THE PRIEST OF SANTA MARIA - [ THE CONVENT ] - { CHAPTER ONE } [ PART. 3 ]

{ PART. 1 } THE CONVENT:                                                               ONE YEAR LATER, ITALY: Christiano stood at the entrance of the alleyway where the taxi had left him. The blazing sun, which highlighted the lustrous blue-grey flecks of his almong-shaped eyes, dazzled his vision. He used one hand to shield the blinding rays and scratched beneath his left eye with the other--distorting the mole in the shape of a cruciform below it. A rosary of perspiration had formed on his olive-toned skin, above his collarino, and jewels of sweat glistened across his forehead. He popped a ginger sweet into his mouth, picked up his luggage and continued to walk down the alley until he reached a small fifteenth century townhouse with a crooked but pristinely polished white door. He knocked and waited, breathing in the remnants of fresh paint. An old man of about sixty-five with smiling eyes greeted him at the door. His full head of hair was as alabaster white as his freshly painted door: a sharp contrast to his sun-baked skin and deeply furrowed features. Hello, I am Father... Father Abbadelli! he interrupted. Welcome! I am Marcello Franco. Please come in. Christiano stepped inside, extending his hand expecting it to be shaken, but instead, the old man kissed it.       ------------------------------------------------------------------------------        { PART. 2 } - Christiano's face flushed. Inside, the house offered a cooling shelter from the scorching rays. Christiano bent his head curiously, noticing that it was not just the door that was crooked; the entire interior was lopsided, the low ceiling and staircase askew. His mouth salivated at the wondrous aroma wafting throughout the house. Welcome Father! A stout old woman wearing an apron imprinted with the Virgin Mary in prayer came out of the kitchen. A tea towel was tossed over her shoulder, and she walked with a hobble. Her grey hair was worn in a bun, accentuating her vibrant green eyes. The couple stood together, the taller of them only five feet seven inches smiling up at Christiano, a six-footer. Father, this is my beautiful wife, Agostina. Father. The old woman bent forward and kissed his hand. Are you hungry? How can I resist such a wonderful aroma? Mine-strone? Yes, she replied. My favourite. Ah, then you're in for a treat, said Marcello. My wife makes the most delicious summer minestrone, with homemade pasta and a generous dollop of freshly made pesto. But first, I'll show you to your room. Christiano followed Marcello, looking surprised to see him open a door to the side of the staircase. He stooped to enter and followed him down a steep flight of steps to a door. Marcello opened it to reveal a deceptively large basement room shaped in a perfect square. Very little light entered the room through a row of windows running along the top of the entire side of one wall. The sun was obscured by the buildings opposite; the windows opening at pavement level. The youthful sounds of play and laughter echoed through the glass and landed with reminiscent charm of Christiano's ears. I will tell the children to stop playing outside your window. They are good boys; they will listen to me.                                                                           ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------   { PART. 3 } - There's no need. It reminds me of my carefree youth. He looked round the room as he continued to speak, Besides, it"s unlikely I'll be here during the day. In one corner was a vintage wardrobe that looked like something out of the twenties, and, next to it, a half-open door. On the next wall was a double bed with working fans on both the bedside tables. A cheap, commercial painting of Christ hung on the wall above the bed. It depicted a hand-some, young Jesus with a goatee beard. He wore a white tunic with a red heart imprinted in the centre. His eyes were penetrating, and a shimmering halo circled his lustrous long hair. Opposite the bed was a desk, also with a working fan, and, on it, what appeared to be a shrine: the photo of a teenage boy surrounded by candles and a crucifix. I hope the room is to your satisfaction, Father. You have your own en-suite bathroom here. He pushed open the door next to the wardrobe. It's perfect. Thank you. He smiled. May I ask who this is? He pointed to the photo of the boy. He was our son, Nicolas. He died in a boating accident when he was fifteen.This was his room. . . Father. If you don't mind blessing him every now and then, we would be very grateful. Of course. Than you, Father. I can tell you are a true man of God...Please, when you are ready, come and eat with us. The old man left the room. Christiano undressed and entered the shower cubicle. He twisted the gauge to the coldest temperature and immersed himself under the jet of skin-numbing water. He gasped beneath the icy stream.