The First Woman Cardinal of the Catholic Church, I   By Melissa Tawn   A cardinal of the Catholic Church undergoes SRS and legally becomes a woman. Can the Vatican cope?

Mary-Anne Cardinal O’Connor walked slowly but purposefully towards the room in which the hearing was to take place. She was not wearing the ceremonial robes to which she was entitled, but rather a simply-cut purple silk business suit, with hemline modestly below the knees. Her shoes were comfortable, despite their stylish three-inch heel. Her perfectly-done hairdo showed traces of white attesting to her 50 years, and her makeup was so subtle as to be almost unnoticeable. She wore no jewelry save for a large gold pectoral cross, a copy of an original crafted by Cellini for Cardinal de Medici, later looted by Napoleon, and now exhibited with honor in the Louvre. She carried no purse or briefcase, only a breviary.

It was but one month after the sensational news conference at which it was revealed that Mark Anthony O’Connor, cardinal of the Catholic church and acclaimed as the most original and charismatic theological thinker since Peter Abelard, had undergone sexual reassignment surgery and was now, legally (according to Italian and European law) and officially, a woman. At that conference, Cardinal O’Connor explained that she was now barred by canon law from celebrating the mass and hearing confessions, and did not intend to do so. However, there was no canonical reason why she should resign her membership in the College of Cardinals and she had no intention of doing that either.

Cardinal O’Connor had been elevated to the College of Cardinals by the late beloved Pope J**, generally considered a sure candidate for beatification in the near future. It was his brilliantly-written and meticulously-argued position papers which led the Great Vatican Council to reform so many aspects of the church, bringing it into tune with the twentieth century. The elevation came shortly after the Council concluded, and was taken to be a sign that future reforms were yet on the way. But then, within less than a year, the Pope suddenly died of a heart attack. His successor, a mild and gentle man, could not stand under the pressures of his great office, and he too died within a few months of his selection. The next man selected had been an outsider, of vigorous physical constitution, but of different temper than J**. He had his own close advisors and Cardinal O’Connor soon found that he had been shunted to head an important-sounding but essentially meaningless and powerless commission, and edged away from positions of real influence. After two years, he asked — and all too quickly received — permission to be relieved of his duties for a year of prayer and meditation. He disappeared from view until the press conference that shocked the Vatican and the Catholic world.

While Cardinal O’Connor believed that her position as a member of the College of Cardinals was secure, the Holy Father clearly had other views of the matter. Within a week, he announced the formation of a special tribunal of inquiry into the matter, to be headed by the conservative and crafty Vatican Secretary of State, Cardinal Leone. The tribunal had already held one meeting, at which questions posed by the Holy Father were read, and opinions against Cardinal O’Connor were presented, some of them extremely hostile. Today was the second meeting, at which Cardinal O’Connor would get a chance to rebut these.

As Mary-Anne entered the room, she could feel the tension in the air. The members of the tribunal, her erstwhile colleagues, some of whom she had considered close friends as well, looked at her as though she were a freak in a circus. She did not cower, however. She looked at them with dignity, sat in the place allotted to her, and began her response.

“Your eminences,” she explained, “it is best to begin at the beginning …”

“… I was, as you know, born of a poor but pious Irish family, the fifth of seven children. From my youngest days, I had always felt that “something was wrong” and that I should really have been a girl. Often, when I had the chance, I would dress in my sisters’ clothes and pretend that I was a girl just like they were. I knew, however, that according to the teachings of the church, these actions were considered a sin, and so I was careful to do it only in secret, so that none could find out. As I entered my teens, this conflict in me caused me to be a loner — shunning the company of boys and girls alike — for fear that my secret would come out. I spent hours reading religious books trying to understand what was happening to me, but to no avail. As I grew, I became convinced that only by thoroughly learning the ways of God, could I finally understand myself. When I was 15, a chance opened up to go to Rome to study here in a course which would lead to the priesthood. I applied for the position and, since I was a good student, my application was accepted. (Cardinal O’Connor is being modest here; at the time, he was already considered the most gifted genius to have ever attended his school, in its 300 years of existence, and perhaps ever to have attended any school in Ireland.)

I came to Rome, but the change of location did not quell my inner unrest. Indeed, I felt lonelier and more confused than before. Finally, one day, I felt I could no longer take it and had to unburden myself in confession, something which I had never done before. I poured out my heart and my feelings in the confessional, and the priest who heard me answered with understanding. He asked only that I look deep within myself, to make sure that my feelings were authentic. He did not reprimand me, as I had expected he would.

Later that day, I was called to the office of the principal of the school. The Vatican official in charge of the education of future priests had paid a surprise visit and he wanted to show off his prize pupil -- me -- to the visitor. This visitor was, of course, a well-known man, about 20 years my senior, and generally considered by the gossip (to which all schoolboys paid extreme attention) as an up-and-coming power in the church. After a moment’s conversation, I realized that the voice was that of the priest to whom I had confessed earlier that day. He too apparently figured that out too, for he suggested that, since it was a nice spring day, we should continue our conversation while walking in the school’s garden. As we walked together, far from the earshot of others, talking about school matters, he suddenly changed the subject and told me that, yes, it was he who had heard my confession earlier. Fantasies, he said, are not, in themselves, wrong. He too had a persistent fantasy — though a very different one from mine. Having taken a vow of celibacy, he fantasized what it would be like to live a “normal” life, with a wife a children, whom he could love, educate, and care for. If I had a daughter, he said, I would hope she would be just like you.

We talked some more, and, by whatever means, a symbiosis emerged, one about which neither of us had dreamed, but which we obviously both wanted and needed. The next time we met, it was not on the school grounds, but in an out-of-the-way café in one of the suburbs of the city. He was dressed this time not as a priest but in the slacks and turtleneck sweater of a typical Italian middle-class businessman. I was dressed in a semi-revealing top and skirt that were all the rage among Italian teenagers of the day. For the rest of the afternoon, we were father and daughter. He took me shopping, sightseeing, and dining. Two weeks later, we met again, and then again. Soon, we had established a definite pattern: once every two weeks we each escaped into our intermeshing fantasy worlds — he as a man of the world and me as his daughter. Let me emphasize, your eminences, that the relationship was totally chaste. The most intimate thing we ever did was that he would give me a fatherly kiss on the forehead when our meetings came to an end.

