L'Oro Verde

by Coralie Hughes Jensen

  “You are right, Sister,” Sister Daniela said. “You are simply right. I wish I could be just like her.”

  “I think I hear the bell, Sisters,” Mother Margherita said, stepping out of her office. “What can possibly be important enough to keep you talking out here?”

  “Forgive us, Mother,” Sister Lucia said. “Sister Daniela was telling me she wanted to be just like Sister Angela.”

  “Good Lord,” the mother superior said as the teachers hurried back toward the classrooms.

  *

  When Sister Daniela sat down to dinner, she wondered where Sister Angela was. Rarely did her friend miss a meal. Just then she noticed the older woman enter. As a novice, Sister Daniela did not eat at the same table with the nuns so she could not get close to Sister Angela. She watched her take her seat, wishing she could hear more about the crime. It would have to wait until after dinner. She turned to the others at her table and struck up a conversation about their classes. Novices had to attend school too, preparing them to take their vows the following spring.

  *

  Mother Margherita observed the novice as she sipped her soup. Sister Daniela should be watched more carefully. I have to remember to talk to mother the vicaress about the situation.

  The novice became a postulant in Bologna and arrived in Montriano well-recommended. The mother superior remembered the report. She was perky and a bit talkative, but Novice Daniela had no doubt about wanting to teach. The novice mistress at her former convent wrote that she definitely would have encouraged her to stay there if her interests were the care of the sick or handicapped. Unfortunately, the community in Bologna could not train novices to be teachers—so they sent her to Montriano. The novice still acted young but she arrived with excellent recommendations.

  It must be her association with Sister Angela, the mother superior thought. That nun’s darn romantic dreams are leading the child’s mind elsewhere.

  Mother Margherita tried to think back to when she first met Sister Angela. It must have been when the nun came to the school. They were about the same age. The mother superior could remember very little before she was promoted, but she could not forget Sister Angela. Since Sister Angela first reported to her, there had been nothing but trouble—no, flux. The clear-cut rules of the order were bent, and then re-bent, and then tied into knots. Nothing was simple. Now the mother superior had to weigh the arguments against that.

  “It’s not really clear in the rules,” Sister Angela would point out. “But if you look at the teachings of Christ and listen to doctrine, it’s so clear, don’t you think?”

  Mother Margherita’s mind would soon be in a muddle. She did not know how to debate it—either way was right, every way was wrong.

  No, she did not want the young novice following in Sister Angela’s footsteps. The question was how to intervene.

  *

  After dinner, Sister Daniela headed straight to Sister Angela’s room. Although she was not allowed to spend the night outside the quarters assigned to novices, she could still visit.

  Sister Angela seemed glad to see her. “Come in, come in. How did class go today?”

  “Perfectly. Umberto Filippi gave an oral report on the Etruscans in Umbria. It sounded original.”

  “You mean it was rough.”

  “Yes, original.”

  “And Vincenza in fourth period—did she stay to take an exam?”

  “Yes. It’s here among the papers I’m giving back to you. I corrected most of them, but I have class later and won’t be able to finish.” She sat on the edge of the bed expectantly. “Do you have anything else for me?”

  “Very definitely. I must ask you to look up some information at San Benedetto. It’s about Bernardo Reni. Have you heard of him?”

  “I don’t think I have him in a class.”

  “He was older while in my class here several years ago,” Sister Angela said. “I need you to check his baptismal and confirmation records at the church.”

  “If you had him in your class, why don’t you ask his parents? That might be easier.”

  The nun looked up and smiled. “I’ve talked to the parents already. I still have a question about when and where he was born.”

  “Didn’t the parents know that?”

  “They provided no exact information. Instead of bothering them further, I thought it would be better to look it up. I know it’s a dirty job, but once we see the paperwork, we can make sure Mrs. Reni hasn’t forgotten anything.” Sister Angela paused. “I need to know all the paperwork is there—if everything is in place. I also need the name of the hospital where he was born. I wrote down the names of the parents and relatives as far as I know them. This will help you compare.”

