A few minutes later, I realized that someone was calling “Signore” and upon looking up, realized that that someone was talking to me. I’d never seen him before but he was probably in his late thirties, with close cropped hair and sideburns. He had on a pair of jeans, a sweater, and the ubiquitous Italian scarf. He also had my shoulder bag, which he seemed to be offering me but when I reached out for it, he drew back the bag, identified himself as “Politzia,” and pointed over his shoulder to where a handcuffed man was being loaded into the back of a cruiser.
If you’ve ever been robbed, or burgled, or vandalized, you’re probably familiar with the slow moving logic that slides through the disorientation and eventually brings you to the conclusion that you have been made victim of a crime. What seemed particularly odd in this case was that fact that I had been sitting there the whole time and, under shelter of my umbrella, hadn’t seen a thing. Didn’t even know it happened.
There’s no point in going into details. We walked over to the station, which was only about 100 yards away where I was led up the steps and into a bare-walled room, and with me in one corner and the “perp” in the other, filled out our respective paperwork. (Mine being slowed up slightly by the language barrier.) Eventually they brought over the finished report (in Italian) and asked me to read it over for accuracy. It looked great to me, very official with nice margins and everything so I signed away and I was out the door with the admonishment to be a little more watchful in the future. I was feeling kinda silly and amused by how close I came to ending the day by walking home clutching my umbrella but having no idea where my bag was, but I was also feeling pretty lucky, and when I feel lucky, there’s only one place to go…up on the Aventine, to hear the monks sing Vespers at San Anselmo.
Now I’ve been trying to hear these monks for about four months. It started when I read a blurb somewhere recommending it as a Roman activity not to be missed. That was in late June and on a warm Saturday afternoon I trudged up the hill to reconnoiter, finding a note affirming that the monks did, in fact, sing nightly from the first of October to the end of June. So the next night, June 28th, I went back up the hill where, along with a dozen or so similarly puzzled folk, found that the church was locked up tighter than a drum, the monks having apparently taken off for the Poconos a little early this year. This was disappointing.
The summer passed but part of my brain was continually keeping track of the days remaining before the monk’s return. Around the third of fourth of October I was standing outside the church, this time wondering what the story was with the Swiss school choir that was knocking out some Viennese chorale music inside and where were the frippin’ monks anyway? In a particularly unsettling development, the previously mentioned sign that announced the schedule of singing was nowhere to be found. Eventually I found someone attached to the church who told me that the monks would, in fact be singing in October but not for another week or so, once school started up. I tried again a week and a half ago but that turned out to be All Saints Day and the program was a little more elaborate than usual; bishops, bright vestments, booming organ. Not bad, but not what I was looking for either.
So tonight was going to be my last shot. I’d already had one lucky break and was thinking that maybe my luck would hold, although that looked doubtful when the skies started to throw it down in buckets on the walk over but it rained itself out pretty quickly and although I was drenched…well, I’ve been drenched before.
From the walkway the church appeared dark and my heart started to sink but as I got closer to the glass I could see that there was some light inside. The door was unlocked and I walked in. There was no one inside but myself and the organist who was playing quietly. A few lights burned from the area around the altar but the rest of the church was in shadows. I sat.
I have no idea how old the church is. The interior appears newer than most of the churches in Rome. It is neither imposing nor intimate, and is, if anything, airy. The walls are painted a warm yellow. Granite columns, waxed glossy, line the walls. The apse behind the altar is decorated with a large but simple mosaic and a crucifix decorated with a Byzantine inspired painting of Christ is suspended from a light chain. It appears to float above the altar.
After 20 minutes or so, the organ player stopped playing and turned off the lamp above the keyboard. A few minutes later a handful of monks started to roam around the altar area. Candles were lit, hymnals placed, and the lights throughout the church were brought up (which was a shame). A half a dozen people had filtered in and taken seats and a man in secular dress distributed leaflets containing the evening’s Vespers.
A little after seven, the church’s bells started to ring. Too small to truly toll, they sounded more melodic than most of the larger bells in town. The monks filed in, there were about 60 of them, clad in long cassocks with the hoods pulled back. The organ sounded a chord, everyone stood, and they began. Simple plainsong sung in a lengthy call and response. The sound filled the church, but softly. Individual voices were muted in their own echoes but some words drifted through, words I hadn’t heard for a while like Domine, Secula Secularum and the like. There was a reading in Latin and a bit of incense. A bit more singing and that was it. The monks filed out, some coming into the congregation to greet visitors, but most disappearing through a side door. Outside it had stopped raining. Leaves were plastered flat on the driveway and a chill had seized the air. The moon was out and the sky was swirled with clouds. It was a beautiful night.
A couple days later a friend asked where the attraction to Vespers came from and I had to think about it. Some of it connects with younger days. The Latin, the plainsong, the incense all strike some old chord. I used to be an altar boy (between you and me, I’m the only altar boy I know who managed to catch his hair on fire while serving mass, but we won’t go into that.) and, as I recall, I was actually pretty devout in those days so I suppose there’s some comfort and nostalgia there.
More than that though, there’s something about the ritual use of music that resonates with me on a very basic level. It doesn’t matter whether it’s the Muslim call to prayer coming out of a lousy loudspeaker or the long toll of the nine o’clock bell at the basilica down the street. There seems to be something noble in the desire to make music, to bring some order out of the noisy chaos, and it seems particularly moving when small humans wrap themselves with song in order to confront the bigger questions. I don’t know whether the intention of vespers is to sing out the toils of the day or sing in the mysteries of night, but I prefer to think it’s the latter. The implication is that there are larger issues at play that dwarf concerns over a lost shoulder bag or getting caught in the rain.
A few years ago I was at a BSO performance. I don’t remember what it was, probably one of those Mahler Symphony of a billion things but I remember being, as always, a little stunned by the opening note, all those instruments acting as one, and I remember looking at the wide array of brass, reed, and string instruments and thinking that this probably started with someone blowing on a hollow stem or noticing that his or her tummy made a funny noise when thumped just so. From somewhere around there the music impulse arose and it’s sacred stuff.
Now, one would hope that I would have some means of wrapping this up ‘cause I’ve strayed fairly far afield here, but I don’t. Words only take me so far and then, as far as my command of them goes, they only approximate the thought or the feeling. Amongst the wonders of Rome are a number of sounds and images that communicate something other and probably bigger than words and I suppose it’s no surprise that most are in churches. These days it’s the evening bell at Maria Maggiore, and the blue ceiling of Santa Maria Sopra Minerva. It's that ghostly procession of cherubs peering down from from the dimly lit cupola of Sant’ Andrea al Quiranale (I suspect one of them will grow up to be Bruno Ganz.). It's always the dome of the Pantheon, and now finally it's the Benedictine Vespers at San Anselmo. 
You ended that beautifully...even with Bruno Ganz - couldn't resist, could ya'? Your blog is a joy to read. Thanks.
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