The Omega scroll

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Maratea

G iovanni stopped his battered Fiat on Mount St Blaise overlooking Maratea. He and Allegra got out and walked up the stone steps to the very top of the mountain where a wealthy Maratean resident had erected a 22-metre-high statue of Christ, arms spread, watching over the little town of Maratea nestling on the side of the mountain below. They stood looking at the stunning view, a light breeze blowing Allegra’s hair.

‘Oh Giovanni, e bellissimo! ’

The Apennines tumbled into the Tyrrhenian Sea, forming a rocky coastline that stretched north and south as far as Allegra could see, the sharp jagged peaks finally fading into the clouds. Carob trees competed for space with pines, smaller oaks and olive trees. Nestled in each of the promontories were little inlets of emerald lapping at the rocks and sand, the water turning a deeper blue further out into the Gulf of Policastro. Below them, the road coiled down the mountain like a piece of curling spaghetti until it reached Maratea itself, and further down, the port of Maratea Marina. The bright blues, reds and oranges of the wooden fishing boats drawn up on the beach and moored behind the rocky breakwater added to the charm of the little port. This place was seemingly untouched by tourism and the pace of a more urgent world.

Allegra, conscious that once again she and Giovanni were standing very close together, closed her eyes. The sun felt warm on her face. Fleetingly she thought of her family back in the cold, misty hills of Tricarico. She missed them dreadfully and wrote regularly, but in her heart she knew that she could never go back. Allegra had come to realise that the Church and the little convent of San Domenico had put her in an intellectual and experiential straitjacket. Her faith was as strong as ever but she was starting to spread her wings. The Vatican’s control over Allegra was being eroded.

‘ E molto bellissimo, Giovanni. Really lovely.’

Giovanni smiled and let his arm rest around her shoulders. ‘I thought you’d like it,’ he whispered. ‘While we’re here we’ll borrow a boat and have a picnic on one of those little beaches down the coast.’

Allegra leaned in against him. She wanted to stand there for ever.

‘Sure beats doing assignments,’ she murmured.

The road down to the town contoured around the steep side of the mountain and Giovanni had to coax the ageing gearbox into second to supplement the Fiat’s equally ageing brakes. When they reached the little port Giovanni parked in one of the several empty spaces on the piazza beside the marina.

‘See that house with the orange shutters?’ Giovanni was pointing to a group of whitewashed concrete houses at the southern end of the beach overlooking the port. It was as if the little village had been carved into the side of the mountain. In front of the houses a small limestone cliff dropped vertically down to the water and the brightly painted wooden boats rocked gently under its protection. Behind the houses the dense brush of the foothills rose sharply to meet the majesty of the Apennines. ‘That’s home.’

‘It’s lovely, the view must be wonderful.’

‘It is, but don’t be deceived by the view. That part is expensive but we Donellis are simple folk. The house was owned by my great-great-grandfather and it’s been in the family ever since.’

‘It looks lovely just the same, although I’m feeling a little nervous about meeting your family.’

‘You shouldn’t be. It’s not as if I’m bringing home a fiancee.’

Allegra’s embarrassment was obvious, her blush rising through her tanned skin, and Giovanni instantly regretted the comment.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.’ For a moment there was an awkward silence between them as they each wrestled with thoughts they dared not put into words, then just as quickly the moment passed.

‘Giovanni!’ Giovanni’s sister Maria had spotted the car, and run like a young schoolgirl through the alleys and laneways to meet her favourite brother. ‘Giovanni!’ She flung herself at him, kissing him enthusiastically on each cheek.

‘Maria! You are taller than me now.’

‘That wouldn’t be hard, would it,’ she said, raising her eyebrows. Her dark eyes twinkled with the same mischief that Allegra had come to love in Giovanni. Maria’s black hair was cut short around her oval face. At just fifteen Maria Donelli was already a beautiful young woman. Without waiting to be introduced, Maria turned to Allegra.

‘You must be Allegra,’ she said. ‘ Benvenuta a Maratea! ’

‘ Grazie, Maria. You are very kind.’

‘And look!’ Maria said. Giovanni winked at Allegra. He was used to his sister’s boundless enthusiasm for life. Maria was pointing across to the arm of rocks that formed the protective breakwater for the little port. ‘There’s Papa and the boys!’

