For a few minutes afterwards, I sat basking in the incense, the remembered plainchant, and the beauty of the church, but Father Burke came and dragged me out. I had to sprint to keep up with him as he made his way to the Tiber and across the Umberto I bridge. A gurgling lump in my abdomen impeded my progress.
“Why are we running?”
“Angelus.”
“What?”
“The papal blessing at noon; he appears in the window. We don’t want to miss it.”
“You run. I’ll stay behind with my stomach.”
By the time I had made my way past the Castel Sant’ Angelo and up the Via Conciliazione, the pope had given his blessing to those willing and able to arrive on time, and had vanished inside his apartment. I shuffled around the Piazza San Pietro until I spied Burke. He bore down on me and handed me my next assignment. “I promised your little one I’d bring her a T-shirt with ‘Angelicum’ on it. Remember?”
“I remember something about it.”
“She covets the one I have, and she seems quite interested in angels.”
She thinks you’re one yourself!
All I said was: “The Angelicum is the Pontifical something of Thomas Aquinas, I take it.”
“’Tis. Let’s go. Camera?”
“Pocket.”
He led me through the serpentine streets of central Rome until we reached the Pontifical University of Saint Thomas Aquinas.
“You studied here?”
“I did my doctoral work here, after getting my licentiate at the Greg.”
“Doesn’t look like the sort of place that sells T-shirts.”
“It doesn’t. I got mine when a crew of us had them done up.”
“So how do you propose —”
“Take a picture and we’ll have a shirt made up for Normie when we get back to Halifax.”
I focused on the word ANGELICVM, which was engraved in a horizontal band of white travertine stone above the arched doorway and pillars of the building, and snapped a photo.
“I’m going to be sick from all this running,” I complained. “Me too, and it’s not from running.” I looked at him then and saw that he was in worse shape than I was. “But we don’t have time for that. I’ve rented a car. Our investigation is going on the road.”
Our destinations were two monasteries, one in Florence, the other outside Padua. The first had been home to Reinhold Schellenberg, the second to Robin Gadkin-Falkes. Brennan also mentioned an oratorio devoted to Saint Philomena in the town of Treviso, close to Venice. We left that open as a possibility. I don’t think either of us held out much hope of being enlightened no matter where we went, but the prospect of a motoring holiday in Italy perked me up a bit. We returned to the hotel, picked up a sporty little rental car, and shoved our bags into the trunk.
“Andiamo,”
Burke said. “Flip a coin to see who drives?”
“You’re driving. I’m the sightseer,”
I said. “All right, but I’m not a well man.”
“That makes two of us.”
“I may have to pull over.”
“We’ll deal with that if it happens. Let’s hope it doesn’t. Christ, Burke, I’ve known you to put away vats of whiskey with no effects at
all the next day. I’ve never seen you like this.” He did not reply. I concluded that dark thoughts and brooding were doing more damage than the alcohol.
We travelled along the autostrada for about three hours, alternately roaring by the lines of eighteen-wheel trucks and being stuck behind them. But the highway was beautifully maintained and it afforded us a spectacular view of medieval hill towns, with high walls and towers that appeared to rise right out of the rock.
Reinhold Schellenberg’s home was the Monastero della Certosa del Galluzo in Florence, formerly run by the Carthusians, now by the Cistercians. Who apparently are Benedictines. I couldn’t follow it, and Burke didn’t elaborate. I had been in Florence several years before; good thing, because all I was getting this time was a white-knuckle ride through the streets on the way to the hillside monastery. City streets finally gave way to olive groves; when we reached our destination the sight was breathtaking. The monastery was a mix of medieval and Renaissance structures in the light earthy tones characteristic of Tuscany. We were met by Brother Giuseppe, who was wearing a white robe with what looked like a black apron over it; I learned later it is called a scapular. Brennan explained in Italian who we were, and the monk replied in a combination of Italian and English. He told us how devastated the
monaci
were about the death of Father Schellenberg, what a great, yet humble, man he was, and how he would always be in the community’s prayers.
