The Quantum Mantra

As Mayumi hurried to the patient pavilion, Pascal looked around him baffled by the building’s layout. The architecture of the hospital was outstanding!

  “Sorry Pascal, you’re going to have to hurry up. I promise you I will take you around to visit these halls one day. The architect Antonio E. Moretti is a special hero of mine. Let’s go and see my patient first.” Her stiletto heels were clicking on the marble floor, exaggerating her powerful walk.

  In the middle of a long and large corridor she walked past the nurse’s counter and waved to the staff. Everyone waved back; she was well respected here. Ten meters ahead, they stopped in front of a panelled door. There was no name on it, just an elaborately designed number ‘9’.

  “Behind this door is Fra Giuseppe. He is a Dominican priest who had a brain trauma recently. He is incapable of retrieving any anterograde memory from his present life. Pascal was a doctor, but was not used to specific neurology terms.

  “Anterograde?”

  “Yes, you will understand in a moment. Please follow me.”

  She opened the heavy door and they walked into the room. A relatively young gentleman was seated at a table next to the metallic bed. He wore a very rough, off-white cotton robe with a simple cord around the vest and a hood down his back. Attached to the vest was a rosary made of brown wood tied up to a small ebony crucifix. His hair was very short and he had the monk tonsure at the top of his skull.

  A delicate smell of “Pino Silvestre", Pascal’s favourite perfume, had invaded the space.

  Monks had always conjured for him images of questionable hygiene and wrinkles, but Pascal’s assumptions were clearly fictitious. The handsome man turned his head towards them and welcomed them warmly. He gave Pascal a cheery grin radiating with confidence and stretched out his strong hand.

  “My name is Fra Giuseppe,” he said, shaking both his visitors’ hands.

  At least he remembers his name, thought Pascal. The warmth of the monk’s body radiated through his palms, inviting an instant connection.

  Mayumi was unusually stern and interrupted the patient.

  “Sorry Fratre, I must go out with my friend for a few minutes, please excuse us,” said Mayumi.

  Taking Pascal by the hand, she hurried them out of the room, leaving the Dominican alone.

  As soon as they closed the door behind them Mayumi began to explain.

  “Don’t look so shocked! We are going to walk in once more and you will see what I mean.”

  They knocked again and entered the room as though for the first time.

  The same Dominican, smiling and looking happy, welcomed them and repeated the same routine.

  “My name is Fra Giuseppe,” he said calmly.

  Mayumi whispered to Pascal. “This man doesn’t remember that we had just met a few seconds ago.”

  Pascal looked back to the man who had regained his seat and was staring out of the warped glass window.

  “All this is very well, but not the main point,” she said. “I discovered an anomaly of behaviour that did not match his condition. You see, he insists that he receives, even now, information about a mantra lost during The Renaissance. He claims he is permanently connected to a philosopher from that period. You know, of course, that normal people live in constructed worlds and create illusionary strategies all the time; we all do.”

  Pascal most certainly did.

  “Since we are ‘normal’, we can integrate our fictions into the actual reality of our environment, but this man has had his episodic memory damaged! He cannot remember what just happened. The problem here is that he is still consistent in processing information he says he continually receives. I need you to help me to check it out.”

  Pascal listened attentively and replied, troubled.

  “But you know I am not a specialist. Why are you asking me?”

  “Pascal,” she grabbed his elbow, with an unanticipated strength, “this man has unusual but extremely accurate visions. You have connections to people. You can travel into time and you know how it happens. Your experience has shown you how it works.” Her grip loosened. “You should immediately let your intuition tell us if this man has a real capability or if he is just an expert story weaver. Please, talk to him and listen to him.”

  The Dominican had been mumbling to himself at the window when Pascal approached him quietly. He continued his train of thought, talking about the breeze apparent on the tree outside. He was at ease among strangers.

  Pascal listened for a few minutes then decided to test the Dominican. Pascal held him by the shoulders and looked into his glazed eyes.

  “Fratre, where is the mantra?”

  The Dominican looked into Pascal’s eyes as though he were staring straight to his core. His deep, blue-grey eyes were wide open. His tone shifted dramatically and his friendly voice transformed as though someone were grating gravel.

