From Sand and Ash(40)

A rectangular pool with a large vase at the center encouraged quiet conversation and meditation, though the space was completely empty. Rows of windows overlooked the courtyard on each side, several stories that made up the convent on one side and an ancient bathhouse on the other. Angelo said the church was named for Cecilia, a noblewoman who was locked in her bathhouse for three days—a murder attempt—only to come out unscathed and singing. The bathhouse had been turned into a chapel, and Cecilia had since become a patron saint of music. Eva tried to imagine what a bathhouse chapel looked like, and determined that she would sneak inside at some point if the nuns refused to show her.

They walked into the nave, looking for the abbess, and found it as empty and silent as the courtyard. The nave was rather gray and depressing, the arch of the ceiling too low for transcendence, but the statue of a woman beneath the altar made up for it. The sculpture was unlike any Eva had ever seen before. It was lifelike and lovely, yet so forlorn. The woman appeared as if she were sleeping, but her face was turned into the ground, strands of hair obscuring her profile, and the gash on her neck told a different story.

“Is this Saint Cecilia? What happened to her?” Eva asked, her eyes clinging to the slim white column of the woman’s throat.

“After failing to kill her in the bathhouse, they attempted again. They tried to behead her.”

“Tried?”

“The legend is that three blows with an ax did not accomplish the task. She died slowly, converting many in the process,” Angelo answered.

“What was her crime?” Eva asked, unable to look away from the statue.

“It was politics. She was an outspoken woman,” Angelo said wryly, as if he thought Eva could relate. There was a smile in his voice, but Eva couldn’t smile. She could only stare at the martyred saint.

“Oh, Father Bianco! We expected you much sooner,” a woman called out in surprise, distracting Angelo from his response. Eva turned toward the voice and watched as a diminutive woman with sagging jowls and sharp eyes approached them at a speed that belied her age. She’d entered the nave through a door to the left of the apse.

“Mother Francesca, this is Eva,” Angelo said simply, as if he’d already told the ancient nun all about her.

“You’d best be off, Father,” the abbess directed. “There is trouble with the Holy Sisters of Adoration. A pilgrim has died, and there is some disagreement about what should be done.”

“I will check on you tomorrow, Eva,” Angelo said, and with a quick bow toward the abbess, he was striding back toward the entrance, cane tapping, his small suitcase swinging. Eva could only stare after him, wondering again why she’d agreed to come to Rome.

“Come,” Mother Francesca commanded, and without waiting to see if Eva was coming, followed Angelo out of the nave and through the courtyard. Eva grabbed the large suitcase Angelo had carried all day, and juggling her valise and violin in her other hand, struggled to catch up. The nun led her through a small door to the left of the entrance wall. As they ascended a narrow staircase, the nun offered some information.

“The convent is shared between the Benedictine nuns and the Franciscan Missionary Sisters of the Immaculate Heart of Mary. But we are smaller in numbers than we once were, and the convent is past its prime.”

Eva wondered how long it had been past its prime. Two hundred years? Three?

“These rooms were used for lay staff, but we have no use for a large staff anymore. We have both a cloistered community as well as nuns who serve in an active apostolate beyond these walls. We use these rooms for boarders. The little bit of income is much needed. Especially now.”

Eva nodded, wondering how long the stack of banknotes she’d brought with her would last. The value kept falling. Before long, they would be more useful as toilet paper. The jewelry she brought would get her a little further.

The abbess opened a door and stepped aside. The room contained a narrow mattress on a metal frame, a wooden cross nailed to the wall above it. A simple chair, a chest of drawers, and a small closet lined the opposite wall. Mother Francesca flipped on the desk lamp, indicating this was home.

“This is your room. Washroom at the end of the hall. It is for shared use, but you are the only boarder here at the moment. A luxury. Vespers at six. You are expected to attend.”

“But . . . I am not Catholic,” Eva protested.

“You are now.”





18 September, 1943


Confession: I don’t like nuns.



I am tired, but sleep is as elusive as Angelo has always been. The convent is too quiet and it smells old. Why is it that all of Rome smells so old? Or maybe it is just me, and I can’t get the scent of loss from my skin. I feel as ancient and crumbling as the walls of the old temple the bus trundled past today. But at least the temple doesn’t have to hide. I’ve been here less than twelve hours, and I miss Florence so desperately I want to start walking. Florence smells like flowers. It smells like jasmine and Fabia and my father’s pipe. After all these years, I can still smell him in the rooms of the villa, and I am both comforted and tortured by the scent.

I’m lying in a little bed in a strange room, listening to the walls say nothing. I tried to play my violin, but the echo in the room made my skin crawl, like I was the Pied Piper of dead nuns. I didn’t want to summon ghosts or rats, so I put my violin away.