The Omega Scroll (8 page)

‘The Holy Father has decided to introduce a pilot scheme whereby selected men and women of the Faith are to attend a state university. It is something I have opposed, Father Donelli, but the Holy Father is adamant.’ Pertroni returned to his desk but remained standing, looking down on Giovanni, his blue eyes cold and steely. Petroni did not enjoy being overruled, even by the Holy Father.

‘You, Father Donelli, have been chosen to lead the program and to provide periodic reports on its effectiveness or otherwise,’ Petroni said, with a chilling emphasis on the ‘otherwise’. ‘You are also to ensure that the more junior members of this program do not go off the rails.’

‘I already have two degrees, Excellency, in theology and chemistry,’ Giovanni said, more than a little puzzled.

Petroni’s eyes narrowed and Giovanni instantly regretted his response. ‘I am aware of that, Father,’ Petroni said slowly. ‘I have at least persuaded the Holy Father that theology continue to be taught where it should be, within the correctness of a Catholic university. You and three others have been enrolled in a new degree, the Philosophy of Religion. The details including the reporting requirements are in this folder. I require only one copy of each report and there are to be no duplicates. They are to be submitted for my personal attention and the reports are to include a general summary on the approach of each lecturer, highlighting where there are departures from the teachings of the Church.’

In years to come Giovanni would have cause to remember Archbishop Petroni’s paranoia.

‘You leave for the Università Statale in Milano at the end of the year.’

With that Giovanni was dismissed, but it would not be the last time the ambitious Archbishop would impact on Giovanni’s career. As Giovanni would discover, the Holy Spirit worked in strange ways. Two weeks later Petroni was summoned to see the new Pope.

‘Lorenzo.
Avanti. Avanti
.’ The Holy Father waved Archbishop Petroni to a comfortable chair. ‘Now that I am settled in I have been going over the list of suggested new appointments and I think it is time we got you out of these dusty corridors in the Vatican.’

Petroni’s heart sank. His power base was firmly rooted here in the Vatican and the Vatican Bank. Immediately his disappointment swung to anger as he wondered who might have engineered the move to sideline him. Petroni struggled for control, but the Holy Father was smiling.

‘I need a good man in Milano, Lorenzo. You are a very good archbishop, but I think you would make a better cardinal,
non è vero
?’

Not one given to any outward show of emotion, Petroni simply nodded in acquiescence, while inwardly he congratulated himself. ‘Thank you, Holy Father. Wherever I can be of service.’

Petroni left the Pope’s office with a feeling of satisfaction. If he had to serve outside the Curia, Cardinal Archbishop of Milano was a powerful post and he was on track to acquire the Keys of Peter. His satisfaction didn’t last long. It rarely did and back in his own office he slowly and meticulously worked his way through the personnel files of the other university candidates. So far nothing unusual – proven attachment to the Church, all living in regional areas of Italy. One candidate, Allegra Bassetti from Tricarico, did stand out academically – prizes for academic achievement, outstanding grades in all her subjects – a bright young thing. Petroni knew her education would come to nothing, she was a woman after all. He buzzed the outer office.

‘Put me through to the Bishop of Tricarico,’ he demanded, annoyed at having to waste his time organising a university scholarship for some poor nun in a village backwater. Petroni would soon find out that the power of a woman should never be underestimated.

CHAPTER TEN

Tricarico

I
n southern Italy on the ‘instep of the boot’, the little town of Tricarico had stood for centuries, battered but unbowed, perched high on the side of a hill off the ancient Appian Way. The mountains had once been covered with huge oak forests but the progress of man had ensured the forests would never be seen again. Roman engineers had carved their roads through the thickly wooded countryside, and before them the Greeks had settled in the surrounding hills. The higher peaks of craggy granite were dusted with a light covering of early snow, the patchwork of fields seamed by deep ravines of limestone rising from the stony bed of the river that twisted and turned on itself through the valley.

