MARTINA FRANCA

Giuseppe is clearing breakfast dishes from the dining room. All the brothers have left but, unusually, the master of novices remains. It is no secret that Giuseppe has struggled with this task of late. As a sign of penance he has attached fragments of dropped plates and bowls to his robe, such that its hem is constantly brushing the ground, making another spill even more likely. And beneath his robe: the knee behind which the tumour appeared, as if overnight, signalling, he feared, the return of his childhood affliction. The tumour he attended to himself, cutting it out so completely there was little flesh left and no chance of him walking, let alone undertaking the labour required of a novice, for the better part of a month.

‘Brother Stefano?’ says the master of novices, for this is the name Giuseppe was given upon his arrival with the Capuchins.

‘Yes, Father?’

‘Sit with me a moment.’

‘But Father—?’

‘Put them down.’ He nods at the dishes. ‘Carefully. Good, now sit. Yes, there.’ The master of novices grimaces and, though he lets his muscles slacken almost instantly, it seems to take many seconds for the skin of his face to reach a restful attitude. ‘Brother Stefano, do you know why men go through the period of the novitiate?’

‘To demonstrate their suitability for life within the Order?’

‘And how long have you been with us?’

‘Eight months, Father.’

‘And what chance do you see of demonstrating your suitability for spiritual life or manual work in the next four months?’

‘Father?’

‘Giuseppe,’ he says, meaning to continue but making the mistake of looking into the not-yet-eighteen-year-old’s eyes and seeing that, despite his mental deficiencies, he has grasped the significance of hearing his birth name, just as San Stefano saw the men laying down their coats at the feet of Saul of Tarsus and knew that he was to be stoned. ‘Giuseppe,’ he repeats, letting his chest inflate, ‘I must ask that you return to the world. Your health is frail, you are constantly distracted. Whether in garden or kitchen you are sure to wreak havoc and not one of your brothers has come to your defence. When I raise the question of your suitability, it is I who fall into the role of your defender. This is not how it must be. Your continued presence is a threat not only to our store of crockery, but to the novitiate period of your brothers and the harmonious operation of this entire convent.’ The master of novices sighs and caresses his beard. ‘There simply isn’t enough cloth left to display the extent of your ineptitude, and thus I must ask for your habit and that you take your leave of us — today.’

Giuseppe will later describe this moment as if he was being asked to take his skin off with his habit. Indeed, since he has managed to lose most of the clothes he brought with him to Martina Franca, he takes his first steps away from the convent clad only in a wide-brimmed hat, a vest, and a pair of trousers with one leg cut off at the thigh to accommodate his still-bandaged wound. It is April 1621. He is at equal risk of too much or too little sun. He has no money. Nothing on his feet. He is leaving his first religious order without ever mastering the ecstasies he has known since his earliest memories. Even now, in the midst of this failure, he can feel the string that runs from the back of his tongue to his heart vibrating as if plucked with great violence. He can feel the Virgin’s presence. He attributes to her the vision he sees: the image of Our Lady that was discovered in a cave near Copertino.

But there are other visions too. They come unbidden, uncontrolled. The young mystic is standing in the midday sun with a long walk ahead of him, but he is seeing the encounter with his uncle, Francesco Desa, in Avetrana two days hence, and the news that Giuseppe’s father has died and that he is now, as his heir, liable for his debts and will be sent to prison if he falls into the hands of his creditors.

He sees his mother remove her shoe to beat him over the head upon his return to Copertino.

He sees another uncle, Gianni Donatus Caputo, the Provincial for Puglia and Poland, upbraiding him for his failure with the Capuchins and refusing to help.

He sees the priest in charge of building the sacristy at Grottella stepping forward after his uncle has left and offering to let him hide in the small attic of the church until his creditors relinquish their claim or his uncles relent.

This is what he sees as he resumes his lock-kneed bumble back to Copertino.

He does not know it will be six months in that attic cell as a clandestino di Dio before his sad fate and hidden virtues exert themselves on his uncles. Six months before he receives the habit of a tertiary and the immunity this grants him from secular law.

He does not know that he will face similar challenges with his new set of brothers, or that his ecstasies will begin to lift him to the heavens, or that he will be revered and reviled in almost equal measure until the final years of his life.

He does not know these things, though none of them will come as a surprise. Not in the least.