Blood Crime

by Sebastia Alzamora

  The novice shook her head without daring to raise it. She felt the bishop place a hand on her shoulder. The gesture was meant to transmit trust, but it only terrified the girl even more.

  “Do not be frightened, my child,” murmured the prelate, his voice low and cavernous. “Look me in the eye, please.”

  She slowly raised her head and looked at Bishop Perugorría. She couldn’t have said why, but she was surprised that his eyes were the color of a pale sky, with aqueous pupils that seemed as if they too were on the point of weeping.

  “I am here because outside the convent there are men who want to kill me.” The bishop paused again after these words, then added: “Not only me, but also all those who serve Our Lord. Including Mother Abbess. And yourself. People think that I am dead, and as long as they believe that to be the case, the best possible shelter for me is within the walls of this convent.” He gave a long, deep sigh. “It has always been this way, my child. Since the beginning, since the apostles. Already in those distant times God’s beloved were despised by others who worshiped idols. Persecution and torture. Derision and death. In many ways, one could say that our devotion has often been our downfall. But we will never abandon our beliefs, will we, my child? We will never renounce our love of God, never turn our backs on Him or abjure the light He shines on us even in the darkest of nights . . . Tell me, my child: Will you remain steady in your faith in God Almighty, his son Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit?”

  Without opening her mouth, Sister Concepció nodded, an almost imperceptible movement of her head, but it sufficed.

  “But of course you will, my child, as it must be,” said Bishop Perugorría with pride, his claw squeezing the top of her shoulder. “It could not be otherwise, because our faith is strong, and inasmuch as He grants us the strength of our faith, no wind shall bend us, nor will the fury of the tempests diminish its strength. Faith is the weapon by which we are transformed into the most indestructible of armies; Satan’s name is Legion, and he may surpass us in number but never in steadfastness or temperance . . . How old are you, my child?”

  Sister Concepció stole a glance at the hand grasping her shoulder. It was hurting her, but most especially she felt disgust at the sight of it: it was a languid, pale hand, covered with bristly hairs all the way down to the knuckles, its long fingers hooked, gnarled. It was all she could do to control her revulsion.

  “Aren’t you going to answer His Excellency, child?” inquired the mother abbess with a touch of irritation.

  The novice took a moment to breathe. “Thirteen, Your Excellency,” she responded in one sudden exhalation, the air coming out as though through a pump.

  “Thirteen,” repeated the bishop, finally withdrawing his hand. The girl’s breathing steadied with relief. “The age of Saint Eulàlia, of course. Do you know who Saint Eulàlia was, my dear?”

  Sister Concepció was silent again.

  “Do not be rude. Answer when you are spoken to,” the mother abbess ordered.

  The novice recited, “Saint Eulàlia is the patron saint of Barcelona, Your Excellency, and she should not be confused with Mare de Déu de la Mercè, the Virgin of Mercy, patron of the Diocese.”

  “Very good, my dear,” the bishop said approvingly, with a cankerous smile. “What else can you tell me about her?”

  “Nothing more, Your Excellency,” the novice admitted, lowering her head.

  “Nothing more, Your Excellency,” Bishop Perugorría mimicked. “What do you think of that, Mother Abbess? Nothing more, Your Excellency!” He broke out in a thunderous laugh. “Santa Eulàlia gloriosa! Santa Eulàlia gloriosa!”

  The outburst of hilarity was quite improper given His Excellency’s dignified position. The mother abbess observed silently; Sister Concepció looked on with trepidation.

  “Enough!” the bishop shouted abruptly, as if addressing himself. Reassuming his serious bearing, he bellowed: “You should know that when Saint Eulàlia was a young girl like you she lived in a house right here where we are now, in Sarrià. As a matter of fact, we cannot rule out that this very convent was built over the ruins of Saint Eulàlia’s house. What do you say to that, child?”

  “Nothing, Your Excellency.”

  “Have you ever visited the cloister of the Cathedral, my dear?”

  “No, Your Excellency.”

  “I wonder what parents teach their children these days!” said the bishop disapprovingly. “It is no surprise that we find ourselves at war and that God’s children are being harmed, reviled and murdered.” Feigning serenity, he continued: “If you had visited the cloister of the Cathedral, you would have seen the charming flock of geese. Do you know what a goose is, my child?”

