The Priest's Madonna

by Hassinger, Amy

  She wrenched her arm from his grasp. It had been him, she knew it now. She recognized the feel of his hand. “And if he has, you’re prepared to leave him, too?” she said. Her voice was indignant, as if she herself had never doubted. But Yehudah’s doubt was so ugly, so self-concerned, she found her own dwindling.

  Yehudah smiled ironically and shook his head. “I forgot who I was talking to,” he said. He pursed his mouth with disgust. “Why do you let him come to you, Miryam? A well-bred woman like you? A chazzan’s daughter?”

  She fixed him with a stern glare. “It’s none of your business what I choose to do.”

  “Aren’t the sins of all Yisrael our business? That’s what we’re about here, is it not? Saving Yisrael from her sins? We’re all accountable to each other.”

  “You are in no position to judge my sins, Yehudah. Pull the log from your own eye.”

  “Ah, she quotes him, even. A true disciple.” He tossed a twig into the fire; they watched it flare in a thin line. “He won’t marry you, you know. He told me himself. A wife would get in the way of his ministry, he said.”

  “I’m not looking for a husband. I have no need of a husband. I have a Rabbi.” She grieved a little, speaking these words. She would die unmarried, childless, alone. It was not what she had planned.

  “A woman is either a wife or a whore, Miryam. I see you’ve made your choice.” He walked away, toward the trees on the edge of the clearing.

  Miryam watched him go, still feeling the grip of his hand on her arm. There was so much ugliness. She squatted in front of the fire, resting her chin on her knees. The mind was unfailingly ugly—the contortions it made in order to conform to the desires, the rationales it erected. Yehudah was jealous. It was a scent, like the wine on his breath. He was jealous of Yeshua’s gifts, of his growing fame. Of her. She could not condemn him—she was just the same. Shame washed over her at the thought of the woman who’d kissed Yeshua’s feet. Ugliness, hatred, were too much in the way.

  Yehudah, she knew, loved Yeshua, perhaps more than the others. When he listened to Yeshua speak, his eyes grew ardent with admiration and belief. When Yeshua was gone, it was Yehudah who wanted to dwell on his words, to mince each sentence like a leek and taste the sounds on his own tongue. Yet while he loved Yeshua’s ideas, he despised his humanity. He had no room in his heart for the imperfections that make up a person, for the weaknesses, the pain, for the stumbling, the falls, the dead ends that accompany a great trek. He required Yeshua to be perfect and humble; he demanded he love them as fully as God, but could not abide his need to be loved in return.

  The fire popped as a log broke and fell into the ash. Miryam brushed a cinder from her robe. The problem with Yehudah was that since he did not tolerate weakness, he could not love any man on earth. He could only love God. But God had made man, in full knowledge of his shortcomings, and he had pronounced him good. To call man evil was to contradict God’s own judgment, to denounce his creation. To hate a man, any man, was to hate God.

  Miryam stood, overcome with a sudden longing for Yeshua. She wanted to thank him, to tell him how she loved him. She lifted her arms to the sky, beheld the brilliant moon and the stars scattered like seeds, and sang softly,

  “O my dove, in the clefts of the rock, in the covert of the cliff, let me see your face.

  Let me hear your voice, for your voice is sweet, and your face is comely.

  Catch us the little foxes, the little foxes that spoil the vineyards, for our vineyards are in blossom!”

  Chapter Eight

  WE WERE DISCREET. We had nothing to hide, really; we had committed no sin, at least not literally. But we knew the way gossip flared in our village, and we were not anxious to be the subjects of the next conflagration. Bérenger still acted as though he was a member of the family, taking many of his meals with us—though I served him in the presbytery just as often. I was careful not to speak too familiarly with him in front of anyone outside of the family. If anything, our behavior became more awkward, for we were both so aware of the joy we felt in each other’s company that we had to concentrate in order to disguise it. Even so, we performed the most mundane actions—passing a plate, greeting each other—with a new buoyancy that was impossible to hide.

