“Have you ever heard of St Gregory: Bishop Gregory of Tours?”
“Ah, yes, that rings a bell. There was an entry in the encyclopaedia I used to read as a schoolgirl. A chronicler, right? He wrote the history of his times in the darkest Middle Ages.”
“Very good! Excellent encyclopaedia… He is famous for his ‘Ten Books of Histories’, better known as the ‘History of the Franks’, a chronicle of the Merovingian kingdoms of his time. There also exists a ‘Chronicle of Fredegar’, but you wouldn’t have heard of it… Now I want you to picture the period: the 6th century. The Western Roman Empire had just collapsed, the last emperor, Romulus Augustulus, had been deposed in 476 by a Goth warlord called Odovacar. People now lived under a feudal system that was maybe not worse than the one it replaced, but still we speak of the Dark Ages… For me as a Catholic priest, however, there is a silver lining: the Church took over the torch of civilisation, so to speak, and our faith shone over the western world… And that is where Bishop Rorick of Trier comes in.”
“Have you checked what he writes about the Desiderata stone?”
“Yes. Patience, my dear, I’m coming to that.”
Again, Daisy and Father Contini were sitting together at a table in the museum canteen, eating the ossobuco that was on the menu that day. Of Vanetta there was no trace, but Daisy was now wondering if he’d actually been invited.
“So, as I was saying, our faith shone over a devout populace, and one of the most striking expressions of that faith was the worship of the relics of the saints, and the pilgrimages to the places where these relics were displayed. I want you to picture a world where not much fun could be had, except for one thing: tourism! Because that is actually what we’re talking about. People were fascinated by miracles, by divine interventions and especially by the relics involved. People from all walks of life, of all social classes, were travelling—mostly by foot—all over the place to the shrines they’d heard of, or read about: Santiago de Compostela, Tours, Paris, Trier, even Jerusalem… and Rome of course. You could argue that tourism was the number-one international business of the 6th century. And Bishop Rorick was the author of one of the best known tourist guides of the day… So he walked all the way from Trier, in what is now Germany, over the Alps, to Rome, and he told his readers about the many miraculous relics he found there, in the many churches.”
“I’ve never visited Trier,” Daisy remarked, “but I happen to know that it’s the birthplace of Karl Marx.”
“Exactly! I went there once, and I visited the man’s childhood home. It only demonstrated to me that Karl Marx was a bourgeois through and through… Anyway, Rome, when Rorick visited it, was a place of ruin and faded glory. But it was also the seat of St Peter, just like now; the place where the pope reigned supreme; the centre of the Catholic world, already then. He clearly had a great time and visited many relics; he recommended the place very warmly to his readership.”
“Yes, yes, but what did he say about Desiderata?”
“Oh, yes, silly me, I pontificate, I can’t help myself. Once a lecturer, always a lecturer… Anyway, to start with the good news: we have the name of the church, or chapel, or shrine. But unfortunately Vanetta was right: it does not exist anymore. Of course there are nine hundred churches in Rome, but it is easy enough to check a name on a listing of those.”
“Nine hundred churches! But the one we’re looking for could have been renamed since the 6th century.”
“Valid point. However, that will not be so easy to figure out.”
“And what was the name of the church?”
“Here we’re in luck: it is an uncommon name. St Plautilla.”
“Really!? And I’m staying at the Congregation of the Sisters of St Plautilla!”
“I’m aware of it, but more about that later. The interesting thing is what this name can tell us. Or rather what the records of the saints can tell us. This is why my first question yesterday was: is Desiderata a saint? Because if she had been, it would have opened up a whole cornucopia of more or less reliable sources telling us her particulars. And although Desiderata is not a saint—I checked—, Plautilla is, and a very interesting one at that. Her hagiography tells us that she was a noble Roman matrona, and a widow. She is said to have witnessed the martyrdoms of St Peter and St Paul. When Paul the Apostle was about to be beheaded, she lent him her headscarf, to use as a blindfold. The story goes that St Paul appeared to her after his death to give her back the scarf.”