  “How do you know about the mantra? Why are you here to ask me? No one here wants to know.”

  He leaned forward, his nose almost touching Pascal’s. “I have been waiting for someone to ask me; to believe what I have to say.” He swung back into his wooden chair, almost knocking himself over. He inhaled a large breath and held it in. Pascal remained calm and kept a smile on his face.

  “I am not the one who found that mantra. It was Giordano Bruno, a famous Dominican, a visionary philosopher with a very curious mind who found it in Naples during the Italian Renaissance in the 1600s.”

  “Why are you so interested in that character?” asked Pascal gently.

  “Because he was like me; like a brother-in-arms, who fought against ignorance. In his books he questioned the ideas imposed by the clergy and rejected some beliefs such as the Virgin Mary. He was detained for seven years in a pit called ‘Della Nona Jail’ under inhumane and very harsh conditions. He was tortured and questioned again and again by The Inquisition. His tormentor was the Cardinal Bellarmine who some say was already senile, and it is known that he only followed the instructions of Pope Paul V to condemn and have Bruno Giordano executed. This brave man was burnt alive as heretic!”

  “Is it not the same cardinal who was sanctified by The Church and also condemned Galilee Galileo a few years later?” asked Pascal, who knew his history.

  “Yes, yes, but this cardinal is not important. The resolute and fierce personality of Bruno Giordano is what is important! And his ideas have shown that he was a man really connected to the laws of the universe; to the infinite. He will be remembered as a precursor of human enlightenment. He is my hero! He represents for me the true determination to seek the truth and not to swallow dogmas. Giordano Bruno was a martyr to his cause,” said the Dominican.

  Pascal was glued to the monk’s every word.

  “But what did he say in substance that makes you like him so much?”

  “I love him even though he questioned our religious principles.” The friar closed his eyes and recited the passage:

  “The world is infinite and immovable; there is no need to seek the mover of it.” His grey eyes peered from under his heavy lids.

  “You see God is imminent; the one who remains within everything. The Church could not see it this way.”

  Pascal observed the man’s hands and watched every flicker in his pupils. He looked for any hint that would reveal this man was an actor. The Dominican continued, engrossed regardless.

  “But tell me Padre: how have you been connected with that man?”

  “It is a deep mind connection. Since I was very young and without any reasonable explanation, I have always felt connected with him. I have prayed for his soul every day in my life because he was, like me, a sincere man; a mystic looking for a dialogue with a pervasive Truth. He was not ready for cheap compromises. I feel his blood in mine. Even though no one here wants to believe me, I am still receiving his messages and have the conviction that his spirit is with me to help recover my memory. I live attached to this spirit.”

  The man’s handsome eyes fanned as gently as a butterfly’s wings, sendi
ng a tiny glimmering droplet down his left cheek. There was no indication in his body language that implied insincerity.

  Pascal had to be sure he was not being duped. He pushed him one final time.

  “How do I know you did not just invent all of this?”

  “I know your doubt. I myself am also trying my best to understand. And do you not think that I too am confused by my constant visions of events dating more than four centuries ago? Memories continue to come to me like this, that’s all! I cannot explain this phenomenon. This is the way it is! And here you are young man, one who wants to share with me the secret of that mantra. It is not by chance, but synchronicity: chance that has meaning.”

  “I will be very happy if you can find it because it obsesses me and no one can help me here,” he said sadly.

  Within the first two seconds of meeting this man, Pascal had already made his decision. This initial acceptance had been placed in doubt by Mayumi’s own dubiousness, but he resettled on his first impression. Pascal was looking at a man who, very much like himself, was open to a field of energy that even he could not explain. No lies could be found here.

  “If you insist on finding this mantra you have to pray for Bruno; to understand him; to connect with him. You will then comprehend his immortal message. You will understand the way he thinks and verify that mantra must have the miraculous power of the inducible Truth,” he advised Pascal.

  He turned his attention to Mayumi, who had her arms crossed, clearly unmoved by the story she had heard hundreds of times before.

  “You know Giordano Bruno was very influenced by oriental metaphysics and understood how important it has always been for generations of Buddhist devotees to reach this universal truth by chanting Mantras and practicing meditation. I told you my story because you are a Buddhist and you can partly appreciate the key value of this very rare mantra dating before the origins of Christianity.”

