How my mind runs on, or rather backwards, I shall never get on with my narrative if I can’t control those memories, there are too many of them. Well, as I said before, I can’t actually remember the day of the week the following events took place. It may have been Monday or Tuesday. Wednesday, Thursday or Friday are not impossible. I do not believe it was on a Sunday. However it all started about the period I received the postcard from Margrave.
I was looking through the kitchen window in an offhand way, wondering if perhaps there was nobody about and hoping to pick up a snack.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Gambit was sitting in the kitchen shelling peas. One thing, however, struck me as most peculiar. Mrs. Gambit was sitting with a large yellow tom cat on her knees which she was stroking tenderly. Now anyone with an innate horror of cats does not let them sit on their lap, even less address them in terms of endearment. All Natacha had said about rats and Mrs. Gambit came back to my mind. Full of curiosity I walked into the kitchen and offered to help shell the peas.
“Sit down,” said Mrs. Gambit. “I am pleased to see that you are struggling against idleness.”
“That is a fine tom cat,” I said to Mrs. Gambit. “A lot of people dislike cats, although I prefer them to almost any other pet.”
“I love cats,” said Mrs. Gambit. “Dear Tom always sleeps on the end of my bed as if he would like to cure my sick headaches. He is nearly always in my room, though, because cats often wander off if they are given too much liberty.”
“That must be why I didn’t see him before,” I said. “Do let me hold him a while, it is so long since I stroked a cat.”
Mrs. Gambit thought, no doubt, that I was getting too familiar, so she changed the subject of the conversation. “We have cooking classes once a week,” she said “People can practise self-control by making sweetmeats for everyone else, without tasting any of their own cooking.”
To me this seemed positively sadistic, but of course I did not dare tell Mrs. Gambit my real opinion. I merely asked if we used recipes or did, so to speak, creative cooking.
“People are at liberty to cook anything they like. Of course the ingredients count as extras, so in consideration of your families we do not go in for anything extravagant. Some people use cook books although personally I think it is preferable to make things from memory, it prevents rusty minds. All Effort is useful in the Work.”
“I used to be able to make some very tasty dishes, French Cooking you know, although pastry baking was never my strong point.”
“Pretension in the kitchen is no better than pretension in the drawing room,” replied Mrs. Gambit. “Besides your family have not shown any desire to pay extras. Our cooking budget is far too high to allow gifts of expensive foodstuff merely for the sake of showing off your capacities.”
Here Mrs. Gambit gave me her agonized smile and I considered myself dismissed.
I left the kitchen feeling frustrated, without being able to stroke the tom cat.
The cooking classes started shortly after this incident and that is how Natacha came to be making chocolate fudge one afternoon. The fudge was already cool when Fate saw fit to send Mrs. Gambit a visitor. She hurried off to the drawing room leaving Natacha and Mrs. Van Tocht alone in the kitchen. Actually I was not taking part in the fudge making, I was merely an interested spectator standing outside the convenient kitchen window.
Natacha said something to Mrs. Van Tocht, who went over to the door and looked out. They could not see me as a fuchsia bush made me invisible from the door. She joined Natacha again at the table and nodded. Natacha took a nail file from her pocket and drilled holes in about half-a-dozen cubes of fudge, then she opened a packet and emptied the contents into each portion of the hollowed-out sweetmeat. Then both ladies warmed the scooped out fragments of fudge in a saucepan and poured the liquid over the holes as if they had never existed. The whole process did not take long and they seemed to be in a hurry. Natacha wrapped the fudge full of the packet contents in a piece of wax paper and hurried out of the kitchen saying something to Mrs. Van Tocht who nodded again and gave a tight smile.
