep or sitting in their rooms, pondering the next moves. Cardinal Tremblay was not asleep. After tossing and turning for a few minutes, he finally got up, poured himself a glass of wine, and went down to the common room. He moved lightly, as if gliding. For his age, it was surprising — he still had the grace of a young man.
In the common room sat Cardinal Adeyemi. For a second, Joseph thought he was asleep. But when his footsteps echoed in the doorway, Joshua turned his head.
“Can’t sleep?” asked Cardinal Tremblay, holding his wine glass with the ring on his finger.
“Neither can you?” Adeyemi replied with a question, without opening his eyes.
“Yes. Every day the same calculations, the same votes, the same promises from the cardinals.”
“We both know that. Otherwise none of us would be wearing red,” Adeyemi smiled wryly. “Otherwise we wouldn't be interested in all this bureaucracy and the desire to take the papal seat.”
Tremblay took a sip of wine. Semi‑sweet, from France, it seemed. He clicked his tongue softly.
“I spoke with Cardinal Tedesco,” his voice scraped like an unoiled door hinge. “The same words. But I think he's tired of pretending he supports anyone but himself. That Italian decided long ago who gets the papal tiara.”
“Himself,” Joshua said. It wasn't a question; it was a statement. Even though he didn't know Tedesco well, he knew that Tedesco considered no one here his equal. Even if he didn't say it, his gaze — always condescending, as if speaking to unruly teenagers — said plenty. Tedesco probably thought of them all as teenagers in cassocks.
Joshua sighed. He adjusted his cross, lost in thought.
“I understand myself. 'Cardinal from Nigeria! Cardinal from Nigeria!' They use me like… I don't even know. First they say I'll be 'progressive' — meaning they'll have their first non‑white Pope. Then, in the same breath, they defend women and gays.” Adeyemi chuckled. “You see, I'm not white. The Conclave is a nest, all right.”
Joseph smiled. They understood. They weren't children anymore.
“It's amazing that no one will ever understand us,” Tremblay said, settling onto the sofa in the drawing room. “I’m not good enough for Tedesco, nor for Bellini. To the Italians, I’m a foreigner. And you’re a Nigerian with an unpronounceable surname to these cardinals. We’re not one of them. No one can ever truly be one of them here.”
“But you still try to buy their smiles.”
“And they see you as someone who’ll be 'progressive' only because you're of a different race. And then what? They immediately changed their tune when you turned out to be a traditionalist. The same hypocrisy as with me.”
Both cardinals fell silent. The silence lasted for several minutes. Joseph looked at the clock; Joshua studied something on his cross.
“I’m not asking for your votes. And I won’t give you mine,” the African cardinal suddenly broke the silence.
“I’m not asking. I’m offering something else: don’t get in each other’s way. And if one of us falls under attack, the other at least doesn’t finish him off,” the French‑Canadian shrugged. “It’s not generosity. Just a respite from the dirty games. Even I get tired of them sometimes.”
“That sounds like a deal.”
“Others will call it a deal. For us — it’s a little solidarity among outsiders in a sea of Italians.”
They shook hands. Long, without haste. An awkward moment when fingers linger a little longer than formality requires. Adeyemi pretends it was an accident. Joseph says nothing aloud.
Joshua rubbed the bridge of his nose — he always did that when he was tired. Tired of the cardinals, of the votes, of all this reality.
“When was the last time you could allow yourself to be weak in front of someone?” Joseph’s quiet voice made Joshua start and stop staring at the floor.
“Never.”
In the Conclave, you can’t be weak in front of anyone. They’ll deem you useless, and the stronger candidates will devour you. And that would be the end. Adeyemi’s shoulders were still tense. He hadn’t even noticed how the other man had placed a hand on his.
“You’re strange. Anyone else in your place…”
“Stop calling me 'anyone',” Joseph’s voice took on that icy note he usually hid behind a friendly smile. “And you’re not 'anyone' either.”
“That sounds frightening.”
“At least this time I’m honest.”
Someone looked in through the door — maybe a nun, maybe Thomas. In any case, they were told that morning prayer would begin soon. Joseph stood, adjusted his cassock, looking again like the prim and proper gentleman.
“About this conversation…” Adeyemi began.
“No one will know. But I, for one, will remember.”
Adeyemi nodded, and they went their separate ways down different corridors. Halfway, Tremblay turned and saw that Adeyemi was watching him go. A brief smile — and that was it.
The next day, the voting went on as usual. Tremblay and Adeyemi voted for different candidates. But when their eyes met, neither looked away. There was no enmity in them — only a silent understanding: I am as much an outsider as you, and I stand with you in that.