L'Oro Verde (2 page)

Bernardo thought his heart had stopped.
Screwing up his eyes, he examined the pair of shoes not a foot away. The rough fabric
of the robe draped gracefully over the highly-polished shoe tops, and when the
toes turned toward him, Bernardo watched the folds sweep eerily to readjust
themselves.

Relieved, the boy slithered backward out
of his hiding place. “Father, please forgive me. I have no place to go,” he whispered
as he struggled to his feet.

Unable to distinguish the face in the
hood’s shadow, Bernardo leaned forward for only a second before the blow came.
A heavy object split his skull in the middle, giving him less than an instant
to identify his assailant. But Bernardo was slow and would probably never have
really recognized the face anyway.

*

Fine lines of tiny bones and a web of
arteries popping out of the wrists, a pair of hands maneuvered the bludgeon to
the side, and within seconds, yielded a blow to the ear. Bernardo must have
never felt the second hit.

If the boy had recognized his brutal
attacker, his eyes did not reveal it. They rolled upward, creating the face of
a martyr, beseeching the heavens to let him enter. The slight smile on his lips
suggested his mind was filled with other images. The second strike sent him
into the marble rendering of St. Francis, where Bernardo finally crumpled,
prostrate at the feet of the patron saint against dying alone.

The figure brushed the hood back and
slid out of the robe. There was work to do. Bernardo’s violent end had left a
pool of blood on the floor and spatters on the walls. A long red stripe adorned
the white folds in St Francis’ vestment. The body of Bernardo was hurriedly crammed
back into its hiding place, the blood methodically mopped up with the hooded
robe.

Had Bernardo been watching through his
peephole, he would have observed the figure, dragging a long object and robe,
pause again to face the altar, and an arm pass first up, down, and then from
shoulder to shoulder. As the shadow paused in front of the candles, a stream of
smoke would curl upward. Bernardo would have heard the coins drop noisily through
the slot and seen the figure kneel for a moment to pray. But he could witness
none of this—at least in the way that one on this earth knows or senses things.
Nor could he listen to the person follow the indirect passage through the sacristy
or hear the outside door finally close as the shadow merged with the darkness
that shrouded the tiny hill village of Montriano.

The mature figure of Sister Angela
waddled up the steep slope of Via Pianello. She was agitated, heedlessly
trundling over the street’s uneven stones, too preoccupied to consider a possible
trip or fall. She would be there soon enough. Then she would know what she
already suspected.

Fortunately, she did not have to wear
the old-style habit. Since Vatican II, the uniform had become much lighter and shorter.
She no longer had to clutch her skirt as she tackled the steep thoroughfares.
The blouse and knee-length skirt were still black, making her swelter under the
intense sun, but the veil was short. Its wispy cloth flapped in the breezes and
cooled her neck. The shoes, however, had not evolved. On hot days especially,
her swollen feet complained bitterly. She carried a pair of white sneakers,
just in case they refused to take another step. She still had to wear her black
shoes around the convent and school, however. The sneakers were not a part of
her uniform, after all.

Sister Angela had been called early that
morning—before seven, just as she strolled toward the chapel to attend the
morning service. It was lucky she carried her red cell phone with her. In just
minutes she would have turned it to vibrate for the service, but the telltale
rendition of
Ave Maria
echoed through the pillared corridor and spilled
into the courtyard. The other nuns paused to listen, but when they realized it
was Sister Angela’s phone, they progressed toward the chapel doors. Sister
Angela quickly pulled the wireless from her pocket and pressed it to her ear.
It was Inspector DiMarco. Something was terribly wrong.

*

The phone was a gift from the Montriano
Police Department in gratitude for services Sister Angela rendered in previous
cases. On one occasion after she recognized the suspect on the news, she helped
them nab a bank robber from Petraggio. Though he lived in another city at the
bottom of the hill, the thief had actually worked one summer as a waiter in the
Montriano café where she regularly stopped for a shot of coffee. It was not the
best coffee, requiring at least two servings of cream to make the taste
bearable, but she enjoyed sitting outside. Since Montriano was closer to a
village than a full-fledged town, there was only one outdoor café. On another
occasion, Sister Angela discovered a stash of drugs buried in one of the towers.
She carried all five bags to the police station herself after taking pictures
of them with her little Brownie camera. She feared leaving them where a young person
playing in the area might haul them away.

Realizing Sister Angela had a special
gift, Inspector Alessandro DiMarco wanted to make her an official detective, but
his captain found the idea ridiculous.

“She’s a wonderful resource for the department,”
DiMarco said.