  My parents recognized it. It was a minor relief for my father, I believe, for he no longer had to worry that Bérenger might tempt my mother in his absence. Having made no personal investment in the incorruptibility of priests, he saw our arrangement as I did—as an irregular marriage—and even approved of it, as if it were a political statement, as if I’d wooed Bérenger in order to weaken the Church. My mother had a more difficult time. My closeness with Bérenger brought about their alienation; it lost her a friend. It was a gradual process, the transference of Bérenger’s allegiance, and perhaps necessary, for it would have been awkward if both my mother and I were his confidantes. She retreated gradually, allowing me to step forward and assume the role of Bérenger’s primary companion. She may have acted out of respect for my father’s unspoken jealousy, but I believe she wanted, in her own way, to encourage our companionship, for my sake. It was not easy for her. She still hoped I would marry, and even suggested young men from time to time, though she always withdrew her suggestion when she saw the distaste on my face.

  On my twentieth birthday, Bérenger gave me an amulet of polished amber on a gold chain. My father whistled low, admiring the stone. Tears stood in my eyes; I touched Bérenger’s wrist in gratitude. My mother looked away.

  She came to me the next afternoon, solemn-faced, and asked me if what people were saying were true.

  “I haven’t heard the gossip, maman,” I said, searching for how to respond. When I saw that she would not elaborate—she had set her jaw in a position that indicated it would not soon open—I continued gently, “So I can’t speak to its truth. But I can tell you that I have a deep affection for Monsieur le curé, and I believe it is one that he shares for me.” I blushed as I spoke, even imagining she might share my pride, as I’d finally won the heart of a respectable man.

  “Understand me, Marie,” she whispered, her voice like a razor. “I will tolerate your friendship as long as it remains only that. But if you ever tempt him to break his vow, I will no longer call you my daughter.”

  “We haven’t sinned, maman,” I insisted, desperately. “He’s broken no vow.” She held up her hand, signaling the end of the conversation, and left the room. But I did not doubt her word. I knew the strength of her will.

  Nor did I resent the boundary she’d drawn. I believed our love could remain pure, that it could rise above the morbidity of the flesh. I told myself that after the unfortunate episode with Gérard, I wanted nothing to do with physical love. Ours would be a marriage of minds, I felt sure, even as I basked in the sensation of arousal.

  Our chastity became a source of titillation. My body temperature rose in Bérenger’s presence. If he stood with me as I cooked, I grew clumsy: spoons, onion husks, whole sausages landed on the floor. I made foolish spelling errors when I took his dictation, distracted by the proximity of his hand to my shoulder. When he spoke, I gazed at his mouth, his eyes, the hair curling at his ear. The days passed quickly this way, as I lolled in the warmth of his attentions.

  But my fantasies of our intellectual intimacy were far more glorious than the reality of our conversations, which were often arguments, even confrontations. Bérenger had a way of making me bold. I demanded to know his mind, his real thoughts, not parroted doctrine. I couldn’t help myself: I challenged him. I asked for substantiation; I pressed him to expand his statements; I needled him, prodded him, pushed him. Knowing beforehand what he would say of Renan, I brought him up anyway, then listened scornfully as Bérenger rejected him. Darwin, as I had expected, produced a similar reaction: Bérenger declared Darwin’s vision of existence to be an earthly hell, a place of clamoring selfishness, purposeless suffering, a world devoid of God’s loving order, his compassionate and just administration.

&nbs
p; “How can you, as a devout Catholic, tolerate such ideas, Marie?” he would ask, incredulous. “You allow your mind too much sway over your heart.”

  “God gave me a mind and a heart,” I retorted.

  “God gave you a mind, yes, and with it the ability to choose. But he also gave you the sole righteous choice: the path, through his Son, that leads to him, to the accomplishment of his will.”

  “But how can you know his will with such conviction?” I asked.

  “The doctrines of the true Church express his will. That’s all I need.”

  “But the Church is created and led by men.”

  “Marie! Your incessant questions will end up extinguishing your faith!”

  Virtually any religious discussion we embarked on ended in this manner, with a peremptory declaration from Bérenger. He clung to doctrine as a small child does to its mother. His closed mindedness infuriated me.

