‘It’s a psychological condition. Some kind of problem where women dissociate and start blurting out words or messages that no one else can understand.’
‘And that’s your problem. You’ve got to understand, right?’
‘Right.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah. Suffragio. Le anime nel purgatorio. Suffragio! I know what it means. Suffrage. The souls in Purgatory.’
‘That isn’t Latin, it’s just Italian.’
She scowls at him. ‘I know that.’
Tom becomes thoughtful. Drifts away into a world of internal focus. Tries to clear the white noise and pick out the key words. Mistress. Master. Temple. Suffrage. Souls. Purgatory. He feels like he’s grasping at straws. ‘The Latin she did use is stilted. All I can think of is that maybe it’s a reference to some ancient gods who share a temple. Does that mean anything?’
He takes the puzzled look on her face to be a no.
‘The last part might be easier. Isn’t there a temple or special church dedicated to souls or suffrage?’
She laughs. ‘Absolutely. About a thousand of them.’
‘No, seriously. I’m sure I recall – from my previous job – somewhere specific, a chiesa run by a special mission.’
She unfolds herself and walks across the room. ‘My Latin is about as poor as my regular church attendance. All I can remember is Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus.’
Tom laughs. ‘Never tickle a sleeping dragon?’
‘That’s it! Straight out of Harry Potter – a Hogwarts motto, I think.’ From a shelf she collects a handful of tourist leaflets and guide books. ‘These came free with the apartment.’ She drops a pile on his lap ‘Every place of interest in Rome is covered in there. You search those and I’ll look through these.’
She sits back down and makes the mistake of stretching her legs out into his space.
Tom grabs her feet and pulls her flat on to the sofa. Valentina can’t help but let out a girlish shriek.
He leans over the top of her, arms as broad as the pillars of the Pantheon, a smile as wide as the Tiber. ‘In a minute. We’ll do them in a minute. Okay?’
Valentina’s eyes sparkle. She tilts her chin so her mouth is so close to his she can feel his breath on her lips, ‘Fine by me. But if we’re stopping, it’d better take more than just a minute.’
33
Several hours later, Valentina and Tom are outside the church of the Sacro Cuore del Suffragio on the Lungotevere Prati in the Tiber Meadows, just down from Il Palazzaccio, the giant Palace of Justice.
Neither of them is sure what they’re supposed to be looking for.
But both are certain that this is the place they should be looking.
Dusk has turned to total darkness and the moon over the white facade of the chiesa makes it look like a fairy-tale fortress fashioned from icicles. It’s completely out of context with all the other mundane buildings around it, a twenty-metre-high explosion of innumerable spires, human-sized statues and spectacular stained glass. Tom presumes its visual pureness comes from marble, but as he gets closer, he’s surprised to find that the facade has been made from masses of concrete.
No matter, it’s still amazing.
The only neo-Gothic church in Rome.
So stunning that in its prime it was christened the Little Dome of Milan.
A small, balding priest in a short-sleeved dog-collared shirt stands in the portico, rubbing thin hairy arms as he watches his two late visitors approach.
He knows what they’re here for.
They called ahead to check the church was open. Valentina gives him her best smile. ‘Father Brancati?’
‘ Si.’
She extends her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you. I am Captain Morassi, Valentina Morassi. This is Tom Shaman.’ She thinks of adding that Tom used to be a priest, but decides not to label him. If he wants, he’ll mention it himself.
‘ Buonasera.’ Tom gives Brancati a firm handshake. ‘Your church is incredibly beautiful. The frontage is breathtaking.’
‘ Grazie.’ Brancati walks them in as he talks. ‘The inside has not the splendour of the outside, but as you apparently know, it is even more intriguing.’
Tom and Valentina trade glances.
‘This is a parochial church served by the Missionaries of the Sacred Heart, to which I belong. It was built at the turn of the nineteenth century and consecrated during the First World War.’ He huffs. ‘The so-called Great War. I fail to see why they called it great. No war is great, and that one was monstrous.’
‘Did your family lose people?’ Tom blinks as his eyes adjust to the low yellow candlelight inside the church.
‘On both my father’s and mother’s sides – at the battle of Caporetto. They died within days of each other, cut down on the banks of the Isonzo river.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘ Grazie. It is long ago, but in my family it is never forgotten.’ He stops and raises his hands to the huge vaulted ceilings. ‘In daylight, the sunlight filtering through the rose windows is heavenly, especially over the altar. All this was the dream of a French priest called Victor Jouet.’
They stand for a moment in the cool of the church and look over the nave, with its three aisles, each ending in an apse, divided by quatrefoil pillars. Tom has an urge to sit in one of the pews, a desire to soak up the tranquillity and calm of the place.
But there isn’t time.
Father Brancati is already genuflecting in front of the altar and turning right into an annex.
The most famous church annex in Rome.
A room of miracles.
‘So, here you are.’ He waves his arms again. ‘The Museo delle Anime del Purgatorio – the Museum of Souls in Purgatory.’
It’s nothing to look at.
A long glass display case with sliding doors and an ugly hardwood surround dominates one wall. The exhibits are small and are mounted on cheap pegboard. They wouldn’t fetch ten euros as a job lot in a car boot sale. They appear to be bits of cloth, books and old papers. Nothing to catch the eye.
Tom studies the objects closely. Just being next to them makes him feel energised. It’s as though an electric current is attached to his nerves and is gently pulsing away in wave after wave.
Father Brancati can see he’s transfixed. ‘You understand what they are? Their significance?’
Tom’s eyes don’t leave the case. ‘I do. They’re messages from Purgatory. Pleas from souls trapped there to be cleansed of their sins and allowed redemption.’
Valentina leans close to the glass. She can see scorched hand marks and fingerprints on prayer books.
‘It is evidence of another world,’ says Brancati, ‘proof that when we die, our souls go into Purgatory to be purified and made holy enough to pass into the glory of heaven.’ He taps the glass. ‘These apparitions reached out. They wanted people to pray for them, to speed their passage into God’s glorious company.’
Valentina can’t help but ask a police-like question, ‘What evidence is there that these relics weren’t faked?’
Brancati isn’t angered. He’s addressed the point a thousand times. ‘All the relics have sworn testimonies by those who witnessed the apparitions. Look closer and you’ll see that each exhibit is accompanied by the story of its origin.’
Valentina looks. She’s unimpressed. There’s nothing there that would stand up in court. But then again, she
