Rogue's Gallery by Robert Barnard

Author:Robert Barnard [Robert Barnard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780749011512
Publisher: Allison & Busby
Published: 2011-03-26T16:00:00+00:00

THE PATH TO THE SHROUD

Violetta knew she had made a mistake almost as soon as she got into the shop. She had come in because she noticed a sign saying ‘English Books’ in the window. English newspapers had been easy to obtain in Parma, books less so. Now she was inside the shop she realised just from casting her eyes around the covers of books on display that she was in a religious bookshop. Not at all what she needed. She was in Italy for experiences, but not for religious ones, or not Christian ones. She dawdled around the pokey interior only to avoid the ungraciousness of walking straight out again.

The face hit her before she even found the section of English books. The sepia image of a bearded man, infinitely kind, unendingly forgiving: the picture of a man (Violetta thought) who grieved for the sufferings and forgave the transgressions of his fellow men – strong, loving, understanding. Who was he? She struggled with the title of the book: II Sudario di Torino. She frowned. Torino she knew. It was one of the places she had put among the possibilities on her itinerary: Turin. Then ‘sudario’ – but of course! She didn’t even need to scrabble in her bag for her pocket dictionary: this must be the face of the man on the Turin Shroud.

She looked again, concentrating on the face. The man seemed to look back, equally intent on her. Again she felt that the eyes of the man saw, saw into, understood. It was as if her whole life, her rackety, unstructured, uncertain journey through this and that enthusiasm or commitment, was in this man’s brain as he gazed at her, and as if his insight gave the whole messy cycle a meaning and a purpose.

‘Do you have this book in English?’ Violetta asked the woman behind the counter. She shook her head slowly, but went over to the two or three shelves of English books to check. Then she shook her head more decidedly.

‘Is not ’ere in Eenglish. In Torino maybe you find.’

‘I’m going to Turin,’ said Violetta, suddenly definite.

‘Turin, yes. You find there per’aps. We ’ave phamplet in four languages. Maybe you like, so you read a little first?’

Violetta took the proffered ‘phamplet’, and immediately decided to pay the four thousand lire demanded for it. The face was on the front page, and English was one of the four languages, along with French, Spanish and German. She went out into the morning sunlight with a strange feeling of lightness, almost of happiness. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt almost happy.

She didn’t look at the pamphlet when she got back to her hotel room. She saved it up. She showered, made herself up as if going to a party, then went back into town and made for the great square in front of the cathedral and baptistery. She walked purposefully across its cobbled expanse to the Angiol d’Oro nestling in the corner. She had

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