by Marele Day
For quite a while Margarita watched the Agnes sisters tearing at the grass, occasionally flicking a buzzing evening insect off their ears. They looked so blissful. She wished that God would speed her death so that she too could become a blissful Agnes sister. She watched the sun sink lower, heard small birds twitter and flit about. But she did not hear Iphigenia’s footsteps making their way to her cell. Perhaps instead of asking Margarita for forgiveness, Iphigenia was asking God.
Margarita swished back along the cloisters. The chapel was empty. The Blessed Virgin and her mother stood in the same stony attitude as when she left them. She went further on, slipping from archway to archway so as not to be observed, till she had a good view of the courtyard.
There they were, carrying on the meal preparations as if everything was normal. Her bread was out of the pan and sitting on the table, its crust a perfect golden brown. Margarita was not pleased.
It was not till the third night after the missed Vespers that Iphigenia noticed the unravelling. She knitted a slight imperfection into her work, a tidal mark to make sure. On the next night she saw that the imperfection was gone and her work was only two rows more advanced than when she’d started the night before. The priest’s garment was being unravelled.
Yes, she had forgotten Vespers, but it hardly warranted Margarita appearing at the door like an avenging angel. It was an impressive sight, Margarita silhouetted against the light, wings out like a bat. Had she been wearing her night cloak? Iphigenia was perturbed by missing Vespers but her excitement at watching the phone demonstration far surpassed it. This disturbance was only for a little while, then they would all resume their life.
She must keep Margarita appeased, however. She could see that in the sabotage to the knitting. Iphigenia vowed to be more alert to the movement of the day, the journey of the sun across the sky, the changes in light and temperature that signalled the various offices.
Meanwhile, she would continue with her plan. Unfortunately it now appeared that she would have to do it in secret. If Margarita took such exception to missing Vespers, Heaven knows what she would think of Iphigenia’s great and daring plan to contact the world. Margarita’s mind was far too choppy at the moment to see it as anything but a threat. Better that Iphigenia wait till she had some positive news to tell.
Banks, Colquhoun and Andrews, a trinity of names. She said them over and over, her private prayer and chant.
She waits at the door, nosing the place like a cat sniffing the air. She hesitates a moment then when she knows, approaches. Even though his back is to her and he is replicating the deep breath of sleep, he is awake. Does she sense his flickering eyelids? The silence, now that she has entered it, has thickened. He can feel her getting ready to speak.
‘Doesn’t work.’
It was a moment before Ignatius realised what she was referring to. She couldn’t get the phone to work. But ah, the thought struck him like lightning, much better if she could. ‘Have you installed the new battery?’ A touch of smugness, just to let her know he knew she had it.
There was a pause, then in the darkness he felt the phone in his hands. The battery was perfectly in place. ‘That’s fine,’ he said. The phone disappeared from his hands.
‘Tell again how to phone.’
‘It’s simple. Press the ON button then dial the number. Would you like me to do it for you?’ What a gallant fox.
He heard the faint sound as she tapped out three or four numbers. Not enough. ‘Most telephone numbers have seven digits,’ he said.
‘Seven?’ Iphigenia couldn’t see clearly the Banks, Colquhoun and Andrews letterhead but she was sure there were fewer than seven numbers.
‘Plus the area code, if you’re phoning long distance.’
‘Area code?’
He explains what it is. ‘Where are you phoning?’
The world. Iphigenia is trying to phone the world. Then she remembers something else Grandmother used to say about the solicitor. Mr Banks is coming down from the city today. ‘The city,’ she says.
He tells her the area code.
She goes over to the window and tries the phone. She must have made it through because she seems startled and almost drops it. Excellent, thinks Ignatius.
She returns to the bed, the phone in her pocket and composure regained. ‘Is ours the only monastery the Bishop wishes to sell?’