Signor Donelli, like his father and his father before him, had been a fisherman all his life and, like Giovanni, he was short and wiry. Giuseppi and Giorgio, however, were both tall and broad across the shoulders, the former a legacy of distant genes and the latter a result of leaving school as soon as they were able for a life hauling fishing nets. Papa and Giovanni’s brothers had just finished repairing the nets and had folded them back onboard the Aquila del Mare, the Eagle of the Sea, in preparation for the next day’s fishing. But that would not be tomorrow. Tomorrow was Domenica and the whole family and the rest of the little village would be in church. Giovanni had been invited to celebrate Mass with Monsignor Vincenzo Abostini, the long-serving priest who had inspired Giovanni to follow his heart and his faith.

‘ Vi vedremo a casa! See you at the house!’ Giorgio yelled, waving and grinning beside Papa and Giuseppi.

‘ Fate presto! Don’t be long!’ Maria picked up Allegra’s bag. ‘Come on you two. Mamma is waiting. She has been cooking all morning.’

‘You could put jumper leads on her and she’d power the whole village,’ Giovanni said to Allegra.

‘I heard that,’ Maria flung over her shoulder as she headed across the piazza.

Giovanni slung his bag over his shoulder and they followed Maria out of the piazza into a labyrinth of narrow flagstone alleys that were covered by concrete archways. Here and there, the damp had seeped down from above and the once white arches were covered in a dark green mould. At intervals a bare light bulb was suspended from an ancient blackened chain. The alleys were made narrower still by the storekeepers’ habit of hanging their wares from hooks in the concrete – copper pots and pans, wicker baskets and bags, and coffee mugs suspended in wrought-iron racks. Everywhere there were steps coming down from houses or up into shops and bars. Some freshly whitewashed, others worn and cracked, the steps twisted impossibly, pot plants lining one side or the other. Doorways were overhung with terracotta tiles and occasionally a faded canvas shade. Finally they reached what seemed to Allegra just another part of the maze when Maria bounded up a whitewashed staircase lined with the inevitable pot plants.

‘Mamma! Mamma! Giovanni! E a casa! He is home!’

Giovanni had always spoken of his mother with great affection and the matronly La Signora Sophia Donelli was as Allegra had imagined. A ready smile in a round face that was creased with the lines of wisdom. She came out from the kitchen, arms outspread, and embraced her son in the hallway.

‘I have missed you,’ his mother said, stepping back and pinching his cheeks. She turned to Allegra. ‘Sister Bassetti. Welcome to Maratea and while you are here, si metta a suo agio – you must make yourself at home. Maria will put your bag in your room.

‘ Avanti! Avanti! The bread is almost ready.’

The kitchen was the focal point of the family. A big wood-fired oven sat at the back of the room and a long, heavy wooden bench stood in the centre. The two big windows with the orange shutters that Giovanni had pointed out overlooked the port. Home-made pasta – menate – lay on a board, coiled like rope. Nearby was a cracked pottery jar marked olio. It was full of Lucanian olive oil that had been made from olives cultivated in Basilicata since the time of the Greeks. The region’s volcanic soil gave the oil a unique aroma and it gave Basilicatan cuisine its flavour. Sophia Donelli never used anything else. Another bowl was filled with lampascioni – a type of wild onion; another held peperoncino – the red peppers found throughout Basilicata. Goat’s cheese and lucanega – Lucanian sausage – were on the table and the smell of freshly baked bread filled the house. Ragu di carne, a sauce made from lamb, pork and kid, was simmering on the stove.

‘Giovanni!’

‘Papa! Giuseppi! Giorgio!’ Embraces and kisses on both cheeks, unabashed affection between an Italian father, sons and brothers. Many would argue that God got it right when she made the Italians – a sense of family, of community, a passion for life.

‘Allegra, meet the rest of the family!’ More embraces, more kisses.

Signora Donelli served the steaming ragu di carne into terracotta bowls while Papa carved the freshly baked bread.

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

‘How was the catch, Papa?’ Maria asked.

Signor Donelli smiled.

They all had that same warmth in their eyes, Allegra thought.

‘The Orata were running today. Tomorrow after church, Mamma will be able to serve you the specialty of the house,’ he said, beaming at their guest. ‘And if the weather is good next week, Giovanni, you should take the dinghy and show Allegra some of our beaches.’

