The new guy!
My usual guy!
2 July 2006
After nineteen years at the helm of the Catholic diocese in Naples Cardinal Michele Giordano has stepped down. On 1st July the diocese welcomed the new Archbishop Cardinal Crescenzio Sepe.
We watched some of that afternoon’s proceedings. Via Duomo, one of the main streets dissecting the historical centre from the edge of Piazza Cavour at our front door down to the port was closed to traffic. The transportable steel barriers and flimsy red and white tape a haphazard cordon along the expansive boulevard. The road was unsettlingly quiet in the mid afternoon, with only the occasional scooter dodging the barriers and shooting along the emptiness.
Slowly they came. The official proceedings had commenced at 4pm, by 6pm they were scheduled to move to the Duomo, Naples cathedral. We wandered down, past various groups of men lining the street, dressed in robes. Like the national flag of The Netherlands, they milled around in groups, first a collection in scarlet red, next white trimmed with gold braiding, followed by a gathering of sky blue. Mostly older men, accompanied by the odd youth, and even a couple of little boys, ears pierced, faces reflecting their boredom and resignation.
The TV cameras were set up, sweeping overhead like hawks, smoothly dropping down to capture their prey, images that were soon televised on the huge screen erected at the front of the Duomo. Cameramen scurried around, dressed in cargo pants, cigarettes hanging from their mouths. They looked decidedly underdressed compared to the rest of the milling crowd who seemed to have made an effort in seldom worn suits, ties, jewellery and heels.
Standing near the red carpet that boldly snaked its way inside the cathedral we watched the two Carabinieri officers standing guard beside the enormous wooden doors. Like a slightly less disciplined, less formal version of the Brigade of Guards at Buckingham Palace, they stood erect and watchful, resplendent in their uniforms. Black military uniforms trimmed with red piping, stark white gloves, white shoulder tassels and white leather holster encasing the traditional sword, silver buttons topped off with a black felt hat in the style we associate with Napoleon Bonaparte. The most enchanting item though was the feather plume, royal blue and scarlet red, affixed to the front of the hat. It stood at attention, seemingly mimicking its wearer, ruffling slightly with a passing breeze or when the officer adjusted his position. At times the plumes were the only evidence of the Carabinieri unmoving existence, the crowd of church dignitaries and other security personnel obscuring them from view. Later, after the procession had entered the church, we spied the two guards standing off to the side, shedding their hats, mopping their brows and filling their lungs with noxious tobacco fumes. Any hint of formality or discipline vanished.
It’s a major event for Catholicism in Naples. The departing Cardinal Giordano, always referred to by his surname, was reputedly a loan shark. His appearance supports the idea of undignified, immoral behaviour. A rotund man, his moon shaped face nestled on a planet shaped body. His cheek jowls hung low, the long ears only accentuating the droop. Dark eyes peer out, as though surveying the world for opportunity. What’s left of his thinning grey hair is tucked under the red cap of a cardinal. I’ve seen this man before, several years ago, on September 19th at the St Gennaro rituals. In the flesh, at least superficially, he is not a man of the cloth who fosters a sense of trust and integrity. But perhaps my sentiment is soured by his reputation, for I do not know his character personally, and can not even begin to imagine having a conversation with him.
At first glimpse, the new guy, Archbishop Cresenzio, looks uncannily similar. Interestingly, the distinguished cloth banner hung above the cathedral door implored "Let us pray for our Bishop Cresenzio", using his first (or should it be ‘Christian’?) name, as though the city has already welcomed him into their homes, to their tables, surpassing the need for any formality during introductions. A closer study revealed that he is of a lesser stature than his predecessor. (Although after nineteen years of indulging in the hospitality of Neapolitans you too would most likely be portly). His hair is darker, black but for a man his age I suspect it may be with the help of a bottle (would it be appropriate for a Bishop to be vain enough to want to dye his hair to maintain a younger appearance?). His jowls have already started their descent and you can see the potential for matching those of Giordano. It’s his eyebrows that seem to set the tone for his face though. They arch up, dark peaks directed towards his temples. He smiles slightly inanely, a middle aged man who wants to appear benevolent but hasn’t mastered the art of naturally greeting his well wishers, or the lens of a camera.
