Adrian D'Hage - The Omega scroll

But how to deal with the nun from Tricarico? She could not so easily be dispatched to some far-flung corner of Catholicism without some eyebrows being raised. Sister Bassetti was to be awarded the University Medal for Archaeology and the University Medal for Chemistry. How could a woman achieve this? This signalled a danger for the Holy Church. Trying to control his frustration Cardinal Petroni reflected on Genesis. In the Garden of Eden Woman had been responsible for the Fall of Man and all women needed to realise that like the snail that carries its house on its back, a woman had been put into the realm of Man to manage his household and to provide sex for the procreation of mankind. In his next report to the Pope, Petroni had already decided to describe the education program as ‘an interesting experiment’. This would be accompanied with a strong recommendation for a return to the normal Catholic channels of education that had appropriate controls in place.

As he studied Allegra’s photograph that had now found its place on the inside cover of her file, Petroni grew thoughtful. Dark brown eyes and black hair, a tanned oval face; a very beautiful young nun who was obviously academically gifted was an interesting combination. Perhaps it was time to get better acquainted with Sister Bassetti. Madonna, whore – Petroni could always see advantages in any situation. The religious conundrum would be a perfect one to explore. Petroni’s eyes narrowed as he chanted the words of the apostle Paul to the Ephesians: ‘Wives, be subject to your husbands as you are to the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife just as Christ is head of the Church.’ The hum of the wise words of Paul soothed him. It was time to put Sister Allegra Bassetti in her place.

Allegra pulled her coat tightly around her as snow was still falling lightly on the thickly covered grounds of the university. The summons to dinner had been delivered that morning by Cardinal Petroni’s driver and, try as she might, Allegra had not been able to come up with an excuse to refuse the invitation from the powerful Cardinal. She made her way through the now familiar cloisters surrounding the quadrangles of the main square towards Ca’ Granda’s main entrance. Giovanni had only been gone two days and she missed him more than she thought possible. It had been hard, but they had honoured the pact they’d made on the way back from their fateful visit to Maratea. For her part, Allegra had thrown herself into her studies and the increasing number of High Distinctions and Distinctions were impressive. Delving into the intricacies of biochemistry, the exquisite phosphodiester bonding and nucleotides of DNA, and the development of life on Earth from a single primordial cell line intrigued her. The more she learned, the more she realised that the creation story of Adam and Eve didn’t gel.

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.

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.