“That is St Paul for you! Always very thorough.”
“Quite right,” the priest chortled, “the story is completely in character! But anyway, St Plautilla was an early Christian of the very first generation, she is said to have been martyred in the year 67. Now, if the Desiderata stone, as a relic, is associated with St Plautilla, this could mean that our blind woman also lived in the first century, that she was a contemporary of the saint.”
“So we could move back in time from the sixth to the first century!”
“Exactly! That is certainly what it looks like. Very exciting! But to get back to the convent where you’re staying, I checked the records, and unfortunately it transpires that the Congregation of the Sisters of St Plautilla was founded in 1869 by a wealthy Contessa, who had every reason to identify herself with a noblewoman from ancient Rome. At least she knew her minor saints. But you must understand that on the scale of the Holy Church’s long history—the kind of timeframe we are dealing with here—1869 is only yesterday.”
“Of course, I understand. The sisters are not likely to know anything more about the case.”
“No. However, I took the liberty of making an appointment with your mother superior, to see if she can tell us anything interesting. I will take you and your deaf partner over to the convent at the end of the afternoon, at closing time; we will hear what she has to say.”
“Great. That leaves one question from yesterday unanswered: did you find any mention of Desiderata in the Corpus?”
“No, obviously not. If that had been the case, we would also know the location of the stone. But no such luck. The Corpus was started in Berlin in 1853, so we must assume that the stone has been missing at least since that date.”
“But Father, stones can’t just disappear! I mean, long after the Goths and the Vandals were done smashing things up around here, this inscription was still readable, when Rorick saw it in the 6th century. And even broken stones can be put together again, like pieces of a puzzle, as I have discovered yesterday and this morning in the museum collections.”
“Yes, yes, all that is true, but unfortunately, between the 6th century and 1853, any number of things could have happened, that we will never find out. But it doesn’t matter. The important thing is that Rorick confirms your finding, like Vanetta suggested. The exact words he uses about Desiderata are crystal clear. He chooses the verb ‘scabĕre’, to scratch, like when you are itching. The complete sentence goes: Caeca sancta lapidem sua manu scabit, ‘The blind saint—or faithful—scratched the stone with her own hand’. Not ‘sculpsit’, she carved, or ‘inscripsit’, like you’d expect. No: ‘scabit’, she scratched. This inscription must have looked a lot more like graffiti than like a properly carved tombstone. And note the words ‘sua manu’: by her own hand!”
“And what about the scholars Vanetta mentioned, who argued that Rorick wrote all this only because he wanted the stone to be a true relic?”
“Rubbish! It’s exactly as with St Augustine, who couldn’t imagine that it were the deaf themselves, not their carers or parents, who created sign languages. These scholars can’t for the life of them imagine a blind person scratching a message on a stone, so they conclude that Rorick must have made it up. I for one believe every word of this entry; only Desiderata’s sainthood is doubtful, but ‘sancta’ could just mean ‘believer’, or ‘faithful’.”
“All right, but how could Rorick know, really? That Desiderata was blind and all that?”
“The message on the stone must have told him! Remember Quinctius? He tells us that he was a freedman, and a comic writer, right? Well, in precisely the same way Desiderata must have told the world at large that she was blind. As Rorick calls it ‘the Desiderata stone’, we may assume that Desiderata is the first word of the inscription, just like N Quinctius on the stone we studied yesterday. Rorick does not bother to transcribe the message, because he is only interested in its healing powers as a relic. However, we can infer from his entry in the Compendium that not only was Desiderata blind, but that she also mentions another—deaf—person in her message to the world. That is all we know for sure from this source, but it is enough.”
“You said yesterday that the Compendium is an important source for disability studies. How’s that?”
“Well, like all the Christian authors of his era, Rorick was obsessed with miracles. And each time he describes a miraculous healing he claims to have witnessed personally, he unwittingly gives us interesting details about the daily life of the disabled in his time.”