Most of the important ceremonial rituals and service take place inside the church on the corner of Via Duomo where Cardinal Giordano has relinquished his post, and then later in the Duomo where the appointment of Achbishop Cresenzio will be finalised. The cathedral itself was now packed with people. Church officials, police officers, security personnel, media representatives and the masses, the church’s supporters, followers and its devotees filled the wooden pews and plastic seating especially installed for the event. True Catholics in a land where 84% of the population identify themselves as believers in the Roman Catholic faith, Naples is a city of contradiction as the form of Catholicism practiced here is mixed up with superstition and ancient occult worshiping. The growing crowd in the small square at the front of the cathedral reflected the same diversity.
I stumbled across the church’s announcement on a poster in another church in the historical centre earlier in the week. We watched with amusement as a few tourists wandered down Via Duomo, no doubt following the tourist trail, their faces a mixture of curiosity and confusion at the swarm of people, television cameras and police presence. It is indeed a strange feeling, when you stumble across such unexpected activity as a foreigner. You feel like you are intruding, on something that is deeply personal to the city and its citizens, but at the same time your curiosity is compelling. Strangely though, your embarrassment and uncertainty win over any desire to delve, like you need permission to pry, and you scarper, making your way through the throng quickly, feeling relieved yet dissatisfied on the other side.
The police presence surprised me. There was the usual variety of Italian police including traffic police, state police and Carabinieri. I was mostly surprised at how many of them there were, wondering if they were on overtime or had been relocated from normal duties elsewhere across the city. Before the procession commenced they tended to huddle together, each group self contained, as though cross pollination was something to be avoided. Two ambulances unhurriedly drove down Via Duomo, an odd sight as they are usually blaring, sirens whining, blue lights flashing as they weave in and out of the traffic. An ambulance was parked across from us, the paramedics drinking coffee from polystyrene cups, gaudy in their fluorescent orange uniforms. I took a photo, capturing them idly appraising the surroundings, standing beside church officials, their heavy cream tunics and shoulder capes trimmed with gold braiding. The contrast in outfits was something of a time warp, the ultra modern orange ridiculous against the historical styled gowns of the clergy.
Eventually the speeches were over, and the official party prepared to move to the Duomo. The new Archbishop did a quick Superman act at this stage, disappearing briefly dressed in a red circular cape under which lay a gown of white lace, similar to what your aged grandmother wears to bed in an effort to retain her modesty and femininity. He reappeared in a less garish outfit with a cream gown embroidered with what seemed to depict an evening sky, gold stars and deep blue waves of falling dusk. Or perhaps they were fireworks spreading out from his chest, across his shoulders and down over his abdomen. The distinguishing feature was his hat (what do you call an Archbishop’s hat?). Shaped like two giant stiff petals, cream with an intricacy of gold embroidery to rival any formal tablecloth, with a flash of red inside, two long flaps falling over his upper back, it was a dress up item of the finest quality. Forget mum’s old 60’s formal dress, sparkling silver shoes five sizes to big, the shiny red plastic beads that you always thought were priceless and the delicate black shawl that made you feel like a flamenco dancer or a gypsy. This hat, this glorious, erect, regal item of headwear, is the ultimate dress up box prize.
Having done his Clark Kent quick change act, the procession commenced. This was the moment they’d all been waiting for. All those bored police officers suddenly fanned out along the barriers at regular intervals. I’m not sure if they were there to keep back the surging crowd that never surged or protect the Archbishop from attack. A group of church officials led, their faces composed and officious, behind a haze of smoke from the gold pot of incense ceremoniously swung back and forth, cleansing the path. To be the lead altar boy swinging that gold receptacle had always been Gi’s boyhood dream. He’d always wanted to have the honour of swinging the pot, a large mound of incense burning inside, releasing its hazy, pungent smoke. Not because it meant he’d achieved any particular place of pride or position within the church hierarchy, but because he’d always envisioned ways of swinging it wildly, energetically, perhaps outrageously. Gi had imagined it, swaying back and forth, the burning incense inside heating the gold tub, until it found its way underneath the robes of the priest walking ahead, simultaneously lifting them up and burning the unsuspecting clergyman on the thighs and buttocks. Of course Gi put it more eloquently, recalling how he’d dreamt of "swinging that hot gold ball into the priest’s arse."