We toured museums and galleries, during the summer we went to the seashore and the mountains. We talked of many things — of the history of Rome, of its architecture and art, of its customs and traditions. We talked of fashions and popular culture, but also of the world and where it was going. We saw, and discussed, how the church was becoming less and less relevant to the lives of the ordinary citizens. We even stopped into churches at random and saw the boredom and irrelevance of it all, from the point of view of the audience sitting before an indifferent and self-absorbed priest, mumbling mainly to himself.

And I was growing up. I finished my school days and started studying in a seminary. My Father and Protector was advancing in the church hierarchy. One day, he asked me what I saw my future to be. In my role as his daughter, to which I had become so accustomed, I answered what was truthfully in my mind: I want to become a nun. Not a cloisered nun, father, but one out in the world, who works with the poor.

At our next meeting, he was not alone, but rather with a woman his age. Though she was not dressed in a habit, I quickly recognized her as Sister Sophia, founder of the famous order of poor sisters known and praised in the popular press as the “midnight angels of Rome” -- nuns who roam the city streets late at night, locating and taking care of the poor, the homeless, and the neglected. Sophia was a world-wise woman. She had been a fashionable courtesan of considerable repute in her day who, suddenly, left her profession at the height of her renown and joined the church. She had met many “girls” like me, and was not in the least shocked by it. After a long and probing talk, she accepted me into her order.

For the next twenty years, your eminences, I spent my nights as Sister Mary-Anne, the midnight angel. Along with other sisters of the order, I fed the hungry, found shelter for the homeless, clothed the naked, and comforted the despondent. I held girls of 13 and 14 in my arms as they tried to overcome the effects of excessive of alcohol or drugs, I midwifed dozens of babies in dirty alleys or in the backrooms of brothels, and made sure that mother and infant were sent to hospitals for proper care. I helped rescue women abused by their lovers, their husbands, or their pimps. I saw, and experienced, aspects of this city which you never see through the smoked glass windows of your limousines, nor can you possibly imagine.

And during the day, I continued my life first in the seminary and then, after ordination, as theological scholar and, later, teacher. You are all, I am sure, familiar with some of the many books and articles I wrote during that period, though many of you do not agree with them. My fantasy meetings with my Father and Protector stopped, as he was promoted and transferred to a city in the north of Italy, but I was already carving my own path upwards in the Vatican establishment. When J** was selected as Holy Father, I for the first time found that I could really influence the way the church was moving. This consumed all of my time and attention, and my nighttime existence as Sister Mary-Anne came to an end. I miss it still, for in my mind it was the most Christian labor I have ever done.

Upon the pope's tragic death, and as I lost the ability to help move events in the direction I felt necessary, my attention returned to my own self and I felt it was time to put my own soul in order. As you know, I applied for, and was granted, a leave of absence in order to meditate and pray. I chose a hermitage not far from Mount Tabor in the Galilee, where Christ himself had walked. There, surrounded by olive and almond trees, I was able, for the first time, to carefully consider my own predicament.

In Verse 27 of Chapter 1 of Genesis, we read about the creation of man, the following words, in the original Hebrew: “zachar u-nkevah braam”, which are generally translated as “male and female He created them”. The Hebrew conjunction “u” is generally interpreted as creating a dichotomy: EITHER male OR female. However, that is probably not a correct reading. It should more likely be considered as conjective: BOTH male AND female. (I will not tire you with a detailed philological analysis, but I ended up writing a long monograph on this with Prof. Evyatar Etsion of the Department of Biblical Philology of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, which is now in press and which should be published shortly.) In other words, the soul of every human being has both a male and female aspect. One of these, as a rule, is more dominant than the other. However, both must be there in some measure.

When the dominant aspect of this gender identity corresponds to the physical characteristics of the body in which the soul sits, as is usually the case, there is no problem. But what if that does not happen? In the middle ages, a disfigured body was assumed to mirror a disfigured soul, and the clubfooted and hare lipped were social outcasts. We, of course, no longer believe that today. A club foot or a hare lip can be remedied surgically, and none of you would say that doing so is interfering with God’s plan. Why is it not the same for the case of gender? If, in my soul, the female aspect dominates, while my body is that of a male, is it wrong for me to surgically alter my mundane body to fit my God-given soul? Or must I torture my eternal soul in order to make it fit my mundane body?

On these questions, your eminences, I pondered for many months, before I reached the conclusion I reached. I am now in the process of writing them up in a formal, and rather lengthy, monograph, and I beg your indulgence and pardon that it will not be ready for several more months.

Towards the end of my sabbatical, I saw my path clear. A quick trip to Bangkok, and the hands of a very gifted and understanding surgeon, gave me the harmony between body and soul which I have craved since childhood. I am at peace with myself and, I believe, with my God. I pray that I will be at peace with my church as well.”

With those words, Cardinal O’Connor ended her testimony, and asked if there are any questions that need clarification. “Just one,” replied Cardinal Leone. “I would like to know the identity of the man you called your Father and Protector, the man who started you on the most terrible path that led to your present condition.” “I cannot reveal it,” replied Mary-Anne. He is no longer in this world, and I do not want to harm his blessed memory by having his name come out.” “We order you to reveal his name,” replied Cardinal Leone. “Remember that this tribunal is closed, and its protocols will never be made public.” “That assurance is not enough -- as we all know, leaks happen even at the Vatican. I will reveal his name,” replied Mary-Anne, “only if you add to that protection the seal of the confessional. If you all agree that this is as a confession, which must never be revealed to anyone on pain of death.” The cardinals in the room nodded their assent, and all secretaries and assistants left the room. Only ordained priests remained.

“You all knew him,” replied Mary-Anne, “under his apostolic name, Pope J**. He was my Father and Protector. After he named me cardinal, he joked with me in private that many popes in the past had been guilty of nepotism for naming their sons as cardinals, but he would surely go down as the first, to have named his daughter.”

After Cardinal O’Connor left the room, the tribunal met to consider its decision, which was announced the next day in a meeting open to the public and the press.

“The sole reason for removing a person from the College of Cardinals for reason other than physical inability to perform his duties is if a sin had been committed which led to that person’s initial nomination or in that person’s actions after nomination. No evidence of such a sin has been presented to the tribunal as yet. Moreover, interesting theological questions have been raised, which require much further study and consideration. Until the time such study is completed, or further evidence is presented, this tribunal will be adjourned. During the period of adjournment, Cardinal O’Connor will retain her position as a cardinal of the church.”

Mary-Anne, and everyone else in the room, including the representatives of the press, immediately grasped the significance of the pronoun in the last sentence. The tribunal would never be reconvened.

