The Quantum Mantra

by Henri-Paul Bour

Pascal and Mayumi were comfortably set in Italian designer sofas, resting on a large terrace overlooking the piazza. Their two hosts, Augusto and Loredana epitomised the wonderful Italian hospitality. They had the chance to live in an attic: a penthouse on the top floor of a very old palace that dated at least from the 16th Century. It was the dream shared by millions of Asian people. And this small and narrow via was only 100 meters from the Basilica San Maggiore!

  From their balcony they could admire the magnificent Basilica. It was first built in the 13th Century and renovated with a Baroque superstructure during The Renaissance when the kingdom of Naples belonged to the Spanish and was ruled by the Viceroy. A beautiful masterpiece, it proudly stood on one side of a small, elevated piazza—a living vestige of the Catholic Church’s opulence and its extreme power.

  Right in the centre of this historical city, the Basilica was surrounded by many exquisite palaces hidden behind huge, thick walls, and imposing carved doors. It was a real astonishment indeed!

  From outside, the city seemed to be badly maintained, and stunning antique monuments were falling in ruins. Walls were tagged and the streets were left to squatters. Washed clothing was hanging on every balcony.

  But this was only the apparent reality. Many important personalities were living in sumptuous residences, hidden behind modest wooden doors, kept secret from the passers-by.

  Augusto’s dream was to become a famous architect, but didn’t have much chance finding a decent job in that wonderful, but run-down city. Nevertheless, he could express his talent in his own apartment, which he bought at a bargain. Helped by Loredana’s exquisite taste, they created functional neo-classical deco settings that mingled technology with historical furnishings and pieces of art.

  Superb double-arch marble stairs with 16th Century ironwork balustrades, high Florentine ceilings, niches with delicately-carved statues from the Renaissance, French oak Parquet from Versailles, African masks, contemporary paintings, totems from New Guinea, old doors from Burma, black-lacquered furniture from China and many antiques from around the world made this place an elegant museum and a very comfortable home.

  Pascal and Mayumi were enchanted by the elegance and the refinement of this unique setting, and they appreciated their bedrooms that opened onto a covered terrace, with a panoramic view of the surrounding roofs and the famous Bay of Napoli. This view, however, was without the Vesuvius volcano, which is usually shown on postcards.

  “You know,” said Loredana as she looked at Pascal and Mayumi, “we are happy to have you; and you both look like a perfect match. I am jealous!”

  “Well,” said Pascal, feeling uneasy and trying a lousy joke, “I must admit it is a lovely place for a honeymoon, but it is not Valentine’s Day.”

  He avoided looking at Mayumi, who, of course, pretended to miss the joke.

  “The good news,” teased Augusto, “is that I could arrange a rendezvous with the prior of the convent: Il Fratre Benvenuto.”

  “I introduced you both as historiographers doing research on the Dominican Order’s history during The Renaissance so you could talk about Bruno Giordano without him becoming suspicious. Your appointment is tomorrow at 9 a.m. in the sacristy of the basilica.”

  “I propose Loredana and I join you. It is better that we go together. I am afraid Il Fratre Benvenuto doesn’t speak English and probably not French or Japanese either. Since I know him personally, communication will be easy.”

  The next morning was sunny and warm. The atmosphere in the narrow streets of the Centro Historico was very different from the sophisticated ambiance in Rome. People were shouting from one shop to another, noisy scooters traced their way, zigzagging dangerously between scared passers-by.

  Many children had probably missed school and played noisily. You could see that most of the inhabitants were poor, if not unemployed, and strange characters sat on public benches talking loudly, probably commenting on the last football match. The familiar atmosphere made these streets lively and in a way, pleasant. It had the taste of holidays.

  The church was magnificent with its oak panelled sacristy dating from The Renaissance, showing on its very high mezzanine the mausoleums of the fathers of the order. Religious scenes were inserted between the thick wooden panels and the vaulted ceiling was typically from the flamboyant Gothic period. A huge arch connected the sacristy to the main body of the cathedral.

  A man with a white Dominican robe was standing straight with one hand caressing his white beard and the other counting his rosary beads he wore as a belt around his waist.

