On Sunday morning the participants of the project had the opportunity to attend Holy Mass in St Peter’s basilica. Seats had been set apart for their group, right next to the central aisle, where Sister Liz could stand before them and sign for the deaf without disturbing any other worshippers. The blind would have to make do with Latin.
In theory the Pope himself could have been saying Mass, but they’d heard he was staying at Castel Gandolfo, his summer residence. It took some time for the celebrants to enter the church in procession while a choir was performing beautifully. But when at last the booming, crisp sound of the first words of the ritual came out of the fancy loudspeakers, Daisy was not too surprised to recognize the voice at once: “Contini!”
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti…”
This was even better than hearing the Pope; to get to know another side of her new friend, in his capacity as a priest. He sounded boldly grumpy, a bit blunt, exactly like on the day they had bumped into one another. Saying Mass at St Peter’s was not a joke. Maybe it was not the bishop’s favourite part of the job, either, poor thing. At least, Daisy reflected, she also knew a more friendly side of the man now, humorous and quite tender in a reserved way. Mother Superior had called him an old goat; well, a very sweet old goat then.
She soon lost the thread. After all, she was not a Catholic, although a Latin Mass was not that different from an Anglican service with its specific, outdated, liturgical language. You lost the thread because it was only too familiar. Growing up in England in the twenties and thirties you had to go to church an awful lot, whether you wanted or not; whether you liked it or not; it had been part of public life. And you always kept to your own religion of course. Then, when she went to school, there had suddenly been a hodgepodge of denominations thrown together, Catholics, Non-Conformists, Presbyterians, even Jewish girls. The Anne Sullivan catered to blind girls only, so they couldn’t afford to discriminate; there had been just enough blind girls in all of the United Kingdom and the British Empire to keep this one modest school going… And at school they’d learned to deal with other religions. The Catholic girls—a tiny minority—had told them they were not allowed to participate in the Holy Communion together with the Anglicans, because it was one of the seven sacraments, and was only valid if administered by a “real” priest. The Anglican girls had been scandalized by this highhandedness, but their teachers had told them they should learn to respect each religion’s “sensitivities”. The Catholic girls had insisted it was not just a matter of sensitivities, but that the salvation of their eternal souls was at stake. Oh, how they had debated!
The Holy Mass in St Peter’s was a solemn occasion, and Daisy was thrilled to be there. But it went on and on. Endless chants, prayers, readings, hymns; the congregation responding swiftly to the prompts in liturgical dialogues that were unknown to her. Sometimes you had to kneel down, then sit up again, and when Morag prodded her she did the same as her friend next to her. The Irish youngsters around her were good Catholics all, no doubt; it was Daisy who could no longer say the same about being an Anglican. Not that she’d ever consciously decided this should be so, or even given it any thought. Things had just petered out, precisely because they went on and on. If you didn’t pursue your faith actively, apparently, it all too easily slipped away… Until the end of the fifties she’d still accompanied her old neighbour to church from time to time, when she was in the mood. And Mrs Maurois had been so glad to have her by her side when they went together… but as a motivation this was not enough, it turned out, and since the sixties had started she’d stopped going altogether. “Still, at least I can’t say I’m a complete unbeliever either… I think.”
When she’d heard Contini’s voice on the loudspeakers, Daisy had assumed they would not go looking for the stone after all. “It must have slipped his mind that today would be Sunday.” But as soon as Mass was over, and the congregation started to file out, their group was accosted by Sister Tabitha, who reminded Daisy and Morag that Monsignor was expecting them in his office, and she offered to escort them there. Daisy told her and Sister Liz that Morag had decided not to come along, and that she would be off on her own now. “All right, dear,” Liz said, “have fun!”
And that is how—next item on the agenda—in due course she ended up in the bishop’s executive-sounding office again. “I have not forgotten our little plan,” Contini cried as soon as he arrived, sometime after his secretary and his guest, “and Vanetta has been true to his word: I have a list and a map with the most promising churches marked down on it. I prefer not to count them, but there are quite a lot.”
He then explained that Sunday, right after Mass, was actually the ideal moment to start the search. “That’s when the sacristies with a phone will be manned, ready to answer our queries.”
It was funny to witness how the bustling bishop seemed to have already forgotten the extensive and demanding rituals he’d just performed in the biggest and most important church in all of Christendom.
