Sign of the Cross Page 9

  Schneider spent a moment looking at the photo of the smiling, dark-haired professor and snapped the laptop closed a little too hard.

  ELEVEN

  The train from Rome was packed. Cal had a first-class ticket, but without any empty seats he was forced to stay put and listen to a businessman across the aisle engage in a prolonged and heated negotiation on his phone. He tried to read but was too distracted; he had to resort to putting on headphones and drowning the fellow out with a Springsteen mix.

  He’d woken that morning with a naked, hung-over British woman in his bed, who thankfully had to rush off to an early meeting. Since she was in a hurry, he was able to avoid the painful morning-after ritual of breakfast and a chat, followed by the exchange of phone numbers that would never be called.

  By the time the train pulled into Naples, Cal’s ears were buzzing from decibel overload. Carrying a bag on each shoulder, he made his way through the crowded station toward the taxi rank.

  As he passed a café, two young men in jeans and polo shirts whispered to one another and began following him. Outside, the queue for the taxis was long and Cal took his place, across from the graffiti-strewn construction fences surrounding the Piazza Giuseppe Garibaldi. Suddenly, he felt the weight disappear from his left shoulder when one of the young men who’d been shadowing him cut the strap of his briefcase with a straight razor.

  Looking up, he saw the two youths running across the piazza with his bag. It had his passport, his laptop computer, his phone and books inside. These were all replaceable. His handwritten notes on the interviews he’d conducted were not.

  ‘Hey, you!’ he shouted. ‘Stop!’

  But they weren’t going to stop, were they? And in an instant he knew that the only way to recover his precious notebook was to take matters into his own hands. He shed his other bag – he didn’t give a damn about his clothes – and took off after the thieves. His loafers were on the new side and the leather soles were a bit too frictionless for a good grip on the smooth stones of the piazza. He picked up traction following them onto the coarser pavement of Corso Novara, a crowded street off the piazza, and gained on them.

  The two men had the athleticism of young footballers and they loped easily down the street. After about two hundred meters they slowed to a jog, perhaps trying to avoid drawing attention, unaware they were being pursued.

  Cal, in full sprint, pumped his arms to increase his speed and weaved around parked cars and pedestrians. He was rapidly gaining on them when they heard his footfalls and, with surprised over-the-shoulder glances, they took off running again.

  Cal gave scant thought to what he was going to do when he caught up. The young man with his bag was holding it in one arm and his running was less fluid than his companion’s. Cal had him in his sights and bore down for the final sprint.

  Ten meters, five meters, one meter.

  The man shouted for his friend just as Cal got a fistful of his T-shirt. It pulled at the fellow’s throat and began to rip.

  People around them began to move away and shout at Cal, who seemed to be the aggressor.

  ‘He’s got my bag!’ Cal shouted.

  The young man shifted the bag under his left arm as if it were a rugby ball and reached into his pocket. When he wheeled around, breaking Cal’s grip on his shirt, a straight razor was in his right hand.

  ‘Hey, watch out!’ a shopper called out. ‘He’s got a knife! Somebody call for the police.’

  Cal didn’t hesitate. He balled both fists and assumed a boxer’s stance, then landed a lightning left jab into an angular cheek. The man yelped and lifted his right hand above his head to deliver a slashing blow with his razor. There was the briefest of openings for Cal to deliver a straight-handed right into the man’s nose that crushed cartilage and paralyzed him with pain. The bag dropped onto the pavement. Cal kept his eyes on the razor and the second man who was a few meters away, looking like he couldn’t decide whether to help his friend or run. Cal decided he had to deal with the weapon if he was going to get out of this unhurt. The man’s nose was bleeding and he was cursing. The hand with a razor was moving again when Cal performed a maneuver short on imagination but long on effectiveness. He hit him again with another straight right, squarely on his broken nose.

  That ended it. The young man hit the ground onto his knees and dropped the razor to cover his face with both palms. That’s when Cal scooped up his bag and took a few steps back, keeping his eyes on the second man. The injured man’s partner ran forward but before Cal had time to figure out if he’d have to keep fighting, the second man was dragging the first up by an arm and persuading him in a torrent of words to flee.