  “Does Father Domenic keep the papers downstairs in the rectory?”

  “They are in the church basement. I’m afraid the records aren’t well organized. You might have to look carefully for them.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. I need you to handle my afternoon classes again tomorrow. I’m taking the bus to Petraggio at noon. I believe the examiner is going to look at the body tonight,” she said. “I’ll write up some lesson plans and leave them for you in the classroom.”

  Sister Angela told her the terrible story about Father Domenic finding the body in the nave. And Bernardo, poor thing, poor parents—the whole incident was so tragic. That is why Sister Daniela had to get as much evidence as possible. It was not going to be easy, examining all those records, but she would not complain. The work was too important.

  Sister Daniela skipped up the stairs to her room. Looking for clues is exciting, she thought.

  *

  Sister Angela read over her notes. It was difficult to read under the light in the center of the ceiling. She had a desk lamp, but the bulb had gone out long ago, and she kept forgetting to replace it. So far, there was only one avenue to search—Father Domenic. Sister Angela noticed how uncomfortable he seemed during the interview. But why? She did not believe the priest was involved in the murder. If he had not acted the way he did, she probably would not have a niggling need to look into it further. Why would he be so nervous? How would she obtain records about Father Domenic’s past without word getting back to the bishop and his assistant? Would the bishop be thankful if she found something disturbing about his acting pastor before he officially installed him as pastor of San Benedetto? Decidedly not. She bit her lip. But how? Should she go directly to the bishop? Again no—unless there was no place left to go. Who did she know in Milano? Was there anyone who might be able to get that information for her?

  She was still racking her brain after evening prayer and could not go to sleep until she knew what to do. Suddenly she remembered Father Claudio at the university in Milano. She met him at a function for the bishop years ago. He, too, had a streak of curiosity, and the pair became close, sharing mysteries they read through letters. He would certainly know how to get the information she needed.

  *

  The next morning, Sister Daniela walked directly to San Benedetto and knocked on the rectory door. Father Domenic was just finishing breakfast. Sister Daniela stood in the foyer while the housekeeper checked to see if he was busy. When she was finally led into the dining room, he had just finished his coffee.

  “What can I do for you, Novice?”

  “I’m here for Sister Angela. She asked me to look up some information in the church records.”

  The priest stiffened when he heard the nun’s name. Then he rolled his eyes. “And what does she want to find out?”

  Sister Daniela did not hesitate. She was not nervous—unaware there might be reason to be. “It concerns Bernardo, Father. She said you would know.”

  “Yes, well it’s rather dusty down there. I’m not sure it’ll be easy to find. I’m going over there right now,” he said, pushing away from the table and reaching for his coat. “Mrs. Torrisi, I’ll be in the sacristy if anyone calls. Follow me, Novice Daniela. We’ll see what we can find.”


  *

  At the bottom of the stairs, the front of the basement looked clean. Father Domenic went ahead and turned on the lights. Ironing boards and washing machines sat beside an old furnace. In the corner under the window stood a small wood stove the altar ladies sometimes used for heat. A closed door interrupted the eclipsed wall at the far end. The novice wondered where the opening led. Was there a passage under the church? She imagined a procession of heretics being

  herded toward the piazza for execution.

  “We need a new light bulb over there,” the priest noted.

  In the darkest corner at the farthest end of the same wall, Sister Daniela could just make out a pile of furniture. “What are those?”

  “Flagpoles, candlesticks, things we use for holy days.” The novice tripped over a small credence table that had been pulled out of the pile. “What’s this?”

  “Watch out. The table’s broken with a missing a leg. I don’t know why it ended up down here.”

  Sister Daniela thought it would make a perfect nightstand for her bedroom. Perhaps she would ask about it later.

  “This room back here used to be an office,” Father Domenic explained, opening the door to her fantasy. “But now it’s just storage. I don’t think anyone’s keeping it organized.”