EPILOGUE: A few weeks after the events related above, Cardinal O'Connor was sitting in the Vatican Library when Ernesto Cardinal della Rovere, the oldest member of her tribunal, came up to her. "As you may know," he said, "I was very close to the late Holy Father J** when both of us were on the staff of the archbishop of Milan. One night, after a very long day of intensive work, he let slip that he had a daughter, whose progress in life he was following very closely. I assumed that this was the result of one of those temptations to which we all are subject at some point or another in our lives, and said the usual comforting words. 'This is very different,' he replied, 'and she is a very special daughter indeed. I would not be surprised if, one day, she will be chosen as Pope.' "

The First Woman Cardinal of the Catholic Church, II   By Melissa Tawn   Cardinal O'Connor feels impelled to go public, because of the tragic story of a French-Canadian priest.

INTRODUCTION: This is a sequel to my earlier story “The First Woman Cardinal of the Catholic Church, I”, written after several readers asked me to continue the story of Mark Anthony Cardinal O’Connor, who transitioned to become Mary Anne Cardinal O’Connor, the first woman cardinal of the Catholic Church. The reader is referred to that story for the circumstances surrounding Cardinal O’Connor’s transition. This story begins a short time after the previous story left off.

In the months following her hearing before a board of cardinals, Cardinal O’Connor maintained a low public profile. She refused all invitations to speak for or to various feminist, gay-rights, or other agenda-oriented groups, she refused to appear on platforms with politicians or social reformers. She turned down offers to write her autobiography (or have it ghostwritten) or even to write for popular magazines. She continued her theological writings, but they were aimed at a very specialized audience and not at the general public. Her only lectures were given in theological seminaries and concerned her studies and striking re-interpretation of the writings of such medieval theologians as Rolandus Baldinelli, Johannes Teutonicus, and Richard of Middleton.

It therefore came as rather a surprise when, on the first anniversary of her transition, she let it be known -- discreetly and through intermediaries -- that she was willing to be interviewed on the subject on the BBC. Needless to say, the BBC was quite happy to oblige and arranged for an hour-long interview by no less that Sir Martin Keegan, the distinguished BBC producer who had recently been knighted for his contribution to quality television. Sir Martin was himself a Catholic and the administrators of the network were confident that he had sufficient experience and tact to handle the interview well.

On the appointed day, Cardinal O’Connor appeared at the BBC’s Rome studios to tape the interview. She was wearing a somber black dress, again with no jewelry save for her pectoral cross. She definitely looked older and more serious than she did last year. The white hairs on her head were much more noticeable, giving visual evidence of the terrible strain she must have been under for the past year. Though kind and polite, she did not smile as widely as she did a year before.

The first twenty minutes of the interview went as Sir Martin had expected. Cardinal O’Connor recalled the reasons for her decision to transition, gave a short history of her life up to that point, omitting, of course, all mention of His Holiness Pope J** and his part in what had happened. At this point, however, Sir Martin decided to start probing a bit deeper.

“Cardinal O’Connor,” he said, “until today you have refused all media requests to interview you. What caused you to change your mind?”

“It is because of a French-Canadian priest, Father Bernard Pelletier,” replied Cardinal O’Connor. “If you will indulge me, I would like to tell you his story.” The camera turned to Cardinal O’Connor’s face, which plainly showed her anguish, and she began:

“Father Bernard Pelletier was born in Montreal 25 years ago. Like me, he was born in a body which did not fit his gender identity. Indeed, he was born in the body of a girl, and was christened Bernadette Pelletier. He underwent the same anguishes I did, but his circumstances were much different from mine. For one, the whole issue of transsexuality has become more open and above-board than it was when I was young, and Bernadette was able, through the internet, to learn about it and find others like her. More importantly, the young Bernadette confided in her parents, who are educated and enlightened people. Her father was a clinical psychologist, familiar with the gender problems. After sending Bernadette to talk to one of his colleagues, who confirmed that her feelings were genuine and deeply held, he and her mother agreed to raise her as though she was male. They called her Bernard and sent her to a private school under that name. She was given appropriate hormones to keep from developing a female body and, when she was of legal age, she underwent sexual reassignment surgery at the hands of one of the excellent surgeons in Montreal. All this was done, let me emphasize, with the loving care and support of her family. Bernard emerged from the experience as a handsome and likeable young man, with no psychological scars and with a deep sense of gratitude.

The Pelletier family is deeply religious and Bernard’s gratitude extended not only to his parents but also to his God for placing him in such fortunate and loving circumstances. He decided that he could best repay this favor shown to him by becoming a priest. He was accepted to a theological seminary in Quebec, and there completed his studies. It is during that time, incidentally, that I may have met him. I had been on a lecture tour of North America and remember giving a talk at that seminary during the time he was there and he later wrote to me that my talk moved him very much. He claimed that we met at the reception after my talk but, to my sorrow, I must admit that I cannot recall his face. There were so many talks, so many students …

Upon graduation, Father Pelletier volunteered to serve in an obscure parish in northern Quebec, even though he could have pulled a few strings and gotten himself assigned to some rich church in Montreal. He felt, however, that it was his duty to go where he was most needed. The parish to which he was sent was Ile d’Anjou, deep in the forests of the Ungava Peninsula in the far north of the province. The small town had been without a permanent priest for almost a decade, and the church was in urgent need of repair. But Father Pelletier set to work with zeal and determination.

It was not easy. French Canadians are a very insular people, and the small communities spread out thinly in the northern forests are even more insular. It took a long time for him to gain first the respect and then the trust of his parishioners: a long agonizing time. And then, suddenly, a crisis arose. One winter night, as he was seated at his desk working on the parish accounts, he heard a rap at his door. Dominique, the 15-year-old daughter of Jean Laplace, one of the woodsmen who lived in the town, came in a horrid story. Her father and two of his friends had gotten drunk earlier and had viciously attacked and raped her. She fled the house after they had all passed out, and ran to him for sanctuary.

There is no police station in Ile d’Anjou. The nearest post of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police is over 200 miles away, and in the winter the roads are often impassible. Father Pelletier had no choice but to tell Dominique to stay at his house. That night, it snowed heavily and it was clear that nothing could be done the next day. Indeed, it took three days before the RCMP was able to send a patrol to Ile d’Anjou to take Dominique away with them. By that time, she was too frightened to press charges against her father or his friends. She just kept repeating that she wanted to forget everything, wanted everything to be a bad dream.

