The Tower (8 page)

I have dedicated my life to deciphering ‘The Book of Amon’, only to discover a temptation within it which I have not been capable of resisting! A temptation that, were it known to man, would overwhelm the resistance of most human beings on this earth.

It has taken a relentless disease to save me from damnation. Or so I hope, at least, in these last days that remain of my life. I am resigned to the illness that is destroying my body. I accept it as a sign from the Almighty and hope that it may serve for the remission of my sins and atone for at least a small part of the punishment I deserve. The only other person who knows the secret of reading this text has disappeared into the desert and will never return.

As for me, I shall take the secret which I was driven to learn with such arrogance into the tomb. I implore Your Holiness to absolve my sins and to intercede on my behalf with the Most High, before whose presence I shall soon appear.

Father Hogan was awakened not long after that, in the middle of the night, by a soft but insistent knocking at the door of his room. He felt his way to the light and put on the robe lying on a chair. When he opened the door he found Father Boni standing there. He was wearing a dark overcoat and a homburg hat.

‘I think I know where the translation of “The Book of Amon” is hidden. Hurry and get dressed.’

P
HILIP
G
ARRETT FOUND
a room at the Ausonia hotel, not far from the Franciscan monastery. The next morning, he introduced himself as a specialist in art history and asked to visit the monastery. He was received by a quite elderly and very loquacious friar who apparently had not had much occasion to entertain guests. He showed Philip his own studies regarding the monastery, which had risen on the foundations of an ancient Benedictine cenoby built, in turn, over the remains of an ancient Roman domus. This extraordinary stratification of events and cultures found only in Italy never ceased to amaze Philip, who did his best to gratify his host, complimenting him on the insight and diligence of his studies.

The visit then began. They saw the church with its frescoes and paintings by Pontormo and Baciccia in the side chapels, they visited the small
antiquarium
with its early Christian tombstones and fragments of Roman floor mosaics and then, finally, the crypt. It was situated at a depth of five or six metres below ground level and it contained the remains of all the monks who had lived and died between those walls over the previous four centuries. It was quite a disturbing sight, and as his host chattered on at length about the history of the monastery and its occupants, Philip couldn’t help but stare at those stacks of time-yellowed skulls and shin bones, those empty eye sockets, those grotesque, dusty smiles.

‘What’s the purpose of all this, Father? To remind ourselves that all men must die?’ he asked suddenly.

The friar’s tongue stopped suddenly, as if someone had shattered the entire scholarly exposition that he had so painstakingly constructed under those ancient vaults.

‘A monk lives for the hereafter,’ he replied. ‘You who live in the outside world cannot understand, because too many things distract you, but we monks know very well that life is but an instant, and that what awaits us will guide us to the eternal light. I realize,’ he continued, inclining his head towards the skull-cluttered shelves, ‘that all of this appears grotesque, macabre even, but only for one who refuses to consider the truth. Even a fruit, when it has lost its fresh juicy pulp, is reduced to a stone, to a dry, hard stone, but we know that it is from that stone that new life is born.’

‘Inside the stone is a seed,’ agreed Philip, ‘but here,’ he added then, taking a skull from the pile and turning it upside down to reveal the internal cavity, ‘here I see nothing . . . no trace of the veins and nerves that once throbbed under this dried-up face and conveyed the thoughts and emotions, the knowledge and the hopes of a human being . . . The truth is, Father, that we are enveloped by mystery, and we’ve not been given a light to explore it, apart from this mind of ours. A mind perpetually aware of the relentless passage of time and terrified by it.’

‘We believe that we have been given a light,’ replied the friar. ‘ “Light from light, true God from true God”. We firmly believe that God entered history to speak with us. Once and for always.’

‘I know that’s what a true believer will tell you. But you tell me, my friend, how you can see the hand of God in this world of ours, in this obsessive, monotonous alternation of births and deaths. In this throng of bodies in heat who, in seeking a few moments of pleasure, perpetuate the curse of pain, of illness and old age, the raging of war, hunger and epidemics . . . You monks, you who refuse to couple with females, aren’t you saying that the way to reach perfection in life is to refuse to perpetuate it, to rebel against the mechanism that drives us to reproduce ourselves before we die?