“She’s trained to be a nun, not a
detective,” the chief said. “Don’t forget you had to work your way up, DiMarco.
If she wanted to be a policeman, why did she prepare to serve God?” He had said
it just like that, like going into the Church was the exact opposite of what
they did.

“I don’t believe it was necessary for me
to start at the bottom either, Sir. Some of us have a mind for the job, and I believe
Sister Angela has one too.”

“She can’t be both. What if she’s forced
to kill a man in order to protect her partner? Would she commit murder? I think
not.”

But DiMarco still felt she would make a
great resource and offered her the phone.

When she first saw it, Mother Margherita
was not pleased either. “Sister Angela, you don’t need a phone for your
vocation,” she told her. “You are getting far too familiar with the ways
outside our school. I find it unseemly.”

“It’s important to the community that
the police get to me quickly,” Sister Angela said. “I have volunteered to help them
with their investigations. I would worry incessantly if I let murderers and
thieves run rampant in Montriano.”

While her mother superior sat back and
thought about it, Sister Angela continued, “It is, after all, a God-given
talent that shouldn’t be ignored. Isn’t that in the Bible? Matthew states, ‘So
take the talent from him, and give to him who has the ten talents. For to
everyone who has will more be given.’ I strongly believe I must use my talents
wisely, Mother.”

“I suppose you can keep the phone while
I pray for an answer, but I won’t tolerate that thing going off in the middle of
services or during your class time.”

“Oh no, Mother. Look here, it has a
vibrate button. I’ll feel it and—”

“And wriggle out of the pew in the
middle of prayers so you can answer the important call?”

“I promise I won’t even look at it.”

“You’ll turn it off, Sister. And as for
your responsibilities here—”

“Yes, Mother. I promise I’ll talk to you
before I leave my students without a teacher.”

*

On an uneventful afternoon, Sister
Angela’s walks would have taken her to Porto San Donato. From there, she could
look out over the vineyards and olive orchards. A mist would emerge from
between the neat rows, like rainbows dancing and shimmering in the morning sun.
Soon, the carpet of green grass under the meandering succession of vines and branches
would turn to gold, and the summer winds would make the tall blades crawl like
caterpillars. On hot days, Sister Angela would often stop in the shade of the
ancient canopied laundry to dip her handkerchief in the water that trickled
into the stone tub, letting the breezes from the sea just over the next ridge
cool her damp neck. She would inhale the aroma of the withering meadow—musty?
No, sweeter than that—pungent, like a dying rose. And soon the smell of
agitation would permeate the salty breezes—the odor of fermenting grapes and
pressed olives. She loved it here in the heart of the olive orchards. It was
her home.

Olives were most likely first cultivated
in the “fertile crescent” of the eastern part of the Mediterranean in the fifth
century B.C. In Crete, Syria, Palestine, and Israel, interest in the fruit
grew. It was most heavily cultivated in Greece where it appeared in mythology
as both a food and a cosmetic. The trees were so sacred it was a capital
offense to cut one down. Known for its powers to bestow youth and vigor, the
olive’s oil was rubbed on athletes’ bodies and dropped through holes in the
tombs of saints and martyrs. Olive branches were even waved by followers of
Jesus as a symbol of welcome. Since the Second World War, the value of olive
oil increased steadily, making the industry in the Tuscan hills even stronger
and more competitive.

Sister Angela was raised on a farm just
down the hill. When their business did not prosper, her parents sold it to
conglomerates, buying up land for olive orchards. The family moved to
Petraggio, but she was already a novice then and did not go with them. She
prized summer evenings. In the town graveyard that balanced precariously on the
side of Montriano’s hill, she would sit atop a headstone and watch the skyline
as the sun cast its last red embers on the fields’ non-descript shades of brown.
Now, she visited the cemetery often, placing flowers on the graves of her
parents whom she had brought home for burial. She often felt their
presence—especially when she to marveled at the beautiful sunsets.

Sister Angela had another vocation. She
taught history at the Scuola Media di Santa Donata, a school for teenage boys
and girls. Mother Margherita, the headmistress, often reminded her she had to
fulfill her important teaching duties before joining the inspector on his
exploits. But Sister Angela had a gift. Ever since childhood, the nun was good
at solving mysteries. She could put clues together and see possibilities. They
were sometimes remote—“far flung” was how the police captain described them.
But she always managed to find the answers and explain the inexplicable. Sister
Angela called her gift “an instrument for divine intervention.” Inspector DiMarco
said it was a “nose for official inquiry.” Either way, it worked.

Montriano, a medieval town, was the
ideal place to teach medieval history. Sister Angela’s students could stand in
the middle of their own town, touch it, and imagine what it was like to live
centuries ago. They could look across one tower to the other and pretend the
opposite tower belonged to their rivals. They could imagine hurling stones at
their rival’s windows.

