Authors: William Alexander
After lunch I was afforded a private tour of the abbey with Brother Christophe, the monk with the British accent whom I’d met at the guesthouse door the first day. We strolled the buildings for an hour as Christophe, who was remarkably versed in the abbey’s history and architecture, played docent, revealing to me the symbols hidden in the bas-relief sculptures and filling in my century-size gaps in French history. I asked him if he’d heard of
A Time to Keep Silence.
I probably should’ve known this beforehand, but it was like asking a U.S. senator if he’d heard of the Gettysburg Address.
“Heard of it! That’s why I’m here,” Christophe answered, amused. He had come across the book in his native Canada some years earlier (he acquired his accent during his schooling at Oxford, where he earned a master of arts degree in history) and had been inspired not only to visit a monastery but to become a monk. “We have a signed copy in the library.”
A decidedly modern beep sounded as we walked around the medieval cloister, its pavement covering tombs of the founding abbots. Oh, no, I hadn’t absentmindedly taken my cell phone with me, had I? I patted down my pockets while pretending I hadn’t heard anything. No, I was clean.
The beep sounded again. It was close; it must be me—what could it be? A low-battery warning or something?
“I’m so sorry,” I said to Christophe while I frantically searched for my phone, my camera, or anything else that could be beeping.
“Oh, it’s me,” he said casually, and pulled a pager out from under his robes. My jaw almost dropped to the tomb of the fourteenth-century abbot directly beneath my feet. Christophe
excused himself and made a phone call. As the tour wound down and we walked across the grounds, I gently edged the conversation from architecture to religion. I had come to the abbey protected with a healthy shell of skepticism and in a mood to discuss—maybe even challenge—the rationale of the cloistered life. These monks, as commendable as they were, weren’t exactly Mother Teresa. That is, they weren’t out feeding the hungry, or defending the poor, or running hospitals or schools, or even, as their predecessors had done, copying texts during the Dark Ages. What, then,
were
they doing? “How do you see your role in the modern world?” I asked.
Christophe thought for a moment as we looked down at the quickly moving Fontenelle. “To pray.” He paused and was about to elaborate, then stopped. “To pray. I’ll just leave it there.”
“To pray,” I said. “It’s as simple as that.”
“It’s as simple as that.”
To pray. For all of us. That was the end of my much-anticipated debate over the cloistered life, since it seemed like a perfectly sensible answer, and I could find absolutely nothing in it to challenge. Four days ago the skeptic in me might have, but on this afternoon I accepted Christophe’s answer as he and the monks of Saint-Wandrille had accepted me—willingly, unquestioningly, and, most of all, without judgment. No one had asked about my religious convictions, about my commitment, about my motives for being here; it was utterly impossible to question theirs.
Up until the moment I asked Christophe that shamelessly loaded question, I would never have known I was speaking with a monk. The same was true of Bruno and Philippe. These men—all the men I’d met at Saint-Wandrille—wore their piety lightly. Perhaps that’s why I took to them so easily. I suspect I’m not alone in generally feeling uncomfortable around priests, ministers, and the holy, some of whom wear their holiness as a badge.
Priests, like cops, move and speak in a certain way that is unmistakable. They don’t even have to be overt about it. Trust me, nothing is worse than running into your minister in town and hearing, “I haven’t seen you in church for a while.”
By contrast, the monks at Saint-Wandrille spoke so strongly with actions that they didn’t need words. Christophe’s simple answer—to pray—had, I thought, a corollary: To be. Not to preach. To be. As he might say, it’s as simple as that.
Patrick Leigh Fermor wrote about the feelings of claustrophobia and oppression he had felt in his first days at Saint-Wandrille, and I had made sure I’d packed some Valium, as I fully expected I might feel trapped, if not experience a full-blown panic attack. I never needed it. With each passing day, the rhythms and traditions of the abbey seeped deeper into my soul, aided and fueled by the still-unbroken autumn sun, and the pure joy of being with these stimulating, intelligent, gentle men in this mystical and timeless place had overcome any feelings of isolation or foreignness. In fact, never had I felt less foreign.
Of course, I had another reason to be happy, as well. I had my own French bakery.
