by Diane Baumer
Mai approached shakily, carrying the sandwich in her hand while François, in horror, begged her for help with his eyes. As he felt the slight touch of her finger, the wretched man hesitated. Was that a conscious caress? He slowly sat up, moving in the way a hunter would to avoid drawing his prey’s attention. As he stood before her porcelain-pure face, his genitals felt an unstoppable desire to possess her demure soul.
He could not restrain the urge to grasp the girl, even at the risk of being caught.
As she relived the ominous carnal longing of a man, she passed out.
François took her in his arms. The pleasure of owning the girl’s faint submissive body gave him such rapturous delight that he was about to ruin everything.
Stop. Don’t – Mercedes protects Mai like she was her most valuable pet. She’ll kill me if I touch her.
He ran out to call William.
“Help me – the cook just fainted.”
33. The surprise
Brother Pedro knelt before the figure of Jesus Christ carved out of bright linden wood. Characterized by only a few straight lines, its simplicity would overwhelm anyone. The offering of God to men. Not the other way around. The most beautiful and perplexing act of humility in theology – Christ willing to die like one of us. No privileges. No embellishment. Your pain is my pain, the image seemed to convey.
The intertwined hands of the custodian tensed unconsciously. Pray for us sinners. A feeling of immense shame disturbed his mood. We should lower our heads and not raise them again for our abhorrent acts. As Brother Lucas would say, how easy it is for the devil to incite men!
Until the arrival of the Mexican, Brother Pedro had devoted few of his thoughts to the Lord of Darkness. Unlike the young friar, his deep spirituality emerged from the placidity of good, not from restlessness before Satan, the father of lies. The custodian let a deep sigh out as he nodded in distress for the lost souls. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. It saddened him to think of the number of silly individuals who became blinded by greed and succumbed to deceit. Good news for the devil – when they died, no one would take their hoards to the great beyond.
Oh Lord, seeing how foolish we are, You decided to sum it all up in one simple command – “Love one another.” Well, not even that seems to work anymore.
He prayed to God so He would help Brother Lucas. The poor friar could hardly stand on his feet since the death of Brother Simón. He had naïvely believed that the beast would settle for this after he had dared to challenge it. Too little gruesomeness to satisfy a perverse mind. Beelzebub had an even crueler punishment in store for him – he would let him live and call on him to see how others died in his place. That way, remorse would never give the rebellious friar a single second of peace.
It is the devil’s greatest triumph when he can deprive us of the joy of the Spirit. He carries fine dust with him in little boxes and scatters it through the cracks in our conscience in order to dim the soul’s pure impulses and its luster. But the joy that fills the heart of the spiritual person destroys the deadly poison of the serpent.33
A poison whose antidote could certainly not be manufactured in the distillery.
Yet Brother Lucas insists on going ahead and facing it – however, he is young, impulsive, and courageous. His naivety will never win in a hand-to-hand fight, since the enemy owns the most destructive weapons one can imagine. For the time being, I can’t allow him to return to his own country. My God, please inspire me. I need to find a way to soothe his anguish. The thick pain wrapping his soul prevents him from gaining access to light, and I’m not sure how to dispel it. Murderers peacefully sleep while the shoulders of someone blameless are forced to carry guilt on them.
Suddenly, the custodian’s mind went dark, as if someone or something had turned it off. Unrelated thoughts wandered through his brain until his judgment, unable to advance in the maze, halted in disorientation. His mind continued to do things its own way. A mountain of jumbled-up scenes in which he and Brother Lucas appeared together began to rotate. In the middle, a voice would call a name in an endless echo:
“Simón, Simón, Simón...”
Brother Pedro took it for granted that it referred to the custodian at the Mexican monastery. He interpreted it as a clue, but there was little else he could infer, since the vertiginous speed of the images around his head was making him extremely dizzy. He lay on the floor in the fetal position. Aware that, should he make a single move, everything would start to spin faster, he decided to remain motionless.
When he woke up, his brain was projecting the image of a painting – Titian’s Christ Carrying the Cross. Immediately, Brother Pedro recognized the character staring at him. A Simon who was neither a friar nor a Mexican. It was Simon of Cyrene, the man in charge of carrying the cross for Jesus Christ. The custodian nodded calmly. He understood the message. As he stood up, his body felt sore from the long hours during which he had been lying on the ground – yet none of this mattered. The friar looked toward Him.
I will carry the cross for Brother Lucas. I’m not sure how or when that will be. I just want You to count on me to relieve him. I think that is the reason why he ended up here.
He felt peace for the first time since the arrival of the distraught Mexican.
The custodian moved on with his life normally, waiting for the moment to come.
The day he heard the Mexican ask Brother Bartolo to replace him in his usual walk with Cinnamon, Brother Pedro knew that the young friar had touched bottom. He regretted the poor condition the piano was in, knowing how important music had been in the life of Brother Lucas. That reminded him of the pianist. He called to check on her. Lina really cheered up the moment she heard his voice.
