Shrouded In Silence

2

September 3, 2008





The glaring headlines of Il Messaggero sent Dr. Jack Townsend diving into the newspaper story. The bombing in the subway terminal had disrupted the metro system that brought commuters in underground to avoid Rome's congested streets. Terrorists had set off a bomb just outside the termini in Piazza dei Cinquecento, blowing the subway train off the tracks and killing a dozen people while injuring countless others. Because Rome had not been the victim of attacks as London had, the city erupted in an uproar with citizens demanding immediate action.

With close-cropped brown hair and a Matt Damon boyish face, Dr. Jack Townsend didn't fit the usual expectations for an academician. Looking far more like an athlete, the forty-year-old scholar disliked violence of any sort, but particularly feared his wife's reaction to the news. During the time Jack and Michelle finished their PhD studies in biblical research in Tübingen, Germany, he had seen fear in her eyes more than once when terrorists attacked American embassies. He and Michelle had come to Rome to pursue a project that could grab the entire world's attention, but her apprehension about terrorist attacks could derail their work.

When she was five, Michelle's parents had been on a vacation on the coast of Bari, Italy. After a weekend of fun and sun on the beach, the family started back to Rome. They had turned at Cerignola toward Naples and were winding over the mountains when a semitrailer truck bore down the highway out of control and crossed the centerline. Michelle's family ended up in the ditch upside down when the car rolled. The truck exploded in a blast of fire. Since that afternoon collision, she had struggled with an extreme fear of explosions.

Jack read the newspaper story a second time. No one seemed to know who set off the blast, but a group the police dubbed as "The Scorpion" had etched a design on the subway wall that looked like the stinger on one of the dreaded creatures. Reporters had invented the label and as best the journalists could tell, there didn't seem to be any obvious links with international terrorist groups. Local discontents were thought to be behind the attack.

"More coffee?" The bushy haired waiter sailed by holding a large silver pot aloft. The intensely inviting aroma curled around the patrons.

Jack shook his head. "No, Luichi. Thank you. Hard to say no, but I've had enough."

The waiter bowed graciously and hurried off with his white apron flying and the silver coffeepot held high. Luichi fascinated Jack with his artistic flourishes. Jack liked the Dar Poeta sidewalk café partly because of the unpredictable waiters and mostly because of the artichoke dishes like the alla giudia cooked in a Roman-Jewish style. The restaurant was not far from the Tiber River and the Amadeo bridge that led into Borgo Santo Spirito street leading him back to the Piazza San Pietro of the Vatican where he often worked in the library.

People fascinated Jack Townsend. Curiosity had always been one of his strongest traits, and that's what fueled his passion for researching the Greek Scriptures. But watching the unusual forms bouncing down the street totally hooked his interest. Fat ones. Skinny ones. Voluptuous. Ugly. Gorgeous. They were all out there, and he loved watching them go by. Jack folded the paper and put it under his arm. Leaving a tip on the white tablecloth, he walked out onto the sidewalk.

"Ah, amico!" a familiar voice called out. "Wait!"

Jack turned to discover Tony Mattei waving at him. The heavyset Italian could turn up in the strangest places, and Vicolo del Bologna street was certainly one of them.

"Tony, good morning! What are you doing on this side of Rome?"

"I simply happened to be walking down the street when I saw you. I was concerned you might have been hurt in that awful explosion."

Jack studied the jewelry merchant and diamond broker. Always a flashy dresser with two or three sparkling rings on each hand, Mattei's thick, black hair hung across his forehead like a schoolboy coming in from recess, but this was no naive child. Tony Mattei's eyes constantly shifted back and forth taking in everything in sight. Jack noticed that Mattei's broad smile and his hard probing eyes didn't quite fit together.

"In this city of a billion people you should run into me on the street?" Jack said. "Surprising."

"I am a blessed man." Tony beamed a broad smile. "The gods have smiled on this humble Italian. But my question is about the bombing. Did it frighten you?"

Jack nodded his head. "Sure. I'm appalled. No one wants to be in a city when some terrorist starts killing innocent people."

"But fortunately, not hurt?" Tony turned his head sideways and narrowed his eyes. "I see no signs of injury."

"No. We're all right. Why would you think we were hurt?"

"No reason. No reason. Ah! That is good. Well, my friend, keep your eyes open. We are living in dangerous times."

"You're right about that." Jack waved. "Got to get back to the office." He started walking away. "Take care."

"I will." Tony Mattei waved. "Be careful, my friend."