At first Contini himself made the calls, sitting at his desk. Sister Tabitha looked up the phone numbers in a directory of some sort, and Daisy sipped the coffee she’d been served. There was not much she could contribute as she couldn’t read the map, nor speak Italian. She listened intently at the conversations all the same, enjoying the language again: “La lapide de Desiderata…” But after a few calls the priest told the two women that it was no good. “No luck so far, and when they hear they have an archbishop on the line they clam up and want to put me through to their superior… Tabitha, you do the talking and I’ll keep the records.”
He pushed the phone over to his secretary and she started dialling the numbers he gave her and made the inquiries in a clipped and business-like manner. Daisy wondered if she was pretty, this Sister Maria Tabitha who sounded so youthful. She sighed wistfully. She would never know.
An hour or so later, Tabitha had canvassed almost fifty churches. Nobody had ever heard of St Plautilla as a church or chapel. Only fifteen of the people she’d interrogated had declared there were no old inscriptions, none whatsoever, on their premises. The rest did have some, but none of them had ever heard of the Desiderata stone.
“Which is no guarantee they don’t have it,” Contini commented, “they just don’t know. Still, we can eliminate definitely those fifteen who are sure they have nothing of interest for us. Now I’ve written down a dozen names and addresses of churches without a telephone. I propose we pay them a little visit in my car, my dear Daisy. That should keep us nicely busy for the rest of the day.”
“And how many churches are left to investigate after that?”
“I still haven’t counted, but we’re not even halfway through yet, not by far. Still, we’ve made a good start; we’ll carry on like this for a couple of days; what else can we do?”
“And how do you propose to go about it? What is your method?”
“Well, for the moment we’re concentrating on the city centre and the Vatican area: those parts of Rome that certainly existed in Rorick’s day.”
“All right, that makes sense.”
As they left the office, Contini instructed his secretary to carry on calling any churches that had a phone, “Please write down the results, if you don’t mind, my dear. When you’re done you can go back to your convent.”
“Very well, padrone, but I’ll be taking a day off later in the week, just so you know.”
Again they made use of a chauffeured car, but this time it was not Claudio at the wheel, but one Paolo. Daisy understood that the priest instructed him to drive calmly, as it was Sunday. At any rate the drive started smoothly, and they entered the first church on their list, quite close to the Vatican. Daisy followed her companion inside, holding closely on to his arm. Visiting a church was an utterly familiar experience, entering a space of echoing acoustics, of spacious sighs, muttered prayers, and scraping feet, with whiffs of old stones, polish and incense in the background. And immediately as they got hold of the sacristan, there was a lengthy exchange of respectful greetings—“Excellenza!”—and Daisy could feel her guide’s arm moving forward as he offered his ring to be kissed by his underling. Then a lengthy exchange of subdued mutterings, in Italian, about the business at hand. The man was awfully sorry that he could not be of more service to his excellency. They left as quickly as was decently feasible.
And so it went on for another hour. In the next couple of churches Contini did check on a few old inscriptions that were still on hand from a distant past, but none of them had anything to do with Plautilla or Desiderata. Then it was time for lunch, he pronounced. They drove straight to a restaurant he only needed to name to his chauffeur—Il Livorno—and as they alighted he instructed Paolo to pick them up again in a couple of hours. If you knew a bit of Latin and French like Daisy did, it was amazing how much Italian you could second-guess. After entering the establishment the bishop went straight to the phone and called up his office for the latest news. Still no results from Tabitha’s side, and she was about to call it a day.
Anyway. A moment later they were sitting in a charming backcourt under a vine-covered pergola, the almost inaudible whisper of the leaves in the almost imperceptible breeze suggesting the words “dappled shade” to Daisy’s mind. Contini read out and explained some dishes he could recommend from the menu card, and the waiter took their orders.
“They seem to know you well in this place, sir, no Excellenza and kissing of rings here.”
“That’s right, the proprietor has become a real friend; he’s a closet communist and a professed atheist… so refreshing.”
“I can imagine! It must be tiresome to be treated with such deference all the time. Speaking of which, why don’t you drop the purple sash and skullcap on occasion? You could pretend you’re just a ‘normal’ priest.”
“Oh no! I’m not allowed to do that. Once ordained, always ordained.”
“I see: it’s one of the seven sacraments!”
“Exactly. Holy Orders, just like Holy Matrimony, once established, cannot be undone on this earth. Having said that, when we bumped into each other last week, I also found it quite refreshing that you couldn’t see my ‘rank’, although you knew from the start that I am a priest.”
“Yes, funny, that: on the second day of the ‘project’ Father Cadogan introduced you as ‘our scholarly priest, Father Contini’. Then, when we bumped into each other, I could feel the buttons on your cassock.”
