by David Perry
“Meow! Meow!”
A horde of felines burst forth upon the couple as they topped the final rise at the entrance to the burg. Tippi Hedren stars in Hitchcock’s The Cats! Lee thought. Like apparitions, dozens of scraggly tabbys emerged from the shadows, perched on columns, crouching in doorways, padding in formation on delicately feral feet. Seeking warmth, one sat right on top of a spotlight embedded in the pavement. Designed to illuminate Bagnoregio’s ancient portal, the electric torch now served as an impromptu catcall, à la Batman. the furry Bruce Wayne’s logo now projected upon the ramparts.
“Excellent,” Adriano said with a nod. “An army of pussies means no rats.”
“They’re not as well groomed as La Donna Volsini’s,” Lee noted. “They look like street cats.”
“What’s this?”
Punctuated by the furry “Bat Signal,” a bronze plaque peeked out from behind a frame of entangled ivy on the right pillar of the citadel. Adriano translated from Italian and read, “In memory of Andrea Bernardone, a son of Bagnoregio. He gave his life so that others would live.”
“A plaque to Andrea?” Lee said, gently pushing Adriano out of the way.
“No. Must have been his father. According to this he was born on June tenth, 1944, and died on March first, 1983.”
“Does it say how he died?”
“Wait.” Adriano snapped his fingers. “Don’t you remember? That letter that Andrea’s mother wrote sticking it to the Pope.” Adriano stepped under the arch to get out of the rain and started flipping through his iPhone. “Here it is.”
Forgive me Holy Father, for I write as a woman torn by grief and plagued with doubt. In his youth, my husband, a brave carabinieri, was taken from me by criminals. Doing his job, he was gunned down by the mafia he had sworn to defeat. His son, born on the Feast of Andrea, never knew him.
“Poor woman.” Lee just shook his head and looked back across the slim concrete link between Bagnoregio’s handful of residents and the greater world beyond. From here, it certainly looked like the perfect place to escape, a hermitage from grief surrounded by memories. Or, perhaps the opposite, a prison constructed from them.
As if in celestial answer to the cat commissioner’s emergency call, as soon as Adriano and Lee were through the arch and had entered Civita di Bagnoregio proper, the rains stopped. For a moment, even, the dying sunset broke through the soggy clouds to send a final salute to the day before slipping behind the hills.
“You see,” said Lee, smiling in all his predictable perkiness, “I told you we’d make it before sunset.”
“Ti amo, Pooh.”
“Me too.” Together, they shouldered on.
Civita di Bagnoregio was not so much a town as it was a great stone boat, afloat in a sea of tufo, perched between the mainlands of Umbria and Lazio. Every now and then, a wave of heavy, wet, and overly burdened clay would break over the bow of the village and wash away a door, a window, and soggy Roman arch. Lee did the quick calculations by sight, and realized it would have taken him longer to walk around the entire deck perimeter of the MS Ithaka, his shipboard home from ten years previous, than it would to traverse the lido of Bagnoregio.
“Now, this is a small town.”
Adriano nodded in agreement, and pointed ahead to the town square, a tiny quadrangle of stone fronted by a poetically crumbling church, a small arched building that promised bureaucracy, two small cafés, and a three-story inn with two lit windows.
“La Torre dei Segriti. The Tower of Secrets. That sounds ominous. You called ahead, yes?”
Lee nodded in a mock-joking tone. “Yes, and good thing. Otherwise, I doubt there’d be any room at the inn.”
“No,” Adriano countered politely. “There would have been room, but there would have been no key. In little Italian towns like this during the winter, whole rows of businesses just close for the season, and La Torre dei Segreti seems to constitute the entire hospitality row of Civita. I’m pretty sure we won’t have much competition for a manger.”
“Hmm,” grunted Lee in acknowledgment. “Onward.”
Once the heavily carved, wooden, but surprisingly squeak-free door of the thirteenth-century La Torre dei Segreti was pushed open, the sodden sulkiness of the previous few hours was banished on sight. A roaring fire complete with symphonic crackling logs and the homey aroma of freshly cut branches filled the rustic interior. Six tables checkered with mismatched cutlery, a potpourri of plates, and varying styles of glassware beckoned. Something delicious drew them like a narcotic toward the kitchen portal where a feminine shadow soon exploded into the room with greeting.
