ingenious in solving riddles in the whole of Italy.”
I smiled. The librarian, like so many other servants of God, had never heard of Bethany. So much the better. But Father Alessandro insisted on explaining the reasons for his proud assertion. He assured me that the favorite pastime of these thirty select Dominicans was, precisely, to solve riddles. A number excelled in the art; not a few amused themselves by composing riddles for the others.
“The woods bear sons who later lay them low. Who are they?” the librarian recited in a singsong voice, in spite of my disinclination to include games in our mission. “The handles of the ax!”
Father Alessandro spared me no details. Of everything he said, what most drew my attention was to learn that riddles at Santa Maria were not used only for recreational purposes. Often the monks could use them in their sermons, turning them into instruments of indoctrination. If what the librarian was saying was not an exaggeration, within these walls was the largest training camp for riddle makers in the whole of Christendom, not counting Bethany. Therefore, if the Soothsayer had sprung from somewhere, this was the perfect place.
“Follow my advice, Father Agostino,” said the librarian, anticipating my thoughts. “When you have the number and if you don’t know what to do with it, consult any of our brothers. The person you least imagine may give you your solution.”
“Anyone, you say?”
The librarian made a gesture.
“Of course! Anyone! I’m certain that the brother in charge of the stables will know more about riddles than a Roman like you. Don’t be afraid to ask the prior, the cook, the pantry keepers, the scribes, any one of them! One thing, however: make certain you don’t speak too loudly or you’ll be admonished for breaking the vow of silence that every monk must keep.”
And with these words, he lifted the bar that blocked the main entrance to the monastery.
A small avalanche of snow fell from the roof, crashing with a dull sound at our feet. To be candid, I had not expected that something as banal as exploring the façade of a church at dawn would prove to be such a delicate exercise. The intense coldness of the morning had turned the snow into a dangerous sheet of ice. Everything was white, deserted and wrapped in an intimidating silence. The very idea of approaching Maestro Solari’s brick wall and skirting the enclosure of the third cloister would have put fear in the heart of the bravest of men. An ill-timed slip might break our necks or leave us lame for the rest of our days. Not to mention the difficulty of having to explain to the monks what we were doing at that time of dawn so far from our prayers, risking our lives beyond the monastery walls.
We gave the matter no further thought. Cautiously, trying not to get our sandals more wet than necessary, we advanced slowly between the chunks of ice toward the center of the façade, parallel to the street. We crossed it almost on all fours and, once Father Alessandro and I saw that we were at a proper distance, with a perspective on the ensemble of the building, we observed the windows with great care. A feeble interior light made them sparkle like the eyes of a dragon. There they were, in front of us, a series of round windows that adorned the church along its entire length. The main façade was now around the corner, barely a few steps beyond, its “face” turned away from us.
“Look not on its face,” I whispered through chattering teeth.
Frozen, hiding my hands in the sleeves of my woolen cloak, I counted: one, two, three…seven.
That seven disconcerted me. Seven verses, seven round windows…There was no doubt now that the number of the anonymous correspondent was that recurrent, blasted seven.
“But seven what?” asked the librarian.
All I could do was shrug.
17
What happened later that day showed me the way to proceed.
“So you are the Roman father who has sought lodgings in our
I smiled. The librarian, like so many other servants of God, had never heard of Bethany. So much the better. But Father Alessandro insisted on explaining the reasons for his proud assertion. He assured me that the favorite pastime of these thirty select Dominicans was, precisely, to solve riddles. A number excelled in the art; not a few amused themselves by composing riddles for the others.
“The woods bear sons who later lay them low. Who are they?” the librarian recited in a singsong voice, in spite of my disinclination to include games in our mission. “The handles of the ax!”
Father Alessandro spared me no details. Of everything he said, what most drew my attention was to learn that riddles at Santa Maria were not used only for recreational purposes. Often the monks could use them in their sermons, turning them into instruments of indoctrination. If what the librarian was saying was not an exaggeration, within these walls was the largest training camp for riddle makers in the whole of Christendom, not counting Bethany. Therefore, if the Soothsayer had sprung from somewhere, this was the perfect place.
“Follow my advice, Father Agostino,” said the librarian, anticipating my thoughts. “When you have the number and if you don’t know what to do with it, consult any of our brothers. The person you least imagine may give you your solution.”
“Anyone, you say?”
The librarian made a gesture.
“Of course! Anyone! I’m certain that the brother in charge of the stables will know more about riddles than a Roman like you. Don’t be afraid to ask the prior, the cook, the pantry keepers, the scribes, any one of them! One thing, however: make certain you don’t speak too loudly or you’ll be admonished for breaking the vow of silence that every monk must keep.”
And with these words, he lifted the bar that blocked the main entrance to the monastery.
A small avalanche of snow fell from the roof, crashing with a dull sound at our feet. To be candid, I had not expected that something as banal as exploring the façade of a church at dawn would prove to be such a delicate exercise. The intense coldness of the morning had turned the snow into a dangerous sheet of ice. Everything was white, deserted and wrapped in an intimidating silence. The very idea of approaching Maestro Solari’s brick wall and skirting the enclosure of the third cloister would have put fear in the heart of the bravest of men. An ill-timed slip might break our necks or leave us lame for the rest of our days. Not to mention the difficulty of having to explain to the monks what we were doing at that time of dawn so far from our prayers, risking our lives beyond the monastery walls.
We gave the matter no further thought. Cautiously, trying not to get our sandals more wet than necessary, we advanced slowly between the chunks of ice toward the center of the façade, parallel to the street. We crossed it almost on all fours and, once Father Alessandro and I saw that we were at a proper distance, with a perspective on the ensemble of the building, we observed the windows with great care. A feeble interior light made them sparkle like the eyes of a dragon. There they were, in front of us, a series of round windows that adorned the church along its entire length. The main façade was now around the corner, barely a few steps beyond, its “face” turned away from us.
“Look not on its face,” I whispered through chattering teeth.
Frozen, hiding my hands in the sleeves of my woolen cloak, I counted: one, two, three…seven.
That seven disconcerted me. Seven verses, seven round windows…There was no doubt now that the number of the anonymous correspondent was that recurrent, blasted seven.
“But seven what?” asked the librarian.
All I could do was shrug.
17
What happened later that day showed me the way to proceed.
“So you are the Roman father who has sought lodgings in our
Similar Books