I crouched near the wall so that Natacha did not see me as she walked quickly past. A second later Maude extricated herself from behind the honeysuckle opposite me and stalked after Natacha. Now Maude could not possibly have witnessed the strange scene in the kitchen so I had to suppose her reasons for lurking in this region were much the same as mine. I let both Maude and Natacha get a start and then I took a short cut which led me behind Natacha’s igloo, where a low grill afforded a good view inside. Natacha entered the igloo, put the fudge in the top drawer of a chest of drawers and covered it with what looked like underclothing. She had her back to the door so she could not see Maude who poked her head in and watched the whole proceeding, then disappeared before Natacha had time to turn around. I was able to follow Natacha back to the kitchen without being seen by way of the bee pond. As I was armed with my hearing trumpet I could overhear the following conversation near the fuchsia bush: “Well! hello Georgina, I am so glad to have the opportunity of a word with you alone,” came Natacha’s voice. “We mustn’t go on snubbing each other like two silly girls.” Georgina grunted and mumbled something I couldn’t catch. Natacha replied with a sort of giggle: “I’ve been playing truant and hidden some fudge in my bungalow,” she told Georgina. “I thought I would invite you to a little feast so that we can kiss and forget about our past difficulties.”
“All right,” said Georgina. “As long as we don’t have to kiss. What you have might be catching.”
“Ha Ha Ha!” Natacha laughed merrily. “You have a real English sense of humour, Georgina.” All this was most surprising. I strained my trumpet so as not to miss anything.
“Sorry I can’t return the compliment,” said Georgina. “You see too many Saints.”
“Perhaps I take my gifts too seriously. One never knows when they might be withdrawn. You, Georgina, may be the next to hear Holy Voices.”
“God Forbid,” said Georgina fervently.
“Well I really must get back before Mrs. Gambit notices my absence,” said Natacha. “Tonight I shall creep into your gay little tent and bring something nice to eat. A toute à l’heure, Georgina!” They separated. I heard Natacha give a happy laugh while Georgina, walking off in the other direction, seemed to be uttering some sort of profanity.
I walked back to Lookout very pensively, wishing that Carmella was there to discuss all these strange events. I passed near Natacha’s igloo just in time to see a figure slip out of the door and disappear into the garden. Maude’s dainty blue muslin blouse was unmistakable. She had obviously been at the hidden fudge.
Although I did not feel too happy about the whole business I cannot say that I was actually alarmed. My mind works too slowly to jump to conclusions and when I did actually understand everything it was too late. In the meantime a meeting with Christabel Burns took my mind away from the fudge, so I think that I am not entirely to blame for not warning poor Maude in time.
Now if Christabel Burns had not been a Negress I might never have noticed her constant, silent activity. A Negress, however, was so exotic amongst us that one could not help finding her romantic. Many of us had tried to draw her into conversation but she was always too busy, carrying covered trays to and from the tower, or sometimes bath towels and other linen. These constant journeys to and fro made me compare Christabel to a solitary hurrying ant, especially as she had a large posterior and very thin arms and legs. On this particular occasion, however, Christabel was not carrying anything, she was actually sitting on a bench near Lookout with her hands folded neatly in her lap.
“Good evening, Mrs. Leatherby,” she said with her elegant Oxford accent. She came from Jamaica and her father had been an eminent chemist, I learnt later.
“Good evening Mrs. Burns. How nice to see you take a rest for a change.”
“I was waiting for you, Mrs.
Leatherby,” she said. “The time has come that we must have a little talk.”
“Delighted, Mrs. Burns,” I replied sitting down beside her. “I have often wanted to talk to you but you always seem to be so busy.”
“The time was not ripe,” replied Christabel. “It was necessary that you should first take full stock of your surroundings. Are you happy here Mrs. Leatherby?” This was a difficult question to answer as I had ceased thinking in terms of happiness for some time. I said so.
“You are really quite wrong,” she said. “Happiness has got nothing to do with age. It depends on capacity. I am exactly twice your age and I may say that I am very happy indeed.” I added up ninety-two and ninety-two; Christabel claimed to be one hundred and eighty-four. This hardly seemed probable but I didn’t like to contradict her.
“So you see,” she continued, “happiness is not reserved for young people. There is nobody that can make you happy, you must take care of this matter yourself.