“Buonasera! Si deve esseer Adriano e Lee, si?”
“Si. Buonasera, Signora,” Lee said, offering his hand. “We have reserved…ah, abbiamo prenotazioni.” He had practiced all day on the hike and wanted to get it right.
“Ees OK.” The landlady smiled, a bundle of smiles, pleasantly high-piled graying blonde hair, and a not unpleasantly ample girth cinched in with a carefully patterned dress of homespun. Lee could tell. His grandmother had made all her own clothes, and he knew the look. Lee guessed her age to be somewhere hovering around fifty-seven. “My-a English is-a pretty well, ah, is-a pretty good. Sit, sit. You like wine?”
“Si,” the couple answered and simultaneously plopped down at the nearest table with communal sighs.
“Oh mio, look at your feets! The rain, is-a horrible and the muds! Give me your foots, your-a shoes. I clean. Tomorrow, all good. Grappa, better than wine. Wait here.” And their Rubenesque Angel was gone in a swirl and back in half of one with two miraculously unspilled crystal stems brimming with invigorating grape liquor. Then, sweeping out in a matronly tornado, she left Adriano and Lee gratefully barefoot before the hearth and Lee wondering at it all. On the wall above the mantel, a poster from last Valentine’s Day proclaimed, “What Happens in Bagnoregio, Stays in Bag-noregio.” Lee was already a believer. Twenty minutes later, they were digging into the special of the night. Cinghiale con polenta. Wild boar never tasted so good. Actually, Lee had never had wild boar.
“I always said it was a great day when the first caveman threw a pig on a fire,” said Lee.
“And,” added Adriano, “it was probably a Spanish caveman at Altimira.”
Lee laughed at. Adriano’s usual rejoinder to their practiced banter. As their first forks were raised, the couple were joined by La Torre dei Segriti’s only other guest of the evening.
“Clemente! Basta! Leava mia guests no lone!” The cheerfully attentive doyenne jogged into the dining room just as an elegantly familiar silver cat pounced upon the table, poised for some feral pork. With a flick of her tail, she gracefully descended to an empty chair between Lee and Adriano, a strategic retreat.
“Nessun problema,” Adriano offered. “Ci piaci gatta.”
“Bravo!” clapped the hostess in laughing delight, somehow also managing to simultaneously top off their wineglasses. “You-a Italian is-a much-a better than my-a English. Bravo! This is-a Clemente. He-a the cat of my-a friend in Orvieto.”
“La Donna Volsini,” Lee stated with a hydraulically slow dropping jaw.
“Si!” Clarissa applauded again. “Si! Of-a course. You walk today from Orvieto. You know-a my friend Velzna Volsini.”
“How did…?”
“Clemente.”
“How did Clemente get here?” Lee didn’t think even a cat with such discerning tastes as this one’s would hike through the mud for a meal like this. Plus, muddy Clemente was not. He was as impeccably groomed as a Vatican prelate.
“He-a come with me in my little scooter, mia Ape. This-a morning, I go to Orvieto to buy bread and sweet things from-a my friend Velzna. Café Volsini makes i migliori pasticceria in Italia, the best sweet desserts in-a Italy. Clemente, he-a like to travel, especial when I the only one in town. Tonight, all the other peoples be gone. Me the only one person in town.”
The cat purred in contented agreement.
“Ah, who are my-a manners. My-a name
is Clarissa. Clarissa Bernardone.”
Well, Lee thought, that mystery was self-announced. Their hostess was indeed the mother of Deacon Andrea, the author of the Church-ripping letter that Adriano had translated a few days back. Strange, Lee thought, that she presented herself so easily.
After dinner and three desserts, the couple plus cat walked outside to take in the town. Their hostess had given them a flashlight and loaner pairs of galoshes while their shoes dried next to the fire.
