Allegra lost her power of speech as Petroni undid the middle buttons on his soutane. He moved his arm from around her shoulders and massaged her neck roughly. Allegra tried to move away but Petroni held her neck with a steel-like grip. She fought and kicked at his legs but the deadly mixture of physical strength and the dark power of the Church played on her fear, draining her and causing a mind-numbing paralysis. Just as Allegra was about to scream, Petroni forced her head into his lap and she gagged as a burst of warm liquid hit the back of her throat.
‘A secret communion and a sharing of affection with a cardinal must never be disclosed,’ he warned, buttoning himself perfunctorily and assuming a tone of formality. ‘God’s will is sometimes hard to understand, but think about my suggestion for an appointment here. I’m sure you will find it worthwhile.’
Shocked and betrayed, Allegra angrily refused Petroni’s offer of the car and she stumbled back to the college, stopping more than once to vomit in the gutter. As she closed the door to her room she leaned back against it, weak and shaking, her faith shattered and spent. This time there was no prayer for forgiveness, only numbness as she looked out of her small window at the stars and thought about an unseeing, unhearing, unfeeling God. Mechanically she made her way to the bathroom and scrubbed herself until her skin was red and raw, but it wasn’t enough to bring any feeling back. She climbed into her narrow single bed. For a long while she stared at the ceiling until emotional and physical exhaustion took over and she finally fell asleep. Before dawn she awoke to find herself crying uncontrollably. Her numbness had been replaced by anger, a deep anger that pulsed through her very being. She realised that it was not God and His Cardinal she had let down but the reverse, and the Cardinal and God could go to hell.
Later that morning there were four items of mail. Two incoming, two outgoing. Allegra opened the first letter feeling nothing but a strange emptiness as she scanned the result slips and a string of High Distinctions. The second was from the Vice Chancellor, Professor Gamberini, warm and encouraging with a suggestion for study for a Masters in applied archaeological DNA and the offer of a scholarship. She wrote a short letter of thanks and a grateful acceptance for the offer of the scholarship, then she penned an even shorter resignation from her Order.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mar’Oth
G iovanni gripped the chipped bakelite steering wheel of the dilapidated Volkswagen he had been provided with, and headed towards the village of Mar’Oth near the northern border of the West Bank. A hot wind blew through the open window and the distinctive metallic whirring of the air-cooled engine rang in his ears. Eventually Giovanni found the black and white signpost at the turnoff Bishop O’Hara had told him to watch for; Mar’Oth, it announced, was 3 kilometres away in the mountains to the east, but it was the second sign that caught his attention – Nazareth.
Pulling up in a cloud of dust at the side of the road Giovanni felt a surge of exhilaration. Barely 9 kilometres to the north, across the border of the occupied Palestinian West Bank, lay what was now the city of Nazareth. Christ himself had walked the streets of this old hillside town as a boy. To the east he could see Mount Tabor, the mountain that Christ had climbed with Peter, James and John, where he had been transfigured before them in robes of dazzling white, reappearing with Moses and the prophet Elijah. Giovanni looked at his watch. It was already after two and he felt a pang of disappointment. So near, yet so far. He smiled to himself. Nazareth had been there for well over two thousand years. It could wait another day but he resolved to go there at the first opportunity.
Reluctantly he grasped the worn stubby gear lever, changed to first with a grinding crunch and turned towards Mar’Oth. The Volkswagen lurched drunkenly as Giovanni picked his way up the steep, dusty road. Olive groves proliferated on either side, leathery leaves flashing green and silver. The hardy trees seemed impervious to the scorching sun.
Like many villages in Israel Mar’Oth was built on a hill. More accurately on two hills that were like the dusty humps of a camel with a saddle in between. Giovanni slowed as he reached the top of the first rise. The dirt road divided the town down the middle, finishing halfway up the second rise. He drove down past a small mosque and mudbrick homes. A group of children with black soulful eyes stopped kicking a cardboard box to watch him pass. Giovanni waved but they didn’t return his greeting. A mangy brown dog scratched incessantly in the doorway of one of the houses. At the bottom of the saddle there were two stores, one on either side of the road, but unlike Jerusalem there were no tubs of olives or spices spilling out of the doors. A small whirlpool of dust eddied in front of him, gathering strength, only to die moments later. What few people there were on the hot dusty track averted their eyes, sullen and unfriendly. A single track ran down to a knoll where an old stone building stood. Giovanni guessed it was the school. He reached for the worn stubby gear stick and again the Volkswagen protested as it climbed up the second rise until he brought it to a stop outside a small and very old red mudbrick church.
One of the two half doors was hanging lopsidedly, the top hinge rusted away from the wall. The cross directly above the doors drooped in sympathy. Giovanni eased open the door that still had two hinges and he stepped into one of Christ’s many houses. The corners of the small church were dim but a ray of bright sunlight shone through an opening high up in one of the walls. Dust particles danced thickly in front of a rickety table that served as an altar. Four plank benches completed the collection of furniture. Giovanni kicked at the dirt floor, holding down his disappointment. A cloud of thick, dirty red dust rose in response. He walked towards the only other door, opened it and stepped back hurriedly as the smell of stale urine assailed his nostrils from a single windowless room. On the floor in one corner was a chipped enamel bowl and a dented bucket. In another corner was an old stove covered in black grease. A yellow-stained mattress sagged in the middle of an iron-framed bed. Giovanni looked underneath it to find the wire supports had rusted away and in among the broken springs were several large empty whisky bottles. An old school desk and a chair filled the rest of the room. A candle had almost burned down to the rough lump of wood that served as a base and a rusty iron nail protruded through wax that had dribbled off the table, solidifying into a greasy brown stalactite.
Giovanni walked back into the church, leaving the door to the room open. He sat down on the nearest bench and stared at the wall behind the table. There was a patchwork of jagged brown mud where the whitewash had fallen and scattered in big flakes on the dirt floor. Fighting back another surge of disappointment, Giovanni put his head in his hands, closed his eyes and prayed to a God that he was no longer sure of.
‘Heavenly Father, I have sinned against you and against your Holy Catholic Church. I am not worthy to pick up the crumbs from beneath your table. Forgive me my disappointment at being sent here and help me to understand that there is a reason. Help me to reach out to these people and bring them to you. And,’ he added, with a pang of guilt, ‘help me to make sense of Pierre Teilhard de Chardin. Amen.’ Giovanni crossed himself and made his way back out onto the dusty track. The steering wheel was almost too hot to touch and he made a mental note to try and find some sort of cover for it. As he headed back towards the other end of the village he noticed a crowd gathering outside the little mosque on the other hill. Even at a distance the people seemed agitated; some of them were bending over something on the track.