  “Let me tell you my deepest certainty: this mantra not only represents a religious belief, but hides a secret that ‘new science’ is looking for. That’s all I can say.”

  Whilst listening to the Dominican, Pascal felt an indelible connection established between him and the famous Bruno Giordano. He had already understood the true value of the mantra.

  …

  For a while, looking into the Dominican eyes, Pascal felt dizzy, a kind of unusual vertigo. Unknown forces were attracting him as billions of quantum images were drowning him into a dark pit. Without even noticing, he was slowly immersed into a transcendent vision.

  Images were swirling around him, engulfing him into the bottomless pit. He fell, spiralling into unconsciousness.

  Sounds were invading his psyche.

  This day The Fourth Day of our Lord’s Ascension…

  Pascal opened his eyes and images were giving shape to the vision set in a sumptuous palace.

  He could slowly make out a crimson robe worn by a very high priest, probably a cardinal.

  The man facing him was reciting a story in Latin; his sad, bulging eyes fixated upon Pascal. His curving nose protruded above a small mouth and the rest of his face was hidden in a spiky beard. Pascal felt he was being scrutinised with disdain. The stranger wore a long crucifix, which hung from his skinny neck. The ‘tricorne’ hat was sliding down his forehead attempting to flee the man. Pascal recognised the hat as one worn by the historical Borgia cardinals during The Renaissance.

  The room was almost bare, but indicated a palace belonging to high nobility. There were no statues or paintings in the dark room. It was, however, full of monks who were scattered on low stools. Each one was checking, reading, listing and storing a profusion of codex, scrolls and documents. Some were scratching pages, slowly writing with their feather pens that they dug into large ink pots.

  Pascal was kneeling on the cold floor. He heard his own voice plea:

  “Monsignor, I beg your grace to let me see my brother Giordano!”

  The melodic voice answered.

  “How can you, a priest, dare to ask me to see that criminal?”

  “He is my brother, Your Grace! I promise I will let him abjure his sins. Let me convince him, I beg of you.”

  “It’s too late, Fra Gabrielle. I have just condemned the miscreant to be sentenced and executed today. He will be brought here in a few hours and we will hand him to the provost. The church cannot have blood on its hands. The best I can do for you is to authorise you to assist him in his sentence and receive his last confession, but that is all.”

  The scene shifted to a courtyard that was busy with impatient, shouting men. They were waiting for the prisoner to come out in daylight; to carry him through the streets and bring him to his sentence. The executioner was waiting. The powerful, large man bore a permanent scorn. Leather bands were strapped to his linen vest and heavy torso. Around him, the provost militia brandished spikes, perfect accessories to their vulgar jokes.

  The provost’s swordsman was like a nervous guard dog, fogging the air around his nose in the morning’s chill. No man paid to kill another could ever feel truly at ease; it was those who required no payment that society should fear.

  The weather was biting into their faces now and they all wished to finish the job quickly. Fra Gabrielle, whose perspective was now shared by Pascal, was standing still in a corner, his lips murmuring prayers for his brother.

  The distant noise of horse’s hooves stamping on the pavement bred relief in the executioners as they watched the huge gates clatter open. A skeletal horse entered, dragging its heavy hooves. It looked miserable and exhausted as it struggled to draw the heavy iron cage of the two-wheeled carriage behind it. Inside, an indistinct form was crouched. Reduced to a foetal position, the body did not move.

  The swordsman shouted an order and one of the soldiers, holding a heavy key, inserted it into an enormous lock fixed to the cage.

  “Out!” he spat.

  Since the creature did not respond to his order, the swordsman grabbed the thick fabric of his robe and pulled furiously. He tugged until it ripped in one large sheet, which he threw off the man’s body out onto the muddy ground.

  Another soldier drew pity on the battered soul and went to help him stand up. Fratre Gabrielle joined him, trying not to gag. The stench of blood and rotten flesh was impossible to ignore as it emanated from his every pore. The prisoner managed to stand up and tried to find his balance. He fell over, hard, not even attempting to break his fall. He turned his head to the fratre, revealing a face shred beyond recognition and burning-coal eyes. Inside, he was still fighting.

