HOW I NEARLY FOUND GOD IN NAPLES BUT SETTLED FOR FRIENDSHIP INSTEAD

Recently came across a short piece I wrote a few years ago and had forgotten all about. I offer it - with affectionate memories - as a rare example of ecumenical harmony at a time of frenzied religious and ethnic antagonism.

Many years ago, at a faraway university, I supervised a mother superior’s MA thesis on Anna Karenina. Members of her order were concerned about the effect of such study on her faith. Nobody was concerned about the effect of it on mine.

It turned out not to be difficult discussing Anna’s passion for Vronsky. We stuck to abstract nouns such as dishonour and abandon. The hard part, for me at least, was the character of Varenka, who opts for self-sacrifice only because her personal life is unsatisfactory. Wasn’t that why a nun becomes a nun? Mother X corrected me. You can choose abnegation for abnegation’s sake, she insisted. But it didn’t stop her discarding her habit the minute she got her MA, and running off with a Vronsky of her own. I, on the other hand, was all but converted to the ideals of monasticism and needed a sabbatical to consider my options.

Let me wind forward to the recent circumstances that have rekindled this memory. I was at a small literary conference in Naples to discuss a satire I’d written about Donald Trump. (Modesty prevents me mentioning its title.) I’d been told the event was to be held in a convent but thought nothing of it. I was too busy looking forward to being back in Naples, imagining the street music of this most boisterous of cities, the joys of strolling along the Lungomare, the heat, the looming presence of Vesuvius, the Peronis and the pizzas. I am a corny tourist and like doing the obvious things. My friends go to Italy to look at art and can tell you where every Caravaggio is to be found. I can tell you which restaurant serves the crustiest bread.

So I was relaxed by the time I got to the convent. This would be easy. The night was warm, the interpreter skilled, the audience in the mood for satire, and I was happy. It was only when I was asked why I’d called my fairytale Pussy (it seems I can’t avoid it, after all) that I became aware of three nuns sitting on the front row, listening intently to every word. Why Pussy? After an eternity of pretend reflection, I fell victim to a coughing fit and left it to my interpreter to explain.

When it was all over, Sister Rosa proposed a group photograph. I had no experience of posing for a group photograph with nuns. What was the etiquette? Was it even theologically permissible? Rigor mortis seized me. Sensing my terror, Sister Pia snuggled close. (Forgive me, father…) Sister Paola put an arm around my shoulder. And we squeezed in together, laughing.

You can find the photograph, they told me, on Suor Rosa Lupoli’s Twitter page.

Twitter page? A holy sister with a Twitter page! There’s something about the conventual life I am still struggling to understand.