‘Do you know what the world is, Father, for those of us who have not renounced it, as you have? A desolate land beaten by the hooves of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse . . . Our world is pain, above all, and we who live in it are completely responsible for that.’

‘We are no different from other men,’ replied the friar, ‘as strange as that may seem to you. If you could share our experience, you would realize the truth of my words. You could say that we have gambled our entire existence on a single number in the roulette of life. We have accepted the word of the Son of Man. Although, as you remember, He himself trembled and cried and shouted, sweating blood, at the thought of losing His life.’ The friar lowered his bald head and his beard touched the worn cowl. ‘But this is not the reason you’ve come, and nor have you come to see the art treasures this monastery holds. I feel as though I’ve met you before. A long, long time ago.’

Philip started. ‘Why? Why do you say that?’

‘I have the feeling that I’ve seen you before . . . but if it had been you, you’d be much older by now.’

Philip could not hide his agitation. ‘Perhaps you saw my father, Desmond Garrett, ten years ago. Could that be?’

The friar’s face lit up. ‘Yes, of course! But his eyes were black, weren’t they?’

Philip nodded. ‘What was my father looking for? I must know. He disappeared in the Sahara desert ten years ago, shortly after he left here. I’m trying to find him, but my search is going nowhere.’

The friar pondered his words for a while before answering. ‘The first time he came to the monastery was much longer than ten years ago. I think it was chance that brought him here, if I remember well. Just as he was about to leave for Africa. Back then, you see, there were rumours that the usual tomb robbers had found a certain something here, in the area. Your father did everything he could to find out more about the discovery; I don’t know why. He went down time and time again, underground. There are countless galleries under the city, dug into the tuff that was deposited by the eruptions of Vesuvius in ancient times. There were some things he told me, but others, I’m sure, that he kept to himself. He ended up here at the monastery and convinced me to help him. I suggested a route that he could follow. He stayed for a while. Then, one day, he had to leave quite suddenly. His wife – that is, your mother – had been taken ill . . . or perhaps her already precarious condition had taken a turn for the worse.’

Philip lowered his head in silence and in his mind’s eye saw his mother lying among hundreds of white flowers, his father kneeling next to her with his face hidden in his hands.

‘Years went by before we heard from him again,’ continued the friar. ‘But he did come back and he stayed with us for a brief time. That was about ten years ago. I don’t know if he ever found what he was looking for.’

‘Thank you, Father,’ Philip said, ‘for your kindness. I regret what I said before. In reality, I admire your faith. Actually, I envy it, in a certain sense. Let me ask you this: in looking for my father, I’ve found a . . . a clue, I suppose you could say, a phrase that he wrote, which seems to be devoid of meaning, but perhaps it might mean something to you. This place just brought it to mind.’

‘Speak freely, son,’ said the friar.

‘The phrase is: “The sound is beyond the gate of the dead.” Does that mean anything to you? Could there be a door beyond all these shelves full of bones?’

The friar smiled, nodding. ‘Do you know the legend of the earthquake bells?’

‘No. I’ve never heard of it.’

‘Well, it seems that every time an earthquake is about to take place, a bell can be heard ringing in the underground passages of this monastery. A soft, silvery sound of just a few notes. They say that the sound has always protected these walls, which, in truth, have never given way. But that may be because they stand on the formidable structure of a Roman villa.’

‘Have you ever heard the sound?’

‘No. But your father told me that he had heard it. There was a tremor here in the area just when he was visiting. But it might have been the power of suggestion. Your father was a very emotional man, was he not?’

Philip did not answer. ‘Please, could you tell me exactly what my father said about the sound he had heard?’

‘I don’t remember well, I’m afraid. What I do remember is that he was dead set on finding out where it came from.’

‘Before . . . you said you suggested a route my father could follow . . .’

‘Come with me,’ said the friar, walking towards the end of the crypt. ‘You surely don’t believe that a monastery as ancient as ours has no secret passageways?’

