“Curious, isn’t it?”
“It’s more than curious,” Daniel said. “Whether the shroud is the burial cloth of Jesus Christ or not is certainly not proved—nor, I might add, can it ever be—but in my mind the artifact came from Jerusalem, and it wrapped a man who had been scourged in the ancient Roman fashion, whose nose had been broken, who had thorn wounds on his head, and who had been crucified and suffered a lance wound to his chest.”
“What did you think of the historical aspect?”
“It was well presented and captivating,” Daniel acknowledged. “After reading it, I’m willing to entertain the idea that the Shroud of Turin and the Edessa Cloth are one and the same. I was particularly taken by the way the shroud’s crease marks have been used to explain how it could have been displayed in Constantinople as merely the head of Jesus, as the Edessa Cloth was generally described, or Jesus’ entire body, front and back, as described by the crusader Robert de Clari. He was the individual who saw it just prior to its disappearance during the sacking of Constantinople in 1204.”
“Which means the carbon-dating results are in error.”
“As troublesome as that sounds to me as a scientist, it seems to be true.”
Hardly had they gotten their orange juices before the seat-belt sign came back on, along with an announcement that the pilots were making their initial approach to Turin’s Caselle Airport. Fifteen minutes later, they landed. As full as the plane was, it took them almost as long as the flight from Rome to get off the plane, walk the length of the concourse, and find the appropriate luggage carousel.
While Daniel waited for their bags to appear, Stephanie noticed a cell phone concession, and she went over to rent one. Before leaving Boston, she had learned that her stateside cell phone would not function in Europe, although it would in Nassau, and to be sure she did not miss any emails from Butler while in Turin, she needed a European cell phone number. As soon as she could, she planned to set it up so Butler’s emails would go to both numbers.
Emerging from the terminal with their luggage in tow and their coats on, they joined a taxi line. While they waited, they got their first glimpse of the Piedmont. To the west and north they could see snowcapped mountains. To the south, a mauve haze hung over the industrial part of the city. The weather was cool and not too dissimilar to what they had left in Boston, which made sense, since the two cities were at approximately the same latitude.
“I hope I don’t regret not renting a car,” Daniel said, while watching the full taxis rocket away.
“The guidebook said parking in the city is impossible,” Stephanie reminded him. “The positive side is that Italian drivers are supposed to be good, even if they are fast.”
Once underway, Daniel held on with white-knuckle intensity as the driver lived up to Stephanie’s description. The taxi was a postmodern Fiat with blocky styling that made it appear to be an amalgam of an SUV and a compact car. Unfortunately for Daniel, it was remarkably responsive to the accelerator.
Stephanie had been to Italy on several occasions and had specific expectations of what the city would look like. Initially, she was disappointed. Turin had none of the medieval or Renaissance charm she associated with places like Florence or Siena. Instead, it seemed to be an indeterminately modern city beset with suburban sprawl and, at the moment, caught in the clutches of morning rush hour. The traffic was heavy, and all the Italian drivers seemed equally aggressive, with lots of horn blowing, rapid accelerations, and equally rapid braking. The ride was nerve-racking, especially for Daniel. Stephanie tried to start a conversation, but Daniel was too engrossed with watching for the next close call out the windshield.
Daniel had booked a single-night stay in what his guidebook described as the city’s best hotel, the Grand Belvedere. It was in the center of the old city, and as they entered that quarter, Stephanie’s impression of Turin began to change. She still wasn’t seeing the kind of architecture she expected, but the city began to have its own unique charm, with wide boulevards, arcaded squares, and elegant Baroque buildings. By the time they pulled up in front of their hotel, Stephanie’s disappointment had metamorphosed into a qualified appreciation.
The Grand Belvedere was the last word in late-nineteenth-century luxury. The lobby was embellished with more gilded putti and cherubs than Stephanie had ever seen in one place. Marble columns soared up to support archways, while fluted pilasters lined the walls. Liveried doormen rushed to carry in their luggage, which was a rather extensive collection, since they had packed for a month’s stay in Nassau.
