The Sisterhood

by Helen Bryan

  Captain Fernández Galán a playboy? The mind boggled. “But you don’t leave the convent, Sor Teresa—how do you know all this?” asked Menina, stifling a giggle.

  “Aha! How you think? Is old women in the village, they are coming for Mass every morning, they come to the locutio after. They watch everything, they tell me everything.” She started to walk again. “Everything!” she repeated with satisfaction.

  “I see.” It would be easy to scandalize a lot of old women, and Menina felt a flash of sympathy for the captain, trapped here by his promise to his dying father. But she wondered if Sor Teresa was hinting he was a dirty cop, taking bribes? In this godforsaken place? From whom? For what?

  “I am angry when Alejandro bring you,” Sor Teresa continued, as they reached Menina’s room. “I think, here is another bad girl. But then when you talk you don’t sound like the others. So I say yes, because I know with my ears.”

  Menina shook her head at the non sequitur. By now they had reached Menina’s tiny room where a tray with bread, cheese, olives, and an orange waited with the little carafe of wine. Imagine wine at lunchtime! She wondered how she could avoid being stuck in here for the rest of the day. It was a little claustrophobic. As Sor Teresa turned to go Menina asked, “Is there anywhere outside I could go? A balcony? Was there, um, something called the jardín de peregrinos?”

  “No balcony,” Sor Teresa said. “Aha! But yes! Pilgrims’ garden. Come quickly, I show you now,” and set off down another corridor, narrower and darker than the rest, with walls mostly bare except for a few frames that held what looked like faded woodcuts. The ceiling was lower and it stank of rotting wood, mildew, damp plaster, and small dead animals. Underfoot the tiles were shards and dust that crunched under their feet. “Is old part of the convent.”

  Yes indeedy, thought Menina, watching her step.

  They stopped in front of tall wooden shutters and Sor Teresa stood on tiptoe to battle with an ancient rusty crossbar until Menina said, “Let me,” and finally unhitched it.

  The shuttered door folded partway back and collapsed on its hinges and stuck, crookedly open, letting daylight into the corridor. Outside, what appeared at first to be a jungle proved to be a small cloister-like garden backing onto mountain rock and overgrown with roses and jasmine and weeds. Several stunted orange trees were in blossom in the thicket, and Menina spied a weatherworn statue in an arched niche high in the rock wall.

  “No one use for a long time,” Sor Teresa said, and pointed in the direction of a moss-covered alabaster basin in the shape of a shell set in the rock beneath the statue. “Is a spring.” There was a sound of trickling water.

  Water? Menina was thirsty. The rusty pump in the bathroom brought up water that was a funny brown color and she didn’t dare drink it, but if this water was clean she could fill her plastic bottle from the airport. “Is it safe to drink?”

  “Of course, is from the mountain, is clean. Many wells here—I forget how many—and springs. Always, convent has water from the mountain. Before we have buckets, very heavy to carry. But then we modernize, pumps is easier,” Sor Teresa said complacently. “Garden was for the women pilgrims,” she explained. “To sit here, is quiet, can pray and meditate. Read holy books. Is special place. Is good to be here, I think.”

  Menina could see it had been a long time since anyone had set foot in this minijungle, and she hoped she wouldn’t find the skeleton of a long-lost pilgrim in the high weeds, but at least it was outdoors. There was a marble bench around three sides to sit on. She tramped a path to it, then walked about flattening more long grass and weeds, making another path to the fountain, glad of her heavy boots. Her camera had been in her suitcase, so she couldn’t take any photos, but she decided she would make a sketch of it to send her parents when she got to Madrid next week.

  While she was tramping and thinking, Sor Teresa disappeared. Menina fetched her empty water bottle, and refilled it from the trickle under the statue. She held up the bottle and looked at the water, but it was clear, no particles or anything, no visible amoebae anyway. “Here goes,” she said and drank, and went back to her room to eat her lunch.

  The combination of unaccustomed wine at midday and jet lag made Menina sleepy again, and she curled up on her bed and dozed off. It was a restless nap, however, disturbed by the feeling someone was calling her, dragging her to the brink of consciousness before jet lag pulled her under again. She woke disoriented, rubbing her eyes and trying to remember what she was doing in a strange room where late afternoon sun made a pattern of iron grillwork on the floor. Was she in jail?

