Chamber of Secrets
Rome, Italy
I AM GETTING out of a taxi in Rome, Italy. My plan this beautiful sunny morning is to visit the church of St. Francis of Assisi, to see the stone this ascetic monk used for a pillow 800 years ago. To my dismay, the church is undergoing renovation. Tarps, bricks, drywall dust, hammering and drilling, workmen in hardhats are everywhere.
I walk into the church, a long plastic runner covering the carpet. I am barely able to glimpse the famous Bernini statue across the room, carefully protected in a glass case. I do not see a stone pillow anywhere. Discouraged, I leave and walk into the sacristy next door. I ask a man behind the desk, in pantomime, about the pillow. “Dorme?” he asks, mimicking my gestures. “Si,” I say. He tells me in Italian that the stone is in another part of the church, indicating only a priest can take me there and there is no priest available.
I am disappointed. I spent €15 on a cab ride here, eager to see the rock-hard pillow where the patron saint of animals laid his head. I wander around the foyer, looking at frescoes and crucifixes on the wall. The man behind the desk is on the phone, seemingly ignoring me. Then he comes up to me and gestures with his hands and says, “Cinque minuti, cinque minuti.” Five minutes, five minutes.
Several minutes later, I am approached by a priest who asks me, “Italiano?” “No,” I say, “Inglese, but it’s OK, va bene,” I indicate. I know that with my high school French and Spanish, I will be able to understand most of what he has to say. He takes three keys out of a cabinet, unlocks a gate leading to a stairway and takes me upstairs. Two more doors, two more locks and we enter a sanctuary.
Inside is a huge ornate altar with gilt embellished icons set in beautiful inlaid wood, polished to a brilliant sheen. “Fotographia?” I ask the priest, not wanting to offend with my little camera. “Si, si,” he says, so I take a number of photographs. Then the priest walks over to a wall beside the altar and pulls a recessed handle, rotating the altar into the wall like a secret bookcase.
The shelves on the backside of this altar contain golden boxes. The priest tells me in Italian “Osso, denti, capelli,” pointing to his nose, teeth, hair. This is the reliquary! There are 20 glass-fronted boxes on display, pieces of teeth, bone, locks of hair, tiny vials of blood visible through the little windows, treasured remnants of the dead. I suck in my breath in amazement. “Fotographia??” I ask the priest again, amazed at this array, not believing I will be allowed to photograph these precious relics. “Si, si,” he says, smiling. I click away.
I ask about the pillow of St. Francis, and the priest shows me a slab of hard yellowed marble placed behind a metal grate. Amazing, I think, to rest one’s head in slumber on this unyielding pillow.
The priest pulls the lever, the relics rotate back into the wall, and he escorts me out, locking three locks. On the way out, I slip €10 into an offering box.
This is a great story, Ann. So glad you got that heads up to wait for five minutes! It changed everything.