He led us to Schellenberg’s room, which was spare in its furnishings but overflowing with books, binders, and pamphlets. Giuseppe took one of the binders from the shelf and showed us the contents, copies of papal encyclicals and other official church documents. The volumes were in several languages and covered theology, scriptural studies, liturgy, and the other subjects of interest to a Catholic scholar. Another shelf, inside the wardrobe, contained a number of books written by Schellenberg himself, all in German. They may have held a clue to the motive for his murder or they may not have. Burke succeeded in persuading the reluctant brother to hand over two boxes of
personal papers, including correspondence to and from Schellenberg, and other documents that appeared to be in his handwriting. We promised to ship the items back once we had gone through them. Tucked away in the desk was a photograph of a very young Father Schellenberg with Pope John XXIII; the two men were sitting at a desk, examining a document.
“The Vatican Council?” I asked.
“No, before,” Giuseppe answered. “In 1959 or 1960.” It looked as though Schellenberg had been a trusted adviser well before the Council was convened. He had the appearance of a café intellectual then, hair quite long and brushed back from his forehead, black-rimmed glasses, and a short, trim beard.
“Brother Giuseppe, is there anything you can tell us about what may have led to Father Schellenberg’s murder?”
No. He had no idea.
Guiseppe escorted us out, then asked us to wait a minute while he went to get something. He came back and handed us two bottles of the liqueurs made by the monks. I had the
Elixir di Saint Bernardo
, and Brennan had
Gran Liquore Certosa
. We thanked him, and he invited us to take a look around. After stowing the boxes in the car, we walked around the monastery, stopping in the chapel, where Brennan knelt and seemed to get lost in prayer. The silence was so profound and the place so peaceful I had no desire to leave.
But soon enough we were on the highway and headed northeast. We had reservations for the night in Fiesole, a town on a hill that rises over Florence. “I don’t see any signs. How big is this place, Brennan?”
“Not all that big, but it’s well known. There ought to be a sign, I’m thinking.”
“Yeah, well, we’d better find it before we end up in Bologna.”
“Did you know they had a law school in Bologna in the thirteenth century?”
“I wonder if they taught the lawyers to sue over badly marked highways. Damages for lost time and gas money. And mental anguish.” I consulted my map and pointed to a turnoff. “We’re beyond Fiesole now. Take that exit marked Barberino, and we’ll work our way back.”
We found ourselves skirting the Tuscan hills as we gained altitude, careening along a narrow mountain road with barely enough room to
get by the cars that emerged suddenly from the blind turns ahead. It seemed we were mere inches from the precipice. Burke was unconcerned.
“The view here is brilliant, isn’t it? These hills —”
“Keep your eyes on the road, Brennan, will you? And gear down. I wouldn’t trust that guardrail to keep us from plunging to our deaths.”
“Oh ye of little faith.”
At that point I’d have preferred to be the wheelman myself but I had to admit he was a skilful driver.
Fiesole was a stunningly beautiful town, with crenellated medieval towers and extremely narrow winding one-lane streets — only to be expected, given the age of the settlement, which was noted for its Etruscan and Roman ruins. Mirrors were affixed to buildings on the corners; it was the only way to see whether another car was coming. We found a tiny hotel with cream stucco walls and green shutters on the windows; a white cat peered down at us from a windowsill. We registered and headed out immediately for dinner. It was the first time all day I could think of food without feeling queasy; now I was famished.
La Reggia degli Etruschi was, interestingly, a former monastery; it afforded us a panoramic view of Florence below us as the sun went down. Our six-course meal included such delights as noodles in black truffle sauce, beef filet flavoured with grapes, and mascarpone cheese cream with coffee-flavoured biscuits and chocolate. And then there were the Tuscan wines, which happened to be specialties of the house. Although by unspoken agreement we eschewed hard liquor for the evening, the wine selection was so spectacular we were both crocked by the time the
dolci
arrived. We yakked about our various travels in Europe and one-upped each other with war stories and mishaps. The brooding look returned to Brennan’s face as the night wore on.
“Troubled by doubts again, about your vocation?” I ventured to ask.
“I have no doubts about my vocation,” he replied with a certain tartness in his voice. Then, more quietly: “I just don’t know if I’m able for it.”