The thirteenth-century Convent of San Domenico stood alone on a hill across from the town. The only connection between the convent and the town was an old wooden bridge at the bottom of a ravine that had been etched and scarred by the rains of countless millennia.

Allegra Bassetti crossed herself at the end of another hour of silent devotion and moved to the window of her small and sparsely furnished room, her dark hair hidden under her novice’s veil, her trim figure similarly hidden under her habit. The battered once-white buildings of Tricarico seemed less dirty in the cool autumn light. The jagged and broken terracotta roofs were tinged with orange as the sunset signalled the end of another day. Under the terracotta, the people of Tricarico lived as they had lived for centuries. Cheek by jowl. Nearly eight hundred families crammed into a maze of one-and two-room houses connected by alleys, stair-streets and tunnels filled with shopkeepers, shoemakers, blacksmiths, builders, peasants and
padroni
. At the top of the hill an old Norman tower stood sentinel over the town and just below it the Bishop’s faded and terraced palace formed the high side of the top piazza. Il Comùne, a dirty grey building housing the Mayor and what passed for administration, stood on the left of the Bishop’s piazza. L’Ufficio Postale was on the right. The bottom piazza lay a hundred metres away at the other end of the town’s main and only street. On either side of it, shops in various states of disrepair leaned drunkenly against one another.

As the shadows grew longer Allegra’s thoughts turned to her family and she pictured her father, her mother and her three older brothers, Antonio, Salvatore and Enrico, hoes over their shoulders, all wending their way home after another backbreaking day in the fields. Her father, Martino Bassetti, as befitted his status as head of the household, would be riding the family donkey, precariously balancing a thatch of twigs for the evening fire on its neck. Her two younger brothers, Umberto and Giuseppe, would already be home from school and Nonna would probably be scolding five-year-old Giuseppe, the youngest of the six Bassetti children, who always seemed to be in trouble. Allegra said a silent prayer for her family and thanked God for each and every one of them, adding an additional ‘thank you’ that tonight she would be allowed to see them. On the last day of every second month, except when it fell on a Sunday or on a holy day of obligation, nuns who had family in the village were allowed to cross the rickety little bridge and go home for dinner. Normally Allegra looked forward to these days more than she would like to admit, but tonight she was troubled. An hour earlier she had received a message that the Mother Superior wanted to see her in her office at nine tomorrow morning, which made her wonder what sin she had committed that might have brought her to the attention of Mother Alberta.

By the time she set out for the town, Allegra was less troubled and she made her way down the clay and limestone path, on steps cut into the rock. Some of the early snows had melted and the cool clear mountain stream gurgled under the bridge as Allegra picked her way across the gaps where the weathered wood had rotted away. The climb through the gullies to the village was steep but at the top it merged into the cobblestones of an alley where a cacophony of sound echoed off the dirty walls of the houses. A dozen radios were tuned, or more likely untuned, to the only station that reached these parts and the crackling blare from the old speakers mixed with the cackling of chickens being shooed by Nonnas in black. Discordance was given an entirely new meaning as donkeys and the family pigs were herded to the back of the house towards a small bale of hay and a bowl of scraps. An argument had broken out in a house a little further up and the screams of abuse from a wife of thirty years and allegations of her husband’s lust for the much younger wife next door rose above the cries of the children, animals and the rattling of pots and pans. Southern Italy at dusk. Allegra paid the chaos no attention. The sounds were no different from the ones she had grown up with in the house that had been home to generations of Bassettis and she headed for the concrete steps that formed a ‘V’ over the opening to the stables and walked up to the entrance of the house.

She poked her head around the open door.

‘
Buonasera!
’ she called.

Giuseppe was the first to spot her. Fat legs propelled him forward and he launched himself at his sister, grabbing hold of her habit.

‘Mamma! Papà! È Allegra!!’