Their room had a high ceiling, a large Murano chandelier, and less ornamentation than the lobby, but it was just as glitzy. Gilded winged cherubs hovered in all four corners of the heavy cornice. The tall windows looked out onto the Piazza Carlo Alberto, on which the hotel was sited. Heavy, dark red brocade curtains with hundreds of tassels draped the windows. The furniture, including the bed, was all composed of massively carved dark wood. On the floor was a thick Oriental carpet.
After tipping the bellmen and the cutaway-attired receptionist who had accompanied them to their room, Daniel glanced around their digs with a satisfied expression on his face. “Not bad! Not bad at all,” he remarked. He glanced in at the marbled bathroom before turning back to Stephanie. “I’m finally living the way I deserve.”
“You’re too much!” Stephanie scoffed. She opened her bag to get out her toiletries.
“Really!” Daniel laughed. “I don’t know why I put up with being an academic pauper as long as I did.”
“Let’s get to work, King Midas! How are we going to figure out how to call the Chancery of the Archdiocese to get ahold of Monsignor Mansoni?” Stephanie went into the bathroom. More than anything else, she wanted to brush her teeth.
Daniel went to the desk and began pulling out drawers, looking for a city phone book. When that wasn’t successful, he looked in the closets.
“I think we should go downstairs and have the concierge do it,” Stephanie called out from the bathroom. “We can have them set up a dinner reservation for this evening as well.”
“Good idea,” Daniel said.
As Stephanie anticipated, the concierge was happy to help. Producing a phone book in a matter of seconds, he had Monsignor Mansoni on the line before Stephanie and Daniel had decided who should talk with him. After a moment of confusion, Daniel took the phone. As instructed in Butler’s email, Daniel identified himself as a representative of Ashley Butler and that he was in Turin to pick up a sample. In an attempt to be discreet, he wasn’t any more descriptive.
“I have been waiting for your call,” Monsignor Mansoni answered with a heavy Italian accent. “I am prepared to meet with you this morning, if that is appropriate.”
“The sooner the better, as far as we are concerned,” Daniel replied.
“We?” the monsignor questioned.
“My partner and I are here together,” Daniel explained. He thought the term partner was sufficiently vague. He felt uncharacteristically self-conscious talking to a Roman Catholic priest who might be offended at his and Stephanie’s living style.
“Am I to assume your partner is a woman?”
“Very much so,” Daniel answered. He looked at Stephanie to make sure she was comfortable with the term partner. He’d never before used it to describe their relationship, despite its appropriateness. Stephanie smiled at his discomfiture.
“Will she be coming to our meeting?”
“Absolutely,” Daniel stated. “Where would be convenient for you?”
“Perhaps the Caffè Torino in Piazza San Carlo would be agreeable. Are you and your partner staying at a hotel within the city?”
“I believe we’re right in the center.”
“Excellent,” the monsignor commented. “The café will be close to your hotel. The concierge could give you directions.”
“Fine,” Daniel said. “When should we be there?”
“Should we say in an hour?”
“We’ll be
there,” Daniel said. “How will we recognize you?”
“There shouldn’t be many priests present, but if there are, I will surely be the most portly. I’m afraid I have gained far too much weight with my present sedentary position.”
Daniel glanced at Stephanie. He could tell she could hear the priest’s side of the conversation. “We’ll probably be easy to spot as well. I’m afraid we look rather American with our clothes. Also, my partner is a raven-haired beauty.”
“In that case, I’m certain we will recognize each other. I will see you about eleven-fifteen.”
“We look forward to it,” Daniel said, before handing the phone back to the concierge.
“Raven-haired beauty?” Stephanie questioned in a forced whisper after they’d gotten their directions and were walking away from the concierge’s desk. She was embarrassed. “You’ve never described me with such a cliché. Worse yet, it’s patronizingly sexist.”