He has heard the question but doesn’t answer straightaway. Of all of them, she seems to be the only one aware that there is a world outside these walls and that they are part of it. This is the first time she has broached the subject. Is she reconsidering? Does it have something to do with the phone? He must answer carefully, thinking of his goal. ‘It is happening all over the country, even nuns who own their properties are selling. There are so few of you. So few of us.’ He includes himself, all those in religious orders.
‘So few?’ she repeats. The words float in the air, seeking further consolidation before they can come to ground.
‘Well, yes,’ he says. And he shifts position, turns to face her now that he is speaking in general and doesn’t need to protect himself. ‘So few young people are joining orders. Religious houses are communities of old people. They die and are not replaced.’
‘All the more reason for us to stay here.’
The cut and thrust. The parry. He recognises in her an intelligence that has rarely been exercised. Where would she find reasoned debate, the flexing of logic, in this environment? With training Iphigenia could hold her own in the fireside debates at the palace. He grins at the thought of her, shabby clothes and horny feet, in such company.
Ignatius remembers how edifying it felt to have theological debates and what an excellent tool logic was for arguing faith. Ritual and ceremony uplifted the spirit of the masses but a priest needed answers. Once you accepted the initial leap of faith, the rest of it was simply a question of logic.
‘We need to take a more hands-on approach. The problems of the world are many: unemployment, youth homelessness … The Church …’ The Church is in crisis, parishioners practising birth control in spite of the Pope’s edicts, brothers falling down like dominoes as more and more cases of sexual abuse become known, the authority of the priests crumbling.
The Church with its direct links to Jesus Christ across the millennia. There had been tough moments before, inquisitions and challenges but the Church had survived. Critics accused the Church of being rigid, unchanging, but it had lasted for two thousand years and had spread to every part of the globe. It did not achieve that by being rigid and unchanging. The Church’s future was Ignatius’ future. Admittedly, there were better decades, better centuries to have been a priest. He could not bear to entertain the thought that he had entered a career, dedicated his life, to a body which was already past its use-by date.
‘The Church must adapt to the modern world.’
‘We pray for the world but are not part of it. There are no other people here. Does the Bishop want to build houses and hospitals where there are no people?’
‘No.’
‘Then what?’
There is confusion in the air, an electric hum. He turns his back to her before answering. And what he says is not really an answer. He knows this but he is the Bishop’s secretary, schooled in discretion and diplomacy. ‘Most communities of small numbers realise the selflessness of giving to those in need. It is contrary to the vow of poverty that such communities be surrounded by such wealth.’
‘But not contrary to the vow of poverty that the monastery become a resort for the wealthy.’
She had been through his papers. Is she wanting to ring Connoisseur Resorts, trying to sabotage his project? ‘The rich also need spiritual sustenance.’
A sigh, a heartbeat. ‘What happens to sisters when their home is sold?’
He wishes she would not use words like ‘home’. He feels much more comfortable discussing it in terms of real estate. ‘They are well looked after.’ He is about to say they go to a more comfor
table existence, running hot water, central heating etc. but remembers how she reacted the first time. ‘As much as possible, we endeavour to give their lives continuity.’ He pauses then adds, ‘Continuity in another house, with sisters of the same order.’
He doesn’t understand. It hangs together as delicately as a spider web. Once the fabric is touched the whole unravels. It is not just the three of them, it is the Agnes sisters, St Anne and the Blessed Virgin, every prayer, every chant that has seeped into the stones, every private thought and contemplation, each birdsong, blade of grass, worm and insect. The earth itself. It is the place and everything in it, the light and the dark, the day and the night, the generations of sisters, everlasting life, all this contained in the egg of the monastery.
How much longer did Iphigenia, Margarita and Carla have in their present form? Before their eternal souls were lifted up to the light of the Lord, their decomposing bodies became part of the soil, their spirits re-emerged as Agnes Dei? Lambs of God.
‘If many properties are being sold, why does the Bishop need this one?’
It wasn’t so much the Bishop, it was Ignatius. This one was his. He’d found it, he was going to see it through.