Jack hurried down the street toward the Amadeo bridge. Strange. Tony Mattei had always been one of those characters who had a way of showing up out of nowhere. When he made one of his appearances at a café, the man drank enough black coffee to float a boat down the Tiber River. He was rumored to drink an equal amount of wine on other occasions. Tony Mattei remained one of those local institutions that made the ancient city of Rome always seem unique and quaint.

He glanced at his watch. Michelle would probably be irritated at him for squandering his time drinking coffee.

"Taxi!" Jack held his hand high in the air. "Taxi!"



The cab driver pulled up in front of Santa Maria della Concezione Church on Via Vittorio Veneto. Jack paused for a long look at the majestic structure of the old church. Somewhat diminished by the construction of Via Veneto, the sixteenth century edifice had originally been part of a Capuchin convent. The relationship to the Capuchin order gave the church an unusual twist. Having walked through the building a hundred times, he couldn't resist another look. The draconian features of the large church captivated his attention.

Capuchins monks had broken from the Franciscan Order in Naples in 1525 in a desire to fulfill St. Francis's original vision of helping the poor and helpless. Taking on a lifestyle of extreme simplicity, the new order set out to minister to the outcasts of society. In time Cardinal Barberini, originally a Capuchin monk, built the structure that also became the cemetery for the order. Jack Townsend opened the heavy front door and started down the dark hall.

A smell of incense and candle wax hung in the air along the narrow corridors that led to rooms with human bones nailed to the walls in patterns of floral designs, arches, triangles, and circles. Even after months of working in a house directly behind the old church, the sights still intrigued him. Jack stopped at the end of the second corridor and glanced up at the large clock composed of vertebrae and foot bones from some long dead monk. Here and there a finger bone filled in a small vacant spot. Only a single hour hand moved on endlessly with no minute hand, signifying that time had no beginning or end. The singular hour hand had turned around thousands of times through the centuries while monks were laid to rest only later to have their bones dug up and used for decoration on the walls.

Far away in the dim, candlelit front of the old church, Jack glanced at the tomb of Cardinal Barberini buried in front of the main altar. 'Hic jacet pulvis, cinis et nihil' had been chiseled in stone long ago. The entire edifice seemed to sing the same song over and over, 'Here lie dust, ash, and nothing more,' in a myriad of stanzas.

Farther down in the dim crypt, Jack stared at the shadow of a reclining skeleton draped in a brown monk's robe and propped up against a wall lined with femur and arm bones. Not far ahead an indenture in the wall was piled high with boney-white skulls stacked on top of one another and reaching to the ceiling. Jaw bones hung ajar with teeth missing. If the Capuchins intended to say that life was short and all that was left when one's days were over was a stack of skeletons and bones, they'd done a good job getting the message out.

Dr. Townsend sauntered on, thinking how today and the preceding centuries were light years apart and yet so close. Death had been a constant threat from time immemorial through to the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries when the Capuchins started piling bones, but time didn't stop moving forward. Modern medicine appeared with the age of antibiotics and chemotherapy changing the world. But the advent of terrorism had plunged the thoroughly modern era backward into the time of the monks hammering their brothers' bones to church walls. Like the bombing in the subway terminal, death once more rode supreme through the streets.

"My son, can I help you?" an elderly voice said.

Jack turned around to find Father Raffello standing behind him in the shadows. "Oh! I didn't hear you."

"Jack, I didn't know it was you," the old priest said. "You seemed to be deep in thought."

"I suppose I am. This church always touches a sensitive spot with me." He pointed to the recessed graves in the wall. "I am reminded of how short life is. On the streets I see all kinds of shapes and sizes walk by, but here I am vividly reminded of our common destiny. We don't have much of such retrospection in today's world."

Father Raffello nodded. "So true, but the past remains with us in this church as a constant symbol of the truth that our lives pass away quickly."

Jack nodded. "Afraid so."

"I trust all is well back in your offices?"

"Thank you, Father. We are doing fine."

"Good. Good." The priest started walking away. "Let me know if anything is needed."

"I will. We appreciate having the office space." Jack continued on his way.

Once he reached the side door, Jack exited the church and walked along a narrow cement path leading to the back. Fresh air washed away the scent of candle wax and stale air. The small house at the end of the walkway had once been used by a caretaker before being turned into their offices. Michelle would be waiting for him and she would want to know where he'd been for so long. Telling her that he was sitting outside in front of Dar Poeta drinking coffee and watching the multitudes walk by wouldn't set well. Perhaps, he should come up with some story of doing research on skeletons of long ago departed monks. Nope. That wouldn't fit either. The best he could come up with was that he'd been thinking about this difficult problem they were trying to solve in their search for the conclusion to Mark's Gospel. He could say he was looking for new approaches. Thinking.

Would that work as an answer? No, but it was probably as good of an answer as any he'd come up with.