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Bellini knows who's knocking on his door before he opens it.
The rhythm of the knock, so sure of itself, its volume, a force comfortably restrained, injects bitterness and envy into his vertebral artery, a syringe snuck through a gap the many layers encasing him are powerless against.
“Eminence Bellini,” Tremblay says pleasantly. “I hope I'm not disturbing you?”
Bellini turns his back on his visitor and slumps into the armchair, knowing where this conversation is heading, heartsick with disgust and anticipation.
“The late Holy Father’s favourite game,” Tremblay says pleasantly, peering down at the chess set, eyes flicking between the pieces, hands clasped behind his back. “You’ve replicated the play exactly as you left it. But still, my deepest condolences on your deteriorating memory.”
“Excuse me?” Bellini says sharply.
Tremblay smiles, an artificial wax wrapping of understanding, greasy and cheap. “You never asked permission to remove it from his apartment.”
Bellini’s cheek twitches.
“But I forgive you.”
“How very kind.”
“I’m also generous.” Tremblay plucks Bellini’s white king from the board and holds it in a gentle vise, his thumb on its base, the tip of his forefinger on its head.
“What do you want?” Bellini finally asks, his words collapsing before they've had a chance to inflate.
“He always insisted his opponent moved first, didn’t he? Most saw it as generosity. But we, his confidants, his supporters, his golden shields and silver swords, knew better.”
Bellini knows from experience there’s no response he can give that will derail Tremblay’s self-centered pontificating when his internal combustion engine is gorging on dirty fuel. All he can do is endure. And filter out as many pollutant by-products as possible.
Tremblay looks at the pieces on the board, a one-sided game frozen mid-play. He looks at Bellini. “You can’t advance, Aldo,” he says softly, with horrible kindness. “But you don’t have to lose. There’s honour in accepting the place that greater men give you.”
Tremblay lowers the king back on the board. But places it on a disadvantageous square. A king cannot move itself into check, that’s an illegal move, but that’s where Bellini’s piece is now.
“Your votes have become cannon fodder,” Tremblay says, drinking in the battlefield he’s adjusted. “Deliver them to me before your army turns on you. Under my leadership they’ll be safe. And my Secretary of State will keep them in line.”
Tremblay nods meaningfully at Bellini, smiles genuinely, and leaves.
Feeling sick, feeling light-headed, feeling guilty for feeling different degrees of guilt, Bellini picks up his king, rescuing it from self-imposed annihilation. He makes a fist around it. Holds it gently. Then firmly. Then tightly.
The holy cross that crowns the king’s head bites into his palm, drawing blood.