‘Bambino!’
Allegra swung Giueseppe into the air. His dark brown eyes shone with delight. Then she gave her Mamma, Nonna and her brothers a hug. Papà was still shaving, but when he finished preening himself in preparation for his evening in the top piazza, he welcomed her with a hug.

The big rough wooden table was already set for
la cena
with one huge bowl,
forchette
and a thick wooden
pane di tavola
– the family breadboard.
La cena
was a simple affair.

‘You’re just in time, Allegra,’ her mother said, forking great strands of steaming linguine out of a big old pot that dwarfed the tiny two-ring burner that passed for a stove. She carried the large, chipped pottery bowl that had been around for as long as Allegra could remember and placed it in the middle of the table. Papà sliced the big loaf that Nonna had baked earlier in the day and Giuseppe reached towards it.

‘Giuseppe! Not until Allegra has said grace and Papà has been served,’ his mother scolded. Giuseppe withdrew his little paw and gave his sister a sheepish grin, his brown eyes sparkling mischievously.

‘Bless us, O Lord, and these Your gifts which we are about to receive from Your bounty. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.’

‘Amen,’ the family murmured and they all waited for Papà to pour some hot olive oil and garlic over the pasta and for Mamma to grate the cheese. Papà twirled a generous serving of linguine around his fork and then the rest of the family was able to attack the big bowl all at once.

‘So how are things at the convent?’

‘Fine, Papà,’ Allegra replied, quietly asking for forgiveness in the event that they were not. ‘And here?’

Her father shrugged. He was a tall, thin man but the years had brought a hunch to his shoulders. ‘
Non troppo bene
. We need rain for the potatoes,’ was his simple reply.

‘I shall ask Mother Superior to include rain on our list of supplications,’ Allegra offered, ever the optimist.

‘It’s the same everywhere,’ said her mother. Caterina Bassetti was as short and plump as her husband was tall and thin. ‘La Signora Bagarella says it is El Niño.’

‘La Signora Bagarella,’ Martino snorted. ‘What would she know! It’s just a drought. Nothing more, nothing less.’

‘But we are getting them more often now, Papà. There was an article in
La Gazetta
only last week,’ Allegra declared, frustrated with her father’s legendary stubbornness. ‘The global warming is being linked to El Niño and the forest clearing. In the Amazon they’re destroying over six million acres a year. That’s seven football fields a minute!’

‘You read too much,
la mia sorella piccola
,’ Antonio, her eldest brother admonished, quietly proud of his clever ‘little sister’. He was often bemused by her passionate defence of the environment and a dozen other causes that, in his view, were equally wacky.

‘And you boys don’t read enough,’ their mother scolded. ‘The frogs are disappearing and that’s a sure sign that the forests aren’t well.’ She too had read the article in
La Gazzetta del Mezzogiorno
. Mamma Bassetti might have left school when she was fourteen, but like her daughter her inquiring mind never stopped exploring.

The meal finished and Martino Bassetti got up from the table, adjusting his old and battered felt hat on his grey, brushed-down hair.

‘It’s just a drought and La Signora Bagarella would do well to stick to her knitting,’ he grumbled stubbornly as he disappeared out the door towards the top piazza.

‘
Buonasera
, Papà,’ Allegra called after the retreating form of her father. Martino Bassetti waved without turning around, already focused on the night’s activities. Ever since she could remember, every night after dinner Papà would trudge the short distance to either the wine bar or, on the first Monday of the month, to
il cinema
. The monthly western was for ‘Men Only’ and Martino Bassetti and the rest of the town’s menfolk would sit either side of the flickering projector, its beam of light probing a pall of cigarette smoke before landing uncertainly on a chipped plaster wall.

‘I don’t see why the western should only be for men,’ Allegra remarked defiantly.