  They ran off and disappeared at the first intersection, Via Firenze.

  Cal heard someone calling, ‘Signore, signore!’ and turned around to see a pair of young women running towards him, one of them with his clothing bag.

  ‘We saw what happened,’ the other one said, drawing close. ‘The police are coming.’

  Breathless, Cal responded in Italian, ‘Thank you. Thank you for restoring my briefly shattered faith in humanity.’

  An hour later, Cal entered the church of San Domenico Maggiore, not to pray but for his appointment. It was not Cal’s first visit. He considered it one of the most beautiful churches in Naples; a treasure-filled, luminous Baroque masterpiece constructed around far more ancient chapels. The young priest, who was pacing around the tenth-century chapel at the far end of the right nave, seemed to recognize Cal.

  ‘Professor Donovan,’ he said. ‘I am Antonio Forcisi. Are you all right?’

  Cal had called the priest to let him know he’d been mugged at the train station and would be late.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Cal smiled. ‘The thief didn’t do as well.’

  ‘I am so relieved you weren’t hurt. I apologize on behalf of my adopted city.’

  ‘Don’t. I love Naples. A small incident like this doesn’t change my opinion.’

  ‘Please follow me to my office,’ the priest said. ‘May I take one of your bags?’

  ‘I wish the thieves had been that polite.’

  Forcisi was a pale, fresh-faced youth with a wispy, blonde moustache that would have taken mere seconds to shave off. The parish offices were near the church convent. Forcisi shared a space with two other assistant priests. One of them was at a desk but left to give them privacy.

  Forcisi noticed the cut shoulder strap of Cal’s briefcase and asked if he could find someone to get it mended, but Cal told him not to bother and that he’d use the handle instead.

  ‘It’s usually not such a good idea to challenge these street thieves,’ the priest said. ‘Some of them carry guns.’

  ‘I got lucky, I guess,’ Cal said.

  ‘So, please tell me how I can help you,’ the priest said. ‘Are there additional questions you need answered?’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t understand. I haven’t asked any questions yet.’

  ‘Well, not you, but the other man.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The monsignor from the Vatican who came last week.’

  Cal frowned. ‘I wasn’t aware of this. Who was he?’

  ‘Monsignor Leinfelder. A German, I believe. But he could have been Austrian or Swiss. I didn’t really ask about that.’

  ‘Who did he say he represented?’

  ‘I don’t know. The Vatican. A monsignor visits me from the Vatican to ask questions and, well, I don’t question him. It’s the same with you. You called from the Vatican and I didn’t ask questions either.’

  ‘But I told you who I was and who I was representing.’

  ‘Yes, you were more open. I haven’t been a priest very long. I respect the church authorities and know my place in the hierarchy.’

  ‘What did he ask you about?’

  ‘Perhaps the same things that will interest you: my friendship with Giovanni, our days in the seminary, my knowledge of his stigmata, my opinions about his condition. Are these the matters that concern you too?’<
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  ‘They are.’

  ‘Did this monsignor leave his card?’

  The priest shook his head.

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s a photo of him?’

  Forcisi’s laugh was high-pitched. ‘We didn’t take a selfie, if that’s what you mean.’ Then he turned serious. ‘Are you suggesting this man wasn’t who he said he was?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Cal said. ‘It’s probably a typical Vatican bureaucratic snafu; the right hand not knowing what the left hand is doing.’

  Cal pulled out his notebook, wrote down the German priest’s name and began asking questions.

  ‘How long have I known Giovanni?’ Forcisi said. ‘A long time. We attended the same primary school when we were seven. We sat next to each other, we played together at recess and lived less than a kilometer from one another. We were best friends right up until we became priests together.’

  ‘You’re no longer friends?’

  The priest looked pensive. He briefly looked out the window over the piazza. ‘I suppose we’re still friends. We talk by telephone. Not so often. It’s different now. He’s not the same person. All this has changed him. He’s not the fun-loving Giovanni any longer. He’s carrying a heavy burden.’

