He was seized with unbearable nausea. He got up from his desk, but only took two steps. A disgusting noise rose noisily
from his stomach. He couldn't hold himself back, he stuck to the door jamb, leaned his head forward and threw up his lunch on the carpet.
You have to split them up. They can't go against the forces of an already written destiny. Rebelled against their union. Find a way to separate them.
Downstairs in the living room, Guido was trembling with emotion.
"I still love you, Daisy” he revealed by kneeling at the girl's feet, kissing her repeatedly and touching her hand with his cheek. She wanted to surrender herself to him, but could not resist a force stronger than her desire.
"No. I cannot."
"What do you mean you can't?"
She pushed Guido away.
"I feel something is wrong with me” he exclaimed painfully. "I don't know what it is. I don't want you to be a part of it. Leave before it's too late."
"What are you talking about?" he asked, bowing at his feet.
"I... I don't know. I don't know what's happening to me."
"Daisy, please explain” he pleaded with her, coming closer to hug her again.
"No. Go away, please" she said in tears.
Guido looked at her without understanding. Daisy was shaken by trembling and sobbing, her cheeks ridged with black tears of make-up, the locks of her hair sweaty and splattered, one hand covering her mouth to hide a long, painful moan, impossible to hold back.
"I won't look for you anymore, if that's what you want." Once again Daisy was killing her illusions. He went away, taking one last look at her, trying to contain it all in one look. She bowed her head, smoothing her face with the palms of her hands to dry her tears. When she lifted her face, she no longer cried.
Guido, at that moment, had a sort of hallucination: Daisy's face seemed to be covered with burns. He was aware that he had drunk a lot, but he didn't consider himself drunk: what his eyes were focusing on couldn't be real. The boy put on his glasses to better frame Daisy's face.
Her face was back to normal. There was nothing unusual or terrifying except the unbearability of her pain.
He staggered out with the belief that the alcohol had gone to his head. As he walked away, he felt the heaviness of his legs, unshakable and unable to keep up that long day.
13
The bank headquarters in Castelmuso had blood on their hands, but this was nothing new. The bank completely occupied the three floors of a sumptuous white marble building and was the most impressive building after the town hall. It was located on the so-called Piazza Lunga, considered to be the Condotti street of the village. The economic crisis, which they said was behind them, had closed down twenty percent of the shops in the centre.
The old manager, when the crisis broke out in 2008, was not only not sympathetic to the many customers in difficulty, but he was taken by a sort of iconoclastic fury.
The shopkeepers who had taken out mortgages and could no longer pay, saw their homes, shops, goods, dignity and, in a couple of cases, even their lives taken away.
Filippa's mother was one of his victims. The woman was the owner of the haberdashery in Castelmuso. The shop went bankrupt, and the bank took it over. The woman fell into a depression, and her husband disappeared.
Filippa, at the age of six, took all the heads off the Barbies. The dreams were over.
And Filippa became Filippa.
When she was eight years old, she said her first blasphemy. At nine she won the regional chess competition, beating a FIDE master who had 2230 ELO. At eleven, she realized she
was lesbian. When she was 14, she discovered sex. And cigars.
Since the director had finished in jail with a heavy accusation of paedophilia, Filippa was in and out of the bank with a considerable dose of good cheer. The editorial staff had in fact decided to keep the precious Benedictine manuscript in a bank safe deposit box.
Filippa came out of the revolving door with the book inside a briefcase. She loaded the case into the trunk of the scooter. After not even ten minutes she was in the editorial office discussing with Manuel and Leo the new translations to be made.
"We can't get the manuscript out of the safe for every little shit" complained Manuel sitting at his desk.
"I know, but the last photocopies were unreadable” Leo noticed, picking up the parchment paper of the manuscript with two fingers, which he turned slowly.
