It was the morning of Easter Monday. We sat on the couch in the living room, everyone sounded on a screen, when Willem shouted from the kitchen that Godnondeju was dead. Immediately a connection was made with Brabant, where Willems old father, former priest, was not yet aware of the news. “Dad, hold on. The pope is dead,” said Willem. There sounded cursing again, a few times ‘oh anyway’ and then the council caught. Robert Sarah, that’s the name of a contender. “Robert Sarah!”, Brauled Willem towards the couch, pointed to me and to be sure, a hand on the horn: “Just like you!”
Then there was another Dutchman, Eijk, Nonde Nonde, if it became, we were not on it. “Who is dead again?” Cheese (5) asked me. “The pope,” I said, a bit affected. Same year of birth as my father, it had to be. “What or who is the pope?”, Cheese asked again, his eyes in the meantime tight on the screen of the iPad. “That is the most important man of the Catholic Church,” I said absent, and talked about NOS.nl.
“Ezra, Jesus is dead,” cheese said to his brother, who was still deepened in Minecraft.
I thought of 2013, the year that Willem met.
I had organized a program about the new pope in the counter. “Popi Jopi,” we called it. All Catholics in Noord-Holland had gathered in the room, about 25 pieces. Afterwards they drank red wine in the cafe. A month later, Willem and I were decorating each other at the same bar, with a lot of cultural Catholic bombing. ‘Our French’ turned out to be a point of recognition, a sign of a shared background where, it turned out, we both had a la full of roses and bottles of holy water. Francis had of course been a barrel of conservatism, like all popping. He found abortion an absolute shame. But, in his last days, he had put trans sex workers a heart, he called the Christian Church in Palestine every day, he gave women more important positions within the church and, not entirely unimportant: he was quite dirty of the followers who led his hand in the Mass. I would have too. “It is very bad for God that Jesus was dead, although I thought he had already died a few days ago,” mused cheese.
I got up and walked to the kitchen, where Willem completed the conversation.
“I think it’s one thing,” I said. Willem nodded, his newsfeed meanwhile changing. “JD Vance, that Rotzak, it would not surprise me,” he muttered. “I said, I think it’s one thing,” I said louder now. Willem looked up disrupted.
“Yes, I don’t know, sometimes random things can suddenly close such a period in your life,” I started. He nodded and looked at his phone again. “I mean,” I tried again. “I can use a hug.” He looked at me stunned. “Seriously?” He said. “That man was 88.” “You can also just give that hug, without thinking about its justice,” I said, something more angry. Willem looked at me really desperately. “Yes, say,” he said and made a pike dive towards the living room. “And now all off those iPads!” He shouted, a perfect, also noble distraction of unpuggets in our marriage.
“Look daddy,” said Ezra. He turned his screen. A huge cross, built in Minecraftwith a strange smiling man on it. ‘Rip Pope’ was under it in large, fluorescent letters.
Sarah Slumber Writes a column every week. She is the author of books, essays and plays.