Free The Tower by Valerio Massimo Manfredi Page A

stone is a seed,’ agreed Philip, ‘but here,’ he added then, taking a skull from the pile and turning it upside down to reveal the internal cavity, ‘here I see nothing . . . no trace of the veins and nerves that once throbbed under this dried-up face and conveyed the thoughts and emotions, the knowledge and the hopes of a human being . . . The truth is, Father, that we are enveloped by mystery, and we’ve not been given a light to explore it, apart from this mind of ours. A mind perpetually aware of the relentless passage of time and terrified by it.’
    ‘We believe that we have been given a light,’ replied the friar. ‘ “Light from light, true God from true God”. We firmly believe that God entered history to speak with us. Once and for always.’
    ‘I know that’s what a true believer will tell you. But you tell me, my friend, how you can see the hand of God in this world of ours, in this obsessive, monotonous alternation of births and deaths. In this throng of bodies in heat who, in seeking a few moments of pleasure, perpetuate the curse of pain, of illness and old age, the raging of war, hunger and epidemics . . . You monks, you who refuse to couple with females, aren’t you saying that the way to reach perfection in life is to refuse to perpetuate it, to rebel against the mechanism that drives us to reproduce ourselves before we die?
    ‘Do you know what the world is, Father, for those of us who have not renounced it, as you have? A desolate land beaten by the hooves of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse . . . Our world is pain, above all, and we who live in it are completely responsible for that.’
    ‘We are no different from other men,’ replied the friar, ‘as strange as that may seem to you. If you could share our experience, you would realize the truth of my words. You could say that we have gambled our entire existence on a single number in the roulette of life. We have accepted the word of the Son of Man. Although, as you remember, He himself trembled and cried and shouted, sweating blood, at the thought of losing His life.’ The friar lowered his bald head and his beard touched the worn cowl. ‘But this is not the reason you’ve come, and nor have you come to see the art treasures this monastery holds. I feel as though I’ve met you before. A long, long time ago.’
    Philip started. ‘Why? Why do you say that?’
    ‘I have the feeling that I’ve seen you before . . . but if it had been you, you’d be much older by now.’
    Philip could not hide his agitation. ‘Perhaps you saw my father, Desmond Garrett, ten years ago. Could that be?’
    The friar’s face lit up. ‘Yes, of course! But his eyes were black, weren’t they?’
    Philip nodded. ‘What was my father looking for? I must know. He disappeared in the Sahara desert ten years ago, shortly after he left here. I’m trying to find him, but my search is going nowhere.’
    The friar pondered his words for a while before answering. ‘The first time he came to the monastery was much longer than ten years ago. I think it was chance that brought him here, if I remember well. Just as he was about to leave for Africa. Back then, you see, there were rumours that the usual tomb robbers had found a certain something here, in the area. Your father did everything he could to find out more about the discovery; I don’t know why. He went down time and time again, underground. There are countless galleries under the city, dug into the tuff that was deposited by the eruptions of Vesuvius in ancient times. There were some things he told me, but others, I’m sure, that he kept to himself. He ended up here at the monastery and convinced me to help him. I suggested a route that he could follow. He stayed for a while. Then, one day, he had to leave quite suddenly. His wife – that is, your mother – had been taken ill . . . or perhaps her already precarious condition had taken a turn for the worse.’
    Philip lowered his head in silence and