But the bad dream only got worse. Six weeks later, it was clear that Dominique, now living with her aunt in Baie-Comeau, was pregnant. The aunt told Dominique’s father and Jean Laplace in turn loudly proclaimed that she had been abducted and assaulted by the youthful, and good looking Father Pelletier, under whose roof she had lived for several days. In fact, he filed a formal complaint to that effect with the RCMP.

The RCMP was forced, of course, to investigate. With all of the tact, and firmness, for which such investigates are known, Father Pelletier was asked to prove that he had not, indeed, had sex with Dominique. (Jean Laplace used his right under the law to refuse to allow the RCMP to take DNA samples from his daughter, who was still a minor.) Father Pelletier had no choice and, trusting the secrecy of the police files, revealed to the chief investigator his gender background, which certainly proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he could NOT have impregnated Dominique. The police were convinced, and the case was closed, with no public explanation being given as to the reason.

This was not very satisfactory. The case had attracted a certain amount of media attention and the refusal of the police to give any explanation for dropping the charges against Father Pelletier led to speculation, especially in the left-wing press, about pressures exerted by the Vatican on the RCMP. One MP even called for a parliamentary investigation.

Clearly, Father Pelletier could not return to Ile d’Anjou and resume his work. Indeed, because the media attacks, the bishop suggested to him that he might find it convenient to spend some time in retreat in a monastery, preferably a very cloistered one. Badly shaken, Father Pelletier agreed.

After the final arrangements were made, and Father Pelletier had gone to his retreat, the bishop felt obliged to talk to the inspector in charge of the case, and thank him for his speed in ending Father Pelletier’s ordeal, even at the cost of bad publicity to the RCMP. In the course of their conversation, the inspector let slip that he was surprised that the Catholic Church ordained transsexuals. The bishop, needless to say, was surprised as well. He didn’t know. Being troubled by this, and feeling out of his depth, he wrote a letter to the Vatican asking for guidance as to what should be done in case that information, too, was leaked to the press. The answer that came back was unequivocal. Father Pelletier was to be defrocked without delay. The Church did not allow transsexual priests.”

Cardinal O’Connor paused at this point to drink some water, and then continued, slowly.

“You can imagine the agony that Father Pelletier was going through. Not only had he been falsely accused of rape, but now his own church was turning against him. My own story had become public several months earlier and, in what was perhaps his only hope, he wrote to me asking for my intervention. I verified the facts of the story, talked to his bishop, and decided to go directly to the Holy Father. As you know, I am not as close to this pope as I was to his predecessors, and after my rather public hearing, he kept a distinct distance from me. Even Cardinal Leone, the Secretary of State, was given specific orders not to meet with me. I did manage to arrange an appointment with one of the Pope’s secretaries and tell the whole story, just as I did to you. I was promised that the matter would be reviewed. After a few months, I received a reply from the same secretary … there can be no change in policy. Bernard Pelletier can remain a good member of the church, but he can no longer serve as a priest.

With heavy heart, I wrote to him that I had failed, and that there was nothing more I could do. The day after he received my letter, when the monks came to wake him, they found Bernard Pelletier hanging in his cell. He had taken his own life.”

At this point, Cardinal O’Connor slowly rose from her seat.

“I asked for this interview, so I could tell his story, and so I could beg forgiveness, in front of the eyes of the world, for what was done and what was not done by me and by the Holy Church of which I am a humble and faithful servant, to this good and just and pure man.”

Slowly, she removed her shoes and sank to her knees, the camera catching the tears in her eyes.

“Mea culpa! The blood of Father Pelletier is on my hands, as it is on the hands of all of us. Until we all look deep inside of ourselves and review and correct what we have done, it will never go away.”

As the camera swung to him, Sir Martin, with a few well-chosen words, brought the interview to an end. Afterwards, the tape was shown to the representative of the Vatican Press Office, and it was decided that in the best interests of the public, and of the BBC’s future relationship with the Holy See, that it never be aired. In return, Sir Martin was awarded the privilege of an exclusive 15-minute interview with His Holiness. They talked about the global renewal of faith, as shown by the large crowds which turned out at every stop on the recent papal tour of Africa.

The First Woman Cardinal of the Catholic Church, III   By Melissa Tawn   Will the Catholic Church canonize an Irish transsexual? It depends, to a large extent, on Cardinal O'Connor's recommendation.

While each story in this series is independent of the others, it is highly recommended that one read the first two stories, in order to understand how Cardinal O’Connor transitioned and became the first woman cardinal of the Catholic church.

A few weeks after the taping of Mary-Anne Cardinal O’Connor’s interview with the BBC, which was never broadcast, Cardinal Leone, the Vatican Secretary of State, summoned the cardinal to his office. Cardinal O’Connor was sure that the interview would be the topic of the conversation, but was surprised that Cardinal Leone asked a completely different question.

“Are you familiar with maid Fanchea of Leinster?” he began.

“Fanchea of Leinster was a medieval Irish holy woman -- not to be confused with St. Fanchea of Killeaney.” replied Cardinal O’Connor, “She too is widely regarded as a saint, though never officially canonized by the Church. In particular, many young Irish teenage girls pray for her intercession to help preserve their virginity in the face of possible sexual assault. Many young girls have taken to wearing a medallion with her image as a talisman against the possibility of violation, when they attend rock concerts or other such events at which they feel their innoncence to be at risk. Why is she of interest?”

“The Irish church requested her canonization over five hundred years ago,” replied Cardinal Leone, “but the process was never completed. While there are plenty of affidavits regarding miracles ascribed to her intercession and — as you said — in preserving young girls from unwanted sexual assault, and while the belief in her holiness is widespread in parts of Ireland, there is a problem because, quite frankly, we have absolutely no evidence that she ever actually existed. Now, for various reasons, the Holy Father has decided to reopen the canonization proceedings and push for their completion, as a gesture to the Irish people.”

“It would not have anything to do with Fanchea Meehan, the former Irish foreign minister, being elected President of the European Commission, would it?

“The Vatican has many interests in maintaining good relations with the institutions of the European Union,” replied Cardinal Leone, and chuckled. “In any case, the Holy Father has requested that you head an investigatory committee which will travel to Ireland to try and find further documentation proving the actual existence of the maid Fanchea of Leinster, which may allow us to proceed with her canonization.”

“Now surely that is a convenient way of getting me out of Rome, and away from television cameras.” remarked Cardinal O’Connor.