  “I think so, Your Excellency.”

  “You think so! God help us! And what exactly do you think a goose is, pray tell?”

  “It’s a kind of duck . . .”

  A protracted, uncomfortable silence followed. Then the prelate gasped and again began to vociferate: “A duck?! A duck and a goose have nothing in common! Have some respect for God’s creation, child! Don’t you know that man named all the animals at the dawn of time? And if a goose was named goose and not duck, it must be for a reason, don’t you think?”

  “Of course, Your Excellency.”

  The novice had surrendered to the absurdity of the moment and no longer felt like crying.

  “But let us not get off track, child,” said the bishop. “You probably do not know the name of the estate where Saint Eulàlia grew up. Am I right?”

  “You are, Your Excellency. I do not know.”

  “Just as I thought. How about you, Mother Abbess?”

  “The Desert of Sarrià,” she answered, with the air of a diligent student.

  “Precisely!” exclaimed the bishop. “And why, in such a remote time, at the end of the third century, might a villa on the outskirts of Barcelona receive such a curious name?”

  “Because of the palm trees on the land,” replied the mother abbess at once, to spare Sister Concepció from having to reveal her ignorance again.

  “That is correct, Mother Abbess. Palm trees.” He turned to the novice. “But the most interesting part of the story, my sweet child, is that those trees had not always been palm trees. No, previously there had been a small forest of cypress trees. One day, as Saint Eulàlia was strolling in the forest, an angel appeared to her and announced that she was to become a saint, the patron of Barcelona. And so the revelation might be duly recorded, the angel turned the cypress trees into palm trees. And this, my dear, is the point I was leading to: Why do you think the angel appeared to the child, a girl such as yourself, and worked such wonders before her bewildered eyes?”

  “I don’t know that either, Your Excellency,” responded a weary Sister Concepció.

  “Because she was a Christian, my child. As simple as that. The angels protect those of us who love God and place our faith in Him, and they show us the path to His Glory. This is the supreme benefit that we, Our Lord’s servants, receive from our faith.” As he spoke these words, the bishop’s face seemed to light up from within, but then it darkened. “Alas, that is but one side of the story. What would be the other, my dear?”

  The novice again looked Bishop Perugorría in the eyes. She was suddenly certain of the answer. She opened her mouth to speak, and she had the feeling it wasn’t her own voice but someone else’s, deep within her stomach that answered firmly: “Torment, Your Excellency.”

  The bishop spread his arms wide. “That, now, is a clear-sighted response, my dear.” And he pinched her chin with two of his offensive fingers. “It is through torment that Christians give testimony of our will to abide in the Lord and of the firmness of the commitment that binds us to Him. And this torment is also a source of joy, the greatest, most trying joy of all.” The bishop lit up again, like a blinking light. “Blessed are those who endure derision, violence, or d
eath for their faith, for they will be favored by the Lord. Saint Eulàlia lived in the time of Diocletian, a cruel, bloodthirsty emperor. She was arrested, and though still a child, she paid dearly for her devotion. Are you familiar, child, with the torments inflicted upon Saint Eulàlia?”

  Sister Concepció shook her head timidly.

  “Thirteen torments, one for each of her years,” explained the bishop. “First she received one hundred lashes, then hooks were driven into her body, ripping the skin and flesh from her back and belly. She was forced to walk across a bed of red-hot embers and then her breasts were cut off.”

  The bishop interrupted his account to steal a quick, unctuous glance at the novice’s budding breasts.

  “Saint Eulàlia’s entire body was an open wound; in order to inflict still more pain, her captors rubbed the sores with pumice stones, poured boiling oil on them, doused her in molten lead and left her an entire night in a well of quicklime. Then they placed her in a wine barrel filled with shards of glass and broken pieces of tile and rolled her down a slope. They made her sleep one night in a flea- and bedbug-infested animal pen so that her sores would become infected, then they placed her briefly over a bonfire, but not long enough to kill her because the death reserved for Christians was crucifixion at dawn. Saint Eulàlia, reduced to a stump of flesh and crushed bones, remained alive on the cross for fourteen more hours before expiring and giving up her soul to God. Thirteen torments,” noted the bishop, holding up the five fingers of each hand, then the thumb, index and ring finger of his right hand.