Allegra felt as if she was a part of the family and this feeling was only strengthened when she accompanied the Donellis to Mass the next day.

Nicola Farini, the village bell-puller, toiled on the frayed rope underneath the bell of the parish church of the Addolorata. He was in his eighties, and his white moustache was neatly trimmed and he was wearing his felt hat and his Sunday best. Nicola had been the parish’s only bell-puller for as long as anyone could remember and today he bent to his task with the will of a man half his age. It was not every day that the Mass was celebrated by one of the village’s favourite sons and the joyful toll of the old iron bell reverberated around the Apennine ridgelines.

Giovanni reflected that the small robing room with its worn wooden floor hadn’t changed since he’d been an altar boy. With a sense of pride he followed his old mentor into the chancel and was instantly embarrassed. In a rare departure from the form of the Mass the congregation stood and applauded. Giovanni waved, smiling, while Monsignor Vincenzo Abostini winked at his protege conspiratorially. He had let it be known beforehand that he did not think the good Lord would mind. In another rare event, the bell-puller’s wife, Signora Farini, had been pressed into rehearsing on the small pedal organ.

‘And now that we have welcomed Father Donelli, let’s all sing the Lord’s praises with Hymn number 803, “All glory, laud and honour, To thee redeemer King”.’

La Signora Farini, her plump face flushed with pride, pumped the wooden bellow pedals for all she was worth and the organ stool creaked alarmingly under her weight. The Vienna Boys’ Choir would not have felt threatened, but what the little congregation of the parish church of Addolorata might have lacked in choral training, they made up for with enthusiasm.

Thou art the King of Israel, Thou David’s royal Son…

Israel was nearly 3000 kilometres away, but as the words of the old hymn echoed through the little Italian village, it was clear that Christ’s impact on the shores of the Tyrrhenian had been no less than on the shores of Galilee – love, tolerance and a sense of community. When it was not distorted by the power and corruption of the Vatican and other Christian hierarchies, Christ’s message had a surprising resonance with that of Abraham and Muhammad.

‘I could get used to this life,’ Allegra murmured, leaning back in the stern of the dinghy and closing her eyes, soaking up the rays of the morning sun. ‘Do we have to go back tomorrow?’

Giovanni pulled on the oars with a powerful and steady rhythm and with each stroke the little dinghy surged forward, the emerald and turquoise of the Tyrrhenian Sea glistening behind the wooden keel.

‘I thought you said you would rather be working on Professor Rosselli’s assignment?’

‘It’s a toss up, but this probably wins,’ Allegra said, half opening one eye. ‘Where are you taking me, Giovanni Donelli?’ she asked, feeling strangely mischievous. ‘Because I’m not sure Cardinal Petroni would approve.’

‘Well, I wasn’t planning on telling him, but there’s a little cove around the next point. Papa used to take us there for picnics when we were kids. You can only get to it from the sea so the whole family would get in the fishing boat and he would anchor it off the rocks and row us ashore.’

‘ Sei fortunato! You’re very lucky to have grown up here. Do you know this is the first time I’ve ever been in a boat?’

‘Really?’ For a moment Giovanni was surprised, then he laughed. ‘I don’t suppose they have many dinghies in Tricarico. We’ve been spoilt here. I miss the sea.’

The two fell into an easy silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic thud of the oars in the rowlocks. Allegra let her hand dangle over the side, watching the sandy bottom through the crystal water. At first she had been apprehensive and had thought about telling Giovanni her secret but the day had dawned so beautifully and the breeze was so light that the Gulf of Policastro held only the gentlest of swells, and fears. The Apennine promontory was covered in small pine trees and as they rounded the point and the little beach came into view, Allegra felt completely at peace with the world.

The keel grated gently on the grey stony sand and Giovanni shipped the oars and helped Allegra out of the dinghy. Together they carried the rug and the picnic basket up the beach onto a small tongue of grass under some pines.

‘Swim before lunch?’

Allegra’s peace was suddenly shattered. ‘Giovanni…’ She hung her head. ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you. I can’t…’

Giovanni was suddenly concerned and he took her gently by the shoulders. ‘Can’t what? Is something wrong?’

‘I can’t-’ she stammered. ‘I can’t swim,’ she blurted out and coloured with embarrassment.

Giovanni gently lifted her chin with his finger so their eyes met.

‘My fault. And I could kick myself. I should have realised that when you said this was your first time in a boat. Were you really saying this is your first time on the coast?’