  The solid men placed an iron muzzle onto his face. The idle nails dug deep into his flesh, but the man said nothing. Fratre Gabriel was appalled and called out to the swordsman:

  “Remove this device at once! I have to get a confession from this man!”

  The unwilling swordsman grabbed a smaller key from his purse and did as he was told. The clasp clicked open, releasing the man’s torn mouth. Crumbling into Fratre Gabrielle’s arms, the prisoner finally spoke.

  “Brother, you finally came. Thank you.”

  “Oh Giordano, what have they done to you?” he gasped, grasping the full extent of his brother’s deformation.

  Giordano Bruno bowed his head, ashamed by his horrid injuries.

  “You have come, but alas, it is too late.”

  “No, it is never too late; you still can renounce to your ideas.”

  “My ideas? Brother, it has been seven years since they have torn apart my body and thrown me in the pit of that horrible Torre della Nona to have me abjured. How can I renounce now? Death is calling for me and I welcome it. The fire will stop my pain.”

  “Brother, I am telling you, I can still intercede for you”

  Giordano was losing his strength and his hand was loosening its grip on his brother.

  “Never, sweet brother. Never! I have tried to convince them that the infinite God exists, that man in his perfection is God, but I understand now how afraid they are of dispelling th
eir legends that are put in place to abuse the people.”

  “Humans have the Divinity within them; everyone has this power to know the Truth. My ideas were born at the wrong time for they cannot fight the power of the clergy. Listen to me brother...,” but Giordano was unable to finish his sentence as he launched into a coughing fit. It subsided after a few seconds, but watching the man was excruciating. With a final spurt of energy, Giordano held onto his brother’s neck and whispered into his ear.

  “Brother, you must listen carefully. I have hidden very important documents that were given to me by a missionary from Jerusalem. The wise man translated them for me from Sanskrit into Latin. They contain the irrepressible evidence that the Christian power comes from Oriental documents like this one, written by connected prophets, transmitted for generations of monks in the Far East.”

  “No one knows why, but their power can control people’s minds. If left in wrong hands, these documents can destroy humanity. I have entrusted one with my book, “ Arte della Memoria", to the prior of our convent San Maggiore in Napoli. Ask him to guard it with his life.”

  With a final impulse for life, Giordano shook his arms to the heavens; stood himself up to face the people and shouted with the last words that he would utter:

  “You sentence me with greater fear than I can ever receive!”

  He collapsed, almost fainting into a heap.

  “Brother!” Fratre Gabriel picked him up but could not hold him. They fell into each other’s arms, sobbing.

  Pascal suddenly woke; his eyes were filled with tears.

  Mayumi had noticed Pascal’s strange gaze during that few seconds and she felt deeply moved, even though she didn’t understand why.

  Slowly, they both exited the room, keeping their backs to the door in order to keep a watchful eye on the fragile man. Once outside, a perplexed Mayumi asked, “So what do you think about my patient?”

  Pascal’s heart was having trouble relaxing. He had just experienced a confirmation of his own capacity. He had found in someone else the same connection with a strong spirit from the past. He also felt the same apprehensive instinct over an ethical position and it had rejuvenated his feeling of connection, where he had often felt quite alien.

  “Mayumi, I know he is right. I am sure he is really connected.”

  At this moment Pascal was too shy and moved to reveal his vision to Mayumi, but he explicated his feeling simply as an opinion.

  “Yes Mayumi, the Dominican knows this mantra exists and we have to get it fast. On a technical level, I have no answers for you. I don’t understand how his brain can release this kind of information and it is the same for me. But think of it this way, even if I am wrong, what other leads do we have?”

  …

  On their way back to his hotel in the centre of Rome Pascal felt perturbed by the obsessive thought that attached him to Giordano Bruno. He was certainly admiring that man and felt revolted by such cruelty from the Church. How vile were the people who unfairly tortured and murdered him for his open views!

  Without knowing him, Pascal loved this man. In his vision, he had seen him as a brother in a past life. He was amazed by such a strong link with this sincere character that dared challenge the powerful clergy by questioning the unquestionable dogma.

  In some ways, his story was similar to Nikola Tesla, who was not only abandoned, but systematically denied to receive the honours for his genius discoveries, and died from it.