“Perhaps,” smiled Cardinal Leone, “but, after all, you are a famous scholar and expert on the medieval church, as well as being the only member of the College of Cardinals fluent in both Medieval Latin and Gaelic. We need somebody with a high profile to head the committee, and you are the natural choice, since you are both Irish and ... (and here Cardinal O'Connor noted that the Secretary of State paused for just a split second) a woman. The truth be told, your name came up for this project several months ago, so let us just say that the recent … unfortunate incident … helped hurry the decision a bit.”

“Who will be the other members of the committee?” asked Cardinal O’Connor.

“I suggest Father Edward Laffey and Sister Elizabeth Dwyer, both of the Pontifical Institute,” replied Cardinal Leone. “They are acknowledged experts on medieval Irish manuscripts and I know that you have worked closely with them in the past. Of course, if you wish, you can insist on someone else.”

“They are certainly a good team,” replied Cardinal O’Connor. “I am quite satisfied with them.”

It took a month for the team to assemble and make the necessary preparations. They made arrangements to work in the rare document section of the library at Trinity College, Dublin, and hired several graduate students to help them gather and organize the materials. By the time they arrived in Dublin, the students had assembled for them all known manuscripts which might be somehow related to the time and place of maid Fanchea of Leinster.

After four months of very hard work, however, frustration began to replace hope. The kingdom of Laigin (Leinster) was very old, dating back to the second century AD, and had a long written tradition. Many medieval manuscripts and chronicles written in Leinster exist, and all of them were checked and rechecked. But there was no mention of Fanchea at all, until over a hundred and fifty years after the traditional date of her death. Even then, she is not mentioned directly, but the chronicler merely records the fact that many people seek her intercession as a saint and holy woman. There is a definite possibility that he was really referring to Fanchea of Killeaney, but became confused over the dates of her life. Several reliable chronicles and other documents from the time she was supposed to have lived exist, but they do not mention her at all.

Then, late one night, a break came. Cardinal O’Connor was about to return to the shelf a beautiful 12th-century copy of “Felir锝, a poetical work on the saints of Ireland written by St. Aengus in the 8th century and copied may times since then, when she seemed to sense that one of the covers seemed a bit thicker than the other. Using calipers, she confirmed that this was indeed the case. (Later, thinking back over the matter, she wondered if her ability to feel such a small difference in width was itself almost a miracle, and just perhaps may have been due to some divine intervention.) Carefully, she slit the leather of the binding with a razor blade and, sure enough, hidden in it was a folded sheet of vellum, covered in miniscule writing. With growing excitement, she carefully unfolded the sheet, put it under a magnifying glass, and began to read it, writing down a translation from the Gaelic into modern English as she went along.

“It is God’s will that my eyes cloud over and soon I will no longer be able to use my pen. May He be merciful and allow me, poor Fanchea, time to relate the true story of my life, and then may He have pity on my entrapped soul.

My father, whom I never knew, was a soldier in the service of king Diarmait mac Enna Mac Murrough in his wars against the high king Tairrdelbach mac Ruaidri Ua Conchobair. He also worked a small farm when there was no fighting to be done. My mother bore him three healthy sons, and then, over a period of ten years, five more children — two boys and three girls — were born, all of whom died before they reached their third year. I was her last child. Shortly before my birth, my father was called to the fighting yet again, and he took with him the three brothers I never met, the oldest to learn the trade of war and the younger two to act as grooms and arms bearers for some of the lords, as a way of preparing their future. She never saw them again, for they all perished together in a terrible battle, or so she was told.

Though I was born with the body parts of a boy, my mother was determined that I would never be taken from her to go to war, and so she raised me as a girl, and gave me the girl’s name of Fanchea. On nights of a full moon, she would gather up special herbs and other odd and mysterious plants, soak them in the urine of a pregnant mare, and then bake the result into little cakes which I ate three times a day for all of my life. As a result this, and of her constant prayers for the intercession of the Virgin, I grew up as fine and pert a lass as you will find in the kingdom. Though I still had those parts between my legs, they were as small as those of a boy of five. My breasts were nearly as large as those of my mother, and my voice remained as sweet and pure as hers. In all things, and especially in my soul, I was a lass and thought of myself only as such, even allowing that I be deformed down where a girl most exhibits her femininity.

My mother raised me in extreme piety and impressed on me the importance of modesty and preserving my modesty and virginity at all costs. When the boys tried doing to me as they do to all of the girls, I fended them off and did not allow them to see that, between my legs, they would not find what they expected, though like any other girl, at times I rather desired that they overcome my defenses. The Holy Virgin also preserved me, for at many a time she gave me courage to say nay to a boy to whom I would have gladly said yea, and to put fear in the hearts of boys who would impose their will on other girls.

All this my mother did so that I would never be called to go to the fighting, but as fate would have it, the fighting came to us. When I was but 15, and away in the fields, the soldiers came to plunder our crops and burn our farm. My blessed mother tried to defend herself from them, and was most cruelly slain on the spot.

When I came back at dusk, they took me and, finding me comely, were prepared to take their pleasure upon me. But, in answer to my prayers, the Holy Virgin interceded on my behalf and positioned herself between me and the soldiers. As the captains rode on their horses towards me, the horses fell unto their knees and bowed their heads to her in prayer, throwing their riders. Then, as the soldiers rose up and bared their swords, the hilts turned red hot and they dropped them with a cry. Indeed, they must have seen the image of the Virgin for just an instant, for they fell on their knees and begged her forgiveness at their evil thoughts. Then they, very gently, escorted me to their commander, relating to him what had happened.

It was decided that I be taken to the camp of their lord, the Welshman Robert Fitz Stephen, and they treated me like a highborn lady along the way, careful not to touch my person or even come too near me, for they feared me greatly. Robert Fitz Stephen was a mighty warrior and lieutenant of the great justiciar Hugh de Lacy. He feared neither man nor God, nor did he fear the Virgin. He laughed at their story and said that if they did not touch me nor disturb my virginity, it was only to save me for him, and indeed I was a truly comely lass worthy of his personal attention.

At his direction, the ladies of his court bathed me, arrayed me in fine garments and dressed my hair. But the Virgin was with me and made them not see those parts which I had to hide, and they thought me nought but a girl and told me all stories about what to expect in lord Robert’s bed, which they had all experienced. And, indeed, while part of me wished to share a bed with this most manly man, all the while I prayed in my soul for salvation.

Again, the Virgin took pity on me and sent to me one of the soldiers, a comely young man himself of no more than 16 years, who was to guard me but, instead, offered to rescue me. When I nodded in what he took to be agreement, he brought me secretly the clothes and arms of a man of war and, together, we left the encampment, supposedly on a mission to hunt rabbits for our lord’s supper. Instead, he lead me to a road along which I made my escape. He was a good and well-meaning boy, and mightily handsome as well, and daily I pray that he came to no harm for what he did.