“However, Mrs. Leatherby, I do not envisage an abstract discussion. I will come straight to the point. Why are you so inordinately interested in the oil painting in the dining room?” I was so taken aback by her question that I took quite some time to get my mind in order and I did a lot of mumbling. Christabel waited patiently. Finally I said: “Since the painting is hanging exactly in front of me in the dining room, and since the helpings of food allowed by Mrs. Gambit are so small I manage to finish them immediately, I have plenty of leisure to contemplate it.”
“That is hardly an explanation,” said Christabel, “because sitting exactly in front of you and much nearer and larger than the painting is Mrs. Van Tocht. Why do you not contemplate Mrs. Van Tocht?”
“I prefer to look at the painting. Also it would be rude if I sat and stared at Mrs. Van Tocht all during meals. Besides I am very interested in the nun represented in the painting, you can’t possibly object to that?”
“Of course I do not object, Mrs. Leatherby. You must excuse my abrupt questions, they are by no means intended to be aggressive.”
“Well since you ask,” I said, “I find the Winking Nun has a most peculiar and indescribable expression on her face. This keeps me wondering who she was, where she came from, why she perpetually winks and so on. In fact I think about her so often that she has become quite an old friend, an imaginary friend, of course.”
“So you feel she is your friend? you feel she is sympathetic?”
“Yes, I think I can quite definitely say I find her friendly, although of course one would not expect much sentimentality in such a relationship.” As I spoke Christabel was watching me closely, expectantly.
“Giving her a name is an evocation,” said the Negress. “You must be careful how you call her.”
“As a matter of fact I call her Doña Rosalinda Alvarez Cruz della Cueva. She looks so Spanish you know.”
“That was her name during the eighteenth century,” said Christabel. “But she has many many other names. She also enjoys different nationalities. However we will not discuss that now. What I actually came for was to bring you a little book. I know you do not enjoy reading. This will be different.”
The book was bound in black leather. On the title page I read, “Doña Rosalinda della Cueva, Abbess of the Convent of Santa Barbara of Tartarus. Canonized in Rome 1756. A true and faithful rendering of the life of Rosalinda Alvarez.”
“That is most extraordinary,” I told Christabel. “Really, how could I possibly know her name when I am sure I never heard it?”
“Undoubtedly you must have read her name somewhere. It is written nine hundred and twenty times throughout the building, it would be extraordinary indeed if you had missed reading it.”
The first page of the little book was decorated with a motive of pomegranate leaves and swords. The paper was buff-coloured with age. The large old-fashioned printing was easy enough for me to read.
“I must leave you now,” said Christabel, rising. “I have certain duties to perform before Venus sets. We will talk again when you have read this little volume. Please do not mention the fact this book is in your possession. The consequences might be very awkward, in ways I cannot clarify at the present.”
Venus already sparkled over the tower when I found myself alone. It was evening, the whole interview with Christabel Burns had been inexplicably invigorating. As I was about to enter the Lookout and start reading about Doña Rosalinda a shady figure caught my eye. Although I could not be altogether sure, I thought I saw a young man with what looked like a large bundle on his back, slipping quietly and rapidly from tree to tree.
He appeared to be taking precautions to avoid discovery. A thief perhaps? a lover of one of the servants? The latter seemed most probable, so I did not trouble to start an alarm. The servant’s love life was no business of mine. If it were a thief, none of us had much to lose. I went inside the Lookout and sat down at the table and opened the book.
――
A true and faithful rendering of the life of Rosalinda Alvarez della Cueva, Abbess of the Convent of Saint Barbara of Tartarus. Translated from the original Latin text by Friar Jeremias Nacob of the Order of the Holy Coffin.
A Rose is a secret, a beautiful Rose is a Great Lady’s Secret, a Cross is the parting or the joining of the Ways, this is the meaning of Abbess Rosalinda Alvarez Cruz della Cueva’s name. The canonization of the Abbess was performed after certain extraordinary events witnessed by reliable dignitaries of the Church before and after her death in the year of Our Lord Jesus Christ, 1733, in the month of July. She was buried in the crypt of the Convent of Saint Barbara of Tartarus with the ceremonies and benediction of Our Mother the Holy Catholic Church. Ab eo, quod nigram caudam habet abstine, terrestrium enim deorum est.