  His hair was very short and with his monk tonsure, he appeared as a noble figure.

  He looked at his watch: 8:30 a.m. He was too early.

  He seemed perplexed, and decided to go down the stairs next to the altar and walk back to the Basilica. He had forgotten a document he wanted to show his visitors. He couldn’t see the black shadows waiting for him in the “abside", hidden behind the huge pillars. They followed him silently as he went down the stairs.

  The visitors arrived at 9 a.m. sharp and entered the central nave from the side transept at the right of the Basilica. The sacristy was located ten meters down the right corridor. It was empty.

  Pascal and Mayumi stopped at the threshold and at the same time admired the imposing structure and the rare artefacts that were inestimable heritage from the past: statues, sepulchres, tabernacles from Tino da Carmaino and Luigi d’Ungheria, and paintings from Simone Martini, decorated tombs of rich Italians, nobilities, and sponsors of the Church. The stained glass windows and glorious altars were guarded on both sides by winged angels in marble. All these pieces were the works from the best artists of the Neapolitan Renaissance.

  Pascal noticed that on each side of the main altar an odd staircase in white marble descended to a dark corridor.

  A chain blocked the way with a panel indicating vietato (forbidden). This was unusual in churches.

  They waited for fifteen minutes and Augusto called the Dominican’s mobile phone.

  “I hope he doesn’t keep the phone on during mass in case he receives a local call from Jesus!” Pascal felt self-content with that joke.

  Augusto didn’t even listen; he seemed worried. There was no answer to his call.

  “This is not his style,” mumbled Augusto. “He is usually very strict and on time. Something has happened!”

  Pascal suddenly had an intuition. The stairs!

  “Let’s go!” he almost shouted and he started to run back to the main nave. He jumped above the blocking chain down to the long narrow black corridor and downward to the underground followed by the others.

  In the dim atmosphere he could see nothing but the somber frames of side doors. They heard a faint cry from far away, somewhere at the end.

  They used the light from their phones and progressed in the gloomy light.

  The cry was amplifying and the last door made of a heavy metal showed a beam of light underneath its panel.

  “Shh…” whispered Pascal. They advanced slowly now in total silence.

  A dreadful cry came from behind that door so they stopped in front of the panel.

  Pascal counted 1…2...3, then smashed the door open. Beyond it was a smelly, vaulted tunnel going with an earthen floor. Augusto was right behind him. They made out one of the entrances to the famous interconnecting secret passages below the old city. A small, side cavity was lit with torches.

  Three young guys had their back to the door. In front of them, a naked old bearded man was tied to an electric pipe that ran along the ceiling; his robe lay on the floor. One of the guys had a knife and was delicately stripping the man’s flesh.

  Pascal dropped on him and at the same time applied an “atemi" to another.

  The two characters were almost knocked down. Augusto, also well built, punched the third one hard in the face. The cowardly youngsters were too surprised and not well trained to react quickly. Terrified, they immediately ran out, without even glancing to the two women who were waitin
g outside.

  Mayumi had the reflex to extend one leg to stop them. The one with the knife fell down, hurting his face badly as the knife pierced his jaw, but he was so scared that he stood up immediately and hurried to safety.

  Augusto recognized the naked man immediately; it was the prior. His robe was stained with blood. Pascal examined his wounds and found that they were superficial. They had arrived in time, before the youth had played real tormentors.

  Half conscious, the priest was shaking.

  “Fratre Benvenuto,” asked Augusto, “Are you OK?”

  “Oh, Augusto. You are here!” He was recovering fast. “Thank you so much my dear friend.”

  Augusto whispered in his ear, “Shall we call the police Padre?”

  Still in shock, the Dominican responded with a raucous and apprehensive voice.

  “No, No! This is obviously a conflict with the Camora. It is not necessary.”

  “Why not?”

  The Dominican replied in Italian to Augusto.

  “You know how it works here. These young guys were sent by the Camora to warn me against divulging secrets about old documents. They may fear that foreigners divulge secret documents. They know, of course, that your friends are here. They had no intention of killing me.”

