Fanatics

Raphaella smiled, then her eyes returned to the manuscript. “I guess we can’t take it away with us and get it photocopied.”

“Nope. I’m-we’re-not supposed to remove anything from this room.”

“Where can we get hold of a portable photocopy machine or a scanner?”

“I don’t-”

“Wait!”

Raphaella pulled her new phone from her backpack. “I’ve got one right here! The PIE has a camera! I can shoot the pages and email them to myself.”

She then put down the PIE, placed the manuscript pages back on the stack, and straightened it. She picked up her pencil and slid the writing pad closer.

“In the meantime,” she said, “let’s do some reading.”

AS RAPHAELLA DIVED into her work, I crossed over to the alcove and took down Savonarolan Theocracy, holding it as I slowly scanned the shelves for more volumes written by Professor Corbizzi. Mom told me she had found four titles-all of them out of print-on the web, listed with his bio. The books in the alcove were not shelved in order of each author’s surname because many of them had been pulled down and flung on the floor the night the prof had died, and I had replaced them haphazardly. But eventually I located three of the books I was seeking-Lorenzo and the Friar, San Marco’s Hounds of God, and Puritanism, Fundamentalism, and Theocracy.

“All thrilling reads, I’m sure,” I muttered, stacking the books beside the cross. But I was interested in works about Savonarola, so I searched the shelves some more and came up with two other books devoted to the friar, then settled down at the table, across from Raphaella.

Under different circumstances it would have been a golden morning, a quiet interlude with Raphaella in a beautiful room, with a perfect summer day as a backdrop. Raphaella had sunk deep into her reading. Her powers of concentration were amazing. Mine were okay, as long as I was interested in the topic. When I was in elementary school my dad used to say I had excellent powers of concentration-but only for five or ten seconds at a time. Take me fishing, though, and I was a different boy.

I opened a book and began to read more about the life of the man who was tormenting my dreams.

Three

I

THE LIBRARY WAS CALM and quiet, except for the whisper of pages being turned and the hiss of pencil lead crossing paper. Birdsong trickled through the open windows. As the hours passed and the morning slipped by, the heat rose, making me drowsy, and I began to feel the effects of my lost night’s sleep. But Girolamo Savonarola was a fascinating man-not necessarily, I was learning, for good reasons-and his powerful personality and the violent times he lived in drew me through the chapters as if I was reading a mystery novel.

The ringing of my cell broke the spell. I opened it, listened for a couple of seconds, closed it. Raphaella raised her head from her book.

“Mrs. Stoppini will be serving a light lunch on the patio in exactly nine minutes,” I announced.

Raphaella and I cheerfully obeyed the summons, taking our notes with us. Mrs. Stoppini had made panini stuffed with chopped plum tomatoes, fresh basil, and grated Parmesan cheese. A tall bottle of Italian mineral water beaded with condensation stood in the centre of the patio table. Mrs. Stoppini would not be joining us for lunch, she had said. She had to “attend to some overdue correspondence”-which probably meant write some letters.

Raphaella bit into a roll and pushed a bit of tomato into the corner of her mouth with the tip of her little finger.

“Want to share discoveries?” she asked after swallowing.

I nodded as I chewed.

“You first,” Raphaella suggested.

I took a few gulps of sparkling water, said, “I’m really glad I wasn’t born in the fifteenth century,” and bit into my panino.

Raphaella sighed theatrically. “That’s it? A whole morning’s reading and all you can say is that fifteenth-century Florence isn’t your cup of tea?”

“I haven’t got to Florence yet. I started in Ferrara and now I’m in Bologna.”

“Whatever.”

“That was only my intro,” I continued. “There’s more.”

“Give,” Raphaella commanded, then took a modest bite of her tomato roll.

I opened my notebook but didn’t consult it. I could usually remember what I had read. “Girolamo-Jerome in English, Hieronymus in Latin, spelled with Vs-”

“Stop showing off.”

“Savonarola, born Ferrara, Italy, an independent duchy, September 21, 1452. Son of a medical doctor well connected with the ruling d’Este family, hence loaded with money and privilege and favour. Girolamo was one of seven children. Extremely bright, academically gifted, went to Ferrara University. Physical characteristics: small, even by the standards of those days, thin, ugly, with thick lips, a big, hooked nose, and green eyes. Don’t let your eyes glaze over. I’m getting to the interesting part.”

Raphaella dabbed her luscious lips with a napkin.

“And stop doing that,” I said. “You’re distracting me. From early on it was clear that Girolamo wanted to lead the life of an ascetic. That’s a person who subjects himself to severe self-discipline and abstains from all forms of pleasure, like this delicious panino on my plate or the even more delicious woman sitting across from me. Like fine clothing, paintings, jewellery-”

“I get the picture.”

“This guy grew up surrounded by finery, waste, money, luxury, but he saw it all as corrupt and unholy. He ate plain food, insisted on sleeping on a straw mattress, wore a shift of coarse wool next to his skin to make himself uncomfortable and remind himself that the world was a corrupt place full of temptation.”

Raphaella’s voice hardened. “Something tells me you’re about to say he hated women.”

“Apparently their charms were lost on him.”

“Because they were the origin of all sin, and they enticed men to do wrong with their weaknesses and sexual looseness, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Young Girolamo would hardly speak to women, and when he did he preached at them.”

“And he probably preferred that they hide themselves under a dozen square metres of cheap cloth and cover their faces and submit totally to the rule of men.”

“There’s more,” I pointed out, waving my notebook.

“Go on.”

“He ranted on against corruption and moral decadence at the court, in society in general, even in the Church establishment. He rejected his family, left home at twenty-three, and went to Bologna to join the Dominicans. He left behind a nasty, bitter essay called…” I checked my notes to get the pronunciation right… “Dispregio del Mondo, ‘Contempt for the World.’ I think the title says it all.”

“Wow. Give you a morning in with some old books and you’re quoting Latin.”

“Glad you’re impressed. The Dominicans were a preaching order of monks, defenders of correct Roman Catholic doctrine, and-get this-they were the boys who conducted the Holy Inquisition, torturing and burning people all over Europe. There was a play on words I’d like to tell you about if you don’t mind a bit more Latin.”

“I think I’m up to it.”

“Do-mi-ni-can,” I enunciated. “Do-mi-ne Ca-ne. Latin for ‘the dogs of God.’ Nice fellas