Hiding by day and walking by night, I managed after a long trek to reach the sanctuary of the monastery at Tallaght, which was a most holy place, having been the home of St. Maelruain and St. Aengus many centuries ago. The monks again had pity on me and took me in, giving me the clothing and cell of one of the brothers who had passed away just the day before. I was called by his name and found it my lot to have to disguise myself as a male. And so, for the remainder of my days, I lived as a monk whom all of the other monks believe to be a maid, though I alone knew that I had, underneath my shift, male parts with which I was mistakenly born.

The monks of Tallaght helped spread the rumor that I had been martyred by the men of Robert Fitz Stephen for refusing to lie with him and, while that not be the literal truth, it is what most certainly would have been my fate had I remained in his camp. Since I had a fair hand, I was put to work in the monestary scriptorium, copying and binding old manuscripts, in one of which I will hide this confession. May it be the wish of God, that the person who finds it pray for my soul.”

Cardinal O’Connor smiled as she reread Fanchea’s account, and shed a tear for Fanchea's poor tormented soul imprisoned in a tormented body. She would need to tidy up her translation, of course, but she was confident that Ireland would soon have a new saint. The others on the committee were, however, less sure. “So Fanchea was really a man,” remarked Father Laffey when he read the document. “That kills his chances of sainthood, I am afraid. We certainly can’t have a male saint who went around dressed as a maid.”

“How a person dresses is certainly not a critical factor,” replied Sister Dwyer. “Remember that St. Joan of Arc dressed routinely in men’s clothes.”

“That is true,” replied Father Laffey, “but she never claimed to be a male, nor is she considered a male saint. Here we have a case of a saint who not only dressed as a woman but claimed to be one as well, even when, at the end of his life, he lived as a monk. Moreover, we have the additional complication that Fanchea of Leinster is widely adored as a woman and his intercessions are that of a female saint. It would hardly do to tell the young girls who look to the protection of Fanchea, that he was really a man.”

“And it would be wrong to do so to,” replied Cardinal O’Connor, “for in my eyes, as I believe in the eyes of the Lord, she was really a maid. The fact that Fanchea's body had ‘male parts’, as she says, has nothing to do with her soul, which is most assuredly female. There is surely nothing in her account to suggest that, even at the end of her life, she considered herself anything but female, nor that the monks among whom she lived did either. Moreover, Robert Fitz Stephen and his soldiers certainly acted towards her as though she was a female, and the miracles the Holy Virgin performed to preserve her innocence are those that would only be done for a female. Certainly you are not accusing the Holy Virgin of being unable to discern her 'real' gender. On the contrary, by protecting her the Virgin is quite definitely asserting Fanchea's fundamental femininity."

“We are aware of the theological arguments you have put forth in your recent book,” countered Father Laffey, “but you will admit that they are — to say the least — somewhat controversial. They are hardly material on which to base a canonization.”

“This is more than a theological argument,” replied Cardinal O’Connor. “We must also listen to the faithful. Generations upon generations of young girls have asked for the intercession of Fanchea of Leinster to save them from sexual assaults, and many have been answered. Are we to tell them that their faith was misplaced because we are more interested in the body parts of the maid Fanchea than in the nature of her soul? In any case, it is not the job of this committee to decide these points. Our purpose was to find evidence of her actual existence, and that we have surely done. Let us make our report on that point alone, and let the postulator-general carry on from there."

On that the committee members, after long arguments, finally agreed. Their final report merely stated that they had come across a manuscript in Fanchea's own hand, stating that she had been abducted by the soldiers of Robert Fitz Stephen, brought to him, and later escaped, hiding out in a monestary disguised as a monk. All reference to her "body parts" was omitted. A copy of the manuscript (but not the full translation) was attached to the report, of course. Cardinal O'Connor was rather doubtful that anyone at the Vatican, save the three members of the committee, was capable of deciphering it.

The First Woman Cardinal of the Catholic Church, IV   By Melissa Tawn   A solution for transsexuals is set up within the framework of the Catholic Church, and Cardinal O'Connor resigns her position.

INTRODUCTION: While each story in this series is independent of the others, it is highly recommended that one read the first three stories, in order to understand how Cardinal O’Connor transitioned and became the first woman cardinal of the Catholic Church.

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As time passed, Mary-Anne Cardinal O’Connor became accepted more and more in Vatican circles and stopped being (as she sometimes called it) a “freak show” both to her colleagues and the media. She carefully stayed within the theological bounds: even though she had been ordained when she still was a young man, she eschewed all priestly functions. She granted no more interviews nor would she talk about gender issues in any forum. She managed to finish her major study of the theology of the great Dominican friar and saint Albertus Magnus of Cologne, a study widely praised both inside the church and in academia for its comprehensiveness and erudition. She returned to teaching. She never, however, regained the position of power and influence she had under the late Pope J**.

The routine of her life, however, was broken one day, when Cardinal O’Connor received a telephone request from the appointments secretary of Signora Angelica Montaperti, saying that her mistress would like an audience with Her Eminence Cardinal O’Connor at her Eminence’s earliest convenience. Though Cardinal O’Connor had never had the opportunity to meet Signora Montaperti in person, she knew, as did everyone in Rome, that Signora Montaperti was a very wealthy woman (whose wealth was rumored to exceed that of the Queen of England and the Queen of the Netherlands combined), who had the reputation of being a pious Catholic and who contributed tens of millions of euros to Catholic charities every year. Certainly she was someone to be taken seriously, and so a meeting was scheduled for 9:00 the next morning, in Cardinal O’Connor’s office at the Vatican.

At precisely 9:00 am, an elegant and immaculately-dressed oriental woman stepped through Cardinal O’Connor’s door. After being asked to sit, she came immediately to the point. “I would like to tell you a long story, your Eminence, and then ask a big favor of you. The details of this story are highly personal, and I would appreciate it if you treat them with utmost confidence.”

Cardinal O’Connor nodded in assent, and so she began.