“I’m doing better. Thank you so much for the medicine. Soon I’ll be operated on again. I’m looking forward to it. I can’t wait for the bandages to be removed. What about my benefactor?” she said affectionately, referring to the Mexican.
“Brother Lucas? To be honest, he is a little sad. The custodian at his Mexican monastery died. He was like a father to him. It’s been a hard blow.”
Lina felt sorry about the news.
“If I wasn’t like that, I would have him over to sing a piece with me at the piano. That would comfort him. Besides, to tell you the truth, listening to his talented voice would also be good for me.”
“It is so kind of you. Don’t worry – time heals all wounds. Anyway, we have an instrument here – although half its notes no longer work, he likes to get it off his chest by playing.”
Lina did not understand what he meant.
“Playing? Does Brother Lucas play the piano?” she asked in surprise.
“Yes. Needless to say, not the way you do. He learned back in Mexico. We got him one, but it’s a wreck.”
She found that to be a wonderful coincidence. Yet another one.
Brother Pedro also told her about the choir. Lina was eager to listen to them.
“What do you guys sing? – Gregorian chant?”
“Actually, there is something for everyone. Not surprisingly, we play religious music. However, for example, I love jazz. Art Tatum, Thelonious Monk, Bill Evans...”
Lina, pleasantly surprised, could not help laughing. How misleading our preconceptions could be! For a little while she reflected in silence. Then, she made him an unexpected offer.
“Brother Lucas can visit me and play my piano whenever he wants. It’s his to use.”
“Thank you. It is so kind of you, but I don’t want to bother you. You already have enough with your rehab.”
The pianist drew on an emotional trick to persuade him.
“Seeing my piano unused really breaks my heart. I think Brother Lucas’ playing would really cheer me up.”
The custodian smiled to himself. What an amazing woman! Look at the way she just turned the tables to help the Mexican. Now, the on
ly problem would be to persuade him. In all likelihood, Brother Lucas would turn down the offer out of modesty. He’ll tell me his hands are unworthy to play an instrument like that.
Lina gave him the answer.
“In that case, don’t tell him. Come together and bring me some medicine, stay for lunch, and I’ll manage to bring up the subject.”
Brother Pedro wondered if an ambush was the most ethical way to do things. On the other hand, he was virtually certain that, for some reason, God’s plans included the Mexican and the pianist crossing paths. It’s not like me to hinder Him.
As soon as the custodian hung up, he went to talk to Brother Lucas.
34. Birch trees
Endzela had gotten up really early to call her family before Vasyl went to school – she had great news to announce. They were eating breakfast. The girl had to get closer to the screen to make sure she could believe her eyes – the kid was eating a plateful of khinkali, consisting of dumplings stuffed with meat mostly typical for lunch or dinner. Surprised, she asked her mother.
“Mom! Why is Vasyl eating such a hearty breakfast?”
The woman shrugged and sighed.
“These are yesterday’s leftovers. He insisted on eating those for breakfast.”
“I hope that won’t upset his stomach.”
Grandpa stood up to talk.
“My great-grandson is as strong as a buffalo – he may eat that and way more,” the man said loudly.
Vasyl covered his ears. Endzela burst out laughing.
“Apparently, my son can deal with everything, except for your high volume, grandpa. Well – eating all that, at least he’ll have extra energy for school.”
The elderly man revealed to her that on the previous day the teacher had punished the kid for sowing the school garden with his notebook. Due to some torrential rainfall, it had become so soaked that they had to throw it away.
Vasyl did not understand where he had gone wrong.
“I just wanted to grow a birch tree,” he said, justifying himself after swallowing.
Grandpa ruffled his great-grandson’s hair fondly.
“Apparently, the teacher explained to them that paper is made out of cut-down trees. So our kid, being so nature-friendly, wanted the tree to grow again,” the man said as he nodded worriedly, and added, “It was my fault for taking him to spend so much time in the forest.”
Endzela smiled tenderly.
“I remember when you used to take me there. I miss those walks, listening to your mountain stories... I learned so much from you.”
“Please don’t remind me – you’ll make me sad. By the way, did your Belgian boyfriend propose yet? If he doesn’t dare to, I’ll talk to Nikolai.”
Endzela shrugged.
“Things are different here.”
“You are a Georgian. If he loves you, he needs to respect your traditions. Why should you have to conform with his rules and not the other way around?”
“We’ll just take one day at a time. Let’s switch gears. I have some good news. If nothing happens, we will be spending Christmas there with you. Anyway, grandpa, be forewarned – he’s not planning to propose!”
“He might change his mind after drinking some appetizing schnapps.”
Endzela’s mother took the kid in her arms joyfully.
“That’s such a wonderful thing to hear, my daughter! Vasyl, mommy is coming home with a new friend of yours – François!”
Grandpa rushed toward the screen and covered it fully.
“We’ll have a welcome party! We’ll have the authorities over, now you’re important. No, better just the neighbors. You already know the saying – ‘if you forgive the fox for stealing your chickens, it will take your sheep.’”
The elderly man made the kid dance Khorumi as he defied gravity through leaps and breathtaking pirouettes. Unsuccessfully, the mother tried to stop them.