  ‘Have you talked with him about this change?’

  ‘Not directly, no. I get the sense this topic is off-limits. Everyone around him is obsessed with the stigmata. I only want to be his friend.’

  ‘Not his confessor?’

  ‘Heavens no! Certainly not that. He has others who can perform this service for him. You’ve met him, yes?’

  ‘A few days ago,’ Cal said. ‘I also went to Francavilla to meet his mother and his sister.’

  ‘How are they? I miss them.’

  ‘I got the impression that his notoriety is a burden on them.’

  ‘I’m sure of that. And Giovanni? How did you find him?’

  ‘He seemed like a very nice young man swimming against a very powerful tide.’

  ‘I think that’s a good way to describe his situation.’

  Cal looked up from his notes. ‘What was he like at the seminary?’

  ‘Early on, happy. Happy and casual, I would have to say. I was always worried about the decision he made to become a priest. From when I was sixteen, I really knew I wanted to go in this direction with my life. I felt the calling quite strongly. Giovanni made fun of me, not in a cruel way but a joking way. Everything for him was a joke. He was maybe a little immature, always a little behind emotionally. I think he made his choice to follow me into the seminary not so much out of a burning desire to serve Christ, but to run away from his unhappiness with the way his life was developing.’

  ‘Wouldn’t a lot of priests admit to the same if they were being honest with themselves?’ Cal asked.

  ‘For sure. We had several men leave the seminary when they came face-to-face with that self-realization.’

  ‘But not Giovanni.’

  ‘You know, he was different from these men, professor. He grew as a person during the process and I really think his faith got stronger along his journey. He surprised himself. He told me that. It came to him in the last year of our studies, the conviction that he had made the right choice and that he was going to be joyfully devoted to the priesthood and tending to the spiritual needs of his community. As we got close to the end of our training he was serene, optimistic.’

  ‘And then Croatia happened.’

  ‘Yes,’ the priest sighed. ‘Croatia.’

  Cal clicked his pen and prepared to take detailed notes. ‘I’d like you to tell me everything you remember about the day you visited the monastery.’

  ‘Look, there’s the chapel,’ Forcisi said excitedly, rushing ahead up the dirt path.

  Giovanni was a little puffed out after climbing the hill from the car park and called ahead to his friend, ‘What? Are you trying to give me a heart attack? Slow down. It’s not going anywhere.’

  Forcisi let Giovanni catch up. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s just that I’m blown away by this. Look at it! It’s ancient. Seventh century, for God’s sake. The Church was so young when it was built.’

  It was Giovanni who lifted the latch of the weathered door. Even though it was sunny, the interior of the stone church was dim, lit by a few wall fixtures with dirty candelabra bulbs. The chapel windows were too small to naturally light the space. Forcisi nudged his friend. There were two brown-robed monks sitting beside one another on a pew facing an empty stone altar. Giovanni closed the door as gently as he could but the latch clunked and the monks glanced to the rear before turning back to the altar. The two seminarians seated themselves in a rear pew and soon were lost in prayer and meditation.

  In time, the monks finished their own prayer session and rose to depart. It was Forcisi who buttonholed them with a comment in Italian and then English when, at first, they didn’t respond.

  ‘Your church is a marvel,’ he said. ‘We have just finished our training at a seminary in Italy and soon we will be ordained. We are inspired by the holiness and venerability of your chapel.’

  Brother Augustin was wizened and bow-legged. He didn’t use a cane but his gait was unsteady and shuffling. Though Brother Ivan looked hale and healthy by comparison, he too was elderly. Ivan mumbled an insincere pleasantry in English and walked on, but Augustin stopped and inspected the seated young men. Although it was Forcisi who had spoken, Augustin looked past him, his milky eyes settled on Giovanni.

  ‘What do you know of this church?’ Augustin asked.

  ‘Me?’ Giovanni said, with the demeanor of an unprepared student being called on by his teacher.

  ‘Yes, you.’

  ‘It was founded by the Benedictines, I think.’

