Pagan's Vows (15 page)
‘You’re right,’ he says, in a dull voice. ‘I have my own path. I must look to my own path.’
‘And you mustn’t worry about me. I know what I’m doing.’ (Ouch! God! My back!) He hears me grunt, and winces.
‘You should go to the infirmary,’ he says.
‘I can’t. I have to stay here and pray.’
‘But your back –’
‘It’s all right. Really. I’ll manage.’
I will manage, too. I’ll get through tonight without shedding a tear. I’ll keep my head low, and my mouth shut. I’ll stick on Montazin’s trail like a lymer-hound.
And when I find the proof I need, I’ll see him flogged until he can’t stand up straight.
I
t’s Jerusalem. It’s got to be. A narrow street, lined with shops; the sun beating down on coloured awnings. And isn’t that Saurimunda? Hovering in a doorway, beckoning, smiling . . . But it’s hard to see, because she’s wearing a veil. A veil and a gauzy . . . wait. It isn’t her at all. It’s someone much older. Someone tall and dark, with big breasts
– huge
breasts – heavy and smooth –
Dong. Dong. Dong.
Oh no! Please don’t run away! Come back! It’s nothing! It’s just a church bell . . .
Dong. Dong. Dong.
On second thoughts, it’s not a church bell. It’s a hand bell. This is crazy. This doesn’t make sense. Where did the shops go? Something banging –
Hold on, what’s under my head? Feels like wool. Darkness. Footsteps. Oh God. Now I understand.
It’s time to wake up.
Bernard Blancus, ringing his bell on the threshold.
Dong. Dong. Dong.
I don’t believe this: surely it can’t be nocturnes? I only just closed my eyes! Amiel, in the next bed, throwing back his covers. I can’t do that, it’s freezing in here! Burying my face in the pillow. Please, please, let me go back to my dream. Let me go back to the big-breasted lady.
A sudden shaft of cold air, as Clement pulls my covers back. He raps at my bed with his stick.
All right, all right, I’m coming.
Feet first. Ow! Ah! This floor is like ice! Where are my socks? Quick, my socks! Fumbling about for my belt; my socks; my scapular. My wonderful winter cape. My sheepskin gloves
– A tap on the shoulder.
It’s Clement. He makes the sign for ‘where’, and runs one finger down the middle of his face (a reference to Roland’s aristocratic nose).
Where – Roland
?
What do you mean, where’s Roland? Looking around. It’s hard to see, in this light: a bunch of shadowy figures, milling about, making beds, pulling on clothes, yawning, coughing, spitting. But none of them is big enough or broad enough to be Roland.
God preserve us. Where is he?
Making a fist, with the thumb turned down.
I know not.
Clement frowns, and peers at me closely. What are you looking at me like that for? I just told you, I don’t know where he is! Maybe he’s gone to the latrines! Maybe he’s sick!
Oh Lord. I hope not. I hope he’s not sick. Signing at Clement:
I – go – infirmary.
Clement shakes his head.
You – go – church
, he replies, and heads for the door.
Damn it, Roland, where are you? Why didn’t you wake me up? Fumbling with my boots as the others follow Clement, trailing after him like a flock of little black chicks. Hurry, Pagan, hurry! Don’t want to be late. One boot on. Other boot on. Joining the end of the line, just as it enters the herb garden. Past the refectory. Stumbling along in the dimness.
I knew this would happen. Roland’s been so odd, lately. So quiet. And not eating nearly enough. Getting much too thin. But of course he won’t say anything, not even when we have a chance to talk – which is practically never. Oh Roland, Roland, where are you?
Emerging from the corridor, into a steady flow of monks. Heads down, cowls up, all making for the church’s southern entrance. Dense, black, faceless shadows. Not a sound except for the shuffling of feet and the chorus of bubbling winter coughs, as we cross the threshold into the nave. Icy draughts whistling around our ankles. Gold leaf glittering in the candlelight. The sweet, painted face of the Holy Virgin, with the Christ child in her arms. And there – over there! That’s Roland! He moves away from the altar, stiffly, as if his knees are hurting him. Don’t tell me he’s been
praying
in here! What’s the point of praying at night, when we have to do it all day? If I linger at the end of the line, he’ll be able to catch up with me. What’s the matter, Roland? You look like a wreck. Your face is all bones and dark smudges.
Clement signs at him.
You – absent.
Roland puts his gloved hands together, signifying ‘prayer’. It seems to satisfy 142 Clement. He nods and moves into his place. Roland nudges me forward. No, Roland, you can go first. I want to stay as far away from Clement as possible. The farther away I am, the better my chances are of getting you to tell me what’s wrong.
‘Domine labia mea aperies, et os meum annuntiabit laudem
tuam.’
The chanting begins. It’s a little raw and ragged: I don’t think everyone’s really awake, yet. I know I’m not. Roland clears his throat, and tries to follow the verses. Even after all this time, he’s still not very confident.
‘Domine, quam multi sunt qui tribulant . . .’
Roland. Roland! Tugging at his sleeve. He looks down, blinking.
I have to mouth the words, because I don’t know what the signs are.
What’s wrong?
(Emphasising every syllable.)
What’s the matter
?
He shakes his head, and turns away. In God’s name, Roland, what’s that supposed to mean?
‘. . . Penes Dominum est salus super populum tuum sit
benedictio tua . . .’