  But despite our differences, our affection for each other only grew. I believe it was even fed by our impassioned arguments. And the moments of reconciliation were sweet. Bérenger might bring my hand to his face and press it against his cheek, resting the weight of his skull in my palm. “Mon petit ange,” he would call me. My little angel.

  “Mon ours fou,” I would respond, touching his lips with a fleeting finger. My crazy bear.

  As my mother had noted, the village had discerned our intimacy despite our discretion. Exactly how they divined the nature of our relationship I do not know. Maybe it was the wind. Whatever the source, word spread quickly and, as is common with rumor, inaccurately.

  Rural people are practical. A priest is useful for blessing the planting of crops in the spring and the harvest in the fall. Crossing oneself before sowing seed or slicing bread is good luck. Ringing the church bell or tossing pieces of priest’s dung—pebbles affixed with wax crosses—keeps away a bad storm. Religion, too, is practical. If you are ill, you pray to the proper saint: Saint Eutropius for dropsy; Saint Cloud for boils; Saint Dietrine for herpes; Saint Aig nan for ringworm. If you want a husband, you go to the grotto at Saint Salvaire and throw a stone against a rock. Celibacy is impractical, even suspect. A priest who takes a lover can therefore be accepted, even embraced—by some. Such a priest can no longer hold himself above his parishioners as purer and less stained by sin than they: he becomes one of them, and thereby earns their respect. Such a priest can enter the inner rooms; he can sit with the rest of the family by the bed as a woman labors to give birth; he can mourn the dead by their deathbeds openly and without formality. He can weave himself more tightly into the fabric of his parish.

  There were some like my mother, generally the more faithful parishioners, who wanted their priest stainless. Mme Flèche, who prayed in the church every morning before Mass, began to eye me with contempt, as did M. Lébadou and his wife. Mme Montaucon affected a disdain for me—she turned down a different path if she saw me coming, or averted her eyes when passing me was inevitable—but I knew her haughtiness was born of jealousy rather than offense. Given the opportunity, she would have stood proudly in my place. On the whole, people recognized our relationship for what it was—or what it would become—and generally acted as if they had expected it all along.

  Of course, Bérenger’s reputation was hard to tarnish, after he had made such commendable progress in the church. The roof was finished, the red of the new tiles almost indecent next to their weather-worn neighbors. The sanctuary vault no longer threatened to collapse. A beautiful chestnut confessional had been installed in the sanctuary as well as several new pews, which had seemed a questionable decision at the time but proved to be wise, as the number of attendees on a Sunday began to increase. People were pleased. They enjoyed the magnificence of the gilded marble altar and tabernacle and the sky-blue wall of the apse behind it. The face of the altar was now filled in with Bérenger’s Marie Madeleine scene, which had come out quite well. And a set of new marble steps led from the nave to the choir, which was set off by a low balustrade. The rest of the interior was still plainly decorated—the floor the original cold stone, the walls unadorned, the nave as yet empty of art—but most of us liked it that way. We were proud of our church—no one more than Bérenger himself, who went so far as to invite the bishop to admire it. On the day the monseigneur blessed the church, the village swelled with pride and forgot, temporarily, to wonder aloud where Bérenger had gotten the money to accomplish such an impressive restoration.

  The topic was not buried, though. Everyone remembered the difficulty Bérenger had originally faced in funding his projects, and that when he returned from Narbonne, an unspecified donor had solved his financial problems, at least temporarily. The question resurfaced in the tavern and at the market: Who had given M. le curé that kind of money? Why? Who would care about our little church? Added to this mystery, there was now the matter of the “treasure” Bérenger had found. For word had gotten out; the workers who had helped lift the stone had not kept silent. The story of M. le curé ’s treasure hummed through the village and traveled as far as Limoux, where I heard it from the tailor one day when I went to have a new set of trousers made for Father. He asked me if it was true—if Bérenger had found riches beneath the church, and if he was keeping it all for himself. I assured him it was not, that he had only found some worthless old paraphernalia, buried there by a former priest.