  ‘Are you coming?’ Ivan asked Augustin in Croatian.

  Augustin ignored him and kept his gaze on Giovanni. ‘We Benedictines have been here in an unbroken chain since the year 685.’

  ‘That’s a long time,’ Giovanni said.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Ivan said, leaving.

  ‘It’s the longest continuous Benedictine community in the world, is it not?’ Forcisi said, trying to get some of the old monk’s attention.

  Augustin pointed a bony finger. It was then that the young men saw that his wrist was wrapped in black cloth. ‘What’s your name?’ the monk asked.

  Giovanni searched Forcisi’s eyes, as if asking: why is he only interested in me?

  ‘I’m Giovanni,’ he said. ‘This is Antonio. We’re from Francavilla al Mare. Have you heard of it?’

  ‘Francavilla? No. I never visited Italy. I have been at this monastery for sixty-five years. Before that I never left Croatia. Did you know the church has a crypt?’

  It was Forcisi who replied. ‘There was no mention of a crypt in the guide book.’

  ‘I was speaking to Giovanni,’ the monk said acidly.

  ‘Like Antonio said,’ Giovanni replied, ‘we didn’t know there was one.’

  ‘Would you like to see it?’

  Giovanni seemed uncomfortable at the attention directed at him. He shrugged.

  ‘Sure we would.’

  ‘Come with me,’ the monk said. ‘Just you. Not your friend.’

  Giovanni protested and said that he wasn’t interested if both of them couldn’t go, but Forcisi told him with a pout that it was all right with him.

  ‘That’s silly, Antonio,’ Giovanni said in Italian. ‘This old guy is creeping me out anyway.’

  ‘Go on,’ Forcisi urged. ‘Take a picture and tell me about it.’

  The monk led the way and Giovanni followed him to an iron grate on one side of the chapel. He turned to look at his friend as he began descending the stone stairway. Forcisi detected a look of fear on his face and almost called him back, but he held his tongue.

  Giovanni was gone for no more than ten minutes.

  At one point, his friend went over to the iron grate and leaned over the stairs to try to hear what was going on but he heard nothing.

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nbsp; He was sitting on the rear pew when the grate swung open.

  Brother Augustin emerged first and shuffled toward the door, his eyes cast downward.

  Giovanni followed several seconds behind with, what Forcisi could only describe as a look of gravity on his formerly carefree face.

  ‘Gravity?’ Cal asked. ‘I don’t know what you mean by that.’

  Forcisi seemed to be searching for the best way to answer.

  ‘He went down into that crypt an easygoing man-child, like the Giovanni I always knew. He came up like a mature man, a sober man, like someone who had instantly acquired great wisdom.’

  The two friends didn’t talk until they were back at the car. Giovanni had driven the rental car from Dubrovnik since he was the better driver. Forcisi saw him wince as he turned the key. When he put the car into reverse he winced again then returned it to neutral.

  ‘Do you think you could drive?’ Giovanni said.

  ‘What’s the matter? You ok?’ Forcisi asked.

  ‘I just don’t feel like driving. I’m a bit tired.’

  ‘What happened down there? I think something happened.’

  ‘Nothing happened.’

  ‘Tell me what you saw.’

  ‘Nothing much,’ Giovanni answered dully. ‘Some gravestones in the floor. A small altar.’

  ‘You were down there a long time for just that.’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘Look, I’ll drive but I’d really like you to talk to me.’

  They exchanged places in the car.

  Giovanni folded his arms across his chest. ‘I’m just going to close my eyes for a little while. Like I said, I’m a bit tired.’

  ‘When I asked him about visiting the crypt he told me you didn’t want to go, that you were claustrophobic,’ Cal said.

  ‘That’s not so. The old monk didn’t invite me. Just Giovanni.’

  ‘I see. When you got back to your hotel in Dubrovnik how did he seem?’

  Forcisi was dying to use the bathroom and he rushed inside as soon as they got into their room. When he got out he saw that Giovanni had climbed into bed, fully dressed.

  ‘You don’t look so well,’ he said.