“And did he witness many blind being healed?”
“Some, yes, but not in Rome. What fascinated him about the Desiderata stone, apparently, was that relics for healing the blind and deaf, specifically, were extremely rare. As for the healings of the blind he describes elsewhere in the book, I confess I don’t know what to make of them.”
“Well, it’s very honest of you to admit it. I suppose that when blindness is caused by a mental problem, by what Freud calls ‘hysteria’ for instance, then a miracle can happen. But let me show you something…”
Daisy paused. She was sitting right across the Italian priest at the small table, just like the day before. She now took off her dark glasses and leaned forward, letting her companion have a good look at the empty buttonholes of her shrivelled eyes.
“Ugh! That looks horrible!” the priest exclaimed, “does it hurt?”
“Sometimes.”
“You’re such a beautiful woman, my dear Daisy; the contrast couldn’t be more shocking!”
Daisy put her glasses back on her nose and smiled. The simple black discs mounted in wire frames were completely out of fashion, everyone had butterfly frames nowadays, but they had the advantage of spelling out ‘blindness’ loud and clear.
“Now you understand, my dear Contini, why I don’t believe in miracles. If I suddenly grew a pair of functioning eyeballs, after I was born like this, it would mean that God had changed his mind completely, and in my experience God never does that.”
“I see… but maybe the true miracle is that God gave you such a fighting and defiant spirit in the first place.”
“Yes, maybe. That kind of miracle I could accept with gratitude… and humility.”
“But to get back to the sheep we were tending: for now we have obtained exactly what I wished for yesterday. Written evidence from the past that tells us by implication about a blind individual in antiquity who could read and write. Your hypothesis is now confirmed in history! Isn’t that wonderful? I’m thinking of writing a little piece about this for a learned journal. I will mention your name as the finder, of course, it goes without saying.”
“Well, I’m not really interested in scholarly glory, but thanks all the same. And let’s not forget it was also Vanetta’s idea.”
In the meantime the canteen had emptied and gone quiet; lunchtime was clearly over. Daisy raised the lid of her tactile watch and checked the time. “Two-thirty already! The daily debriefing must almost be over, Cadogan will be furious!”
“Don’t worry, my dear, I’ll talk to him. I’ll tell him it’s entirely my fault, which is true. Just you go and enjoy the stones and the plaster casts.”
She did as she was told, going back to the busts of ancient Romans. Now she was interested in the ladies, the matronae with the elaborate hairdos. But then, about an hour later, she had to face the music anyway. A man entered the room and muttered, “Ah, there you are.”
“Father Cadogan?”
“You bet… Just one word… I wanted to tell you that you were sourly missed at our little debriefing today.”
“Yes, I know, Contini and I lost track of the time… did he talk to you?”
“Yes, and I told him that you two were not absolved for all that. These meetings are important, Daisy, it’s the only moment of the day when you people can communicate through Sister Liz. Morag was very disappointed.”
“I’m so sorry! But I’ll make it up to her. I’ll write her a long letter tonight and apologize, and tell her everything about the exciting discoveries we’ve made, Contini and I.”
“A letter? So you’re still cheating on us?”
“That’s right; I use the convent’s typewriter.”
“I suppose that’s pretty impressive in a way, but it’s not what I want to achieve, here.”
“Well, what do you expect: that we develop telepathic powers?”
“Oh, Daisy,” the priest tittered, suddenly mollified, “there’s so much more at stake.”
“I know that, Father, and believe me, in my case your project is working like a charm. I am now completely and sincerely convinced that being totally deaf like Morag is a real tragedy. My own blindness is only a minor inconvenience in comparison… But having said that, I don’t really know if Morag feels the same the other way round.”
“Never mind… you’re the one who needed to be taken down a few notches, Daisy.”
“Well thank you, kind sir.”