  Then she remembered where she was, and she fell back with a groan, thinking of her parents and how frantic they must be by now. They were bound to have phoned the hostel and found that nobody had seen her or had any idea where she was, but there was absolutely nothing Menina could do about it. They would blame Becky, call the police and probably the FBI and God knew who else, but would it make any difference? How long before someone galvanized the Spanish police to look for her? And how would they find her if they did? Probably the Spanish authorities wouldn’t budge until the holiday was over. This left the captain her only link with the outside world, and she was wary of him. What was so urgent he couldn’t leave the village for a short time?

  Menina decided she couldn’t put off a wash in the dreaded bathroom any longer. From her backpack she retrieved miniature toiletries Sarah-Lynn had tucked in, and the spare set of underwear, the socks, the expanding towels, and even a sweatshirt she had forgotten. Bracing herself, Menina soaped in the icy water from the pump, then shampooed her hair. Shivering, she wrapped herself in the bathrobe, and did her laundry as well as she could. Back in her cell she draped wet clothes around and was trying to comb her hair dry when Sor Teresa and another old nun, whom she introduced as Sor Clara, appeared with supper and a fresh candle.

  Sor Clara was a little dried-up cricket of a woman, even older than Sor Teresa, and from the way her mouth worked, toothless as well. But Sor Clara had a sweet expression and the network of lines on her face crinkled further into a smile as she quavered “Deo gratias” in greeting. She patted Menina on the cheek, telling her in sweet lisping Spanish that it had been a long time since they had had a young guest in the convent, and she was very welcome, and she hoped Menina’s stay would bless her with peace and comfort.

  Then the two old nuns folded their hands in their sleeves and Sor Teresa began to speak in slow, careful Spanish so both Menina and Sor Clara could understand. “I have discussed what Alejandro says about the paintings with the other sisters.” Sor Clara nodded vigorously. “We have vowed to stay here until death but it is true, we need money. All we can do for money is sell polvorónes. And people help us when they can. We are the last of the order; these days no girls have vocations. Some of the sisters are older than Sor Clara and I, and cannot rise from their beds. Some are ill, and need medicine and warm blankets. We bear our discomforts as God sends them, but even a simple life has its necessities so that we can continue to serve God until the end.”

  Sor Clara piped up, “And if God has new work for us, we are ready.” She nodded again, as if she were prepared to embark on a new mission right away.

  “Why doesn’t the church help? You know, they must have some kind of welfare fund. I can’t believe the Catholic Church lets nuns starve,” Menina said helpfully. “Haven’t you asked?”

  Sor Teresa thought for a minute before she answered, “Las Golondrinas is a very old religious house, maybe the oldest in the world, and maybe we have some…little disagreements with Rome, a long time ago. The Inquisition did not like our convent, but the queen of Spain protected us, I believe. But still, we are always careful not to bother Rome. Sor Clara says, maybe God sends you to help us now. So I will tell you, yes, the convent has many paintings. All are old, some maybe are good, I don’t know; many look terrible, I think, but we never said no when someone gave them. The old scriptorium, and the locutio parlor are the only rooms in the Abbess’s pa
rt of the convent we use. There are some paintings, some portraits there, maybe they are the best ones because the Abbess was looking at them. Now we sit in those rooms. Having the portraits is nice, portraits are company. And the sala grande has many other paintings crowded together, but we have not used the sala grande for many years so I don’t know what is there. And the sala de las niñas has some, too, I think. Sor Clara will show you. She is the only nun left who had anything to do with the paintings; maybe she remembers something. If you find good ones, then we can decide what we do. You may take the chickens’ bread for the cleaning.”

  At the mention of the chickens’ bread Sor Clara chuckled, rocking back and forth and bobbing her head up and down. “Cluck, cluck!” she exclaimed playfully, imitating her chickens eating their crumbs.

  Menina wondered how much help Sor Clara would actually be.

  Then Sor Clara gave a yelp like something had bitten her. Her gaze was riveted on the medal Menina had left lying on the table in the circle of candlelight. Sor Clara tugged Sor Teresa’s sleeve and muttered something in rapid Spanish that made Sor Teresa exclaim in surprise. “Sor Clara says you have a holy medal. You are not Catholic—how did you get this?”

  “My parents adopted me from an orphanage. I was wearing that medal when the nuns took me in, and the nuns said I should keep it. Is it something special?”

  Sor Clara picked it up, turned it over, and stared some more. Then she whispered again to Sor Teresa, who rubbed her fingers on the front and back, then whispered back to Sor Clara. Sor Clara’s mouth dropped open and she stared at Menina.

  “Aha! A convent? You did not say this,” Sor Teresa snapped.

  “Well, no. I didn’t think it mattered…”

  “Your name is Spanish, no? In Spanish your name means a lady servant—no not a servant, a lady-in-waiting. You know the painting Las Meninas? By Velasquez? The Infanta, and her companions, her ‘meninas’ in the Prado?”