Roland! Look at me, damn you! Pulling at his robe again. This time he doesn’t even glance down; he just takes my hand, and gently pushes it aside.
‘Venite, exsultemus Domino, iubilemus Deo . . .’
All right, if that’s the way you want it. Reaching up. Finding his arm. Giving it a sharp pinch.
He jumps like a rabbit. Clement turns, and scowls down the row at us. I didn’t do a thing! Honestly! I was just chanting the ‘Gloria’. Look, I’ve got my hands in my sleeves and everything. How could I have pinched him?
Slowly, reluctantly, Clement looks away.
And Roland still won’t even cast a glance in my direction. Very well. Don’t, then. See if I care. You’re impossible, Roland, you never tell me anything. You just bottle it up inside – let it tear you to pieces – and you won’t even let me help! I know I said we had our own paths to follow, but I didn’t mean that they should be completely walled in.
‘De profundis clamavi, ad te, Domine; Domine, exaudi
vocem meam . . .’
Psalm One Hundred and – what? Twenty-nine? Thirty? A slow, sad rhythm, deep and hollow, swelling to a full chorus at the end of the first verse. ‘Out of the depths I cried unto thee, O Lord; O Lord, hear my voice.’ The piercing, pleading cry of the oblates, high and sweet, rising to the vaults – catching on the highest note – and suddenly falling again, in gentle steps, weary and wistful. ‘Let thine ears be attentive to my supplication.’ A quiet passage, now, throbbing like a heartbeat. Asking for forgiveness. How sad it is. How unbearably sad. Why do we have to sing this at nocturnes? I’m miserable enough as it is, so early in the morning.
‘Sustinuit anima mea in verbum eius; speravit anima mea
in Domino.’
Beside me, Roland coughs. It’s just a spasm, muffled in his chest. A slight shudder. His voice fails halfway through the sixth verse: ‘My soul waiteth for the Lord, more than they that watch for the morning.’ What an appropriate image. The morning is exactly what I’m watching for, because a little sunlight may serve to thaw my frozen feet.
More shudders from Roland. I hope it’s not a choking fit. Glancing up at his face . . .
And it’s wet.
It’s wet. He’s crying. His whole body shakes with suppressed sobs.
Sweet saints preserve us.
‘Quia apud Dominum misericordia et copiosa apud eum
redemptio . . .’
Roland. Roland! Grabbing his arm. He turns his face away, and wipes his eyes. But his chest is still heaving. Oh God, oh God, what is it? What’s wrong? In God’s name, Roland, don’t shut me out! I can’t bear it!
‘Et ipse redimet Israel ex omnibus iniquitatibus eius.’
The last, lingering verse, hanging in the air like a silver thread – a thin, pure, extended sound. Roland sniffs: he takes a deep breath, and another, and another. (Seems to be calming down.) With an immense effort, he brings himself under control, again.
But he’s not going to tell me what’s wrong. I just know he isn’t. He’s going to let it eat away at his heart until it breaks, and then I’ll be left to pick up the pieces.
O Lord, I beg you, won’t you ease his burden? Whatever it is, he doesn’t deserve to suffer like this. He’s a good man. He’s doing his best. Please, God, please, take away his sorrow. Lift up his soul and enlighten his darkness.
You’re the only one who can help him, because he won’t take any help from me.
‘W
hat’s this?’ Rainier pretends to be very, very puzzled. ‘What are you doing back on this stool, little man? Haven’t you already been shaved?’
Ha ha. Pardon me while I sew up my sides. ‘No I haven’t, Father.’ (But I
have
heard all your bum-fluff jokes before, so why don’t you give them a rest?) ‘My moustache has been growing, see?’
‘Bless you, boy, that’s not a moustache! That’s a smudge of charcoal!’ He beams around at his snickering audience: a gaggle of monks all lined up along the cloister walls like crows along a fence. ‘What you need for that moustache is a bit of damp cloth,’ he continues. ‘You don’t need a razor!’
Well maybe not, pus-bag, but
you
certainly do. If someone doesn’t take a scythe to those eyebrows pretty soon, you won’t be able to see out from under them. What 146 kind of fertiliser do you use on them, anyway? Manure or rotten vegetable peelings?
‘All right, Father.’ (You big fat swill-pot.) ‘If you don’t want to shave my jaw, perhaps you can do my head. There’s no lack of growth up there.’ In contrast to the windswept desert on your own scalp, Baldy. But I’d better not say it aloud – not while he’s carrying a razor.
Honestly. I ask you. Why do I have to put up with this? Every single shaving day, it’s the same old thing. Other people don’t have to put up with this: why am I always the one?
‘Very well, Midge, I’ll clean up your tonsure for you.’ He winks as he wipes his razor on the skirts of his robe. ‘And I’ll keep the clippings, so you can make up a proper moustache for next time. With flour paste.’
More mindless giggles. Everyone’s laughing except Roland and Clement: Clement because he doesn’t know how to, Roland because he’s lost in thought. Moping about, as usual. I really have to talk to Roland; I have to find out what’s wrong. And there’s no point waiting for a private moment, either, because private moments don’t exist any more. I’ll just have to do it when I’m finished here, and damn the eavesdroppers.
Brrr! Gasping as Rainier slaps on the water. One day, when I’m an old, old monk, I might be first in line and get shaved with
hot
water, instead of the tepid dregs we novices always end up with. Cold shaves, cold food, cold feet; the essence of winter at Saint Martin’s.