Giovanni and Allegra had agreed to try to not be alone together, or if they found themselves in one or the other’s room, they would leave the door open. Friday nights were always a big danger. Discussions over pasta and a few glasses of wine on anything from the origins of humankind to Christ’s relationship with Mary Magdalene had nearly brought them undone on more than one occasion. Somehow they had managed to transcend the love they had for each other, and that love had grown into something even more powerful. They became closer than ever. Now he was gone, of all places to somewhere in the West Bank of the Occupied Territories of Israel. It was a posting that made absolutely no sense at all, and he’d been sent there the moment he completed his last exam. Giovanni had asked for a week’s leave but the Cardinal Archbishop of Milano had been adamant he was needed there immediately. Beyond Ca’ Granda’s stone archways she could see the shiny black Volvo and Cardinal Petroni’s driver.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jerusalem
B y the time Giovanni paid the cab fare the sun was setting over the Old City’s ramparts. Saint Joseph’s, the convent of the Sisters of Charity and home of the Catholic Bishop in Jerusalem, Bishop Patrick O’Hara, was in the Christian Quarter Road, not far from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which had been built over the site of Christ’s crucifixion. The narrow two-storey building was crammed between two shops and the flagstone street was still jammed with tourists looking for souvenirs. The rusty gate creaked in protest as Giovanni pushed it open. The white steps leading up to the front door were chipped and the windows were shuttered with broken wooden slats, paint peeling from the iron security bars. One of the Sisters opened the old door in answer to Giovanni’s pull on a weathered piece of rope.
‘Welcome, Father, I’m Sister Katherine.’ Sister Katherine was short with a cheerful, plump face, grey hair caught up in a bun and a habit that looked as if it had seen better days.
‘Thank you, Sister. Giovanni Donelli,’ he replied, shaking her outstretched hand.
‘Let me take your bag, Father,’ she said, reaching for his suitcase. Giovanni resisted unsuccessfully and followed her up another narrow flight of stairs.
‘Make yourself comfortable,’ she said, showing him into a large room overlooking the street. ‘I’ll put your bag in your room and let Bishop O’Hara know you’ve arrived.’
Giovanni sat down in one of the big overstuffed chairs and looked around him. The walls were lined with bookcases that stretched to the ceiling. Works of Augustine juxtaposed with those of the later theologians: Barth, Bultmann, Niebuhr, Schleiermacher and Rahner. Surprisingly, there was also considerable space devoted to the three men condemned by the Vatican for their awkward questioning of accepted Church doctrine: Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, Schillebeeckx and, perhaps the greatest living theologian of all, Hans Kung. There also seemed to be a copy of every book that had ever been written on the famed Dead Sea Scrolls: Hershel Shanks, Geza Vermes, Edmund Wilson – all the great scholars of the Scrolls. Even the controversial Australian author Barbara Thiering. Giovanni’s thoughts were interrupted by a booming voice from the doorway.
‘I hope it was a pleasant trip you’ve been having, Father?’ Nearly twelve years in the Middle East and six years before that spent in Washington had not diminished Bishop O’Hara’s lyrical Irish brogue. He was a big man with thinning hair, bushy grey eyebrows, a round, ruddy face and gentle green eyes. Patrick O’Hara’s sizeable stomach reflected a passion for good food and wine, and his greeting was full of warmth.
‘Yes thank you, Excellency, although security at Tel-Aviv seemed a little excessive,’ Giovanni replied honestly.
‘Welcome to the Promised Land. And please, it’s Patrick. You can call me Excellency when the Vatican’s coming to visit, which thankfully is not very often.’
‘I’ll try and get used to that,’ Giovanni replied, warming to his larger than life superior.
‘And I think you’d better be reserving judgement on being here until you see where I’m sending you,’ the Bishop replied. ‘A little town called Mar’Oth, about 25 kilometres from here, but it might as well be a thousand. The town is Palestinian, divided by both a road and a religion. On one side of the road the village folk are Palestinian Christians, our lot, and they’ve not had a priest there for many years. On the other side of the road they’re Palestinian Muslims. There’s only one school and the children from both sides of the road attend it. Diplomacy is in far greater demand here than theology, Giovanni.’ He shuffled over to a well-stocked sideboard. ‘Part of the sanity routine here.’ His green eyes danced as he passed Giovanni a large glass of Irish whiskey. ‘Shalom!’
‘Shalom.’ Giovanni raised his glass. He did not often drink whiskey but he had a feeling that whenever Bishop O’Hara was around he would get used to it, regardless of the time of day.
‘Strange, isn’t it.’ Patrick settled his vast bulk into one of the other overstuffed chairs. ‘A toast of peace in a country that is continually at war.’
‘Do you think there will ever be peace in this country?’
‘Not until they come to their senses and reach an agreement with the Palestinians.’
‘Is that likely?’
‘There are many on both sides who are longing for just that, and an end to the cycle of violence. Sometimes there’s a glimmer of hope and then just as quickly the hope is dashed. Usually on the egos of inept, incompetent and corrupt politicians, aided and abetted by a culture of fanaticism that is as misguided as it is intense.’
‘I suppose the clash of religions doesn’t help,’ Giovanni mused, a newcomer to Middle East politics and intrigue.
‘A lot of people see Islam as a violent religion, when in fact it’s just the opposite. Islam means “surrender” and a Muslim is one who surrenders completely to Allah and observes Allah’s requirement that people behave towards one another with justice and compassion. The fundamentalist Muslims don’t represent the true Islam, any more than the Jerry Buffetts of this world represent the true Christianity.’
‘Unfortunately a lot of people believe the fundamentalists’ view that there should only be one religion – theirs,’ Giovanni observed ruefully.
‘It is an interesting question, isn’t it. What sort of perverse God would create human beings whose search for meaning in religion generates so much intolerance towards one another?’
Giovanni was a little taken aback. It was unusual for a bishop to refer to God as perverse.
‘You’re looking surprised, Giovanni.’
‘I am a little,’ Giovanni admitted.
‘Don’t be. When you get to my age you tend to question a great deal.’
‘Your faith?’
‘Especially my faith. Have you been reading any of Teilhard de Chardin?’
‘I thought the Vatican had banned his work, although I couldn’t help noticing you have several of his books.’
‘Cardinal Petroni and his ilk wouldn’t be amused,’ Patrick replied darkly. ‘But as there’s as much likelihood of him coming to Jerusalem as there is an agreement on peace, I think I’m pretty safe,’ he chuckled, his humour returning as he got out of his chair and moved to fossick through the shelves, returning with a much-thumbed book and an equally dog-eared Journal of Mathematics.
‘ Comment Je Crois – How I Believe,’ he said, handing Giovanni the book. ‘It’s in French but I gather you speak that language fluently, along with English, German, Spanish and Latin?’