He’d only ever managed to make it to the number two altar boy position. Following many after school and Sunday lessons he’d finished his catechism, received his Holy Communion and was eventually given responsibility for carrying the tall poles which carried a church candle. In Gi’s fervent imagination, fuelled by the comic strip drawings he produced, he schemed to liven up the Sunday mass. Half of those attending in the pews, including his uncle, habitually slept through the service. Having tended to the candles around the church Gi had observed that the hot wax pooled in the base. Any slight tip resulted in the wax sliding down, dripping onto the candelabra. In his determination to liven things up Gi gently allowed the tall candelabra to tilt slightly, imaging a drip of wax would slide past the priest’s shoulder and hit the floor. Something entirely different happened. Using Gigi as his tool, the devil tilted the pole, not realising that the melted candle and the hot liquid pooling at the base would cause a flood of hot wax to flow down, squarely landing on the priest’s head. The priest’s bald head. Gi, the devil disguised as a ten year old dressed in white robes, watched with a mixture of hilarity and horror. The priest screamed, shocked and unaware of why his head seemed to be on fire. Those that were awake in the pews laughed at his misfortune, those that slept were soon awake, confused and dazed wondering what the commotion was about.
Gi’s intention had been to claim it was an accident, a slip, the look of innocence and regret at his mistake resulting in just a mild reminder to keep the candelabra straight at all times. However the scolding downpour was obviously more than an accident, and with the congregation grinning and snickering with amusement Gi was unable to maintain an appropriately dour demeanour.
Gi tells me his grandfather, the head of the family, was not impressed, but he too could not deny how funny the incident had been. In fact Gi had brought shame upon his family. After the service the priest took him aside. After wrapping his scalp in wet gauze, the second degree burns glowing, he informed Gigi that he was beyond help. He was obviously headed for hell. God did not want him, nor did the priest. He was not welcomed in that church, ever again. At the age of ten, Gi with his mop of dark shiny hair, bright eyes and olive skin, the devil incarnated, was banned from the church.
The priest then promptly took himself off to seek medical assistance.
His family took him down the road to a different church, only to discover that the fraternity of priests have blood thicker, and less forgiving, than holy water. Gi was also unwelcome at that church. To this day, his dozy uncle doesn’t completely understand why.
Yet still, no such trifles of mischief were happening today. Although Gi did continue to refer to the various church officials as ‘Religious Super Dude’, a trifle disrespectful you might think. In fact I was more than surprised when Gi called out, in English, ‘hey over here, why don’t you bless me Religious Super Dude?’ as the Archbishop, hat and all, approached us. He was waving his right hand in the formation of the Cross, the left settled comfortably on his rounded belly. The foreign language might have caught his attention for I could have sworn he looked directly at us, blessing us with his hands and his eyes as he continued to gently stroll towards the Duomo. He stopped briefly a couple of times, the surge of media, security and clergy bottle necking as they entered the Duomo, throwing out blessings to the crowd, looking up to take in the locals watching from their balconies. He appeared both relaxed and a little nervous, as though it had already been a draining day. Perhaps he was thinking about the World Cup Soccer game that had kicked off an hour earlier, or perhaps he was wishing they could stop for a coffee and cigarette break.
The mustard yellow building across from the Duomo houses Chiesa dei Girolamini, also called the Church of San Filippo Neri. Its peeling paint and slightly fatigued demeanour made for a noble backdrop to the colourful crowd and bright hand stitched banners of varying religious sects some crested with white ostrich feather plumes. The large speakers positioned along the road filled the air with the sounds of the cathedral’s choir. Their voices rising and falling, majestically riding the waves of the hymn, losing some of the magic and polish when the congregation where invited to sing. At times the hymns reflected the agony of the tale, causing me to cringe as I circumnavigated a speaker to better view the parade.