‘Because the Bishop said it is,’ Enrico said smugly. Enrico was only one year older than Allegra and there had always been a constant tussle between the two ‘middle’ siblings. The previous week the Bishop of Tricarico had reminded them in his sermon that ‘westerns were full of temptation’ and that no self-respecting Tricarican woman should ever be seen in one of the torn canvas seats that littered the cinema’s dusty wooden floor.

‘The Bishop isn’t right about everything,’ Allegra retorted, getting up to help her mother clear the table. It was an early sign of rebellion against the restrictions of the Church and a male-dominated society. Coming home always made Allegra miss the normal life of the little village. She felt removed from the daily activities that her family took for granted – the evening promenade from the bottom piazza to the top piazza, gossip at the markets, chats with neighbours and friends – experiencing everything that life outside the convent had to offer. Occasionally she wondered what it might be like to have a boyfriend like some of the girls she had known at school, what it would be like to be totally comfortable with another person to voice her real thoughts and fears. Then her Catholic training would kick in and she would quickly admonish herself for such selfish and ungrateful thoughts and would later ask forgiveness in her prayers before bed. It was part of a constant tension between her faith and her own view that a woman should have a greater role in the world. An inner battle between
accettazione
and
testarda
– acceptance and rebellion.

‘Do you miss living in the village?’ her mother asked, as if reading her mind.

‘Sometimes, Mamma,’ Allegra replied carefully, as they finished the dishes. ‘But then it seems such a small sacrifice,’ she added quickly.

Her mother smiled, the laughter lines on her old but gentle face creasing even further. ‘We are all very proud of you,
la mia figlia–molto orgogliosa
.’ To have a daughter accepted for the local Order was almost as great an honour as having a son accepted into the seminary.

‘
Grazie
, Mamma,’ Allegra said, picking up her wooden stool and following her mother out to join two of the next-door neighbours. La Signora Farini and the champion of El Niño, La Signora Bagarella, had already set themselves up at the bottom of the concrete stairs in the old cobbled street that doubled as a ‘lounge room’. The latter was repeating her assertion that the mysterious El Niño was responsible for the country’s woes.

‘È El Niño non è vero
?’

La Signora Farini was having none of it. ‘No.
È testamento di Dio!
It is the will of God!’ she retorted passionately. La Signora Farini was President of the Bishop’s Ladies’ Guild and a leader of the ‘Will of God Brigade’. Last week, when La Signora Marinetti’s son was injured in a fall at school, it was clear and incontrovertible evidence of what befalls a family if they should miss a Sunday Mass. For many of the good citizens of Tricarico everything that happened in their lives was God’s will. To the believers God was all seeing and all knowing. Every thought, every transgression was recorded. If a child died or a building collapsed, it was God’s punishment on the sinful residents of Tricarico. It was retribution for failing to meet God’s standards.

‘Isn’t it, Allegra?’ Signora Farini demanded, invoking Allegra’s greater knowledge of all matters theological.

‘You may both be right,’ Allegra said diplomatically. She had been part of this evening ritual many times and had no wish to take sides.

It was after nine when she picked her way back across the rickety bridge by the feeble light of her pocket torch. Restless, Allegra tossed and turned during the night, worrying about Mother Alberta and why she had been summoned, while her mind rebelled against the strictures of the Church.
Accettazione
and
testarda
.

Despite her nervousness, Allegra knocked firmly on the open office door.

‘You wished to see me, Reverend Mother?’

‘Come in, my child, and sit down.’ Mother Alberta did not look up, but went on writing. She was a thin, severe-looking woman. Even when she was seated the knife-edges in her habit remained uncreased, and not a single grey hair protruded from underneath her perfectly pressed veil. The Reverend Mother’s tone was not unfriendly and Allegra sat a little less nervously on the wooden chair. While she waited in the sparsely furnished office Allegra gazed at the simple wooden crucifix on the whitewashed wall behind the older nun.

When she had finished writing Mother Alberta placed her steel-framed glasses on the paperwork in front of her and clasped her hands on the desk. She looked at Allegra for some seconds before finally speaking.