The Omega Scroll (14 page)

‘I couldn’t,’ Allegra said quickly, without quite knowing why.

‘Why not?’ Giovanni demanded.

‘Well, there is Professor Rosselli’s research,’ she responded lamely.

‘My, my! He has got you worried. I’ll tell you what. While we’re at home we’ll spend some time on the pros and cons of Christ and Mary Magdalene and we’ll write it up when we get back.’

‘That would be nice,’ she said, giving in to his logic. Allegra felt the warmth of Giovanni’s body and nearly put her head on his shoulder.
Accettazione
and
testarda
. Deep within, strange feelings were stirring. The voice of Catholicism was telling her that it was wrong to be this close to a man. Like Giovanni, she put it down to feelings of friendship for someone whose intellect, warmth and compassion she had come to admire deeply.

‘Do you know, I don’t think I’ve even asked you where you live.’

‘Used to live,’ he corrected her, ‘but I still call it home. It’s a little fishing town on the Gulf of Policastro. Maratea. Have you heard of it?’

‘No, but now I’m looking forward to visiting it very much.’

‘You will love it. Everyone is very friendly and the mountains look like they fall into the sea. It is the perfect escape for students.’

‘Mmmm,’ murmured Allegra dreamily, and without a thought to what she was doing, she rested her head on his shoulder.

Giovanni knew he had to change the subject before the voice in his head completely disappeared. ‘One day I would like to go to the Holy Land and see all of those places that are in the Bible and visit Qumran.’

Allegra lifted her head from his shoulder.

‘And we could find the Omega Scroll – and put an end to all of Rosselli’s assignments,’ she said and her eyes sparkled.

Without realising it, the quest for the missing Omega Scroll had begun and their lives would change for ever.

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,
è 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.

‘
È 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 fiancée.’

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 Papà 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. Papà 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 Papà 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!
È 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!’

‘Papà! 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 Papà 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, Papà?’ 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 protégé 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. Papà 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.