Slowly the Archbishop and his companions followed the red carpet, past the Carabinieri guards, and entered the cathedral. The cameramen suddenly lost interest, started packing up their equipment, winding up long electrical cables, the ash dangling precariously from their slightly sodden cigarettes. Some of the crowd continued to watch the big screen, as though the reality of TV was enough for them. The police quickly fell back into their groups chatting together like mothers waiting at the school gate. A team of Red Cross first aid attendants, their bright red polo shirts emblazoned with a white cross, appeared resigned to wait out the whole ceremony.
Not dressed appropriately to enter the cathedral (me in a black singlet and thongs) we meandered back up Via Duomo, towards home, wondering when it would reopen to traffic. The retail shops were all empty, staff sitting forlornly inside, or standing on the footpath reconciled to the fact that the Archbishop had destroyed the day’s trading. We passed a bar, full of people, musing that they too must have been here for the indoctrination, until the television set in the corner exposed the ugly truth. For these Catholics, the World Cup Soccer match of Brazil vs. Argentina was much more important, and certainly more interesting.
It was an afternoon of cultural curiosity for me. Although somehow it wasn’t as ostentatious, or as stately as I had expected. In fact it was a bit like watching a school play. Everyone has rehearsed, every player has their costume. There is a sense of anticipation in the air. The play opens, the set is in place, but something is missing. It’s like only half the tickets were sold and the audience is unnecessarily subdued. Each act goes off faultlessly, no one forgets their lines, or stumbles over a prop, but some of the performers don’t really seem to have their heart in it. It should have felt like opening night, but instead if felt like we were watching the dress rehearsal, as the incense smoke billowed, the hymns swelled, and uniforms, religious and military, drifted by. The tradition, ceremony and solemnity were there. But something was missing, like a Beatles concert without John Lennon, or a church without candles.
After nineteen years at the helm of the Catholic diocese in Naples Cardinal Michele Giordano has stepped down. On 1st July the diocese welcomed the new Archbishop Cardinal Crescenzio Sepe.
We watched some of that afternoon’s proceedings. Via Duomo, one of the main streets dissecting the historical centre from the edge of Piazza Cavour at our front door down to the port was closed to traffic. The transportable steel barriers and flimsy red and white tape a haphazard cordon along the expansive boulevard. The road was unsettlingly quiet in the mid afternoon, with only the occasional scooter dodging the barriers and shooting along the emptiness.
Slowly they came. The official proceedings had commenced at 4pm, by 6pm they were scheduled to move to the Duomo, Naples cathedral. We wandered down, past various groups of men lining the street, dressed in robes. Like the national flag of The Netherlands, they milled around in groups, first a collection in scarlet red, next white trimmed with gold braiding, followed by a gathering of sky blue. Mostly older men, accompanied by the odd youth, and even a couple of little boys, ears pierced, faces reflecting their boredom and resignation.
The TV cameras were set up, sweeping overhead like hawks, smoothly dropping down to capture their prey, images that were soon televised on the huge screen erected at the front of the Duomo. Cameramen scurried around, dressed in cargo pants, cigarettes hanging from their mouths. They looked decidedly underdressed compared to the rest of the milling crowd who seemed to have made an effort in seldom worn suits, ties, jewellery and heels.
Standing near the red carpet that boldly snaked its way inside the cathedral we watched the two Carabinieri officers standing guard beside the enormous wooden doors. Like a slightly less disciplined, less formal version of the Brigade of Guards at Buckingham Palace, they stood erect and watchful, resplendent in their uniforms. Black military uniforms trimmed with red piping, stark white gloves, white shoulder tassels and white leather holster encasing the traditional sword, silver buttons topped off with a black felt hat in the style we associate with Napoleon Bonaparte. The most enchanting item though was the feather plume, royal blue and scarlet red, affixed to the front of the hat. It stood at attention, seemingly mimicking its wearer, ruffling slightly with a passing breeze or when the officer adjusted his position. At times the plumes were the only evidence of the Carabinieri unmoving existence, the crowd of church dignitaries and other security personnel obscuring them from view. Later, after the procession had entered the church, we spied the two guards standing off to the side, shedding their hats, mopping their brows and filling their lungs with noxious tobacco fumes. Any hint of formality or discipline vanished.