  A faint, disagreeable nausea settled in Sister Concepció’s stomach. His Excellency continued his enthusiastic speech under the mother abbess’s watchful eye.

  “Christians worthy of the name must rejoice, my child, for we are again living through a period of torment, and this affords us the opportunity to test the purity of our faith. These are times that demand fortitude of spirit, even of young girls of thirteen like Saint Eulàlia who, without a shadow of a doubt, received her guidance from the Holy Spirit.” The bishop took the novice by the chin again. “Tell me, my dear: If the time came, would you have the strength to endure such torment for the grace and love of God?”

  “Yes, Your Excellency,” lied the girl, doing her best to appear poised and keep from retching.

  The bishop raised her face, and with a blank look, panted, “Excellent! Excellent!”

  He withdrew his fingers from Sister Concepció’s face, turned his back to her, trudged over to the armchair and laboriously lowered himself into it. He seemed exhausted, as if he had just performed a herculean feat. His cheeks and double chin quivered, and he gasped for air like a fish out of water.

  The mother abbess spoke: “Nevertheless, it is not necessary that we all follow the path of martyrdom, is it, my child?” She had dropped her authoritarian tone and tried to seem cordial, maternal even, but she only managed to appear hesitant. “Someone must live to sing praise to the martyrs and saints. And you, as His Excellency noted, have the gift, the great privilege granted by Our Lord, of expressing yourself through music.”

  Sister Concepció responded with a nod intended to show gratitude but which brought with it a mouthful of bile that she had trouble holding back.

  “His Excellency,” continued the mother abbess, somewhat deflated, “believes—and it is also my humble opinion—that there are many ways of facing the vicissitudes of these difficult times when Our Lord, as our bishop explained, subjects us to such harsh trials. One of these is to contribute, each according to our ability, some measure of beauty to this world.”

  The mother abbess paused again, searching for words she could not find. Finally, she blurted out: “In short, my child, His Excellency would like for you to begin working on a musical composition. Not a variation on a preexisting piece, but your own composition. After the pleasure derived from what we heard yesterday, we feel it is reasonable to believe that you are in a position to . . .”

  Sister Concepció understood that the ludicrous request was a whim of Bishop Perugorría’s, and the mother abbess, against her will, had had no choice but to support it. She also realized there was nothing she could do to put a stop to the nonsense, and so she simply gave the mother abbess a stale, resigned smile. She glanced at His Excellency, who had sunk down into himself.

  The mother abbess opened the glass door to the cupboard, selected one of the black clay urns and set it on the long, dark, rough-hewn table of the chapterhouse. She then reached into her habit and withdrew two little trinkets that she held out in the palm of her hand to show Sister Concepció.

  “Do you see this bean and this almond, dear child?” The novice nodded without understanding. “We will put them both in the vase, and then, without looking, you will reach in and take one of them.”

  It was some sort of raffle, then, probably something to do with the task being assigned to her. She watched as the mother abbess dropped the bean and the almond into the urn and shook it energetically. When she tired, the nun stretched out her arms, and holding the vase with both hands before the girl, said, “Go ahead, my child.”

  Sister Concepció raised one hand, but stopped midway. It suddenly occurred to her there might be a scorpion or poisonous spider in the vase that would sting her, and she would have a terrible death, with tertian fevers and delirium. It was torment, or the idea of torment, that had seized her imagination and filled her head with unspeakable images in which she saw herself being whipped, tortured, mutilated, burned alive for the glory of Our Lord. And these images produced an oppressive, clammy nausea that was not just physical but something that bled through the walls of her heart and into her spirit.

  “Child . . .” the mother abbess insisted, softening her stance.

  The girl plucked up her courage; she closed her eyes and, stretching out her arm, she grasped the first seed she found and swiftly extracted it from the vase.

  “A bean,” the mother abbess announced in a serious tone.