‘It is entirely up to the Bishop. I am his secretary, a mere servant. Sister, these nights … Could I have a candle and some reading material? Please?’
The silence roars like a hard wind in his ears. She could be a statue and her voice a figment of his imagination. Perhaps he is dreaming the conversation. The voice is a tide, an ebb and flow. Through the high window the stars are disappearing and the sky grows light. How long has she been here? A second or all night? Something heaves and sighs like water being displaced and she moves.
Her shadow falls over him. ‘Margarita says if we give you legs you will run.’
He can hear his own breathing and the first bird twittering. He does not want to talk about the promise of legs, does not want to expose himself to the danger of tripping. Much better to concentrate on what he is good at. He says, ‘I would like us to negotiate an equitable arrangement concerning the future of the monastery.’ He imagines this slithering into her mind like a snake.
‘A win–win situation.’
He is surprised by her turn of phrase, as if hearing a foreigner misuse English. But she is talking his language, this is a good sign. He is convincing her and she will convince the others. ‘Win–win. Yes, that’s it.’
Smiling smugly, Ignatius watched the last few shreds of night disappear. The phone. Such a delicious thought. He sucked on it, rolled it around in his brain, savouring all the implications. An active phone on the premises. He scratched his stomach, thinking up little ways of getting hold of it. But of course he didn’t even have to do that.
Oh, such exquisite pleasure, just thinking about it. Ignatius didn’t have to do a thing, she would do it for him. What a perfect irony. If she used the mobile, the call would be charged to the Bishop’s account.
He prayed there’d be someone at the palace as diligent and scrupulous as himself, who would check the account when it came in. The number of whoever she called would be on the account. But that was less important than the fact that a call had been made. From the mobile. The phone was still being used. They would make enquiries, start the search up again.
He would wait a day or two. Then he would work out ways to gain access to the phone. Use Carla. Think up a game.
Establish and build rapport, obtain information, test ideas, simpler and cheaper than travelling to a meeting, one can take notes without appearing rude. Iphigenia had read the page on conducting business by phone and had practised her telephone manner. She didn’t realise there were so many different types of questions—rhetorical, straightforward, hypothetical, testing, softening up, open, closed, leading. The morning birds were in full chirp and Iphigenia had made several calls before somebody suggested she try directory assistance.
She wondered whether the priest had been trying to trick her because directory assistance had only three numbers. But when she asked for Banks, Colquhoun and Andrews, sure enough, she was given seven numbers. Iphigenia said them over and over till they were in her heart then she tapped them out.
‘You’ve reached Banks, Colquhoun and Andrews,’ a young woman’s voice informed her. ‘Please call back during office hours, nine to five-thirty. Thank you.’
She asked for Mr Banks but there was no response. ‘Hello, hello?’ she said. The voice ignored her. Iphigenia spoke more loudly into the phone but still there was no response. She turned the phone off. She was tired, perhaps she wasn’t doing it properly. She would try again later.
She waited till after Terce. She remembered that Mr Banks never came before breakfast or after supper. Usually it was morning-tea time. She remembered that Mr Banks had a way of stirring the sugar into his tea, holding the spoon by its very end, moving it round in a circle like a hypnotist.
Margarita had stayed in the chapel, Carla was off in the fields. Iphigenia went to the abbess’ room to make the call. She sat surrounded by the things of the world, the car relics, Negotiation Skills in case she needed them.
‘Banks, Colquhoun and Andrews, may I help you?’
‘Mr Banks, please,’ Iphigenia said in a steady voice.
After a pause the young woman said, ‘There is no longer a Mr Banks. Can I be of assistance?’
Iphigenia had thought a lot about Mr Banks before making the call, she knew that young Mr Banks would probably by now be old Mr Banks. But evidently he had passed on. ‘Mr Banks’ son?’
‘It’s the name of the firm, there is no Mr Banks. What is it in regard to?’