‘I’d be surprised if there weren’t any,’ admitted Philip.

‘To tell you the truth, it’s no great secret. Look. Behind here,’ he said, pointing at a shelf full of bones that covered most of the wall, ‘is the passage to the lower levels, a true labyrinth of tunnels. Mostly catacombs; their location corresponds to what may have been the south-eastern quarter of ancient Pompeii. You know how little of the old city has been explored.’

The friar stretched out his hand and unhooked a bracket that held up a shelf, which rotated on a hinge fixed to the floor. He swung it out, revealing the little iron door behind it, which was bolted shut.

‘As you can see,’ continued the friar, ‘no mysterious mechanisms. An unsophisticated secret, worthy of the poor friars of St Francis.’

‘ “The sound is beyond the gate of the dead . . .” Fantastic! Can I get official permission to go down?’ asked Philip with a certain apprehension, indicating the door.

The friar shook his bald head. ‘No. Your father wasn’t able to either. My superiors don’t want anyone venturing down there. Not because there’s anything particularly exciting apart from our mysterious bell, but someone could easily get hurt down below and we don’t want trouble if anything should happen. As far as I’m concerned, you can start as soon as you like, but you’ll need an acetylene lamp, a miner’s hat and a haversack for your gear. Keep me informed, if you will. Your father always did. Somewhere I think I still have the map he drew up, with a partial layout of the tunnels, at the end of his first week of exploration. I’ll find it for you. Officially, you’ll have permission to study the structure of the Roman
domus.
Mind you, be careful and don’t do anything foolish: it really is dangerous down there.’

‘I won’t,’ promised Philip. ‘Thank you, Father.’

‘Fine. You’ll find,’ he said, sweeping a hand towards the stacked bones, ‘that after a while these brothers of mine will seem less disturbing. You’ll feel their spirits hovering under these vaults. Do you know what I think? I think that the ancient Egyptians were on to something when they said that the ka remained close to the buried body. There must be some trace of our thoughts and feelings that remains behind after we’re gone . . . And before you leave, perhaps you’ll tell me the real reason you are so cynical.’

He walked back up the stairs that led to the church’s main altar.

E
VENING WAS FALLING
on the city of Alatri and the mighty cyclopean walls glowed with crystalline reflections. Great black and pink cumulus clouds rose from the hills like colossi and flocks of crows glided on the northern wind, contending dominion of the sky that stretched over the bell towers and domes of the churches with the swallows.

Father Hogan looked out of the window of his hotel room and let his eyes roam over the rooftops of the old city, towards the setting sun.

Father Boni’s voice rang out behind him. ‘We have an appointment with the pastor in half an hour, outside the city. We’ve quite a way to go, so it’s best we get started.’

They went down to the street, both in civilian dress, and walked down the roads that flanked the cyclopean walls.

‘Legend has it that these walls were built by giants at the time of the god Saturn,’ Father Boni mentioned to his companion. ‘But no one really knows who could have built them, or how . . . What mysteries still exist on this earth!’

They set out towards the open countryside and a small cemetery soon came into sight.

‘I’d like to know what you have in mind,’ said Father Hogan at a certain point, as he realized where they were heading.

‘We’ll exhume Father Antonelli’s body,’ said Father Boni. ‘I thought you’d understood.’

Father Hogan was completely taken aback. ‘I don’t believe we have the right . . .’

‘We have the duty, Hogan, the duty to do so! Don’t you see?’ He stood motionless for a few moments, as the valley was flooded with golden light. ‘It seems that you still do not fully appreciate what we’re trying to discover. Or – if you do understand – you’re trying unconsciously to back away. Why?’

‘Because this thing that we’re looking for has already had perverse effects on us, while we still have no idea of what, exactly, we are pursuing. I don’t recognize you any more, Father Boni. I watched you react with complete indifference to a dying man, a fellow priest, imploring you to absolve his sins, and now I see that you are ready to profane his grave. What is happening to us, damn it?’

They were now less than a hundred steps from the cemetery. Father Boni glared at his companion with icy eyes: ‘If you don’t feel up to it, leave. Now.’