“And when I say there’s more at stake, I’m thinking of Morag. We need to bolster her self-confidence; she’s very shy and insecure; she’s been traumatized by her disability.”
“Really? To me she seems to be doing just fine.”
“Well, yes, thanks to you. I shouldn’t be scolding you, perhaps, but using this opportunity to praise you. You’ve been doing a great job, as I knew you would when Father Boudry told me about you. I don’t’ regret taking you on, believe me.”
“Only, I didn’t know what I was letting myself in for!”
“True, but if we knew everything in advance, we would never get out of bed in the morning.”
“Also true. But can you tell me more about Morag, though? How so is she traumatized?”
“Well, try to imagine a child born deaf, who has no idea what’s going on, and her own mother is so shocked and dispirited that she just gives up on her baby… Morag has had to come a long way… she needs a positive mother-figure to help her heal her wounds… she needs you.”
“I see… so that’s why you’re so angry that I’ve let her down today.”
“That’s right, but as I said, you’re doing great. I appreciate your dedication. Type a nice letter for her tonight!”
This conversation was still on Daisy’s mind when she met up with Morag at the back entrance of the museum a few hours later, at closing time. As soon as she felt her partner’s presence, she mouthed the word “sorry”, and the deaf girl stroked her arm in response. They hugged briefly: no hard feelings. Then Father Contini made his presence known.
“I have a car. Shall we drive over to your convent?”
And as soon as they were seated, all three of them cosily side by side on the back seat, the priest gave instructions in Italian to the driver. The brief exchange between “Claudio” and their host made it clear that this was not a taxi, but some kind of Vatican service car, and Claudio an employee Contini knew well. The drive, inevitably, was short and brutal, as the convent was not far away, and Italians did not seem capable of driving calmly.
Then they were received by the mother superior in person, who was waiting for them at the top of the stairs of the main entrance of “their” convent. Morag nibbled at Daisy’s earlobe, and Daisy smiled: they had never enjoyed such a reception before, not even on their first day. What was going on?
They only knew the mother superior as a stern old lady who was always frowning, as far as Morag could see, and always hectoring all the other nuns, as far as Daisy could hear. Now she cooed at them, all smiles, and she called her guest Excellenza… Aha.
They were led to an office where they’d never been before, Morag still tagging along, holding Daisy’s hand. And once they were seated, the conversation suddenly turned to French, as by some clever manoeuvre Contini had determined that French was the only language the three speakers present had in common.
The priest—or whatever he was—explained their business as briefly as possible. “We were wondering, my dear Sister, if you could tell us more about the link between your Congregation and St Plautilla.”
“Eh bien, votre Excellence, it is quite simple, really. The founder of our convent, Contessa Lavinia Barelli, was a great admirer of the saintly Roman widow. The Contessa was quite old when she finally inherited the wealth of her husband’s family and could use it to establish this convent. And she had fond memories of worshipping at a chapel dedicated to St Plautilla when she was a little girl. The name and the fond memories stayed with her all her life, and by the time she was free to build the convent, she chose this name for us, and made sure our chapel was dedicated to her favourite saint.”
“Fascinating! Could we take a peep around in that chapel of yours, dear Sister?”
“Of course, votre Excellence!”
All four of them repaired to the convent chapel, which Daisy and Morag had already visited, for prayers, in the first days of their stay. But they had somehow managed to winkle out of that obligation since then. The place was redolent of incense and burning candles, like Daisy remembered. Now the mother superior gave them a guided tour, proudly citing the name of the not-so-famous artist who had painted frescoes of St Plautilla’s life-story on the walls. “I’m sure you’re familiar with it, votre Excellence: here you see our saintly matron binding her veil over St Paul’s eyes before his beheading.”
“Yes, yes, and all this dates from around 1869?”
“From before that date, actually: everything was ready for the inauguration in 1869, but by that time, tragically, Contessa Barelli had already passed away.”
“You don’t say, la pauvre!”