“I’m sorry,” Daniel said. “I was a bit nonplussed, making an assignation with a priest.”
Luigi Mansoni opened one of the drawers of his desk. Reaching in, he picked up a slender silver box and pocketed it. He then gathered up his cassock to keep from stepping on the hem as he stood and hurried out of his office. At the end of the hall, he knocked on Monsignor Valerio Garibaldi’s door. He was out of breath, which was embarrassing, since he’d walked less than a hundred feet. He checked his watch and wondered if he shouldn’t have told Daniel an hour and a half. Valerio’s voice bellowed for him to come in.
Switching to his native Italian, Luigi told his friend and superior about the phone conversation he’d just had.
“Oh, no,” Valerio Garibaldi responded in Italian. “I’m certain this is sooner than Father Maloney expected. Let’s hope he is in his room.” Valerio picked up his phone. He was relieved when Father Maloney answered. He told the American what had transpired and that he and Monsignor Mansoni were waiting for him in his office.
“This is all very curious,” Valerio said to Luigi while they waited.
“Indeed,” Luigi responded. “It makes me wonder if we shouldn’t alert one of the archbishop’s secretaries so that if there is ultimately a problem, it will be his fault His Reverence was not notified. After all, His Reverence is the official custodian of the shroud.”
“Your point is well taken,” Valerio said. “I believe I will take your suggestion.”
A knock preceded Father Maloney’s arrival. Valerio gestured for him to take a seat. Although both Valerio and Luigi outranked Michael in the church’s hierarchy, the fact that Michael was officially representing Cardinal O’Rourke, the most powerful Roman Catholic prelate of North America and a personal friend of their own archbishop, Cardinal Manfredi, they treated him with particular deference.
Michael sat down. In contrast to the monsignors, he was dressed in his usual simple black suit with a white clerical collar. Also in contrast to the others, who were both considerably corpulent, Michael was rail-thin, and with his hooked nose, his features were more stereotypically Italian than his hosts. His red hair also set him apart, since the others were both gray.
Luigi related his conversation with Daniel once again, emphasizing that there were two people involved, and one of them was a woman.
“That’s surprising,” Michael commented. “And I’m not fond of surprises. But we’ll just have to take it in stride. I assume the sample is ready.”
“Absolutely,” Luigi said. For Michael’s benefit, he was speaking in English, even though Michael spoke passable Italian. Michael had gone to divinity school in Rome for graduate training, where learning Italian had been mandatory.
Luigi reached into the recesses of his cassock and produced the slender silver box reminiscent of a cigarette case from the mid-twentieth century. “Here it is,” he said. “Professor Ballasari made the fiber selection himself to be sure it was representative. They definitely come from an area of bloodstain.”
“May I?” Michael asked. He reached out with his hand.
“Of course,” Luigi said. He handed the case to Michael.
Michael cupped the embossed case in both hands. It was an emotional experience for him. He had long ago been convinced of the authenticity of the shroud, and to hold a box that contained the real blood of his Savior rather than transubstantiated wine was overwhelming.
Luigi reached out and retrieved the case. It disappeared back beneath the voluminous folds of his cassock. “Are there any particular instructions?” he asked.
“There certainly are,” Michael said. “I need you to find out as much as possible about these people to whom you deliver the sample: names, addresses, whatever. In fact, demand to see their passports and get the numbers. With that information and your contacts with the civil authorities, we should be able learn a good deal about their identities.”
“What is it you are looking for?” Valerio asked.
“I’m not sure,” Michael admitted. “His Eminence James Cardinal O’Rourke is exchanging this tiny sample in return for a major political benefit to the church. At the same time, he wants to be one hundred percent sure the Holy Father’s dictums against scientific testing of the shroud are not violated.”
Valerio nodded as if he understood, but he really didn’t. Exchanging bits of a relic for political favors was beyond his experience, especially with the caveat of having no official documentation. It was worrisome. At the same time, he knew that the few fibers in the silver box had come from a sample of the shroud taken many years previously, and the shroud itself had not been recently disturbed. The Holy Father’s main concern about the shroud was conservancy.