  “This event must not be publicised. Please just help me out, and thank you so much for your help!”

  Augusto explained to Pascal.

  “Fratre Gabrielle is right. The Camora is so powerful here that it is pointless complaining to the police. Some drug lords who know you are contacting the convent have probably been contracted these young thugs for few Euros. They were probably trying to get information from the priest before you do.”

  “In fact the reason is not very clear, but it may be related to your friends in Burma who want to find the mantras that you are looking for in Naples. Don’t worry, the prior also has his connections and the scoundrels will be punished by their own people.”

  “Now the creeps are hiding in the Scampia, the unsafe District 167, where nobody dares to venture. What could the police do, supposing they wanted to do something?”

  Pascal understood some Italian and had followed the conversation. He was surprised.

  “I did not believe that a country as sophisticated as Italy could encounter these problems. Is there any legal order anywhere in the world?”

  “Don’t you think that a business transacting millions of Euros daily can change things? The Americans say money talks, and believe me, it does here,” said Augusto with cynicism.

  “But what will we do now?”

  Augusto tried to be positive.

  “Chance is with us. You were lucky enough to rescue the brave priest and you have to take advantage of the situation. The Dominican owes you his life and he will consider you as a friend. You will get your information.”

  They helped the Dominican back to the sacristy and Pascal went to a pharmacy for first aid. Fortunately, some band aids and disinfectant were enough for the time being.

  The Dominican looked exhausted. With a trembling voice he said, “Sorry about the meeting. I need to rest a while”. Come to see me tomorrow morning at five for Matins at the convent here, next to the sacristy”. He showed them a small door at the back.

  They arrived early the next morning.

  “Let me show you around,” said the prior.

  “The main facilities of the convent San Lorenzo Maggiore were moved a long time ago to the countryside. The only remains of the original buildings are in a small priory rebuilt in the French Gothic style during the Renaissance by the Spanish Viceroy. At this time of day you can only discern part of the priory set at the side of the solemn Basilica, which has a fine and restrained architecture in a pure, unadorned style. Over there, an arched gallery surrounds a simple courtyard. The building is shaped as a cloister where monks can meditate and walk around; we call it the Ambulatorium.

  The priest pointed to a dark shadow in the middle.

  “This Madonna and Child is from Montano d’Arezzo, one of the best sculptors of the Renaissance! I will show you it later.”

  Even though the light was dim, the gloom of the dawn gave the sensation of a hidden splendour and a peaceful environment that was strict and minimalist.

  “There,” continued the priest proudly, “you can see that function rooms are connected to the gallery through high, heavy doors. A small chapel has been kept, and we still use it for prayers and chanting Gregorian songs. We will have our morning meal in that room, a refectory untouched since the Renaissance equipped with long, antique benches and oak tables. It is connected to a large kitchen that is, I must admit, quite primitive.”

  He pointed to a collection of faded murals on the wall that represented Jesus’s path to the crucifixion. After the quick visit in the silent, semi-darkness, they entered into the heart of the convent and followed Fratre Benvenuto to the chapel where a dozen monks were already kneeling on both sides of wooden prayer benches. Candles were projecting the ghostly shadows of the robed priests who sat in two rows facing onto the arched Gothic ceiling. A strong smell of incense was filling the atmosphere.

  Suddenly, Pascal was absorbed into memories of overwhelming feelings when his mother dragged him to Christian religious events such as The Passion ceremony, which was so dramatically embodied by enthralling composers such as Bach and many others. The poignant vibration of the music always gave him, as a child, the illusion that he believed in the Catholic faith.

  The moment the prior entered they priests stood up, creating a strange noise of wooden cracks echoing in the vault. There was silence again as they waited for their guests to be seated.

  The cracking noise was repeated as they all sat and continued to recite prayers.

  “Pater noster qui est in cielo…….”

  About fifteen minutes later they all stood up again. One of them walked to the middle and stood in front of a wooden pupitre where a musical notation book was laid.

  “Gregorian songs,” indicated the priest.

  “Kyrie Eleison…” Deep voices invaded the quiet atmosphere and resonated with the vault. A moving sensation had the guests vibrating with deep recollections of compassion and serenity.