“Dad, you’re going to make the kid throw up! What an insane man you are! One of these days, he’ll just blast off and we will never see him again.”
The child’s happiness evoked an old-time memory of Endzela.
“I remember that time grandpa made Arsen laugh.”
As soon as Endzela pronounced her brother's name, she covered her mouth. The girl had just blundered. She felt sorry for her mother. The woman’s voice broke.
“My poor son...”
“Don’t get sad – please, mom.”
“At night, I remember him and think I won’t be able to endure it for another day. At dawn, when Vasyl’s face is before me, I regain my strength. He came to the world to save me. This child is a blessing. If it wasn’t for this little angel, I would have died of grief for my dear Arsen...”
Endzela asked them to wait a minute, since she needed to check on the oven. Actually, that was not true – she just made an excuse to turn away from the screen and conceal her own sadness from her family. Her mother reminding her that she relied on Vasyl to live on made the girl go back to the harsh reality. Bringing the child to Spain would break the woman’s heart. Besides, grandpa will never leave Georgia, and mom will never move away from grandpa.
After a while, their voices calling her forced Endzela to bite the bullet and return to the screen to say goodbye.
“I can’t wait to see you all... I love you so much.”
“Don’t waste any money on gifts,” the mother said.
“Tovlis Babua34 will be in charge of that. Help Vasyl write his letter so I can find out what he wants. Now I need to hang up. I send you all a huge hug from here.”
“We love you. Take care.”
Endzela wondered whether it would be too selfish of her to break up the beautiful family that the only three survivors of a wreck had created. Fleeing was my decision. They look happy now. Who am I to selfishly focus on my cravings?
It was still two hours before dawn. She yawned for some seconds. I’ll take a shower and perm my hair using the curling iron before I leave for the library.
The weather service had forecast slightly overcast skies yet no rainfall, so the downpour caught many passers-by off guard. Freezing on her motor scooter, Endzela made her way under the loud rain, ranting on about the useless weatherman. That man’s dishonest, mile-long chattering deserves at least some public derision. Hold on a minute. What was that funny synonym for derision? How was it? Disrapage... Disapargement... Disparagement! Public disparagement, here it is. Nice term, indeed.
She begged the sky to have mercy on the books she was carrying under her anorak. If they get wet, I’ll file a claim for damages to the news channel.
As soon as she left her motorcycle at the library parking lot, the Georgian started running toward the building. This reminds me of my days as a child, when I would jump between puddles as I mimicked the gracefulness of a dancer. On one occasion I fell and my Sunday dress ripped open. How much I cried! I felt so guilty... My mother told me I had been lucky to learn a lesson without serious consequences. “Thanks to a minor fall, next time you’ll be careful and avoid a major one,” her words were. I can perfectly remember that.
Once the Georgian had entered the building, she sighed in relief – the books to be translated, the ones the publishing house had provided her with, were in mint condition. She left her soaked sneakers inside a bag and put on a pair of sixteen-inch stilettos, unsuitable for acrophobes, which would raise her up to the heights of Mount Olympus. The security guard, after he caught sight of the suggestive little dress she was wearing, dropped his fleshy lower lip while his hairy hand instantly put his manhood into place. She is a goddess.
Endzela showed him the books she was carrying, keeping them at a safe distance in case the horny guy started drooling through the lingual gargoyle between his teeth. What an immodest simpleton... What a lustful rutting bear... Dimwit, doofus, dweeb... She sighed in disgust. There were just so many b
eautiful words to describe such an asinine individual!
The man gave off a strong underarm odor. Endzela wondered whether he might have an abscess in his armpit. She had to restrain herself so as not to laugh. That word, abscess, definitely had the most hilarious sound of all. The guard misinterpreted her cheerfulness and thought she was trying to flirt.
“I was afraid I would miss the sight of you today because of the rain, Miss gorgeous lady. You’re carrying more Russian books? I can’t wait for the day you’ll teach me how to speak your language – it will come in handy when I visit your country.”
In response, the security guard just received silence from the girl, as well as her facial expression, brimming with anger. Then, he did what a lummox would in every culture – he insisted.
“Why aren’t you saying anything to me? Say something nice in your language – come on, beautiful.”
“‘I have a lot to say, said the fish, though my mouth is full of water,’” she said enigmatically before heading for the bathrooms, leaving the man horny and intrigued alike. That was a proverb from her beloved motherland, Georgia –G-e-o-r-g-i-a, not Russia–, but she had no intention whatsoever to provide him with any further clarification.
To the best of her ability, she slightly fixed her hair under the hand dryer. My mother used to tell me that dressing up was a way to slam the door in the face of misfortune. After fixing her make-up and checking her dress front-and-back proper fit, she came out.
What are they looking at? This is a place for reading. How disrespectful to literature! she said to herself, as she primly bent her head as she searched for a lonely place where no intimidating glance would distract her from her translating of Vazha Pshavela’s poems. Grandpa was looking forward to seeing her granddaughter’s name printed on the writer’s books.