His head too heavy: he has to crane his neck to keep it from falling onto his chest. The wave in his snow white hair, vestige of Joseph Aloisius Ratzinger; wartime, Bavarian boy. Pale lips puckering to kiss the sumptuous head of a new born baby. Waving his hand in the familiar blessing, freely given for the last time:…et spiritus sancti. Stick thin, unlike the enormous litter of red-topped cardinals – all puppy fat and porky pig hats. Hail the frail old man in a floor-length, all-white double-breasted greatcoat (Sly Stone would have loved it; the SS would have killed for it). Il Papa, ex-ex cathedra, sitting motionless as the world recedes away from him, never to return. Less than eight years since he prayed: Lord Jesus, let me be the rigorous scholar, the generous pastor that leads your flock to resurrection. He Is Risen, the Supreme Pontiff must have thought, in early moments of unbridled optimism. But look at you now, hollow man; emptied out like so many churches. No funeral barge – of course, you’re floating away to a secluded summer residence; but in the Vatican the papal apartments are now sealed, CSI-style, and your faith is already ashes in your mouth.