It had become my home away from home, and after a few days of baking, the chilly room had started to warm up, to smell comfortably of flour and yeast and bread. We had managed to tame the oven and had mastered the antique mixer. I was happily spending fourteen hours a day in the
fournil,
becoming a familiar sight in the courtyard (and in the church), and receiving nods and smiles from the monks as I scurried across the quad in my T-shirt and stained blue apron, on my way to the kitchen or the guesthouse. If I looked strange, the tall, middle-aged, flour-dusted American who had come to bake bread, no one let on.
The
fournil
was in fact where I was headed now, and moments after entering the courtyard, I saw another familiar tall figure
enter directly across from me, carrying
levain.
I’d been avoiding Bruno and Philippe all day long, for I didn’t want this wonderful feeling I was experiencing to be spoiled with bad news about the bread.
There was no avoiding the verdict now.
——————————————
With my long strides and Bruno’s even longer strides, the distance between us closed quickly, and I soon saw that Bruno’s grin was as wide as the courtyard. He could hardly contain himself.
“They loved it! The brothers all loved the bread! Every one! They want to have it all the time, instead of the old bread! They were so happy to have good bread, and bread that’s good for you!” As we walked toward the bakery together, this shy young man, who hadn’t even offered a handshake on my first day at the abbey, instead keeping his hands clasped under the billowing folds of his scapular, patted me on the shoulder—not once but twice—as he said, “And all because of you!”
“You’re the
boulanger
now, Bruno,” I said, too startled by the gesture to return it. “If you hadn’t volunteered to bake, I wouldn’t be here right now.”
Bruno had more exciting news. “One of the brothers told me it tasted like the bread he’d had in Paris.”
Bruno had mastered the technique of speaking to me slowly, using a third-grade French vocabulary, so we were able to more or less converse in French, but had he just said what I thought he’d said?
“Notre pain?” I asked. Our bread?
“Oui, notre pain!”
Bruno wanted to confirm something. “And this bread has never been made before, correct? You made this recipe just for the abbey, yes?”
I answered in the affirmative, to his visible relief. Apparently he’d been repeating that tale and needed to confirm it, as the legend of the
pain de l’abbaye
was already spreading. Bruno had two reasons to be excited, of course. Not only had he formed the loaves that had garnered such rave reviews, but the unqualified success of the bread most likely meant that Bruno now had the new job he desired: the abbey
boulanger.
Of course, I was also thrilled—or more accurately relieved—but still a touch skeptical. Bruno was too much of a fan to be objective. Soon, though, other reviews started drift ing in as we weighed out the flour and made the
poolish
for the next day’s loaves. A knock came at the door, and I waved in a monk I hadn’t yet met.
“I want to congratulate you,” he said in English. “The bread is magnificent.”
Even Philippe, who hadn’t been impressed with our test loaves, was won over. He was more excited than I’d ever seen him, telling me with great pride that a suggestion had already been floated that they start selling the bread in the abbey gift shop. Bruno quickly put the kibosh on that idea. He knew he had yet to even bake a single loaf on his own. Feeling in an expansive mood, I asked Philippe if he and Bruno could be my guests for a dinner in town to celebrate. I wanted to do something for these fine men, either of whom would give you the hair shirt off his back.
“Thank you so much,” Philippe answered. “That’s very kind. But we simply cannot.” I had figured as much, but it was worth a try. Bruno, I noticed, looked disappointed.
Philippe left Bruno and me to finish up, and it was dark when we left the bakery, matching strides as we crossed the courtyard, bringing the
levain
and
poolish
to the kitchen.
“Look,” Bruno said, gesturing with his head toward the living postcard in front of us. A full moon was hanging directly over
the refectory, adding its circle of moonlight to the rectangles of light soft ly glowing through the translucent windows.
We both looked at it in silence. Finally Bruno said, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It’s perfect, Bruno. It’s perfect.”
Day 5:
The Monk, the Baker, and the Atheist
My last full day at the abbey was a blur of yeast and chant. I attended all seven Offices, from Vigils, at 5:30 a.m., to Compline, which ended just before 9:00 p.m., and in between baked seven loaves of bread with Bruno—another batch of a half-dozen
pain de l’Abbaye
Saint-Wandrille
, plus the
pain au levain
miche
that Bruno wanted to learn.
Bruno was surprised when he heard I was doing the sweet seven.
“I want to see what your life will be like as the baking monk,” I explained, another of the half lies I was becoming distressingly comfortable with.