It’s a major event for Catholicism in Naples. The departing Cardinal Giordano, always referred to by his surname, was reputedly a loan shark. His appearance supports the idea of undignified, immoral behaviour. A rotund man, his moon shaped face nestled on a planet shaped body. His cheek jowls hung low, the long ears only accentuating the droop. Dark eyes peer out, as though surveying the world for opportunity. What’s left of his thinning grey hair is tucked under the red cap of a cardinal. I’ve seen this man before, several years ago, on September 19th at the St Gennaro rituals. In the flesh, at least superficially, he is not a man of the cloth who fosters a sense of trust and integrity. But perhaps my sentiment is soured by his reputation, for I do not know his character personally, and can not even begin to imagine having a conversation with him.
At first glimpse, the new guy, Archbishop Cresenzio, looks uncannily similar. Interestingly, the distinguished cloth banner hung above the cathedral door implored "Let us pray for our Bishop Cresenzio", using his first (or should it be ‘Christian’?) name, as though the city has already welcomed him into their homes, to their tables, surpassing the need for any formality during introductions. A closer study revealed that he is of a lesser stature than his predecessor. (Although after nineteen years of indulging in the hospitality of Neapolitans you too would most likely be portly). His hair is darker, black but for a man his age I suspect it may be with the help of a bottle (would it be appropriate for a Bishop to be vain enough to want to dye his hair to maintain a younger appearance?). His jowls have already started their descent and you can see the potential for matching those of Giordano. It’s his eyebrows that seem to set the tone for his face though. They arch up, dark peaks directed towards his temples. He smiles slightly inanely, a middle aged man who wants to appear benevolent but hasn’t mastered the art of naturally greeting his well wishers, or the lens of a camera.
Most of the important ceremonial rituals and service take place inside the church on the corner of Via Duomo where Cardinal Giordano has relinquished his post, and then later in the Duomo where the appointment of Achbishop Cresenzio will be finalised. The cathedral itself was now packed with people. Church officials, police officers, security personnel, media representatives and the masses, the church’s supporters, followers and its devotees filled the wooden pews and plastic seating especially installed for the event. True Catholics in a land where 84% of the population identify themselves as believers in the Roman Catholic faith, Naples is a city of contradiction as the form of Catholicism practiced here is mixed up with superstition and ancient occult worshiping. The growing crowd in the small square at the front of the cathedral reflected the same diversity.
I stumbled across the church’s announcement on a poster in another church in the historical centre earlier in the week. We watched with amusement as a few tourists wandered down Via Duomo, no doubt following the tourist trail, their faces a mixture of curiosity and confusion at the swarm of people, television cameras and police presence. It is indeed a strange feeling, when you stumble across such unexpected activity as a foreigner. You feel like you are intruding, on something that is deeply personal to the city and its citizens, but at the same time your curiosity is compelling. Strangely though, your embarrassment and uncertainty win over any desire to delve, like you need permission to pry, and you scarper, making your way through the throng quickly, feeling relieved yet dissatisfied on the other side.
The police presence surprised me. There was the usual variety of Italian police including traffic police, state police and Carabinieri. I was mostly surprised at how many of them there were, wondering if they were on overtime or had been relocated from normal duties elsewhere across the city. Before the procession commenced they tended to huddle together, each group self contained, as though cross pollination was something to be avoided. Two ambulances unhurriedly drove down Via Duomo, an odd sight as they are usually blaring, sirens whining, blue lights flashing as they weave in and out of the traffic. An ambulance was parked across from us, the paramedics drinking coffee from polystyrene cups, gaudy in their fluorescent orange uniforms. I took a photo, capturing them idly appraising the surroundings, standing beside church officials, their heavy cream tunics and shoulder capes trimmed with gold braiding. The contrast in outfits was something of a time warp, the ultra modern orange ridiculous against the historical styled gowns of the clergy.