  Ready to think of revenge, Pascal perceived it would draw him to a lower level. One should not judge someone for his beliefs either way.

  After considering this, Pascal felt in a better mood. He invited Mayumi to stop at a small, charming trattoria in the Centro Historico to enjoy a delicious and delicate lunch.

  She felt overwhelmed by its beauty and they entered the trattoria singing La Donna Mobile. During the lunch they share an antipasti alla Romana and a pasta Putanesca fata a casa.

  As an exception, Pascal drank Tuscan red wine from Montepulciano, and they were in a joyful mood by the time the tiramisu was served with a glass of grappa.

  Feeling relaxed, Pascal took the occasion to finally recall in detail his vision and his encounter with Giordano Bruno. Torn between laughter and tears, Mayumi was impressed but not surprised. She was a medium, and all along she had clearly evaluated Pascal’s abilities and character.

  She as well, felt a warm solidarity with Giordano Bruno who was a remarkable figure.

  “I don’t know him,” she said, “but I find him endearing. A real character that would never change his mind for personal greed.”

  Mayumi was curious to understand why this mantra was sent to the western world. Was it the wish of the Buddha and the masters from the past to reach other continents to spread the teaching?

  Pascal had his own version.

  “I believe there might be also another reason,” he said. “All the great prophets have been above time and space: Abraham, Buddha, Jesus…Ha! They all probably knew each other, even though they were separated by centuries. So, in my opinion, they probably felt it was the right time to join their efforts for the sake of a better future!

  “That’s daring,” observed Mayumi.

  Prior to leaving the trattoria Pascal focused with effort on the important words from Bruno Giordano that he was trying to forcefully keep in his memory before they vanished.

  “Fratre Gabrielli, please bring the document to the Convento San Maggiore in Napoli.”

  “I could not invent this information, Mayumi. The answer is there, at the convent, where Fratre Gabrielli remitted the document. We have to go there now. Ma Rapido!”

  Mayumi seemed happy to move on.

  “I happen to know some people in Naples, a very friendly couple. I called them already and they are waiting for us.”

  Pascal felt elated to see how efficient she was.

  “My friends Augusto and Loredana in Naples are locals. Augusto is a journalist who works for the Corriere della Sera de Napoli. He knows everybody there. Loredana is a psychologist at the University. She is a Catholic and will explain the right way to approach the priests there. We sometimes work together on psycho-rehabilitation cases.”

  “Are they reliable?” asked Pascal.

  “Of course!” she replied. “They are very faithful and open people. They are members of Mane Pulita, a private organization that is committed to fight against the Camora, the local mafia. It proves their dedication to help people.”

  “As you may not know, ‘mane pulita’ means ‘clean hands’, but if their hands are clean, they are unfortunately not free. I admire them staying in Naples in the political context. I just hope that they won’t end up assassinated like Tano Grasso, a journalist murdered for his incessant curiosity. Not to mention General Della Chiesa, who was shot even though he changed beds every night.”

  “Live hard or die free!” mimicked Pascal before returning to the subject at hand.

  “Mayumi, I found more evidence of our mantra from Giordano Bruno’s writings! His essay The Arte della Memoria explains it clearly.”

  “What evidence are you talking about?”

  Giordano Bruno declared that from remote times, memory and meditation had been complementary functions. His book recalled that memory included ‘verb recitation’, ‘gestures’ and ‘image contemplation’. They were the imperative practices for reaching Illumination. Does it ring a bell?” he asked her.

  “My goodness, yes!”

  “You see, this is a clear allusion to the importance of sounds, particularly the sound of Oriental recitation: the hymn of Mantras.

  “Clever,” remarked Mayumi. You mean it is a proof that Bruno Giordano knew the existence of the mantras”?

  “Yes”!

  “Pascal, you are a genius”!

  He felt proud impressing her. He took her lovely hand and looked into her eyes.

  “Thank you for the compliment. I hope it brings us closer.”

  “Try harder!” she replied,
and they burst into laughter.

  Mayumi had made the booking. There was an express train to Naples in one hour and they could make it. They rushed to her car that was parked in front of the trattoria.

  …

  “I do not believe in God,

  but I am very interested in her.”

  A.C. Clarke