Alone in the bakery for much of that day, Bruno and I discussed the future. Bruno thought he could bake three times a week, and he already had an assistant baker lined up. In my wildest dreams I couldn’t have anticipated such success. So perhaps I was feeling a little cocky and just a little too comfortable with my new best friend when I decided to have a little fun, and to let him in on a secret.
“That
levain
you love so much, I told you it’s twelve years old, no?”
“Oui.”
“That it’s from Alaska?”
“Oui.”
“That it was given to me by an atheist?”
Bruno froze and looked up, his face contorted in alarm.
Damn! I realized I had made a mistake, had misjudged, had forgotten where I was. What I thought was merely a little irony was a spiritual crisis for this young man. I could see the whole week going down the drain. How incredibly stupid of me! You don’t joke about religion with a monk!
“But he’s a very good man,” I added quickly, frantic to save the situation. “Very generous, very kind, and dedicated to bread. I think he would be happy to know that his
levain
made it here and that the abbey is baking bread again.”
Bruno relaxed a bit. “Make sure you tell him his
levain
is in an abbey,” he said, with a wry smile.
“Oh, I will. I
will.
”
Then Bruno let me in on a little secret of his own, one that, like mine, also threatened the resurrection of the abbey
fournil.
The acceptance of the bread had been almost universal, but not quite. Only one person in the abbey wasn’t happy with the bread. Unfortunately it was the abbot. He had trouble with his digestion and didn’t like this slightly darker, denser bread. He wanted a baguette.
“I’ll leave you the recipe,” I told Bruno, wishing I had another day to spend with him. “Baguettes are very easy and quick. In fact, you can make up a big batch once a week and freeze them in plastic bags. Your oven is still nice and warm at dinnertime if it’s a baking day, and you just put the baguette from the freezer into the oven. The abbot gets a fresh, warm loaf of white bread. When he breaks it open . . .” I mimed inhaling a loaf of bread, closing my eyes, and smiling. It was easier than continuing in French, which was exhausting. Bruno nodded and laughed. He got the idea. We both knew, if the abbot ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.
My final meal at the abbey featured
moules fr ites,
a real treat. Steamed mussels and, best of all, more of those great french fries.
When the food was brought out, though, I immediately saw a problem. In the best of circumstances—say, quiche—it was a challenge to eat enough before the food was whisked away. How on earth would I ever eat enough labor-intensive baby mussels to fill my growling stomach? As I dug the little mollusks out with my dinner fork, growing more frustrated with each shell, I glanced at the long table across from me and realized I was doing it all wrong. The monks had solved this problem. Most used half a shell to scoop out the mussels, far more efficient than my attempts to pry them out with a fork, but a few dropped all niceties altogether and were eagerly slurping them right out of the shells. Now, that was
really
efficient.
I adopted the shell-scoop method, but what I really wanted was more of those
fr ites.
Alpine Hiker, the collar of his jacket almost covering his mouth, was still seated to my left, and the plate of
fr ites
was to his left, so near, yet so far. He failed to notice that my plate was empty (violating one of the unwritten rules of abbey dining—scratch that, it
is
written, in the Benedictine Rule, which clearly states that “the brothers shall serve the needs of one another, so no one needs ask for anything”). So, feeling rather at home now, and with little to lose, I swallowed hard, leaned over, and broke the rule of silence while the abbot burned rubber, whispering, “Frites, s’il vous plaît.” Lightning did not strike, no one hustled over to escort me out, and I got to enjoy more
fr ites
before it came time to lay the napkin ring on top of my by now well-soiled napkin. Right on cue the
père hôtelier
snatched it up, marched the length of the hall, and dropped it into the drawer with a clink.
After dinner, back in my room and tired from a day of baking and bowing, I was half-undressed when I happened to glance at the abbey schedule under the clear desk protector. I still had one more Office to attend. I quickly bundled up and headed to the church for Compline, the only Office I hadn’t been to yet. Oper-
ating in true monk fashion now, I was late, and the service had already started. Even for this church, it was dark, so dark I could hardly see where I was walking as I groped my way to the front pew. The only light glowed dimly from behind the altar. As my eyes adjusted, I could make out the monks in the choir, faces hidden deep inside their hoods—Compline being the only service during which they wore their cowls. It was a thoroughly spooky, medieval scene. And about to become spookier. As usual, my eyes drift ed up to the life-size, gold crucifix hanging above the altar.