“As you can see, I am not European by birth,” she began. “I am Thai, born in a small and very poor village in the north of the country. I was raised from birth as, to use the local term, a ladyboy. That is, I was born as a genetic male, but was raised and treated as a girl. My parents fed me natural female hormones in doses sufficient to keep my figure very girlish, though not enough to hamper my genital development. At the age of 11, I was sold to a brothel in Phuket, where I was trained for a year in the feminine arts and the arts of pleasing those men who come to Thailand looking for “exotic” sexual thrills. I was then sold to a larger brothel in Bangkok, where my training both as a woman and as a whore were further refined. At the age of 13, I was sent to a clinic for breast implantation and some other cosmetic surgery. I was then resold, along with fifteen other girls, to a Singapore-based group of people smugglers who transported us by various means to Albania.

From the Albanian coast, in the dead of night, we were smuggled by fast boat across the Adriatic Sea into Italy, where I was once again sold to a brothel in Rome which specialized in “clients with special tastes”. That house, by the way, is less than two kilometers from the Vatican and numbers among its patrons several high-ranking members of the Curia, and more than one of your colleagues in the College of Cardinals. I was fortunate in that, because of the select nature of the clientele, we were given decent food and clothing, as well as regular medical checkups. Nonetheless, I hated my life there.

Most of the clients treated us like dogs or, at best, like serving women. The one exception, and the only one of my regular clients I looked forward to, was a man in his middle fifties named Umberto, who came twice a week. He always treated me with kindness and consideration, and often brought me presents. I, in turn, always tried to do the best to please him. One day, however, I could stand it no longer and, after a particularly gratifying session, I started crying and told him that this would probably be our last time together, because I intended to escape from the house later that night and drown myself in the Tiber. He cradled me in his arms like a little girl, and gently calmed me down. He then told me to get dressed, and had me lead him to the manager of the brothel, a brutal man whom we all called Three-Eye Luigi because of his affectation of wearing a monocle in one eye.

Without knocking, Umberto barged into Luigi’s office walked up to his desk, and stated: “I want to buy Angelica from you and take her from here. Tell me your price.”

“We don’t sell the girls who work here, we only rent them,” replied Luigi, “so kindly leave.”

Umberto shot out his hand, grabbed Luigi’s monocle, and smashed it on the desk. “You do not know to whom you are talking,” he said in a slow and even tone of voice. “I am Umberto Montaperti, and what I want, I get. I own this building and, for that matter, all of the buildings on this street. Unless you sell Angelica to me immediately, within one hour you and all of your girls will be out on the sidewalk watching while my bulldozers raze your establishment to the ground.

Even I knew enough about the name Umberto Montaperti to be awed. He was considered one of the richest, and most ruthless, men in Italy if not all of Europe, having parlayed the family-owned chain of retail outlets into a marketing empire, to which he added a media conglomerate which included three television networks and dozens of major newspapers and magazines, the second-largest automobile manufacturer in the country, a major construction company, a premier-league football team, huge tracts of real estate, and hundreds of other enterprises in Italy and abroad. He was rumored to “own” several government ministers, a majority in both houses of the Italian parliament (which routinely passed tax legislation with loopholes tailor-made for his creative bookkeepers), hundreds of high-ranking police officials, and judges by the score. No politician would dare say anything against him. Even the Mafia never challenged him directly, preferring an unwritten division of spoils to confrontation. This was not a person you casually dismissed from your office.

Luigi picked up his phone, dialed a number, and began talking excitedly in a Sicilian dialect which I couldn’t follow. After a minute, he put it down, and turned to Umberto in a most obsequious manner: “Signore Montaperti, I most humbly apologize for the misunderstanding. It is true that under no circumstances do we sell our girls, but we are always happy to make presents to our sincere friends. Please take her as a gift of the house. Please take as many of the girls as you wish.”

Umberto did not even thank him. “Get your personal effects,” he said to me. “Never mind your other clothes, I will get you new and better ones anyway.”

Within five minutes, I was seated in Umberto’s huge Mercedes limousine, while his chauffeur navigated through the streets of Rome. We arrived at the largest mansion I have ever been in, and he led me gently to a bedroom which would most certainly have awed Marie Antoinette. “Now sleep, my darling Angelica, and never think of suicide again. Tomorrow is a new dawn in your life.”

Early the next morning, Umberto phoned the editor-in-chief of the leading fashion magazine in Italy (which he owned), told her to cancel all of her appointments for the next three days, and report to his house within the hour. He then gave her a no-limit credit card and ordered her to outfit me completely, from the skin out, at the best fashion houses in Rome. I was also taken for a private session at the best and most exclusive beauty spa in Rome (which he also owned), which had been cleared of all of its other clients, and given the complete works. Of course, some of the people who fitted me and treated me saw or felt what I had between my legs, but nobody said a word. Signore Montaperti’s tastes were known in certain (very select and very discreet) circles, and were not to be commented on.

By the second day — and this is surely a record for the Italian bureaucracy — I also held in my hands papers, signed by the Minister himself, attesting that Miss Angelica Tirasupa, a female born in Thailand, was a legally naturalized citizen of Italy. I am sure that had I wanted a valid driver’s license, I could have had that too, but there was no need for one since, before the week was out, I had my own pink Lancia limousine and personal driver.

It goes without saying that I did my utmost to repay Umberto, both in bed and out of it, with all of the love, care, and attention I could. The more I knew him, the more I loved him, for I found out that underneath the businessman’s gruff exterior was a gentle and affectionate man, who needed a woman to whom he could talk and who would support him in all he did. He had been married once, when he was a young man, but his wife was killed a year after their nuptials, when her Ferrari sports car hit a bridge abutment which she did not sense through her alcoholic haze. He never remarried.

I was also surprised to find that, contrary to the image he deliberately cultivated, Umberto was quite learned. He was capable of quoting at length from Shakespeare and Byron in English, Racine and Voltaire in French, Goethe and Lessing in German, Seneca and Terrence in Latin, and Dante and Petrarch in Italian. His knowledge of European history was astounding. The 10,000 or so books in the library of his mansion were not just there for show — he had read most of them and consulted all of the others. He was a man of contrasts, capable one minute of planning the technical details of an expedition to look for uranium ore in the Altai Mountains (without consulting notes — he kept all details of his business dealings in his head) and then, the next moment, sitting with me on the patio looking at the setting sun and holding my hand like an embarrassed teenager.

During the next three months, I was treated like a model-in-training. I had my own full-time hairdresser and cosmetician, my own fashion expert, and my own language tutor who helped me replace the rough Italian I had learned in the brothel with the refined literary language of the Roman upper classes. Then, when he felt I was ready, Umberto began taking me out into society. As Umberto Montaperti’s partner, I was, of course, immediately given pride of place at the top of the social pecking order.

