Bononiensis.
Following an impulse he went through the spacious doorway of the first church, which went by the name of the Holy Crucifix. He felt ill at ease, and a brief visit to the house of the lord could not but do him good. He walked quickly up the aisle and turned left to enter the church where the Holy sepulchre of Jerusalem had been reproduced. Around the small octagonal sanctuary that held the mortal remains of St Petronio, the main patron saint of Bologna, there were six monks kneeling in prayer. Gerardo stood contempLating the small but important work of architecture. It was said that it perfectly respected the proportions of the original and that under the floor there was a sacred wellspring whose waters were able to heal all illnesses. There was even a rumour of an underground temple predating the church, dedicated in remote times to the cult of the pagan goddess Isis.
And yet, Gerardo derived no relief from his visit to that consecrated place. Afterwards, he felt more worried than ever. Moving quietly so as not to disturb the monks in prayer, he walked out of the right-hand door, crossed the deserted cloisters and went into the Church of the Holy trinity. He was on the point of leaving, when he saw a priest kneeling in a corner. The man had heard his steps and turned to look at him, without saying anything. Gerardo stopped, feeling uncomfortable. While he searched for something to say that would justify his presence there, the words came out spontaneously, as though they were the only appropriate ones for that place and time. ‘Father, I would like to confess.’
The priest nodded, rose and beckoned him over. Gerardo went to kneel before him, waited for the priest to pronounce the customary words and then began to confess all the sins that he could remember, mentally asking God’s pardon because he could not reveal the things that tormented him the most. In theory the lips of the priest were sealed, but he knew well that the superiors usually absolved a priest guilty of vioLating the sacrament of confession, if such a violation was committed for the greater good of the Church. At that moment the Church seemed to consider the elimination of the order of the templars as the greater good, and Gerardo could not take the risk.
While he searched his soul for hidden sins, still in the state of slight inebriation induced by the wine and his nocturnal vigil, at a certain point he heard himself say that he had thought with joy of being able to form a family, with a wife and children, and of dedicating himself to the glory of the lord.
The priest interrupted him, curious. ‘And why do think of that as a sin, my son?’
Gerardo realised his error. The thought was a sin in that it was contrary to his monastic vows, but he couldn’t very well say that.
‘The woman who inspires these thoughts in me is married, father,’ he lied. ‘I am in a state of mortal sin.’
The priest nodded with a serious air, as though expecting that explanation. He asked if Gerardo had anything else to confess, and at his negative reply he imposed a heavy penance on him, then gave him absolution and moved away. Gerardo got up and left. When he found himself outside, he felt all the tiredness of his sleepless night descend heavily on him, as if the confession had emptied him.
The rain had got more intense. He pulled his hood up again, and crossing the piazza with unsteady steps, he took two decisions. First, he would go home and sleep for a bit before going to find the Philomena in Angelo’s message. And second, he would make sure that he didn’t find himself alone with the banker’s daughter again.
The grey light of afternoon entered through an open window of the Liuzzi family home, in a side street to Via San Vitale, and a smell of wet earth rose from the courtyard. Summer was not far off, but the rain gave everything a wintry tinge. For the third time, Mondino took the quill from the table, dipped it into the inkpot, and for the
Following an impulse he went through the spacious doorway of the first church, which went by the name of the Holy Crucifix. He felt ill at ease, and a brief visit to the house of the lord could not but do him good. He walked quickly up the aisle and turned left to enter the church where the Holy sepulchre of Jerusalem had been reproduced. Around the small octagonal sanctuary that held the mortal remains of St Petronio, the main patron saint of Bologna, there were six monks kneeling in prayer. Gerardo stood contempLating the small but important work of architecture. It was said that it perfectly respected the proportions of the original and that under the floor there was a sacred wellspring whose waters were able to heal all illnesses. There was even a rumour of an underground temple predating the church, dedicated in remote times to the cult of the pagan goddess Isis.
And yet, Gerardo derived no relief from his visit to that consecrated place. Afterwards, he felt more worried than ever. Moving quietly so as not to disturb the monks in prayer, he walked out of the right-hand door, crossed the deserted cloisters and went into the Church of the Holy trinity. He was on the point of leaving, when he saw a priest kneeling in a corner. The man had heard his steps and turned to look at him, without saying anything. Gerardo stopped, feeling uncomfortable. While he searched for something to say that would justify his presence there, the words came out spontaneously, as though they were the only appropriate ones for that place and time. ‘Father, I would like to confess.’
The priest nodded, rose and beckoned him over. Gerardo went to kneel before him, waited for the priest to pronounce the customary words and then began to confess all the sins that he could remember, mentally asking God’s pardon because he could not reveal the things that tormented him the most. In theory the lips of the priest were sealed, but he knew well that the superiors usually absolved a priest guilty of vioLating the sacrament of confession, if such a violation was committed for the greater good of the Church. At that moment the Church seemed to consider the elimination of the order of the templars as the greater good, and Gerardo could not take the risk.
While he searched his soul for hidden sins, still in the state of slight inebriation induced by the wine and his nocturnal vigil, at a certain point he heard himself say that he had thought with joy of being able to form a family, with a wife and children, and of dedicating himself to the glory of the lord.
The priest interrupted him, curious. ‘And why do think of that as a sin, my son?’
Gerardo realised his error. The thought was a sin in that it was contrary to his monastic vows, but he couldn’t very well say that.
‘The woman who inspires these thoughts in me is married, father,’ he lied. ‘I am in a state of mortal sin.’
The priest nodded with a serious air, as though expecting that explanation. He asked if Gerardo had anything else to confess, and at his negative reply he imposed a heavy penance on him, then gave him absolution and moved away. Gerardo got up and left. When he found himself outside, he felt all the tiredness of his sleepless night descend heavily on him, as if the confession had emptied him.
The rain had got more intense. He pulled his hood up again, and crossing the piazza with unsteady steps, he took two decisions. First, he would go home and sleep for a bit before going to find the Philomena in Angelo’s message. And second, he would make sure that he didn’t find himself alone with the banker’s daughter again.
The grey light of afternoon entered through an open window of the Liuzzi family home, in a side street to Via San Vitale, and a smell of wet earth rose from the courtyard. Summer was not far off, but the rain gave everything a wintry tinge. For the third time, Mondino took the quill from the table, dipped it into the inkpot, and for the
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