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Years ago a brother told me a disconcerting episode, according to which a notoriously homosexual Curia official had been subjected to exorcisms because he had acquired the habit, during his filthy parties, to blaspheme the name of God, which had given rise to phenomena of diabolical possession. The wicked monsignor died shortly thereafter of an incurable disease, mourned by his associates. At that time the fagots of the Vatican were still moving with caution, not because they weren't numerous, but because there was that tacit agreement which in the American army is summed up by the adage Don’t ask, don’t tell, or Don't ask, don't say. Even though many knew who had itpenchant and who doesn't. Monsignors who came out of the Lateran in civilian clothes at night, wearing jeans and leather jacket, and who the following day accompanied the Holy Father at the pontificals. Priests who moved away from the rectory to turn to the calidarj. Students from Pontifical Universities who went for a walk in Villa Giulia. Seminarians dedicated to a questionable evening apostolate in Monte Caprino. It was the generation of the Council, who preferred designer clothes and sunglasses to the cassock. Vanesj from the fool, prone to hysterical laughter and addressing themselves with female pronouns and nicknames, but still cautious, because the virile Wojtyla sat on the throne. Who was so intent on promoting the ecumenism of Assisi that he didn't notice that right next to him were people known by the nom de guerre of Jessica.