“And when did you guess that I might be a little more than an ordinary priest?”
“Also funny: Vanetta calling you ‘Monsignor’ should have given away the game, but I thought he was only joking, because he is always so familiar with you. But when you drove us to the convent in a chauffeured car, and the mother superior called you Excellenza, I understood. I interrogated her as soon as you’d left, and she told me all about you. That you’re a member of the Curia, and close to the Pope.”
“And yet your attitude didn’t change; I’m still simply ‘Contini’ to you.”
“Maybe that’s because I’m not a Catholic.”
“I thought as much. Are you even a believer?”
“During Mass this morning I was wondering about that. If you don’t pursue your faith actively, it slips away; I confess that I’ve let it lapse, rather. But I did conclude that I am not a complete unbeliever.”
“Like so many people in our modern world… what a pity!”
“Mother Superior also told me you’re a ladies’ man, that you have a taste for pretty women.”
“Ah, nasty gossip, who could resist it? But I plead guilty as charged… and why not? I like the wonderful creatures God gave us together with the ability to enjoy their company. As long as I keep my vows, there’s no harm done.”
“Indeed. If you didn’t keep them, I would be the first one to punch your nose.”
As it was Sunday, there was no debriefing on the agenda. When Paolo picked them up after lunch, Daisy and Contini went on with their quest, running through the different locations on Vanetta’s map. They still had no luck, but they both enjoyed themselves very much, visiting all those churches like a pair of inscriptions-obsessed tourists.
For dinner the ‘project’ had an appointment at one of the convents that hosted the participants. Daisy was dropped off by the chauffeured car, in grand style, and escorted by a nun into the fragrant gardens of the convent, past a gurgling fountain to the place where the whole group was lounging in rattan armchairs, having drinks in the mellow shade. She had to tell about her adventures, a kind of debriefing after all. Father Cadogan remarked, “The Desiderata stone, eh? My dear Daisy, this could be the title of a very exciting novel!”
Finally they went inside, where a table had been set apart for them in the refectory. As the group was settling in, Daisy knew that the deaf youngsters would cluster as far away as they could from Liz and Cadogan, delighted to be able to chat among themselves in sign language. The blind kids would do the same right next to them; and that for her the best thing to do was to orbit towards the “adults”. The priest noticed the manoeuvre and was kind enough to facilitate it. “Daisy dear, why don’t you join Liz and me?”
And that is what she did. This was an ideal opportunity to question her hosts about the background of the ‘project’, something she’d been wanting to do for some time.
“Yes, yes, I can imagine that by now you must be intrigued by all this,” Father Cadogan said amiably, “and believe me my dear, there are no secrets here.”
While they were being served by the nuns, and the younger participants tucked in without paying any attention to them, the Irish priest told his story. It had all started with a couple of colleagues and himself, who’d noticed how deaf kids were taken to Mass by their parents, and made to attend holy rituals they could not understand.
“Does it make sense at all to celebrate Mass for people who can’t hear it?”
“Obviously not.”
“Well, for some in the Catholic hierarchy the answer is not that obvious, alas. You may have heard about the debate going on about the Latin Mass, Daisy, even in that Anglican Britain of yours. It is one of the subjects being discussed right here at the Second Vatican Council these days. It looks more and more likely that we will soon be celebrating Mass in the vernacular tongues of the faithful, instead of Latin, the idea being that people should be allowed to understand what they are celebrating.”
In Dublin a small band of crazy parish priests had decided that the deaf too should be able to follow Mass, and they set out to learn ISL and celebrate in hand signs for the deaf. They had gone looking for sign language interpreters like Sister Maria Elizabeth, who could teach them. Most of these teachers worked at specialized institutions for the education of the deaf. “But little did we know that we would be opening a Pandora’s box of pent-up sufferings and frustrations!”
The Dublin priests were unwittingly catapulted in the middle of a protracted trench-war between specialized educators, a war being waged over the heads of the deaf pupils.
“You know, some of the people who decide about these things have a disturbing tendency to think that deafness is just a slight impairment, easily resolved. The only thing their charges need to do is to learn to read and write in English, lip-read and speak, and become normal members of the community. And we should all be grateful to them for making this possible. Well, thank you very much!”
During the Mass celebrations for the deaf, the priests had discovered the vital importance of sign language, the true mother-tongue of their target audience, the only medium that allowed them to be themselves. The ISL teachers and interpreters had told the priests how sign language was being repressed in the official schools for the deaf. It was time to find a fresh angle to illuminate this problem, and that is when he, Cadogan, had come up with his ‘project’. As a priest he was also confronted with the problems of the blind; why not bring them together to gain new insights on the issue? So the idea for the scheme was born. This was the third year that he and Liz had organized a summer outing to the Vatican Museums for their charges, and it had never yielded better results.