“You’re able. You’re having a dark night of the soul. It happens. Look at me. I’m a family man without my family. I don’t know how long I’ll be able for that.” He looked at me for a long moment. In normal times, he would have started in on me by now:
Get it together
,
reconcile with Maura, don’t be such a bonehead
. Obviously he didn’t have it in him tonight. I drained my glass and signalled for the bill. Burke snatched it from the waiter and fumbled for his wallet. We stumbled back to the hotel with the enchanting lights of Florence beneath us at the bottom of the hill.
The next day brought us to yet another complex of magnificent buildings. The Benedictine abbey at Praglia, with its cloisters and Romanesque bell tower, was built between the eleventh and twelfth centuries. We walked through the loggia with a black-robed monk by the name of Brother Rodrigo. I understood much of what he said; Brennan filled me in later on the rest. There was not a lot he could, or would, tell us about Brother Robin Gadkin-Falkes. He knew Robin was in Canada, and we told him Robin had been ill, had perhaps suffered a breakdown. We said nothing about the murder and, if Brother Rodrigo knew what had happened, he did not let on. He seemed to accept that Father Burke and his friend were concerned about Robin and were looking for information that might help him. But all he could tell us was that Robin lived the life of work and prayer required of a monk. He particularly liked to toil in the gardens, and he loved the canonical hours, when the men gathered several times daily for prayer and the reading of Scripture. His was the voice with which the others sought to blend when the ancient plainchant was sung in choir. Did he ever speak of the death of his sister? The community was aware of it, and prayed for her soul.
Could we see his room? Brother Rodrigo hesitated, then seemed to find no harm in that, so he went to get the key and led us to the small, tidy room occupied by Brother Robin Gadkin-Falkes. But the room had little to say to us. There was a bed, a desk and chair, a bookshelf that did not contain anything unusual. Tacked to a bulletin board were some devotional pictures and prayers relating to Saint Charles Borromeo. Burke opened the door of a plain wooden wardrobe, and we saw nothing but robes and a couple of sets of civilian clothing. Three drawers contained underwear, socks, and toiletries. Brother Rodrigo looked as if he wanted to protest when the visiting priest yanked open the desk drawers and rummaged around. There were pens, pencils, writing paper, the usual things, and a photo of his sister, Louisa. Brennan drew out a few sheets of paper and spread them over
the desk. They were cartoons in black ink, well drawn, depicting Borromeo bowing low before a high altar; he was billed as the “Apostle of the Council of Trent.” Another drawing lampooned Pope John XXIII as the “Apostate of the Council of Vatican II.” The final cartoon depicted Pope Paul VI as a waiter, with a white cloth draped over his arm and a large menu in his hand, about to serve a motley group of people talking and laughing around a rectangular table. The menu said
“Novus Ordo.”
The cartoon was a reference to the new Mass as a meal around a table, rather than the re-enactment of Christ’s sacrifice at the altar.
That was it for Brother Robin’s room. We thanked Rodrigo and stayed on for nones, the three o’clock prayer service. The chanting was ethereal. Brennan took part and he seemed, at least for those few minutes, to lose the careworn, hungover look that had marked him during our Italian road trip. When we came out of the church, Brennan tossed me the car keys, and I got into the driver’s seat. We left the ancient monastery for the twentieth-century autostrada, where we merged with the traffic roaring along at one hundred thirty kilometres an hour.
“So,” I said, “unflattering portrayals of Popes John and Paul. Did they deserve that sort of contempt?”
“Of course not. Anyone who grew up with ‘Tantum Ergo’ and now has to sit through ‘They’ll Know We Are Christians By Our Love’ in the wake of the Second Vatican Council might cast a disapproving eye on Pope John. But to most people, he was a saintly and beloved man. He was in fact a funny, self-deprecating, sweet man. And the goofiness that infected the church after Vatican II is not his fault. As for Pope Paul, he was an intellectual and a profoundly spiritual priest.”
“Next item of business,” I said, “do we go on to Treviso, or back to Rome? I have to call Moody Walker from somewhere to see if he managed to set anything up for us in Frankfurt tomorrow.”
“I’m thinking we won’t learn much from the fact that there’s a St. Philomena Oratorio in Treviso. We haven’t done the rounds of St. Cecilia churches, because we’re not likely to learn anything from those either. But Treviso is a lovely town. I’m happy to go along if you’ve a mind to check it out. It’s not all that far, and we have another night before we fly out. But I’ll probably sleep through it all.”