Eventually the speeches were over, and the official party prepared to move to the Duomo. The new Archbishop did a quick Superman act at this stage, disappearing briefly dressed in a red circular cape under which lay a gown of white lace, similar to what your aged grandmother wears to bed in an effort to retain her modesty and femininity. He reappeared in a less garish outfit with a cream gown embroidered with what seemed to depict an evening sky, gold stars and deep blue waves of falling dusk. Or perhaps they were fireworks spreading out from his chest, across his shoulders and down over his abdomen. The distinguishing feature was his hat (what do you call an Archbishop’s hat?). Shaped like two giant stiff petals, cream with an intricacy of gold embroidery to rival any formal tablecloth, with a flash of red inside, two long flaps falling over his upper back, it was a dress up item of the finest quality. Forget mum’s old 60’s formal dress, sparkling silver shoes five sizes to big, the shiny red plastic beads that you always thought were priceless and the delicate black shawl that made you feel like a flamenco dancer or a gypsy. This hat, this glorious, erect, regal item of headwear, is the ultimate dress up box prize.
Having done his Clark Kent quick change act, the procession commenced. This was the moment they’d all been waiting for. All those bored police officers suddenly fanned out along the barriers at regular intervals. I’m not sure if they were there to keep back the surging crowd that never surged or protect the Archbishop from attack. A group of church officials led, their faces composed and officious, behind a haze of smoke from the gold pot of incense ceremoniously swung back and forth, cleansing the path. To be the lead altar boy swinging that gold receptacle had always been Gi’s boyhood dream. He’d always wanted to have the honour of swinging the pot, a large mound of incense burning inside, releasing its hazy, pungent smoke. Not because it meant he’d achieved any particular place of pride or position within the church hierarchy, but because he’d always envisioned ways of swinging it wildly, energetically, perhaps outrageously. Gi had imagined it, swaying back and forth, the burning incense inside heating the gold tub, until it found its way underneath the robes of the priest walking ahead, simultaneously lifting them up and burning the unsuspecting clergyman on the thighs and buttocks. Of course Gi put it more eloquently, recalling how he’d dreamt of "swinging that hot gold ball into the priest’s arse."
He’d only ever managed to make it to the number two altar boy position. Following many after school and Sunday lessons he’d finished his catechism, received his Holy Communion and was eventually given responsibility for carrying the tall poles which carried a church candle. In Gi’s fervent imagination, fuelled by the comic strip drawings he produced, he schemed to liven up the Sunday mass. Half of those attending in the pews, including his uncle, habitually slept through the service. Having tended to the candles around the church Gi had observed that the hot wax pooled in the base. Any slight tip resulted in the wax sliding down, dripping onto the candelabra. In his determination to liven things up Gi gently allowed the tall candelabra to tilt slightly, imaging a drip of wax would slide past the priest’s shoulder and hit the floor. Something entirely different happened. Using Gigi as his tool, the devil tilted the pole, not realising that the melted candle and the hot liquid pooling at the base would cause a flood of hot wax to flow down, squarely landing on the priest’s head. The priest’s bald head. Gi, the devil disguised as a ten year old dressed in white robes, watched with a mixture of hilarity and horror. The priest screamed, shocked and unaware of why his head seemed to be on fire. Those that were awake in the pews laughed at his misfortune, those that slept were soon awake, confused and dazed wondering what the commotion was about.
Gi’s intention had been to claim it was an accident, a slip, the look of innocence and regret at his mistake resulting in just a mild reminder to keep the candelabra straight at all times. However the scolding downpour was obviously more than an accident, and with the congregation grinning and snickering with amusement Gi was unable to maintain an appropriately dour demeanour.