“When we go back to Dublin next week, I’ll be writing reports and publishing articles in the Catholic press about what we’ve discussed here, on the ‘project’. I’ll be trying to convince people that they need to take the deaf more seriously. So I’ll be telling the public about this very smart and wise blind woman—totally blind since birth—who spontaneously came to the conclusion that her impairment was a mere inconvenience compared to what her deaf fellow-participants were suffering. And I’ll be telling about these deaf girls who at some stage complained that they had to use English all the time, and asked to be left alone, so they could just relax and use sign language instead. And other stories like that. So now you understand why what we’re doing here is so important for us.”
“I see, yes… You know, you remind me of Mister Gantz, one of the teachers at my school for blind girls.”
“And what was his angle? I’d be really interested to know.”
“Well, he taught us to focus, to form a clear picture of our surroundings in our minds, and to keep track of our position on a mental map. That way we were taught to be less dependent on others.”
“Sounds good! Was he a Catholic?”
“I don’t know; he was from Latvia, I think.”
“Ah. A Baltic German. Lutheran.”
“So doomed to the eternal fire?”
“I’m afraid so, yes.”
“Now you’re being silly!”
“I know. Sorry.”
“What a polite religious fanatic you are!”
“Yes. They can put that on my grave.”
The next morning, when Daisy arrived at Contini’s office, she was quite excited. She’d had an idea. In fact she’d had a strange dream that night. She explained to her friend and his secretary that the blind often have these nightmares, where the whole world seems to be slowly closing in on them. “Very disturbing of course, but last night, for once, the same kind of dream gave me a sense of pleasure, of discovery… I don’t know; it was a relief that the world around me had come within my grasp, easier to touch. Anyway, when I woke up, I understood why I had felt so elated. It suddenly hit me that the Contessa who founded our convent still holds the key. It may not seem logical, but there you are.”
Daisy explained that there was one piece of information they needed urgently if they wanted to find St Plautilla’s chapel: where had young Lavinia spent her childhood? Where had she lived before she married and became Contessa Barelli? Because if she had such fond memories of the chapel, it is likely that it stood in her neighbourhood, that her mother could easily take her there on a regular basis.
“Of course my dear Daisy!” Contini cried, “why didn’t we think of this before? It could narrow down our search quite nicely.”
“So this morning at breakfast, I had to pester our mother superior again, but it was no good: she has no idea where the Contessa lived, not as an old lady nor as a child; she doesn’t even know her maiden name. It is not mentioned in the Contessa’s papers!”
“All right, but it should be easy enough to find that out from the public records, or in fact the church records. She must have been married by a priest, so the marriage records entered then will give us her maiden name. Knowing that, we will be able to find her birth certificate, or at least the church record of her baptism… That’s the first thing we’re going to investigate right now!”
Once again Contini manned the phone and spoke in rapid-fire Italian, while Tabitha brought in their first coffee. This time the bishop didn’t mind the obsequiousness of his underlings. On the contrary, he seemed to relish giving orders to people working for the local diocese, who had access to the parish records of Rome and immediately looked up the references he required. From time to time he had to wait while they did what he’d asked, then, when they came back on the line he would scribble the results on a pad. Tabitha had retired to her own office next door. Finally Contini announced proudly, “This was not so easy, but fortunately I know a man at the ministry of the Interior, an old classmate from school, who likes to stay at his post in August because it gives him the feeling he is running the whole country on his own.”
“Just like a certain archbishop who seems to have the run of the Vatican right now.”
“Oh no, that is not the same thing at all: no one can take over from the Pope! But anyway, my old friend tapped his contacts at the public records so my information could be cross-checked. The Contessa was born Lavinia Rossi in 1789 in the San Lorenzo district, and she was a butcher’s daughter. She must have been very pretty and charming, and her father must have made a fortune selling meat, because by the age of sixteen, when she married a young nobleman who was ten years her senior, the Rossi family lived at a fancy address in the city centre. The address of her childhood home, however, still exists and is situated in what was then, and still is now, a very ordinary neighbourhood. It is known as the San Lorenzo-Tiburtina neighbourhood. It is right behind the Termini station.”
“And how many churches has Vanetta marked on his map in that area?”
“Erm… let’s see… only four of them.”
“So we can visit those in your car and be back in time for Cadogan’s debriefing.”