Holy Thursday in Assisi. In front of the Church of Santa Chiara the buses from Vienna, Munich, Milano keep unloading droves of Holy Week pilgrims. Their cameras start clicking the moment they have stretched their legs. Inside Santa Chiara the nuns limpid Gregorian chant wafts around the miraculous cross that one day, long ago, conversed with Saint Francis. Flashbulbs are popping.

Saint Clara, Francis's saintly girl friend, lies entombed in the crypt below. From her grave a sexy little voice lisps: “Francays? Ingleesh? Doitsch?” Reassuringly it originates from behind the heavy veil hiding a nun whose task it is to show the relics: “Ecco Santa Chiara's embroidered slippers … voila la chemise she sewed with her own hands for Saint- Francois … In diesem Bokal sehen Sie∼it is a jar filled with platinum-blond curls—Sankt Clara's Haare. … Sie ivur sher shim… Elle etait tres belle … bellissima…”