"The photocopies have something to do with it but up to a certain point" replied Filippa, who added, "That carbon black shit used by Frater Paolous is sensitive to moisture. When it does, the ink tends to expand, staining the writing. And you can't read the text. I can interpret the old-fashioned litter, but I don't have to do a literal translation.
"It’s ok. Who wants a beer?" Manuel exclaimed, pulling a couple of Heinekens out of the fridge. Leo raised his hand, while Filippa didn't blink an eye. Which, of course, she wanted a beer too.
"Apparently the Milan office is following us very closely” Manuel said, uncorking the beer. The thick, white foam bubbled over the cold corners of the bottle.
"The magic word ʺPardo Melchiorriʺ has got a lot of big names in the Union's ears” said Filippa as she took the bottle in his hand. "You know how it is. We're on death row waiting to be executed. If we don't guarantee a minimum standard of efficiency, they'll shut us down. But perhaps the
painter will help us pull the plug a little later. So I say we drink to him."
Leo rolled up his shirt sleeves. He smeared an itching cream with the pungent smell of camphor on the tip of his elbows, took a sip and informed the boys of something new.
"They called from Milan. Soon Eugenio Zevi will arrive. He wants to check the manuscript."
"Will the legendary Zevi come here?" Filippa widened his eyes. "Holy shit! Things are getting serious."
"I hope you have a good relationship with the art critics."
"No. I don't hold them in high regard" said Filippa.
"Eugenio Zevi, however, is another thing. I consider him one of the few human beings worthy of my esteem."
"Yes. While we mere mortals, we are worth nothing. Thank you, Filippa. You know how to make your friends feel important" said Manuel ironically.
The three of them slammed their bottles, toasting the health of the Union critic, and set to work.
Filippa was supposed to translate the unreadable parts of the manuscript, or at least try to make sense of the more damaged parts, while Leo and Manuel corrected drafts of some news reports.
There was a lot of work, and as was often the case, Guido was not in the newsroom, even though no one complained about his absence. They knew exactly where he was, and everyone was anxious to know how it went.
Guido parked the Civic on the convent square.
The Benedictine monastery stood next to the right bank of the river Muso. It was neither imposing nor small there from the Middle Ages, in keeping with the size of the Castelmusina community. The church was at the centre of the monastery. On the white marble chequered façade there was a rose window chiselled with painstaking finesse. The square, wide and square, was surrounded by a row of grey
marble columns that supported the pointed arches of the cloister.
Next to the church was a tower with tall, wide windows designed to catch the sun's rays from sunrise to sunset. It was the scriptorium, where amanuensis monks had been copying priceless historical documents since the Middle Ages, preserving millennia of Greek and Latin culture, and of all Western civilization in general. Around it, some low brick buildings made of bricks made one think that once upon a time there were stables, ovens, artisan workshops and all those activities that the Benedictines needed for the sustenance of their community.
One of those places now had a brewery. An activity advertised on the monastery's online site that seemed to be quite successful commercially.
Guido got off the Civic. There was no other car on the forecourt, except a yellow
van with the Pegasus Cooperative sign on the side. At the wheel was a small nun, with a pair of huge glasses that gave him a sour look. He thought it was a face he'd seen somewhere before, though he couldn't remember where.
Two pretty young volunteers put a group of disabled young people into the van. The boys greeted Guido. He smiled back with a big smile and a show of hands, giving the two girls a mischievous look.
He noticed he wasn't finally thinking about Daisy. He had consider her a closed chapter in his life. He was trying to detoxify himself from a complicated love, perhaps reciprocated, but inexplicably rejected.
He studied the two girls a little. They were very young, perhaps not even of age. One of them showed sincere, gentle ways, full of deliberate calm. A young woman who endeavoured to be pleasing, and perhaps she really was. But Guido had been fascinated by the other girl, a small brunette with brown hair gathered over her right shoulder. He was
struck by the expression of her straightforward eyes, lit by a mild fire. For a moment Guido forgot why he was there. He approached the girl with an excuse. He asked her what the entrance to the monastery was. She pointed it out to him. Two quick jokes because the girl had a group of disabled people to assist. A quick exchange of phone numbers, and a promise to call her as soon as possible. All in three minutes.
