Excerpt from The Delight of Being Ordinary by Roland Merullo, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"What's wrong, Your Holiness?"

"Oh, stop it," he said in his fake-­gruff voice. "For the one thousandth time, Paolo, please and kindly call me 'Giorgio' or 'Pope,' anything but 'Your Holiness.' I'm not worthy of that title, and it's like a wall between me and the cousin I love."

"Impossible, Your Holiness," I said. "I'm a simple man. If I start calling you Giorgio in private, I'll slip someday and say it in public."

"Sì, e poi?" Yes, and then?

"And then my enemies will attack me, and attack you for hiring me."

"Yes, and then?"

"Your judgment will come into question . . . and I'll be out on the street."

It was all a joke, a comic routine. "You keep me sane, cousin," the Pope liked to say. "Joke with me. Make me laugh. Remind me that I am, in fact, a human being, not a figurehead."

"Something's bothering you, Pope," I said.

He smirked, looked sideways, chewed meditatively on a slice of pear. "I can no more hide my thoughts from you than I can hide my sins from God."

"What is it?"

"How's Rosa?"

"Beautiful, intelligent, stubborn, rich, impossible to live with—­which is why I no longer live with her. In short, the same as always. Don't change the subject. What's wrong?"

"And your miraculous daughter, Anna Lisa?"

"Fine, also, though I haven't seen her in four months. She misses you. Rosa, for some reason, thinks Anna Lisa has a serious boyfriend. Now, tell me, what's wrong?"

More pensive chewing. A sip of tea. As was his habit—­part of his ongoing battle with the demon of sugar—­he broke one of the coins of dark chocolate in two and handed the larger piece to me. Another moment and out came the truth. "I have a confession to make."

"I'll call Cardinal Forgereau, your confessor. Let me finish the meal and I'll—­"

"Not that kind of confession, Paolo. You're right. I'm troubled. I feel . . . lately I've been feeling, I don't know . . . soffocato. Stifled. Constrained."

"Emotionally or spiritually?"

"Both."

"Details, please."

He shook his head, frustrated. "I can't describe it."

"Should we cancel today's events? Say you're not feeling well? The Dalai Lama and his entourage are here until tomorrow, we can still—­"

More headshaking. "It's not that. I'm anxious to see him. I feel so badly about not meeting him when he was in Rome with the Nobel laureates. That was shameful and foolish of me. I listened to bad advice—­a terrible weakness of mine—­and now I want to make it up to him." The Pope paused again, shook his head in small movements. For a moment he couldn't seem to make eye contact, an exceedingly rare occurrence with this man. At last he looked up. "Could you do me a favor, cousin?"

"Anything."

The Pope is from Argentina—­everyone knows that—­and his first language is Spanish, of course. But his parents—­like my mother—­were Italian-­born, and so, in honor of our shared heritage and in deference to the traditions of the Church, we usually spoke Italian with each other. This had the added advantage of not arousing suspicion among my numerous enemies in the Vatican bureaucracy. With most of the Pope's visitors, English was the preferred tongue. I'm fluent, thanks to my parents, but the Holy Father sometimes struggles, and he hesitated so long then, spent so much time placing another pear slice between his lips, chewing, swallowing, that I worried he couldn't find the words in either of those two languages and would revert to Spanish, a tongue I habitually mangle and wreck. Another pause, and then, in an embarrassed way, he said, "I've been having very odd dreams, cousin. Ho avuto stranissimi sogni, cugino. I sense that God might be sending me messages, in a kind of code." He paused again. His embarrassment—­so rare—­embarrassed me. I wanted to ask about the dreams, but I held my tongue. He looked away, looked back. He said, "Potresti creare un piano d'azione, cugino?" Could you put together a plan, cousin?

Excerpted from The Delight of Being Ordinary by Roland Merullo. Copyright © 2017 by Roland Merullo. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.