Billowing white smoke transforms a jowly old man into the new pope. White hat, white cassock, pure white to the point of being invisible, he might float off into the ether if not for the thick silk sash tethered around his waist. Plush red curtains parted to reveal a pair of aviator spectacles (as worn by Euro bureaucrats in the 1980s), and a hand which moves to bless the crowd by making the sign of the cross; but hesitates and instead only waves. Intermittently. Wet and shiny – rain and joy, in the square below the balcony, the faces of the faithful peer out from underneath their umbrellas, transfixed on the man-made-God. Fecklessly they’ve already forgotten the previous apparition (Benny? Bennett? Benedict!), who drew himself out of the magic circle and nearly broke the spell!