“Here. You-a go and check-a out the church. San Donato is a lovely. Many candles still-a lit, but it dark. You go now. I come later and blow out the candles.”
From the front door of La Torre dei Sigreti to the ancient portal of San Donato was a short commute. About fifteen steps. It was like being on a desert island. The only other sign of human habitation was Clarissa’s shadow against the kitchen curtains, washing up the dishes. At least the weather had changed in their favor. The rain had been completely banished and replaced by a spectacular scrim of stars. An almost full but gently waning moon cast a spotlight onto the church. The structure’s middle door open, if spookily inviting.
“Do you think there are rats?” Adriano said.
“Only Catholic ones.”
Adriano grimaced.
“Just kidding! Besides, we’ve got Clemente.”
The cat meowed and squirmed through Adriano’s legs. That seemed to help. He motioned to continue.
The Church of San Donato was old. Really old. Sticking to form, Lee had read all about it before their trek. Consecrated in the seventh century, its Christian edifice stood on the frame of an even older Roman temple. At one point, the bones of Bagnoregio’s most famous citizen, St. Bonaventura, rested within this sanctuary, until an earthquake in 1695 took down much of the church and town. Since then, its history was a continual crumble. Bonaventura’s arm, encased in a golden reliquary, had been removed to the new, less tenuous cathedral on more solid ground across the valley. San Donato was left in possession of the mummified corpses of earlier and forgotten saints: Sant’Ildebrando, a ninth-century bishop, and Santa Vittoria, a former vestal virgin whose conversion had earned her martyrdom and a perpetually skeletal grimace in a baroque wedding gown now visible through the glass of the left side altar.
“It’s like Byzantine Barbie,” said Adriano, shivering as he turned away from the grotesquely preserved body. “What is it with the Church playing deified dress-up?”
Clement meowed in agreement.
“Wait,” Lee said. “I want to check out one more thing. Look at this.”
Midway up the nave on the right side of the church was a small kneeler in front of a large wooden frame, with carefully handwritten cursive numerals, one through ninety, with short sentences next to each number. To its right was a smaller frame, inscribed with a short prayer in Latin just above an iron donation bin built into the wall. On a marble table in front were three wooden boxes, one with Bingo-like wooden pegs, circular, stamped with red numbers. A second smaller one held blank index cards and a pencil. The final container was stuffed full of text-covered cards from clearly a wide variety of hands, and neatly filed like the card catalog in the library of Lee’s youth. His mother had gotten him a summer job there when he was twelve. He quickly pushed down the memory, like stomach bile threatening to erupt. The box was about the same size and shape as the urn holding Brian’s ashes back in Orvieto. Lee picked out the first card, marked “ESEMPIO.” Lee remembered his earlier lesson at the Orvieto library: esempio—example. He looked at the card.
(41) Per quelle che in questa vita poco amarono Dio
(43) Per quelle che frastornarono gli altri alla devozione
(49) Per quelle che perdettero tempo in luchare e ridere
(56) Per quei padri e quelle madri che non educano i loro figli
“What are they voting for? Penitent of the Month?” Adriano snickered.
“No, it’s a purgatory board,” said Lee, screwing up his lips. “Wow. I’ve read about them, but never seen one. This is way old-school. See, it is kind of like Bingo.” Lee reached into the first box. “You pick up a peg like this.” He had selected seventy-nine. “Then, you find that number on the board.” Lee scrolled down with his finger to seventy-nine. “Here, read this for me. It’s in Italian.”
Adriano gave him a duh look but obliged. “Settantanove. Per quelle dei soldati cattolici. For our Catholic soldiers.”
“Fascinating,” Lee said, squinting to read the copy in the second smaller frame. “You pick a number assigned to someone who is suffering in purgatory, then you read The De Produndis.”
“Oscar Wilde’s book?”
“No, silly. This prayer is where Wilde got the title for his tome. His imprisonment for homosexuality in Reading Gaol was his own private purgatory. It’s what Catholics offer up for the souls waiting for redemption. Deacon Andrea’s mother used part of it in her letter to the Pope after her son jumped from the cliff. It’s the classic biblical cry for help.”