The canonization of the Abbess sealed her sanctity with the authority of Rome; nevertheless her tomb became a sanctuary long before the Canonization. Common people made pilgrimages from afar with offerings of fruit, flowers and even cattle. These were agglomerated in the crypt.
With a cruelly divided heart I watched the simple devotion of the peasants while I prayed long and fervently that God would grant me the necessary valour to write the whole truth about this wonderful and terrible woman.
This document was written originally for the private perusal of the Holy Father himself, the Pope. The result however of this presentation exceeded my wildest and most horrible nightmares. Expulsion from Holy Orders was the result of my zeal to fulfill the will of God by opening my heart and thus releasing the heavy burden within. The sacred seal of the confessional therefore no longer prevents the printing of this document; I have ceased to be a priest.
As the once private confessor of the Abbess I believe to possess unparalleled knowledge of the workings of her dark soul.
Further digressions on my own behalf will be unnecessary.
The birthplace of Doña Rosalinda Alvarez Cruz della Cueva is somewhat doubtful. No definite proof exists that she was born on Spanish soil. Some hold that she came across the ocean from Egypt, some say she was born amongst the gypsies of Andalucia, others say she came across the Pyrenees from the north. The earliest evidence of her presence in Spain is a letter dated 1710, written in Madrid and addressed to the Bishop of Trève les Frêles in Provence near the city of Avignon.
The letter concerns the opening of a tomb in Nineveh said to be the last resting place of Mary Magdalen.
Doña Rosalinda addresses the Bishop informally, indicating a friendship of some intimacy. Probably the letter in question was written shortly after she entered the cloisters of Santa Barbara de Tartarus as a novice.
Amongst other accusations I was held guilty of forging this document to willfully desecrate the name of Doña Rosalinda. God is my witness that this was not so.
The handwriting composing the letter could never have issued from any other hand than that of Doña Rosalinda. Moreover her own personal seal of Cro
ssed Swords and Pomegranates was deeply engraved at the beginning and end of the letter. Here I must insert an arbitrary extract from Rosalinda’s letter which will no doubt become more comprehensible after I have related certain events later in her life.
The extract from Doña Rosalinda’s letter to the Bishop reads as follows:
So, Mon Gros Pigeon, understand that it is imperative that you dispatch a courier immediately to Nineveh that he should barter for the precious liquid. Lose no time as interest has already been quickened in certain quarters in England. The tomb is no doubt the genuine burial ground of Mary Magdalen; the ointment which was found on the left side of the mummy may very well release secrets which would not only discredit all the gospels but which would crown all the arduous work we have shared during recent years. What do you say to that, My Fat Wildboar? After some discussion the Jew I mentioned was finally persuaded to exchange a copy of the text written on the wrappings of the mummy for a small coffer of slightly blemished pearls. By the Will of Our Great Mother the writing happened to be in Greek and as you well know I had no great task to read this script. You may imagine the transports of delight which overcame me when I learnt that Magdalen had been a high initiate of the mysteries of the Goddess but had been executed for the sacrilege of selling certain secrets of her cult to Jesus of Nazareth. This of course would explain the miracles which have puzzled us for so long. The properties of the ointment were carefully enumerated though the exact recipe for mixing this elixir was most unfortunately omitted. No doubt the precious ointment had been buried with the mummy with all Magdalen’s personal riches.
The secret nature of the text forbids me to send you a copy by the hazards of a courier as it might fall into the hands of Enemies. News will take some time to travel from Nineveh and by then I devoutly hope the contents of the tomb will be safely in our possession. Do not tarry over this most essential matter and hasten to dispatch trusted servants to Nineveh. Should it be in any way possible to make the journey yourself do not hesitate to leave at once taking whatever barter you see fit.
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