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Authors: Valerio Massimo Manfredi
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can be traced to a very precise period of prehistory, between the end of the Palaeolithic era and the beginning of the Neolithic?’ asked Boni again.
‘Well, yes, I’ve heard of such hypotheses, but they really don’t change much. We use the word “technology” in talking about a Neolithic or even a late Bronze Age city, but the means they had at their disposal were no more than what an Amazon – or Central African or South-East Asian – tribe has access to today.’
‘Of course. But you can’t deny that we have a radio source – suspended at 500,000 kilometres above the earth in a geostationary orbit – emitting signals that seem to match up with the message from the heavens described in Father Antonelli’s diary, taken from a translation of those ancient documents. Coincidence, you say? I’m afraid I can’t believe that. And if we want to get at the real meaning of that message, we absolutely have to find the way to read the entire text. What we have learned up to now is extremely alarming, I would say. We certainly can’t afford to sit back and ignore the rest.’
‘But Father Antonelli is dead. And who knows how long it took him to translate those few lines?’
The car was now crossing the practically deserted city. The rain had stopped and the streets were swept by a cold, damp wind. Father Hogan started down Lungotevere and was soon on the other side of the Vatican walls. He parked in the San Damaso courtyard.
‘Father Antonelli had the key for deciphering “The Book of Amon”. He must have translated much more than just those few lines. Why else would he have been ranting on about a “different” Bible? Antonelli just didn’t want to reveal what he’d learned, not even on his deathbed.’
‘Perhaps he destroyed his translation.’
Father Boni shook his head. ‘A scholar never destroys the fruit of his life’s work, especially when we’re talking about the discovery of a lifetime. A poet maybe, a writer even, but not a scholar. It’s not in his nature. All we have to do is look and we’ll find it.’
He left the car without saying another word and walked across the abandoned square, disappearing into the darkness of an archway.
P HILIP G ARRETT WOKE EARLY , after a restless night. He had a bath and went down for breakfast. Along with his caffé latte, he was brought an envelope from the Vatican. A few lines from Father Boni, informing him of Father Antonelli’s death. Boni apologized for not having been able to do anything for Garrett, and hoped to have the pleasure of meeting him again.
Disconsolate, Philip dropped his head into his hands. His search had aborted before he’d begun. Played for a fool again by the irony of fate. He thought of returning to Paris at once and forgetting about this crazy idea of finding his father. But he knew that would be impossible.
He walked out in the direction of the Circus Maximus. It was a splendid sight under the early autumn sun after the night’s rain. The sloping sides of what was once a gigantic racecourse, echoing with the screams of rapturous crowds, were empty and smelled like earth and grass, reminding him of the walks he used to take with his mother as a child. A fleeting memory.
Strange, whenever he thought of his mother it was a sound he remembered more than words, the sound of a little wooden music box playing an odd, indefinable tune. It had been a present from his father, on his fourteenth birthday. A little black-bereted soldier on the top, his uniform shining with gold braid, sprang up and down as if mounting guard.
A sad birthday. His father had been absent that day, far away doing research, and his mother had been taken ill for the first time.
He would play the music again and again, even after she until one day the box disappeared from his bedside table. It had died, been no use asking where it had gone, or who had it; he never got an answer.
One day his father had called him into his study and said, ‘I will not be
‘Well, yes, I’ve heard of such hypotheses, but they really don’t change much. We use the word “technology” in talking about a Neolithic or even a late Bronze Age city, but the means they had at their disposal were no more than what an Amazon – or Central African or South-East Asian – tribe has access to today.’
‘Of course. But you can’t deny that we have a radio source – suspended at 500,000 kilometres above the earth in a geostationary orbit – emitting signals that seem to match up with the message from the heavens described in Father Antonelli’s diary, taken from a translation of those ancient documents. Coincidence, you say? I’m afraid I can’t believe that. And if we want to get at the real meaning of that message, we absolutely have to find the way to read the entire text. What we have learned up to now is extremely alarming, I would say. We certainly can’t afford to sit back and ignore the rest.’
‘But Father Antonelli is dead. And who knows how long it took him to translate those few lines?’
The car was now crossing the practically deserted city. The rain had stopped and the streets were swept by a cold, damp wind. Father Hogan started down Lungotevere and was soon on the other side of the Vatican walls. He parked in the San Damaso courtyard.
‘Father Antonelli had the key for deciphering “The Book of Amon”. He must have translated much more than just those few lines. Why else would he have been ranting on about a “different” Bible? Antonelli just didn’t want to reveal what he’d learned, not even on his deathbed.’
‘Perhaps he destroyed his translation.’
Father Boni shook his head. ‘A scholar never destroys the fruit of his life’s work, especially when we’re talking about the discovery of a lifetime. A poet maybe, a writer even, but not a scholar. It’s not in his nature. All we have to do is look and we’ll find it.’
He left the car without saying another word and walked across the abandoned square, disappearing into the darkness of an archway.
P HILIP G ARRETT WOKE EARLY , after a restless night. He had a bath and went down for breakfast. Along with his caffé latte, he was brought an envelope from the Vatican. A few lines from Father Boni, informing him of Father Antonelli’s death. Boni apologized for not having been able to do anything for Garrett, and hoped to have the pleasure of meeting him again.
Disconsolate, Philip dropped his head into his hands. His search had aborted before he’d begun. Played for a fool again by the irony of fate. He thought of returning to Paris at once and forgetting about this crazy idea of finding his father. But he knew that would be impossible.
He walked out in the direction of the Circus Maximus. It was a splendid sight under the early autumn sun after the night’s rain. The sloping sides of what was once a gigantic racecourse, echoing with the screams of rapturous crowds, were empty and smelled like earth and grass, reminding him of the walks he used to take with his mother as a child. A fleeting memory.
Strange, whenever he thought of his mother it was a sound he remembered more than words, the sound of a little wooden music box playing an odd, indefinable tune. It had been a present from his father, on his fourteenth birthday. A little black-bereted soldier on the top, his uniform shining with gold braid, sprang up and down as if mounting guard.
A sad birthday. His father had been absent that day, far away doing research, and his mother had been taken ill for the first time.
He would play the music again and again, even after she until one day the box disappeared from his bedside table. It had died, been no use asking where it had gone, or who had it; he never got an answer.
One day his father had called him into his study and said, ‘I will not be
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