My Life and Times

Stephen Savage
OP-ED CONTRIBUTOR

Holy Rollers and Papal Perfectas
By FRANK DELANEY


MY mother voiced many moral dismissals in her time, the chief of which ran, "That fellow - he'd bet on two flies going up a wall!" Oh, what in Heaven can she be thinking now, from her ringside seat up there near God, as she watches Paddy Power, Ireland's best-known bookie, run the odds on the papal conclave that begins in the Sistine Chapel today? "Simony," I imagine she'd cry, referring to that rarely discussed sin of "traffic in sacred things." And, in her encyclopedic way, she would then cite a 17th-century papal bull that explicitly forbade betting on the transition between pontiffs.

But Mother would evince no surprise; nor, I expect, does anyone in Ireland, a country where, often, to bet is to live.

First a piece of Irish wisdom: you should always listen to a bookie. For they have a saying, "Money tells a good story," and somewhere in their odds is a kind of science-fiction existentialism that decrees that we, the people, know everything. In other words, betting patterns often make for good, unconscious soothsaying.

Therefore, if the smart money is telling it right, the next pope will be one of the following three men: Joseph Ratzinger, the 77-year-old German who is dean of the College of Cardinals; Carlo Martini, 78, the former archbishop of Milan, perhaps the world's most powerful Roman Catholic archdiocese; and, on their heels, Jean-Marie Lustiger, the 78-year-old former archbishop of Paris who, Mr. Power's helpful Web site says (with questionable historical accuracy), would be "the first converted Jew ever elevated to the papacy."

These three eminences have been leading the field for days, with odds quoted along a range from 3-1 to 7-2. Another early favorite, Cardinal Francis Arinze of Nigeria, has at last glance dropped back to 8-1; and the money moved to Cardinal Cláudio Hummes from Brazil - two weeks ago he was 12-1, but now one can get you only eight on the Latin American.

So, how did the favorites race to the front? Usually a bookie takes his measure from a combination of recent performance, street smarts and insider information. So far, much of the $200,000 or so Mr. Power has received has gone on Cardinal Ratzinger. His strong showing comes, it seems, from an Internet rumor that the German's kingmakers had already, even in the last days of the ailing John Paul II, collared half of the votes of the 117-member college. Stay with that word "rumor"; that may be as solid as it gets because, for another favorite, Cardinal Lustiger, we need a jab of true faith.

This good man surged from long shot to front-runner in a matter of days. The impetus? Well, ahem, it started some time back, in 1139 to be exact, when an Irish saint called Malachy received (in a vision, naturally) the identities of all future popes. And here we have a deeper, more worrying problem. St. Malachy prophesied that only two popes would preside after the pontiff whom his adherents recognize as John Paul II, and that the second-to-last would be born a Jew. "Smart" money? Hmm.

Growing up in Ireland, I lived among relics and racehorses, in farms where the limestone bedrock made for beautiful monastery walls and, deposited as calcium in the water, great equine bones. I profoundly understand this bizarre combination of sacred and profane. As a child I watched opportunistic men peddle cigarettes and ice cream where people flocked to see statues that bled, smiled or trembled in local miracles. And every parish priest worth his salt had a horse or a piece of a horse. Today, it seems, all those forces have fused in me to the point where I can scarcely resist a stake.

Yet, once a Catholic always a Catholic, and before I step up and put my money down I have to recognize that I'm up against unseen forces. Meaning, how can I consider anything as a safe bet when divine intervention remains a factor in the conclave?

Still, were the lure of gambling to overpower the fear of God in me (and, God knows, it might), I'd have a crack at a few of the outsiders. For instance, at 25-1, Angelo Scola is an interesting bet; he's the patriarch of Venice, speaks several languages (including English) and is only 63 years old. And have a look at the Argentine, Jorge Mario Bergoglio, also showing strongly at 12-1. And though he is not even given odds (in Irish racing parlance, a "rank outsider"), Cardinal Justin Rigali of Philadelphia is a very effective Vatican operator and truly worth a piece of my money; after all, in 1977 Karol Wojtyla was such a long shot he had scarcely left the paddock before the others were round the first bend.

In the end, of course, those who want to play Paddy Power's game will have to be careful as to whom they openly fancy; as every Vatican watcher knows, "He who goes in a pope comes out a cardinal."

Obviously, mutterings of "sacrilege" and "irreverence" have been heard in old Hibernia. (Even though there may be a fine point of canon law as to whether Mr. Power is actually making bets or merely taking them.) Have no truck with such killing of joy, I say - God may not be a gambler, but isn't that because he never felt the need? And, anyway, who invented forgiveness for human frailty? He hasn't yet struck down, so far as I can tell, any of these holy rollers.

But if you still feel it's sacrilegious to bet on these contenders, you can have a theologically safer flutter on the name of the next pope: Benedict (3-1), John Paul (7-2), Pius (6-1), Peter (8-1) and John (10-1) are among the favorites. An 80-1 outsider of outsiders is the name Damian (which would give shudders, I guess, to moviegoers who remember "The Omen"). Or you can bet on the number of days this conclave will take - one day (14-1), three days (5-4) or six days or more at 7-1.

THERE may be more to come. On Saturday, in Rome, Mr. Power set up his stall to shout the odds across St. Peter's Square. Soon enough, some men, whom he described to me in a phone conversation as "the undercover police," moved him on; he was, he said, "minutes away from the slammer." He's been taking hundreds of bets, though, from the Italians, and waiting to see how much he eventually will have to pay out on what he calls "holy smoke." Even my mother would, I think, smile at that coinage - but she might not let God see her.


Frank Delaney is the author, most recently, of "Ireland: A Novel."



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