  It had been more than a year since Madame had gone to Paris, more than a year since I’d brought her my sketch of the knight’s stone and she’d left me with the cryptic statement that had it been found in Rennes-le-Château, there would be more to say. I had written her a letter soon after she’d gone, sending my condolences at the passing of her aunt. At the end of my letter, I had alluded to the comment she had made about the knight’s stone. Her response, some weeks later, revealed nothing. It thanked me for my wishes of condolence and assured me that all was well. She explained her long absence by saying that her aunt had left some discrepancies in her affairs that had to be straightened out. She said nothing regarding the stone and its mysteries, only that she would be returning to Rennes-le-Château in the future, and that we would continue our discussion upon her return.

  I began to wonder again about the items we’d found beneath the stone: the painting, the heavy golden cross, the silver chalice and bowl, the tiny bell, the censer, the porcelain santons, and the moldy silk stole. Also the coins, which Bérenger had claimed were brass medals. I had seen no sign of any of them since the day we’d found them. Where exactly had he put them? I thought again of his frequent trips and the satchel he always brought with him.

  When I brought the subject up that evening, Bérenger stiffened. “I thought you’d forgotten all about that.”

  “No,” I said, disturbed by his obvious agitation.

  “Well, I’d appreciate it if you’d put it out of your head, Marie. Really. There’s no reason to concern yourself with it.”

  “Excuse me, but there is. I was very interested in that stone. And the message the priest left. The gates of death and all that.”

  “Yes, well. He was probably in trouble at the time. Priests were hunted in those days, you know. Maybe he feared for his life.”

  “Maybe. Still, I think there’s more to it than that, don’t you?”

  He shrugged. His nonchalance was unconvincing.

  “Where did you put that old case, anyway? And everything inside of it?”

  He looked at me pointedly, as if deciding whether or not to trust me. “If you must know, I sold it.”

  “Why? To whom?”

  “Oh, there are antiques dealers who go in for that sort of thing.”

  “And the coins?”

  “Those I deposited in the bank. Turns out they were louis d’or pieces after all.” He avoided my eyes.

  “But I thought you wanted to wait to hear from the Austrian.”

  “Well, I waited long enough. It’s been almost two years, and we haven’t heard a thing. I’ve needed every penny I can find to make this re
novation happen.”

  I thought of the incessant Mass requests, the accumulated honoraria. “Well, why didn’t you tell me at least?”

  “Because I knew you would protest. Forgive me, ma chérie, but I am responsible for the church and its finances: these are my decisions to make.”

  “What about that book?”

  “That’s just an old register. Church records.”

  “You didn’t sell that, I hope.”

  “Oh, no,” he said. “No, that is truly worthless. It’s around here somewhere.”

  Though he had answered my questions straightforwardly, I couldn’t help but feel he was keeping something from me.

  It was soon after that discussion that the Austrian finally paid us a visit. He arrived on a wet March morning, conspicuous in his finery: foreign tweeds, alligator-skin shoes, and a brushed felt hat capping his sleek hair. He wore a trimmed beard, walked jauntily, and spoke impeccable French with a clipped, imperious accent. I answered his knock, my hair covered by a handkerchief, my hands raw from scrubbing soda. He asked graciously for “Monsieur le curé,” but his expression betrayed how quickly the sight of me had moved him to judgment: woman, servant, poor, ignorant. My hand flew to my handkerchief, as if I might be able to change his mind by rearranging my hair.

  I led him to the church porch, where Bérenger was sketching plans in a notebook. Seeing us, he set down his notebook and pen and greeted the stranger cordially. When the man introduced himself, Bérenger appeared momentarily horrified. “So glad to finally make your acquaintance, monsieur,” he said, recovering and offering his hand. “What an honor.”

  “The honor is mine, Monsieur le curé.”

  “I hope our humble village has not disappointed you.”

  The Austrian laughed. “The walk uphill has already offered me more beauty than I could have imagined. What a glorious place.”

  “I thank you,” Bérenger responded. A silence ensued. Bérenger looked like one of his hunted hares, eyes unblinking, caught off-guard at the moment of his death.