Suddenly Morag came alive; she tapped on Daisy’s shoulder, removed her cane from her fingers and put it down somewhere, and took both her companion’s hands in hers. Then she used them like puppets to execute a little mime. She made Daisy write with her forefinger in the palm of her left hand, before making her right hand tap the lid of her handbag.
“Oh, right,” Daisy muttered, “you want me to take out my notebook!”
She wondered if Morag expected her to write something about what was going on, but as soon as she’d retrieved the notebook, Morag took it from her and started writing herself. Then she showed her message to Contini, who read it out aloud.
“This chapel is pure Baroque, but the rest of the convent is not. WHY?”
Daisy smiled and patted the deaf girl’s shoulder. “Excellent observation from our art history student. This could be interesting. Have you any idea, ma Mère?”
“Well, like I said, Contessa Barelli had this thing about a chapel she used to visit as a child. I suppose she asked the architect to design our convent chapel in the same style.”
“Interesting indeed!” Contini exclaimed, “because this could mean that around 1800, when the Contessa was a young girl, there still existed a chapel dedicated to St Plautilla somewhere in Rome, and it was a Baroque building. Have you any idea where it was situated?”
“Non, votre Excellence, je suis désolée.”
“But how do you even know as much as you do? 1869 is a long time ago.”
“The Contessa left us some papers. She wrote this autobiographical note—I can show it to you—to explain why our congregation should be dedicated to the Roman saint. That is all.”
“Very well, my dear Sister, let us have a look at those documents!”
They went back to the mother’s office. Daisy took Morag apart and mimed her intention of typing a letter to her, later. The mother superior retrieved a thin folder from a filing cabinet: “The Contessa’s papers…”
Contini rifled through them, read some pages here and there, and muttered, “I see… yes… the lady was very much into the Catholic revival following the nineteenth century revolutions. But no specific details about that childhood chapel… dommage!”
“Mother,” Daisy asked, “does the name ‘Desiderata’ ring a bell in any way?”
“No, child, I can’t say it does. And believe me, I’ve studied these papers very thoroughly, and there are not that many of them, but the Contessa never mentioned anyone named Desiderata.”
“And the ‘Desiderata stone’?”
“No.”
That night, after Contini had left, Daisy and Morag dined at the head of the table for the first time. The mother superior wanted to know what this visit from the Monsignor had been all about. So Daisy explained the whole story a bit more in detail: the blind woman from ancient Rome who was mentioned by Bishop Rorick of Trier, and her possible association with St Plautilla.
“I see! So it is this ‘Desiderata’ that really intrigues the man, not our patron saint as such?”
“I’m afraid so… but please tell me, Mother, is Father Contini an important man?”
“But of course, my dear child! You may not be aware of it because you’re blind, but the Father, as you call him, is officially an archbishop. He wears purple. And he happens to be an important Vatican prelate, a member of the Curia, the governing body of the Church. In France, or in your own country, you would call him a cabinet minister or a secretary of state. A real politician! He is one of the progressive new men, very close to the Holy Father, Paul VI.”
“Oh, and I thought he was only a modest scholar doing some research at the Vatican Museums, just like us.”
“Yes, but that is something he does as a hobby, on the side, especially now, in the summer, when his agenda may not be so full… I wish I could relax somewhat in the summer, but we nuns never take holidays from our vows, and the children’s hospital has hardly less work now than at any other time… Then of course Monsignor Contini also has a reputation for seeking the company of pretty women, on the side, the old goat, although a blind one is a first, to my knowledge.”
Later that night Daisy wrote a long letter on the typewriter, two full pages. From now on they had the blessing of the mother superior in person to use the machine. She’d said, “Oh, so you were making that racket! (ce boucan!) Did you really think you could use a typewriter at such hours, in a convent, and no one would notice?” Anyway, in her letter Daisy apologized again to Morag for her absence that afternoon, reported the findings of the day, and explained that she, Morag, had actually contributed a little piece of the puzzle herself with her remark