Yes, life went on.
Guido watched the cooperative van disappear down the avenue. The particularly clear skies and a joyous flight of swallows made the backdrop to what had heralded a good day.
"Good God. You're just a little boy" said Father Augusto, a dry, short, beak-nosed monk with an elusive, wrinkle-free forehead. He was a mild-mannered man, though imbued with a suspicious humility typical of some religious.
The Benedictine brought Guido in. He closed the door in an agitation that made him huff and puff, sometimes patient, sometimes annoyed. He walked through the door in hasty little steps, the flap of the coconut rubbing against the floor.
"You must know the Benedictine community frowns on the press, son."
ʺSo why am I here? ʺ Guido was about to object, but Father Augusto, who seemed to make targeted statements for the simple pleasure of anticipating the answers, said: "But Father Romualdo is curious to meet you. And the thing is beyond surprising. He hasn't received anyone for many years".
He knew that the monastery was home to six monks, two novices, and occasionally a few undergraduate students from the world of Catholic associationism. He had read that Father Romualdo was the dean of the monastery, but his information ended there. Guido followed the little monk through the cold, silent rooms of the monastery.
They passed the refectory, where an unusually long walnut table in the same colour as the beams stood. These supported the trussed ceiling, with a whole row of rafters following the slope of the roof. The monk put up a staircase with stone steps that led straight up to the dormitory.
When he reached the upper floor, he pointed his finger at a small, narrow door. "That's Father Romuald's cell” said the Benedictine, who lowered an eyebrow on the investigating eye.
"Many are not received when the crippled painter is mentioned."
Guido vibrated to his surprise.
"What for?" he asked.
"Because we don't think there's anything relevant about him here. No interesting news. And amateur researchers are just wasting our time. But I've already told you this."
"Father Romualdo Massi doesn't think so, though, does he?" said Guido. The Benedictine took a step back, as if rejected by the boy's biting tone. It was clear that there was not a great harmony between the two of them.
The monk, pulled to his face, discreetly knocked on the door. A tired whisper invited them in.
The cell was unadorned, the walls grey and stained, a steel tie rod to consolidate them. Father Romualdo Massi was sitting by the bed, curved and silent. He wore a large cassock of raw cloth, his bony hands resting on the top of a stick. His face was wide, framed by a grey, neglected beard. The monk looked at Guido, staring at him with cerulean, watery eyes that were not intimidating and did not demand respect.
Guido Gobbi felt crossed by the monk's gaze as if he were made of glass. He imposed himself to be careful what to say and what not to say. The director of the Union had made it clear: ‘I don't want any hoaxes' he recommended. Make sure the manuscript is authentic. I want to know who wrote it.
Find out who this Brother Paolous was, what he did, how much he prayed, what he ate, if his balls stank...’
"Jesus was a cokehead."
The flow of thought was interrupted by the monk's incomprehensible statement.
"He was just a poor junkie" the Benedictine continued in a calm voice. "Everyone here knows it. But they love him just the same."
"I don't think I understand..." exclaimed Guido confused.
"And his mother wasn't virgin."
Guido had remained rigid, not knowing what to say... He thought the monks had given him a date with what looked like a crazy old man.
"Now, Jesus is eighty-eight years old. He got sober sixty years ago” the monk exclaimed quietly, his yellowish hands shaken with a slight tremor.
Guido listened filled with disappointment. He thought that the monks, tired of the constant requests for an appointment, had finally decided to receive him just to make fun of him with what looked like an artfully crafted play. All to convince him never to return.
Guido searched with the tail of his eye for the other monk. Father Augustus looked at him through the door jamb. He left with a grunt. He himself seemed ready to come out of his cell when the old man said, "I was Jesus”.
Guido turned his head over his shoulder.