Allegra nodded.

‘Hey,’ he said quietly. ‘Think of it as another one of life’s little adventures. If you feel up to it we’ll just wade in up to here.’ Giovanni measured his hand against Allegra’s slender waist. ‘And I’ll give you your first lesson, deal?’

Allegra nodded again, still miserable.

‘Only if you smile.’

‘Thank you,’ she said gratefully.

He took her hand and guided her down to the water’s edge. ‘It’s pretty natural to feel nervous but trust me, if you need to you can reach the bottom. The first thing I will show you is how to float. Watch this.’

Allegra followed him into the warm water and with Giovanni’s hands supporting her, she allowed herself to be coaxed onto her back. Then she panicked and flung her arms around him, coughing and spluttering.

‘I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Rilarssasi. Relax,’ he said softly, holding her.

‘You must think I’m such an idiot,’ she said, her head down, arms still around his neck.

‘You should have seen me on the end of a rope off the breakwater with Papa holding the other end. I was terrified.’

His voice was steady and reassuring but as Allegra raised her head her thoughts were thrown into confusion. Carlo had been a terrible transgression but somehow this was different. This seemed like a natural force that was overwhelmingly strong. How could something that felt this right be so wrong in the eyes of the Church.

‘Want to try again?’ Giovanni’s voice sounded strangely hoarse as Allegra laid back in his arms. At first he supported her and then he slowly let her sink until the only thing holding her up was the Tyrrhenian, and a trust in this man who seemed even more pleased than she was at her achievement.

Back on the beach the sun was warm on Allegra’s shoulders as she opened the picnic basket Giovanni’s mother had packed.

‘Olives, smoked fish, fresh bread, pickled onions – your mother must have thought we were coming for a week!’

‘Now that would start people talking,’ he said, handing her a plastic cup. Little rivulets of condensation dribbled down the sides of the bottle of Bianco Malvasia as Giovanni filled their glasses.

‘ Salute! ’

‘ Salute! And thank you for the swimming lesson,’ she said, conscious again of how close they were sitting.

‘You were a natural. Well, almost,’ he said, his blue eyes dancing as Allegra grinned sceptically. ‘Another couple of lessons and you’ll be swimming the bay from point to point.’

‘Can we come back here again one day?’ Allegra asked, handing Giovanni a roll with a little of everything from his mother’s hamper.

‘Probably, although it is hard on both of us, non e vero?’ Giovanni mused, for the first time putting his own inner struggle into words.

Allegra nodded, acknowledging her own feelings. ‘Why did you become a priest, Giovanni?’

‘That part wasn’t hard. A deep love for the Church. A need to give my best to those around me, and the fact that I would follow Christ wherever he sent me,’ he said, smiling warmly.

‘Do you know where he is going to send you?’

‘No. And I think that is only revealed bit by bit. Who knows where we will end up after university?’

‘It would be nice if we could finish up somewhere together,’ she responded, the wine dissolving her inhibitions.

Giovanni took Allegra’s cup and put it next to his on the sand. His lips were salty as she moulded herself against his body. Giovanni held her more tightly and she found herself responding, willingly. Allegra found herself searching out Giovanni’s tongue with her own.

‘Oh, Giovanni.’

Giovanni was torn.

‘Allegra,’ Giovanni whispered. He fumbled with the clip on her swimsuit and she reached around to help him. Her small breasts were wet with beads of saltwater, her nipples hard and erect. Allegra groaned as he licked them softly and gently took them in his mouth.

That night both had knelt for a long time asking forgiveness. Accettazione. Now they lay awake. Confused and uncertain. Allegra stared out of her window at the night sky. Her room was upstairs, next to Giovanni’s at the front of the house. The lights from the marina were subdued and a light breeze feathered the Tyrrhenian below.

Why? she asked her God for the hundredth time. Why was this so wrong? She knew the episode with Carlo had been wrong, but this was so different. Testarda. Brilliant, gentle Giovanni, and so much fun to be around. He was someone she felt she could spend the rest of her life with, helping him achieve whatever it was that God wished him to achieve. Someone from whom she had learned so much. Someone with whom she was now deeply in love. Yet the Church forbade it. Why? Allegra began to sob, silently. Sobs born of desperation and frustration, and an increasing questioning of her faith.

