Conclave Confidential: One Cardinal’s Secret Diary

The conclave journal of Roger Cardinal Mahony:

Opening Day, minus 1. Checked into the Casa Santa Marta hotel -- and I got a top-floor room! I asked about a low-carb menu; I don’t want to nod off after a big pasta lunch -- huge embarrassment.

Isn’t it funny -- I have to come all the way to Rome to cast a vote that actually counts. The first ballot is tomorrow, but even four votes a day plus prayer surely can’t take up the whole time? Glad I brought my free weights with me.

Hope St. Martha’s lets me keep the little shampoos. My hair usually looks terrible after being under a zucchetto all day, but today it looked great. Oops, my bad -- must mention vanity at confession.

Cardinal B worries we might be too comfy here. He reminded us of the conclave of 1271 -- when there was no pope after three years of deliberating, and they locked up the cardinals in an old rat-trap and fed them bread and water. When they still didn’t elect a pope, people took the roof off. He thinks these creature comforts aren’t such a good idea. I felt like saying, “From your lips to God’s ears -- not!”

The Vatican police have already swept the Sistine Chapel for bugs and put in jamming devices; wonder whether I can get them to do that for me in L.A.? Somebody tries to spill the frijoles, I’ll know about it.

Day 1. Cardinal C must have stuffed twigs in his mattress to chastise his body. It was after midnight and I could still hear the crunching. Either that or he smuggled in some Doritos.

No pope yet today, but conclave is great -- no phones ringing, no e-mail thingy going “ding” every 30 seconds, no monsignors running in and out with legal papers about priests diddling boys and girls. This is practically a vacation.

In all humility, I’ve been told I’m excellent papabile material, but you can hardly put up billboards saying so. Still, some of these Italian cardinals are practically working the room -- well, the chapel. Do I go around telling everyone how fabulous I’d look in a triregnum? What ever happened to subtlety?

There must be some way to let my brethren know they shouldn’t believe everything they may have heard about me. Like that name they called me in Fresno, “Red Roger” -- that was so unfair -- it was just a youthful fling with labor.

And this molestation business. Get real -- how could I have built my $189-million cathedral if I’d done what the Orange County bishop did, handing out a hundred million dollars to just about any Tom, Dick or Harriet who claimed to have been molested? Heaven forfend.

(Should I let it slip that I make a terrific flan? Maybe bring one into the conclave tomorrow?)

Hasta manana!

Day 2. Couldn’t sleep again last night. Either Cardinal F plays the nose flute or he’s the worst snorer I ever heard. Would it look wimpy to ask for earplugs?

Off to the chapel again. It’s beginning to get tedious -- I’ve practically memorized the Sistine frescoes. My favorite -- except for the one of God, of course -- is the man trapped in hell with a snake at his crotch. He was the papal official who complained to Michelangelo about all the nude figures. Reminder: If I ever become pope, God willing, be really nice to artists.

Awesome! White smoke! Habemus papam!

It’s a good thing I was born in Hollywood. When you grow up around the Oscars, you learn that when they open the envelope and announce the winner and it isn’t you, you just keep smiling.