Gi tells me his grandfather, the head of the family, was not impressed, but he too could not deny how funny the incident had been. In fact Gi had brought shame upon his family. After the service the priest took him aside. After wrapping his scalp in wet gauze, the second degree burns glowing, he informed Gigi that he was beyond help. He was obviously headed for hell. God did not want him, nor did the priest. He was not welcomed in that church, ever again. At the age of ten, Gi with his mop of dark shiny hair, bright eyes and olive skin, the devil incarnated, was banned from the church.
The priest then promptly took himself off to seek medical assistance.
His family took him down the road to a different church, only to discover that the fraternity of priests have blood thicker, and less forgiving, than holy water. Gi was also unwelcome at that church. To this day, his dozy uncle doesn’t completely understand why.
Yet still, no such trifles of mischief were happening today. Although Gi did continue to refer to the various church officials as ‘Religious Super Dude’, a trifle disrespectful you might think. In fact I was more than surprised when Gi called out, in English, ‘hey over here, why don’t you bless me Religious Super Dude?’ as the Archbishop, hat and all, approached us. He was waving his right hand in the formation of the Cross, the left settled comfortably on his rounded belly. The foreign language might have caught his attention for I could have sworn he looked directly at us, blessing us with his hands and his eyes as he continued to gently stroll towards the Duomo. He stopped briefly a couple of times, the surge of media, security and clergy bottle necking as they entered the Duomo, throwing out blessings to the crowd, looking up to take in the locals watching from their balconies. He appeared both relaxed and a little nervous, as though it had already been a draining day. Perhaps he was thinking about the World Cup Soccer game that had kicked off an hour earlier, or perhaps he was wishing they could stop for a coffee and cigarette break.
The mustard yellow building across from the Duomo houses Chiesa dei Girolamini, also called the Church of San Filippo Neri. Its peeling paint and slightly fatigued demeanour made for a noble backdrop to the colourful crowd and bright hand stitched banners of varying religious sects some crested with white ostrich feather plumes. The large speakers positioned along the road filled the air with the sounds of the cathedral’s choir. Their voices rising and falling, majestically riding the waves of the hymn, losing some of the magic and polish when the congregation where invited to sing. At times the hymns reflected the agony of the tale, causing me to cringe as I circumnavigated a speaker to better view the parade.
Slowly the Archbishop and his companions followed the red carpet, past the Carabinieri guards, and entered the cathedral. The cameramen suddenly lost interest, started packing up their equipment, winding up long electrical cables, the ash dangling precariously from their slightly sodden cigarettes. Some of the crowd continued to watch the big screen, as though the reality of TV was enough for them. The police quickly fell back into their groups chatting together like mothers waiting at the school gate. A team of Red Cross first aid attendants, their bright red polo shirts emblazoned with a white cross, appeared resigned to wait out the whole ceremony.
Not dressed appropriately to enter the cathedral (me in a black singlet and thongs) we meandered back up Via Duomo, towards home, wondering when it would reopen to traffic. The retail shops were all empty, staff sitting forlornly inside, or standing on the footpath reconciled to the fact that the Archbishop had destroyed the day’s trading. We passed a bar, full of people, musing that they too must have been here for the indoctrination, until the television set in the corner exposed the ugly truth. For these Catholics, the World Cup Soccer match of Brazil vs. Argentina was much more important, and certainly more interesting.
It was an afternoon of cultural curiosity for me. Although somehow it wasn’t as ostentatious, or as stately as I had expected. In fact it was a bit like watching a school play. Everyone has rehearsed, every player has their costume. There is a sense of anticipation in the air. The play opens, the set is in place, but something is missing. It’s like only half the tickets were sold and the audience is unnecessarily subdued. Each act goes off faultlessly, no one forgets their lines, or stumbles over a prop, but some of the performers don’t really seem to have their heart in it. It should have felt like opening night, but instead if felt like we were watching the dress rehearsal, as the incense smoke billowed, the hymns swelled, and uniforms, religious and military, drifted by. The tradition, ceremony and solemnity were there. But something was missing, like a Beatles concert without John Lennon, or a church without candles.
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