  The chants lasted for half an hour. Pascal had already entered into a deep meditation and Mayumi seemed totally relaxed and happy, deep into her spiritual world.

  After a moment of peace and silence the prior came to them and showed the musical notation book Gregorian Songs that was named after Pope Gregory. They were used in the 12th Century as the ‘sanctified pedigree of the plainchant’, its traditional name since the Roman Ages.

  “You see: these quotations are square; not ovals as the usual ones. We call them “neumes". They are notated in a system ancestral to modern musical notation. They only indicate movements and duration, and variations on the same tone. The pitches are usually sung Viva Voce, which means learned and repeated by oral tradition. The Gregorian Chanting helps the monks and priests to emit powerful resonating vibrations.”

  He turned to Mayumi, “They’re probably like the mantras of your Buddhist religion. Our group just chants a capella—without any instrumental backing. It starts a Psalmody, a kind of recitative, resonating process between the individuals and the group. This is chanted to prepare the state of mind Buddhists call The Sati: the peace of mind. The soloist in the center of the group answers with free melodies on several tones. This is called ‘the Repons’: the Oriental prana. Psalmody and repons resonate together in such a way that our monks can attain a state of illumination,” he said. “Gregorian chants have always brought us to higher levels of consciousness. It has been like this since the Roman canonical tradition.”

  Happy to show his knowledge of Oriental culture and tradition, he said to Mayumi, “You see, we are not so different from the monks in your country; we chant and contemplate.”

  A broad smile appeared on his square face.

  “All priests here would like to convey their deep grati
tude for your brave action yesterday. All our fraters would appreciate it if you could join us now for our meal of matins.”

  It was already 6 a.m. Queuing in good order and in total silence, the priests entered the refectory and sat at their assigned places along the stretched tables. The Prior invited his guests to sit next to him.

  “We have only coffee or tea, toast, fruits and milk or yoghurt. Sorry if you find it frugal.”

  The heartening odour of the coffee was already filling the room and everyone seemed to be enjoying the moment.

  “What do you want to know about the order?” asked the Prior suddenly.

  Pascal decided to be straightforward, and with Augusto translating, asked frankly, “Fratre, we have to find an old manuscript from the Orient, and to be more precise, an old mantra that has been sent centuries ago to the Christian people by Buddhist missionaries. We heard that during The Renaissance, one of your monks from Naples had the opportunity to find it. He was a famous Dominican who, before he died, entrusted it back to the prior here in this convent.”

  “Well, it is a long time ago,” answered the Prior. “We still have a small library—or at least what we could hide from what Napoleon stole from us. So what is the name of this Dominican?”

  “Giordano Bruno!”

  Immediately a frown that turned into a puzzled look appeared on the Fratre’s face.

  “It is impossible!” he replied.

  Pascal understood the dilemma. The Church does not like to divulge important manuscripts as The Prior had explained.

  Pascal had to convince him.

  “What we are seeking Fratre is not for personal greed. We know this document exists and must be here. Some bad people from a strong and dangerous organization want to get it, whatever the price. We cannot really tell too much about that organization. We do not know them yet! But, believe us, they are very well connected and follow us everywhere. We believe they try to get hold on the manuscript to get political and mental power. We are still confused and start only now to understand how dangerous they can be.

  Ourselves, we are very insignificant, compared to them; but what we do is for a good cause, in a humanitarian way; not for us, not for power nor money.”

  He added a pious lie, “Please help us. We only want to make sure the manuscript containing the mantra is safely kept here. That is all we need know!”

  Of course Pascal didn’t elaborate on his psychic talent; who knows how they would react to that!

  The priest looked into Pascal eyes. He had a long experience with human souls and was sure of Pascal’s good intention, but he had to make a critical decision. Sometimes Dominicans were more flexible and more independent than the other Orders. They have built the reputation that they rely more on their own decisions. Still, it was a difficult choice to make.

  Abruptly, he proposed: “Recently we have received strict instructions not to give any documents from our historical library no matter who asks for it”.

  Pascal had understood the implication.