Iphigenia went onto the next name. ‘I will speak to Mr Colquhoun.’ An authoritative voice will inspire confidence and get things done.
‘One moment, please.’
Iphigenia heard some string instruments, then, ‘James Colquhoun.’ A gentleman’s voice with the roll of thunder in it. The sort of voice she imagined God having.
‘Mrs Featheringale here. There is a matter I wish to discuss with you.’ Though she had gone over this many times in her mind, Iphigenia was still surprised to hear Grandmother’s voice coming out of her mouth.
‘Mrs Featheringale!’
Oh how she loved that fluffy feather-duster name, a feather-in-your-cap name. A name as long as a whole sentence. ‘Mrs Featheringale’s granddaughter,’ Iphigenia explained.
‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘Would you like to make an appointment to come into the office or would you prefer I come to see you?’ It was very strange. She had never had correspondence with Mr Colquhoun yet he seemed to know her.
‘Our correspondence will be by telephone. It can establish and build rapport, one can take notes without appearing rude, and it is simpler and cheaper than travelling to a meeting.’
‘Yes, of course, Miss Featheringale. Or do you prefer Ms?’
Featheringale was Grandmother’s name. On Iphigenia it felt odd, like a hat. ‘I am Sister Iphigenia.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
It was very peculiar. It was as if he knew her but she didn’t know him at all. She didn’t even have a picture of him the way she had a picture of Mr Banks. It was very difficult trying to get an impression from a disembodied voice, although, she reflected, it didn’t seem to pose a problem when she was talking to God.
‘What is your smell, Mr Colquhoun?’
‘My what?’
‘How do you smell?’
‘I beg your pardon, I do not smell!’
She couldn’t understand why he was so indignant, everyone had a smell. But, she recalled, people didn’t like talking about it. Even when it was a very strong flatulent smell that made people turn their noses up, they still didn’t say anything.
‘I didn’t mean to offend,’ she said in a contrite voice. ‘It’s just that … Are your clothes made of wool?’
‘The suit’s a wool blend and the shirt polyester. The bow tie is made of silk. Dark red, if you really want to kno
w.’
A dark red silk bow tie. A good head of grey hair with a part at the side and curls combed back behind the ears. Well-groomed. The tangy floral fragrance of cologne. And now leather and pear. Iphigenia saw him sitting at his desk, a big desk with a mahogany smell.
‘Sister, exactly what is it you wish to discuss?’
Iphigenia had thought much in the Great Silence about what she was going to say, she had even asked the Lord’s advice. The Lord had answered her thus—even if, and this was a big if, even if news of a missing priest and the helicopter search had found its way into the newspapers, and even if Banks, Colquhoun and Andrews had read this news, there was probably no mention of either his destination or the Church’s intention. To support this theory God had pointed out that no-one had followed in the wake of the helicopter and the matter had probably been laid to rest. So it was with confidence that she said, ‘It is in regard to the sale of our property.’
‘Ah, you wish to sell your property?’ He seemed quite eager.
‘That is precisely what we do not wish. It has come to my notice that the Church, the Bishop, that is, wishes to sell our home. What can we do?’
‘Sister …’ he hesitated. ‘Surely you must have an advisor on such matters. The Mother General of your order?’
‘Mr Colquhoun, we are an isolated community. We have no other contact but Banks, Colquhoun and Andrews. I would be pleased if you would be our advisor in this matter. Gather the information if it is not at your immediate disposal. I will telephone tomorrow. Goodbye.’ Iphigenia turned the phone off. She had hurried through the last part. So much talking. It was exhausting doing Grandmother’s voice. She had to go and lie down, something she rarely did during the daylight but she was feeling quite dizzy.
She could hear chanting. Sext. Commitment and fervour. The hour when the sun was at its highest, the peak of the day. Noon. A time equidistant from the fresh hopeful start of dawn and the sense of completion that evening brought. The time when the temptation to give up was greatest.