  A cloud of dust billowed from the box he kicked.

  “How many boxes are there?” she asked.

  “They go back at least two to two-and-a-half centuries, although the old ones aren’t as intact. We don’t move them because they would probably fall apart,” he said. “But look here. They are labeled—that’s a start. I hope the records inside are the same as those noted on the labels.”

  “I’ll work on this now, Father. Please go back to your own duties. It wouldn’t do for both of us to get dirty.”

  As soon as he left, Sister Daniela began to regret being alone. The clanging of the hot water heater and other creaks and moans in the ancient church scared her. Checking her pockets, she found it. Mother Vicaress Annemarie would not let her chew gum in the school, but it would relax her a bit now. She popped a couple of sticks into her mouth.

  She must have labored an hour before she finally found the right label, and then another two hours to drag the box closer to the light and leaf through all the records. But she had it, small packet that it was. Examining some of the others around it, she found nothing out of place.

  Removing three envelopes, she walked to the bottom of the steps and sat down. Carefully lifting the documents out of the first, she recorded the contents.

  Birth Certificate for Sandro Tosone

  Baptismal Certificate for Sandro Tosone

  Confirmation Certificate for Sandro Tosone

  Sliding the papers back into the envelope, she dumped out the next, consisting of the same three papers for Sophia Dosso. This envelope also contained a fourth—a marriage certificate verifying that Sophia Dosso had married a Thomaso Giambellino. Again she refilled the envelope and turned the third over. Three papers fell out, face down.

  Sister Angela must have been wrong. This one contained the same verifications. She turned over the first, attesting the confirmation of Bernardo Reni when he was fourteen. The second was a certificate of baptism for Bernardo at about one year. The third should have been an official birth certificate, but it looked different. There were lines naming the parents that read, “Giuseppe and Valeria Reni,” and Bernardo’s name was on the sheet too, but it was not like the others. It had no official seal or hospital name.

  “How odd,” she murmured. Sister Daniela quickly stuffed it into her pocket and walked to the file room where she hesitated. Removing the certificate from the basement was stealing.

  She slipped it out of her pocket and looked at it again. If she put it back into the envelope, it might disappear. The stove—no one would use it to heat the basement this time of year.

  At first, she considered placing the paper inside it. She slid the heavy burner lid to one side and peered in. A mound of residue still littered the base—blackened branches sticking out of a heap of ashes. Under that, there were clumps of paper and cloth. Worried someone might come and clean it out, she replaced the cover. Then she removed the wad of gum she had nursed for the last few hours and stuck the paper to the back of the stove. Nobody would find it. Someone would have to know it was there to see it.

  Relieved that she would be outside in clean air in minutes, she quickly filed the other envelopes and dusted herself off before starting to climb the stairs. Father Domenic stood at the top, his dark figure looming in the doorway. Sister Angela had not shared her fears about his guilt, but the novice had a strange feeling when she looked up at him. Though shadows hid his face, she noticed dark circles under his eyes.

  “Did you find anything?” he asked, his voice echoing off the closed walls of the staircase.

  “Uh, yes. I mean no,” she stammered, examining the high windows along the wall of the basement and wondering if she could escape through one of them. “I found the records on the boy, and they looked normal, so I replaced them. I’ll tell that to Sister Angela.”

  The figure descended a few steps, his black robe swishing over his highly polished shoes. Then he stopped. “I really should come down here and clean up. Perhaps the cross will turn up.”

  Sister Daniela stood at the bottom unable to lift a foot. “I-I can search for you, but not today. I have to get back to my classes now.”

  The priest finally turned and climbed to the top, disappearing into the sacristy. Ten minutes later, Sister Daniela heard a door close. Grabbing her notes, she scampered up the stairs and out the door into the garden. The gate was open, and she quickly slipped through into the alleyway. When she got to the busy main street, she finally took a deep breath.