  “But nobody said anything about just showing the documents, is that right?”

  “Exactly! So I will let you see it!”

  “No problem,” said Pascal, as he had no alternative.

  The prior talked to the man seated next to Augusto.

  “Fratre, desidero il documento di Bruno Giordano!”

  The priest immediately stood up without paying attention to his unfinished coffee then disappeared. It took only a few minutes. When he came back he was holding a large, rough, brownish leather pouch that was bound with a red leather ribbon. He gave it to the Prior to open. There was only a codex inside about A4-size with a hard leather cover. They could see engraved on it: El Arte Della Memoria.

  “That’s all we have,” said the fratre.

  “That’s all?” Pascal was disappointed, and not convinced.

  “May I see the pouch and the book?”

  He concentrated, looking at both items from different angles. Then he whispered to Mayumi next to him, “Did you see the pouch? What did you notice?”

  She didn’t have to focus her attention; she had understood before he did.

  “The old leather showed faded marks as if a box or something thick had been kept inside it for a long time.

  “Was there something else inside?” he asked the librarian.

  “I do not remember,” he answered.

  “Ok then.” said Pascal. He opened the book and rapidly observed all the pages. During his brief investigation he saw something on one of the pages that was unusual and didn’t match the original document.

  The text was written in Gothic Latin on vellum, an expensive sheepskin paper. He showed the priests the unusual marks that appeared to have been recently added to that page of the beautifully illustrated book. The non-matching letters were written next to a diagram that did Giordano Bruno describe demonstrating the memory structure as. They looked much more recent than the other text.

  “What are these inscriptions?” he asked, showing the text that was hand written on the borders of the diagrams. Everyone looked at it, and even the Prior couldn’t make any sense of the words.

  After a long and tense silence, Pascal asked Mayumi.

  “Do you have some kind of cosmetic powder case?”

  The monks looked upset at the idea of putting powder on the book.

  Mayumi handed Pascal her Chanel blush compact case.

  Pascal tried to lighten the tense situation with a joke.

  “Don’t worry Fratre, I don’t powder my cheeks!”

  Feeling relief, they all burst into laughter.

  Pascal opened Mayumi’s case and as expected, there was a small mirror stuck inside. He placed it in front of the indecipherable writing and started reading:

  Ex Livro Veritas

  Roma condemnum

  Pietrae erectum.

  portam secretorum

  Mirror writing! Even Galileo used it to hide from the Inquisition!

  They were all puzzled.

  The text was in Latin.

  “Who wrote that?” Pascal asked.

  No one knew.

  Once again Pascal had an idea.

  “Do you have a register of your precious documents Fratre?” he asked the librarian.

  “Of course,” he answered, “and we even have one file for each one.”

  “Can I see this one?”

  Without any complaint and still with good intent, the librarian stood up.

  A few minutes later he was back with a wrinkled parchment paper with inscriptions hand-written in Latin but not in the old Gothic style.

  “Here is the date we received the document, and here the date when somebody consulted it.”

  There were only two dates. 1650: Fratre Gabriel and 1880: Ettore Ferrari.

  “Who is this person?” questioned Pascal.

  The librarian and the Prior looked at each other and seemed very perplexed.

  We believe Fratre Gabriel is the Dominican who brought this book here for Bruno Giordano, his Dominican ‘brother’, but we do not know any Ettore Ferrari.”

  Loredana knew.

  “Ettore Ferrari was a famous sculptor from the 19th Century,” she explained. “He was also the president of the Italian Mason’s Lodge; a free thinker and a friend of Victor Hugo. And, if I remember correctly, he was the one who crafted the Bruno Giordano statue erected in Rome’s Piazza dei Fiori against the Pope’s will.

  Pascal and Mayumi looked at each other and smiled.

  “That is it!” they said in unison.

  Discretely, Mayumi took a picture of the document with her phone and no one even had seen it had been done. The guests then stood up and warmly excused themselves and promised to come back some day.

  …

  “Reality is what we take to be true,

  What we take to be true is what we believe,

  and what we believe is based upon our perceptions.”

  David Bohm, physicist