  “Magnificent!” exclaimed the bishop, suddenly reviving. “So then, we shall have a Stabat Mater.”

  What foolish endeavor the almond represented Sister Concepció would never know, nor did she have any desire to.

  Bishop Perugorría now seemed unexpectedly cheerful, elated even. “I am especially partial to the Stabat Mater,” he declared, beaming. “It is a genre that has produced some of the most valuable expressions in the history of music. The Mother of God’s lament for her son’s suffering . . . The height of the torment and the purification derived from it.”

  “When Mary weeps,” added the mother abbess, “it is the sum of all the tears shed by every mother who has ever seen her child in the grip of pain and misery and has nevertheless kept her faith in the infinite mercy of Our Lord.”

  The bishop inhaled deeply through his nose and said, “You will compose your Stabat Mater in honor of Senyora María Maeztu, my poor dear mother. She must now be in what used to be my home in Navarra, mourning the death of her son, the news of which she of course believes to be true.” His Excellency’s eyes moistened even more than usual, and he raised a hand to wipe away a tear. “My mother and I will be amply rewarded for this suffering when we are reunited and can embrace, whether in this world or in the higher life that divine providence offers us beyond death. But for the moment,” he said, addressing the girl, “your music can serve as a salve to cauterize the wounds of the souls debased by this war, the mothers subjugated by this scourge . . .” His voice broke and he began to weep, lost in his own frenzy.

  Sister Concepció found the courage to object. “I don’t believe I am capable . . .” she said, almost in a whisper.

  Bishop Perugorría came to and grasped her again, this time with a hand on each shoulder. It hurt. The faint light of the chapterhouse contrasted with the icy glow in the prelate’s still teary eyes.

  “My sweet child,” he hissed, “if you can state that you are strong e
nough to endure Saint Eulàlia’s ordeal, then the Holy Spirit will surely grant you the courage to comply with what is asked of you.”

  The mother abbess was no longer able to conceal her sadness. “The exceptional nature of this request means that you will be relieved of your usual chores in our community. But we would appreciate your effort not to neglect them completely . . .” She realized she was contradicting herself and stopped herself before she contributed more to the novice’s confusion. “You may go in peace, my child,” the mother abbess concluded.

  The sound of the closing door to the chapterhouse echoed behind Sister Concepció as she departed. In a daze, the novice took a few hesitant steps; then she had to stop to vomit in a corner of the cloister as the cats looked on, intrigued.

  •••

  Brother Pau Darder was disconcerted after the conversation with Don Miquel Carbonissa. The judge proved to be a repository of knowledge when it came to accounts of the deceased who had somehow returned to life, either as vampires or in some other form. Those tales did nothing to help Brother Darder find the spiritual comfort he needed, but he had had little choice but to beg for the patience of Job and feign interest.

  The topic, according to Judge Carbonissa, could be traced back to ancient times. In The Histories, Herodotus tells the story of a revenant of antiquity by the name of Aristeas. The son of a long line of distinguished nobles from the city of Proconnesus, Aristeas composed narrative poems, explaining in one of them that Apollo had inspired him to travel to the land of the Issedones, high above which lived the one-eyed Arimaspi, and a bit farther away, the gold-guarding griffins, and farther still, by the sea, the Hyperboreans.

  The young Aristeas entered a fuller’s shop one day to request that a few cotton bales be spun so he could weave some cloth from them; but Aristeas suddenly dropped dead in the middle of the shop. The fuller was beside himself; he locked his shop and ran as fast as he could to inform the dead man’s family. The news quickly spread, but a man from Cyzicus who had just arrived in Proconnesus announced that Aristeas could not possibly have died in the fuller’s shop, for he had had just had seen him and spoken to him at the city gates. The Cyzicenian defended his story before the people who gathered in the agora. Indeed, when Aristeas’s tearful family arrived at the fuller’s shop with the funeral carriage and shroud, there was no sign of their son, either dead or alive. Nothing more was known of Aristeas until seven years later, when he returned to Proconnesus as mysteriously as he had vanished and apparently in perfect health. He remained in the city for a short period, during which time he devoted himself to writing poetry, and then he disappeared again as if the earth had swallowed him up.