  Six

  When Sister Angela arrived, Dr. Piombo sat behind his desk, a napkin tucked in under his chin. Breadcrumbs littered the desktop along with a bowl of steaming pasta. He blew on it. A small glass of wine stood next to a lighted candle. Rankled by the interruption, he glanced at his watch. It was two o’clock.

  “Excuse me, Sister Angela. It’s late, and I’m very hungry. Can you come back later?”

  “More food is what you don’t need, Andreus. If you walked at lunchtime instead of eating, you would feel much better.”

  “I had to work through lunch. Sometimes the bodies don’t tell me everything that I want them too,” he said. “I take it you are here to find out more about the young man we brought down yesterday.”

  “Yes, Andreus, please, but I can wait until you are finished,” she said, sitting down across from him. “And your wife—is she well?”

  Piombo’s eyes began to water. He had taken a bite too soon—no doubt the nun broke his concentration. Sister Angela spun toward the corner and drew water from the cooler.”

  “Lena’s well,” he said when he had regained his composure. “Would you like some wine?”

  “No, thank you. Don’t let me interrupt your lunch,” she said. “But while it cools, perhaps you could tell me about the olive oil factory by the freeway. Do you know anyone who works there, Andreus?”

  “I assume you are talking about Garibaldi’s. It’s not new, Sister. It’s been there for nearly three decades.”

  “And still with the same family?”

  “Yes. Enzo took over from his father, Bartolo, nearly fifteen years ago. You don’t know them? I believe they attend Santa Maria. I’m surprised because I’m sure they have given much to the diocese.”

  “I have heard of them, yes. But mostly about the gifts, not the individuals.”

  “I only knew the father. He was a kind man. But his son married money. I’m afraid that sets him outside my sphere of acquaintance. I hear he has a huge yacht. While he works at the factory, she sails it around the Greek Islands and even farther out.”

  “You mean his wife?” Sister Angela asked. “Have you ever seen her? I once saw her in a picture. I wonder how much it had been touched up. She�
�s no spring chicken if I calculate right.”

  “Ah, but her luxurious lifestyle must perform miracles on her complexion.”

  “I wonder if I know anyone who is friendly with him. I’ll have to think about that.” “I suppose you don’t want to approach the bishop’s assistant. What’s his name?”

  “You mean Father Sergio?”

  “Yes, he would be acquainted with such a benefactor.”

  “Heavens no. I’m sure he would never speak negatively about such a patron, even if he were aware of something untoward about him. As far as you know, has the family ever been involved in any scandal that concerned the police?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Piombo. “Unless a body was involved, the police and newspapers would know more than I do.”

  “I’ll bet Lena didn’t make that lunch for you. She would have made something with a bit less cheese.” Sister Angela said, shaking her head as he nibbled on a piece of pasta that clung to his fork.

  “My food is delivered from across the street. Lena doesn’t give me enough. I ate her sandwich this morning before I started with the young man.”

  “And that doesn’t bother your doctor, Andreus? I’m sure he tells you that you eat too much, especially after that last heart attack.”

  “Not a heart attack, Sister—an infarction. There’s a difference.”

  “A myocardial infarction is a heart attack, Andreus. And the doctor told you to slow down.”

  “I did slow down. I took two and a half hours on that youth instead of two. I lit a candle on my desk, and I usually add a little Mozart or Beethoven to calm me. But today I’m listening to a friend who looks as though she could stand to take some of her own advice.” Sighing, he finally put down his fork and blew out the candle. “Come on, Sister. My lunch is still too hot. Let’s go over what I found.”

  Bernardo’s body was no longer on the table. Dr. Piombo deftly slid out a drawer of the refrigerator unit and pulled the covered body onto a gurney. When he had adjusted the lights and sheets just so, he began. Unable to get a reaction when he tried before, he knew the nun would not be squeamish. “Let’s start at the top. Do you want some gloves, Sister?” he asked, pulling a gown over his head and then turning the sheet down to reveal Bernardo’s body. “The cause of death was the first blow.”