In his room Giovanni was on his knees again praying for forgiveness to a God who, tonight, seemed very, very distant, silent, immoveable. He had asked for forgiveness, but he felt alienated because his feelings for Allegra were stronger than ever. Alienation from his God was new territory for Giovanni. He tried to distance his heart from his head, but that didn’t help. As a young seminarian he had accepted celibacy without too much thought. It had not seemed an extreme price to pay to serve Christ, until now. Giovanni opened his eyes and stared up into the night sky and the galaxies that stretched for billions of light years. Years of study, as both a theologian and as a scientist, had caused him to think more deeply, and never more deeply than tonight, struggling with the Church’s hypocrisy on sex. A Church that taught one thing, yet often secretly practised another. Giovanni knew that many Catholics were unaware that for a thousand years after Christ, Catholic priests had been happily married and were more effective because of it. Then in 1074 Pope Gregory VII, while keeping a mistress himself, had decreed that priests could only owe allegiance to the Church. Thousands of married priests ‘were to be freed from the influence of their wives’ and divorced. Giovanni also knew there was a more sinister reasoning behind the damaging policy of celibacy; the early Church had moved to protect her vast holdings of property because there had been a danger at law that the children of priests might inherit that property and deprive the Church of an accumulation of wealth.

Christ had absolutely nothing to say about celibacy. Never even thought it worthy of a mention, other than that he had chosen not to marry – or had he? The Church always downplayed Christ’s enjoyment of the company of women. Giovanni reflected on Luke’s description of Jesus travelling through the towns and cities of the Holy Land with several women among his disciples. ‘Joanna, the wife of Herod’s steward Chuza, and Susanna, and many others – who provided for him out of their resources.’ All this in a culture where it was forbidden to speak to a woman in public, let alone travel with them. Jesus was charismatic, spiritual and a gifted speaker, and he treated women as equals. No wonder they were attracted to him. Perhaps Mary Magdalene’s relationship with Jesus was much deeper than the Church allowed. Perhaps the hypocrisy of the Church on sex and the role of women in religion covered up something that was more spiritually balanced. A sense of harmony between male and female that was a crucial element to the patterns of creation, as Professor Rosselli had hinted at in his lectures.

When sleep came, it was fitful. Giovanni drifted in and out of a drowsy wakefulness, deeply troubled. Somewhere along the line the Faith had become perverted by a male hierarchy intent on increasing their power. The Church had somehow corrupted Christ’s message, of which celibacy was but one element. It didn’t have to be that way.

Giovanni changed gears three times from fourth down to second before he had to stop the Fiat on one of Maratea’s notorious hairpin bends. The gearbox grated and protested as he searched for low gear. An awkward silence had settled over Allegra and Giovanni, broken only by the protests of the little car as they ground up the valley between the mountains in the still of the early morning, the port town of Maratea and the Tyrrhenian slowly receding behind them. The crunching of the gears reflected the cranking up of Allegra’s anger at the restrictions of her Church and she was equally angry at herself for dreaming about a partnership with Giovanni. Why did the Church try to overrule human emotion, and had it always been that way? Perhaps the Omega Scroll did give some insight into a more human Church, a Church that recognised human nature and what people felt in their lives.

‘I’m sorry about yesterday,’ Giovanni said, interrupting her thoughts.

‘Are you?’ she snapped, angry that Giovanni should be sorry for what they both felt for each other, something that was so natural between them. Rebellion had surfaced again, but this time even stronger than before. Molta testarda.

Giovanni was taken aback by Allegra’s response. It wasn’t like her. He felt a shift in Allegra, a strength and determination starting to surface within her.

‘I’m sorry too,’ Allegra said, finally controlling her anger. ‘For the way I sounded. It’s just that I’m not sorry for how I feel and how we responded to each other.’

Giovanni didn’t reply immediately. ‘Me neither,’ he said. ‘But it can’t happen again. We both know that.’

‘I know, but that doesn’t mean we can’t see each other,’ she said defiantly.

Giovanni took one hand off the wheel and reached out for hers. ‘Of course not. There’s no rule against pasta on a Friday night. But… there’s nothing I want more than to be back on that beach with you, but that is too difficult for both of us.’ Giovanni hesitated. ‘I love you, Allegra.’

Allegra turned to face him, her brown eyes gentle.

‘I love you too, Giovanni.’