Only once did I feel confounded. I was in the powder room at a very expensive and private club, fixing my makeup, when the Swedish “blonde bombshell” actress Ingrid Eriksson — who was in Rome to star in another Fellini film — walked in and introduced herself. ‘I just wanted to tell you that we both share the same secret,’ she said, ‘I also am capable of peeing standing up.’ I stood there horrified; how had she found out? She seemed to read my mind. ‘You didn’t give yourself away, Angelica, you are perfect. But I am one of those few who have a personal knowledge of Umberto’s tastes. Don’t worry,’ she said, hugging me, ‘in my opinion, we two are the luckiest women alive. I hope that you and I will become the best of friends.’”

At this point, Cardinal O’Connor briefly interrupted the story. “I remember Ingrid Eriksson, but she seems to have disappeared completely. Whatever happened to her?”

“After her film career began to wane, she decided to return to her male self,” said Angelica. “He had those magnificent breasts removed surgically and went back to using his birth name of Ingmar. He now runs a small art gallery in Lund, is happily married to a woman who knows about his past, and has two beautiful daughters who don’t. We are still the best of friends and keep in constant touch. Every summer the Eriksson family spends two weeks with me, cruising the Mediterranean on my yacht.”

“To return to my story,” she continued. “I was in heaven for a period of two years, a princess of Roman society, on the arm of a rich and powerful man, whom I loved with all my heart, and who in turn loved me no less. Then, as in all real-life stories, tragedy followed happiness, and Umberto suffered his first major stroke. He had the best medical attention available, needless to say, but the situation was touch-and-go for a long while. In the end, he was left with his mind intact but the lower half of his body totally paralyzed. He was also no longer capable of any sexual activity whatsoever. During the next six months, I nursed him around the clock. I pampered him, fed him, read to him, and made him feel as loved and wanted as I possibly could.

Umberto had always been interested in religion and it was during this period that we began to seriously read the Bible together and then the works of the Church Fathers and other theological works -- including some of your books, I may add. We prayed together and strengthened our feelings of love for God and our Savior. It was then that we also began making large contributions to Catholic charities, a task which Umberto asked me to undertake without involving him directly, since he was afraid that the charities may not want to accept money ‘tainted’ by his questionable business practices directly from his hands.

One day, Umberto called me to his side, and told me, very seriously, that he had two questions to ask me. The first was whether I had ever desired to remove the maleness from between my legs. I answered, truthfully, that I had always dreamt of it, but that I would never even consider actually doing it, since I knew he preferred me as I am. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘since I am no longer capable of enjoying your favors, now is the time to fulfill your wish.’ Then, almost as an afterthought, he added ‘The second question will wait until this is taken care of.’

With his customary efficiency, he immediately arranged for me to fly to a private clinic near Geneva where, within a week, I was operated on by doctors flown in from Bangkok for the purpose. After I returned, and proudly showed him the results of the operation, he hugged me and said ‘And now for the second question I needed to ask you.’ With that, he pulled out of his pocket a small box, and opened it to reveal the most beautiful diamond-encrusted ring I have ever seen. ‘Angelica, my darling, my love,’ he said, ‘you have already made me happier than I had ever thought possible. Will you be my wife?’

A week later, we were married in a small private ceremony, personally conducted by your colleague Cardinal della Rovere, who is distantly related to Umberto and a close personal friend.”

For the ensuing 15 months, I was constantly at Umberto’s side, easing his pain as best I could and, at the same time, helping him to make his peace with himself and with God as best he could. When his second, and fatal, stroke came, I felt that he had done that, and that he went to the next world in peace and faith as a true Christian. That, then, is my story.”

“It is a very touching story,” replied Cardinal O’Connor, who was most genuinely moved. “But why are you telling me all of this?”

“After Umberto’s death,” replied Angelica, “I realized what a great part of my life our love had been, and felt rudderless without him. While I inherited his entire estate, I did not have the business sense nor did I possess the fierce desire to succeed that he had. I therefore arranged to sell off most of his enterprises, putting the money in sound and prudent long-term investments, which needed little day-to-day tending. The whirl of society, without Umberto at my side, bored me and I began refusing many more invitations than I accepted. I spent more and more of my time in spiritual reading and contemplation of this world, and of the next.

In the societies of the Orient there is a custom that the widow of a powerful man retires to a convent for the rest of her days, and I began to see the wisdom of that tradition, and resolved to do likewise. However, I was shamed and shocked to find out that most orders of nuns would not have me as soon as they learned that I was not a genetic female — a detail I refused to hide or lie about. I have therefore resolved to set up my own order of nuns, one into which women like me and you will be welcomed (though, of course, this will nowhere be written down explicitly). It will not be a cloistered order, but one which will run hospices or shelters for girls disowned by their parents (and especially girls like us); a place where they can find understanding and love, as well as a chance to contemplate and plan their future. If they decide to continue on their path, we will help them and welcome them into our ranks, should they so desire. If they decide to revert back to their male life, as did Ingmar Eriksson, we will help them do that too, and continue to love and support them.”

“It is a noble plan,” replied Cardinal O’Connor, “but I am not sure I can help you fulfill it. I have very little power in Vatican circles these days.”

“Oh, I do not need your help for that,” replied Angelica. “There are still many members of the Curia and the College of Cardinals who owed favors to Umberto, and I have not cancelled those debts. And there are others about whom, let me say, I know things that they would rather not become public. They will help me too, I am sure. More than that, I intend to endow the proposed order with all of the funds at my disposal, and three billion euros can speak most eloquently.

I do, however, need your help in something else, and that is in finding candidates for this order. I imagine that since your own transformation, many sincere Catholic transsexual women have contacted you to help them find their place in the church. Among them, there are, I am sure, 20 or 30 who would be perfect for this planned order. Would you help me locate them and make contact with them, and turn this dream into reality?”

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It took over five years of pressure, persuasion, and (in a few cases) outright blackmail, but in the end Angelica Montaperti’s dream was realized, and the Order of the Poor Sisters of St. Fanchea did become a reality. The order’s first hospice was opened later that year, in that building not far from the Vatican, where Angelica was first employed as a whore when she came to Rome many years before. Others were planned for Los Angeles, Bangkok, and Montreal. The last of these was also going to include a companion hospice for female-to-male transsexuals, which was appropriately named Pelletier House.

Later that year, Cardinal Mary-Anne O’Connor, the first woman cardinal of the Catholic Church, wrote a letter to the His Holiness, petitioning to be allowed to resign from the College of Cardinals, and continue her service to the Church as a simple nun. Her request was granted.