Luigi stood up. “If I am to make the appointment on time, I should be leaving.”
Michael stood up as well. “We’ll go together, if you don’t mind. I’ll watch the exchange from afar. After the sample is handed over, I intend to follow these people. I want to know where they are staying, in the event their identities are troublesome.”
Valerio stood up with the others. His expression was one of confusion. “What will you do if, as you say, their identities are troublesome?”
“I will be forced to improvise,” Michael said. “On that point, the cardinal’s instructions were vague.”
“This city is rather attractive,” Daniel said, as he and Stephanie walked west along streets lined with palatial ducal residences. “I wasn’t impressed at first, but I am now.”
“I had the same impression,” Stephanie said.
Within a few blocks of walking, they reached Piazza San Carlo, and the vista opened up to a grand square the size of a football field lined with handsome, cream-colored baroque buildings. The façades were ornamented with a pleasing profusion of decorative forms. In the center of the square stood an imposing, bronze equestrian statue. The Caffè Torino was midway along the western side. Inside the café, they found themselves enveloped in an aroma redolent of freshly ground coffee. A number of large crystal chandeliers hanging from a frescoed ceiling washed the interior with a warm, incandescent glow.
They did not have to look long for Monsignor Mansoni. The priest stood up the moment they entered and waved them over to his table along the far wall. As they wended their way toward him, Stephanie glanced around at the other patrons. Monsignor Mansoni’s odd comment that there shouldn’t be many priests in the café was correct. Stephanie saw only one other. He was sitting by himself and, for a brief moment, Stephanie had the unsettling sensation that his eyes had locked onto hers.
“Welcome to Turin,” Luigi said. He shook hands with both his guests and gestured for them to sit. His eyes lingered on Stephanie long enough to make her feel mildly uncomfortable, as she remembered Daniel’s inappropriate description.
A waiter appeared in response to the monsignor’s snapping of his fingers and took Stephanie and Daniel’s order. Daniel had another espresso, while Stephanie was content with sparkling water.
Daniel eyed the prelate. His description of himself as being portly was no understate
ment. A large dewlap practically obscured the man’s white clerical collar. As a medical doctor, he wondered what the priest’s cholesterol level was.
“I suppose to begin we should introduce ourselves. I am Luigi Mansoni, formerly of Verona, Italy, but now I live here in Turin.”
Daniel and Stephanie took turns introducing themselves by giving their names and that they lived in Cambridge, Massachusetts. At that point, the coffee and water arrived.
Daniel took a sip and replaced the cup in its tiny saucer. “Without meaning to be rude, I’d like to get to business. I assume you have brought the sample.”
“Of course,” Luigi replied.
“We must be sure the sample comes from an area of the shroud with a bloodstain,” Daniel continued.
“I can assure you that it does. It was selected by the professor entrusted with the conservancy of the shroud by the Archbishop, Cardinal Manfredi, who is its current custodian.”
“Well?” Daniel questioned. “Can we have it?”
“In a moment,” Luigi said. He reached into his cassock and produced a small pad and pen. “Before I deliver the sample, I have been instructed to get particulars as to your identities. With the controversy and media frenzy swirling about the shroud, the church is insistent on knowing who has possession of all samples.”
“Senator Ashley Butler is to be the recipient,” Daniel said.
“That is my understanding. However, until then we need to have proof of your identities. I’m sorry, but those are my instructions.”
Daniel looked at Stephanie. Stephanie shrugged. “What kind of proof are you looking for?”
“Passports and current addresses would be adequate.”
“I don’t have a problem with that,” Stephanie said. “And the address in the passport is my current address.”
“I suppose I don’t have a problem either,” Daniel said.
The two Americans produced their documents and slid them across the table. Luigi opened each in turn and copied down the information. He then pushed them back. Pocketing his pad and pen, he produced the silver box. With obvious deference, he slid it toward Daniel.