Lee began to recite from memory.
De Profundis. Out of the depths, I have cried to Thee, O Lord, Lord, hear my voice.
Let Thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplication.
If Thou, O Lord, shalt mark my iniquities, O Lord, who shall stand it?
For with Thee there is merciful forgiveness:
and by reason of Thy law I have waited for Thee, O Lord.
My soul hath relied on His word; my soul hath hoped in the Lord.
From the morning watch even until night; let Israel hope in the Lord.
Because with the Lord there is mercy; and with Him plenteous redemption.
And He shall redeem Israel from all its iniquities.
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord,
and let perpetual light shine upon them:
May they rest in peace
Amen.
“How did you know that?” Adriano just shook his head.
“I was going to be a priest, remember?” Lee pointed out. “Plus, I was taught by Benedictine monks. I know it in Latin too if you like.”
“That’s OK. Thanks.”
Lee had rifled through his pockets and found what he was looking for. A euro coin. Promptly, he deposited it into the metal slot and then intoned, “Most gentle Heart of Jesus, ever present in the Blessed Sacrament, ever consumed with burning love for the poor souls in purgatory, have mercy on the souls of the Faithful Departed. Be not severe in Thy Judgments, but let some drops of Thy Precious Blood fall upon the devouring flames and do Thou, O merciful Savior, send Thy angels to conduct them to a place of refreshment, light and peace. Amen.”
“So, it’s not enough to pray for the poor schmucks in hell—”
“Purgatory. It’s different. There’s no escape from hell. Purgatory is temporary. The prayers of the faithful can get you out faster.”
“So, this is like Inferno Monopoly. I’ll buy Park Place Limbo and don’t pass Go without paying.”
“Kinda, yes,” said Lee. “This little altar provides a get-out-of-jail-quicker’ card. All Catholics are required to pray for the souls in purgatory—especially on All Souls Day, November second. This just helps facilitate the process.”
“What about the index card?” Adriano motioned to Lee’s hand where the card was still tightly held.
“Oh yeah. Here. Take a look. It’s for the priest. You can pray yourself, or you can write down your petitions, put them in this box, and then the pastor will collect them before Mass and offer them up as petitions to God from the whole congregation.”
Lee handed the card to his husband for translation.
(41) Per quelle che in questa vita poco amarono Dio
(43) Per quelle che frastornarono gli altri alla devotione
(49) Per quelle che perdettero tempo in burlare e ridere
(56) Per quei padri e quelle madri che non educano i loro figli
“What does it say?”
“Forty-one. For those in this life who just loved God. Forty-three.
For those who distracted others from devotion. Forty-nine. For those who wasted time in mockery and laughter. Fifty-six. For those fathers and mothers who did not educate their children.”
Those are odd supplications,” said Lee, taking back the card. He stared at it with a strange prescience. He had seen this somewhere before, but where? He had never even read Italian before this trip. Next to the stack of cards was a small mimeographed piece of paper listing all ninety sins. Lee took one, folded it up, and stuck it into his pocket. Since he knew most of the prayers in English, it might come in handy as a holy Italian lesson down the road. He plucked out another card from the deck. Adriano read and translated simultaneously:
“Thirty-eight. Per quelle che penano per pigrizia. For those who are in pain because of laziness.
Eighty-seven. Per quelle che sono comparse a quelche persona non hanno avato soccorso. For those who have cried out for rescue but been denied.
Seventy-seven. Per quelle che invita si raccomandarone a Dio con poco fervor. For those who did not worship God with sufficient fervor.
Five. Per quelle alle quali particolarmente sei tenuto. For those of your particular intentions.”
“Oh my God!” Lee grabbed the card from his husband’s hands and turned it over. “Look at what’s stamped on the back.”
“Opus Dei,” Adriano said with a softly suppressed grunt of surprise. “It’s the seal of Opus Dei.”
“The symbol on Luke’s ring!”
“So, you think Luke was here praying for the souls in purgatory?” Adriano asked.
“I don’t know, but don’t you think it’s kinda’ weird?”