If she had a fault, and Sister Angela
admitted to many, it was a lack of respect for authority. Her superiors in the church
regarded this a considerable weakness, in view of her position in the Church.
In her quests to solve a crime, she often forgot that a subtle approach might
appease those with influence in both the diocese and the police department.

“I should think, Captain, you might be
more effective if you got out there and talked to witnesses yourself,” she once
told the police chief when he questioned the veracity of a bank employee’s
statement after a robbery.

“And we would be more effective here at
the station if you would remain in your classroom. We aren’t children, Sister
Angela. We are professionals.”

If she thought of the rules of conduct,
she would try hard to follow them. But most of the time when she was in the
middle of a case, procedure eluded her. Her strong curiosity seemed to hinder
her ability to control her tongue, which Father Sergio, assistant to the
bishop, described as “razor sharp.”

When her cell phone rang, and she
listened to the details of an ugly and clearly sinful deed, she felt a tingle
of excitement. Her brain went into high gear. She got wrapped up in the mystery
and forgot her other duties. When she got results, at least her faux pas were
forgotten.

This morning she felt the same reaction.
She answered the phone and listened intently to the inspector’s instructions. She
must go to San Benedetto Church right away. Young Father Domenic had found a
body behind the vault of Cardinal Bartoli and had administered last rites,
though perhaps too late. The inspector wanted her to see the crime scene before
the body was transported to Petraggio for examination.

*

Sister Angela roused from her thoughts.
She had to hurry. It was critical to view the body, but she had to talk to
Mother Margherita before she could leave her class. She already knew the
headmistress would refuse if Sister Angela’s class was left unsupervised. It
might be smarter to first ask Sister Daniela to take over the class. If she
did, Mother Margherita could not use that argument against her.

In the cafeteria, she found Sister
Daniela at a table in the corner. “Good morning,” Sister Angela said. “I have a
big favor to ask. I hope you haven’t promised to fill in for someone else
today.”

“No,” said the novice, perking up.

“I need help in the classroom. Do you
think I can tell Mother Margherita I have a replacement?” she asked, adding, “The
lesson plan is already in the book.”

“If it will help your cause, but I’m
disappointed you aren’t asking me to help with the investigation. Is there an investigation?
Is that why you can’t teach this morning?”

“I promise you’ll be the first to know
after Mother Margherita,” the older nun said, turning to rush over to the
school office.

*

The nun’s first hurdle would be the headmistress’
secretary who sat like a sentry outside the office door. Sister Marcella had
been protecting the headmistress for ages. She fussed around her mother superior
like a bird building a nest.

“I must see Mother quickly,” Sister
Angela said, trying to catch her breath.

The secretary put her pencil down
slowly. “I’m afraid Mother is busy right now. You may take a seat, Sister
Angela,” she said, appearing to enjoy her task far too much. “I’ll tell her you
are here when she becomes free.”

“I must teach my first class in half an
hour,” Sister Angela said as she wriggled into a chair designed for a fourteen year
old. “If I can’t see her before that, we’ll all be in trouble.”

“Ah there,” Sister Marcella said not ten
minutes later. “She’s off the phone now.”

The secretary stood up and opened the
door for the teacher. Sister Angela quickly explained her problem as she approached
the mother superior’s desk.

“Sister, I think you had better turn
them down this time and get to your classroom. Your students should be arriving
soon. We don’t want them to be in the classroom by themselves.”

“I can go and return in time for my
second class, Reverend Mother. If I leave now, I’ll make it back with plenty of
time to spare,” Sister Angela said, urgency in her voice. “And besides, Sister
Daniela is in the classroom right now. I gave her my lesson plans, and she’s
looking forward to the teaching experience.”

“I suppose you can go if you’re back for
your next class, Sister,” Mother Margherita conceded. “But I don’t want to hear
there were problems and that you didn’t show up.”

“And no calling the novice to fill in
for your other class,” Sister Marcella added from the open doorway.

Sister Angela had her arguments in
place. Had the mother superior not conceded so readily, she would have presented
them. She had certainly done it before. Mother Margherita always resisted at first.
It was her nature. The school was important. The headmistress had to answer for
her charges to the strictly conservative Father Sergio, and Sister Angela was
sometimes summoned to meetings over which he presided. He had a long narrow
face that was only slightly wider than his nose, making his eyes very close together.
His glare, piercing Sister Angela on the bridge of her glasses, always seemed
judgmental. The nun remembered one meeting in which he complained bitterly
about her investigations.