"Sorry?"
"That's what they called me when I was a boy."
Guido stopped at the door and didn't move.
"I was a good and gentle young man like our Lord” Father Romualdo revealed, "but I was as sick as Lazarus. And a doctor ruined me with a coca leaf cure."
Guido, after that explanation, felt very stupid. "I'm sorry. I thought I'd misunderstood his words."
"You didn't misunderstand anything” smiled the religious man, "let's say I said one thing to make you understand something else. Just like you did. "We both indulge in petty deception."
"I think I don't understand” said Guido with obvious discomfort.
"You came to the monastery to do a research on Pardo Melchiorri, right?" the monk observed, before continuing to speak. "You were afraid you wouldn't be received. For this reason you tried to make me understand that you were particularly informed about the painter, adding a name that I like very much. That's why you deserve my full attention, son. Go ahead, have a seat."
Guido sat on a chair which, although it was barely bigger than a stool, cluttered the small cell like an extra piece of furniture. Evidently it had been added especially for him.
Father Romualdo took off his hood, his gaze suddenly lit up like a fuse.
"How do you know of the existence of Frater Paolous Girolimini?" he asked.
"I have done some research” Guido answered vaguely. The monk waved his hand annoyed. "Better to invoke attorney-client privilege, man. I prefer it to lies."
Guido sighed uncertainly. "Then let's say I've heard about it somewhere."
"I think that's impossible."
"What makes you think that?"
"Because no one knows of the existence of Frater Paolous, boy."
Guido, astonished, tried to reply, but could find no effective argument to sound credible. And to tell the truth would be like admitting to stealing a precious manuscript that once belonged to the Benedictines.
The monk immediately took him out of his embarrassment: "Guido, can I tell you something?"
"Sure, why not?" he nodded, taking his pen and notebook.
"It's a confidence, not an interview” the old man warned him.
Guido reluctantly put the pen between the pages and closed the page, curious to hear the story.
"Perfect. So let's go back s
eventy years, when the mill that collected water from the river stood next to the monastery. I was just a novice, when one day an old monk gave me something he had many years earlier from a Benedictine, who was also very old. The latter received it from another elderly monk, and so on, back through the centuries, until the time of a famous abbot, a certain Gaspare Caligo, known to have been one of the last great inquisitors. Do you follow me?"
"I follow you, of course."
"Abbot Caligus was obsessed with everything that deviated from Christianity: apostate Christians, Jews, infidels who denied the truth of Christ, heretical blasphemers who induced Christians to imitate them, peasant women who smelled witchcraft, and so on. Well, Brother Paolous was commissioned by Abbot Caligo to spy on heretics. And it seems that the monk had put together a dossier concerning the painter Pardo Melchiorri. A dossier that was lost a few centuries ago. Does any of this mean anything to you?"
"No, it doesn't ring a bell" blushed Guido, aware that he was not very good at lying. The monk was clearly hinting at the manuscript.
"All right. Then let's continue. As I told you, what we've handed down over the centuries is neither sacred nor precious. It is something less tangible, but very, very important. It is an oath of allegiance. As my predecessors have done over the centuries, I have also sworn to preserve the integrity of the Benedictine order. My job includes, among other things, ensuring that the damnatio memoriae that struck the painter is respected.
"Now I don't follow it anymore" admitted Guido. "What did the poor unhappy man do so badly?"
"I'll explain: Frater Paolous had the task of gathering evidence to testify that he was a heretic. Paolous wrote it all down diligently for at least three years. He wrote meticulous reports in which he recounted every detail of Melchiorri's miserable life. Slowly, however, he began to be fascinated by the cripple's artistic talent. He admired his paintings. He was intoxicated by his sensitivity, by his genius. Abbot Caligo, who wanted to bring a case against Melchiorri, when he needed the evidence collected by Frater Paolous, the monk not only refused to hand it over, but openly defended the painter.
The Dawn of Sin Page 15