  “Oh, that painting! Yes, of course I know it. It’s so famous, everybody does.” The Spanish conversation was exhausting, and Menina was feeling a little bewildered—how had they suddenly moved on from the medal to Velasquez?

  “Aha! So you are a Menina! Hmmm, like in the painting. But Alejandro said you are looking not for Velasquez, but for Tristan Mendoza. When I told the others, Sor Clara knew that name.”

  “What?” Menina was definitely feeling confused.

  “Yes. Sor Clara cannot remember things that happen this morning and is sometimes like a child, but what happened long ago, yes, she remembers very well. When Sor Clara was a novice, her work was making the list of paintings.”

  Menina reverted to English. “An inventory? Sor Teresa, I’m sorry, but I think I’m too tired to understand everything you say in Spanish.”

  Sor Teresa obligingly returned to English, too. “She is sure she write Tristan Mendoza in the ledger.” Sor Clara repeated the name and said something. “Several times, perhaps, she is not sure,” said Sor Teresa.

  Menina thought Sor Clara’s memory was probably playing tricks on her, but didn’t want to be rude. “That would be…unbelievable. If the convent has one of his paintings it might be worth a lot of money, so we should definitely look for it. And you know, when Tristan Mendoza signed his name on the paintings, he painted a swallow underneath his signature, just like the little bird on the back of that medal. My dad says it’s a swallow, um, a golondrina because of the forked tail. So I wondered why he did that and that’s why I—”

  Sor Teresa interrupted. “Is time for the vigil. Once all nuns keep the night vigil during Semana Santa, but now, we take turns.” She put the medal down, her hand shaking with age. “Come, Sor Clara,” she ordered, reverting to Spanish.

  Sor Clara obeyed meekly, and as they left Menina noticed how thin and frail both old ladies looked. Their habits were frayed and patched, ragged around the hem. Poor old things! Menina thought. There must be something here they could sell, and she had better find it because no one else was going to. It would fill the time until she could leave, and if she couldn’t find something worth selling, well, she would have to think of some way of helping the nuns. Besides, what if there was a Tristan Mendoza in the convent? There was a thesis for you!

  Hunger made her remember her food. She read the guidebook again by candlelight while she ate a cold vegetable omelette and drank the small pitcher of wine. She tried to save her bread, but was so hungry she ate that, too. Then she blew out the candle that had burned down low, but she wasn’t the least bit sleepy. How did people manage before television or paperbacks? She tossed and turned, thumped the lumpy pillow, and wished it was tomorrow already. Then the singing and drums began down in the village. She wished she could see whatever was going on. Maybe there was a way to climb up the rock wall at the back of the pilgrims’ garden and see from there. Besides, she was thirsty and her water bottle was empty.

  Menina groped for the matches, relit what was left of her candle, and located the empty plastic bottle. She put on her boots, wrapped the blanket from her bed round her shoulders and peered out. The corridor was creepy, but if old ladies could navigate in the dark, there couldn’t be much to worry about. She stepped bravely into the dark, trying to avoid broken tiles in the faint pool of light cast by her candle a step or two ahead. Hand on the wall for balance, she made her way to the shuttered doors now hanging open, around a lighter rectangle in the inky dark of the hallway. Outside the night was cool, but the air was sweet after the odor inside, and the stars shone bright overhead. She could smell bonfires and hear singing and people clapping an irregular beat to the music.

  Menina felt the sloping rocks, still warm from the day’s sun, as she groped her way to the little spout where water trickled into the basin. She filled her bottle and drank. Then she blew out her candle, wrapped the blanket tight round herself and sat in her cocoon looking at the stars, listening to the peaceful sound of water and the women’s voices rising in the darkness. Was this what being a nun felt like—life going on beyond the walls, able to hear it, smell it, but never able to see it or be part of it? She hadn’t thought about convents since she was little, when her parents showed her the photos of the place they’d found her. She remembered how sad they’d been when they talked about that place; apparently it had been attacked and some of the nuns had been killed by a revolutionary mob after Menina had left.

  Otherwise, convents of course weren’t mentioned at the First Baptist Church. It wasn’t until she studied the Renaissance at Holly Hill that she learned more about convents—nuns ran schools and hospitals, managed property, and even acted, performing religious plays for an audience sitting behind the locutio. Well-connected nuns even influenced politics. They even commissioned art and music; some convents were great patrons of the arts. They had been an important force in society, even if they led a sort of parallel existence from the world.

  Suddenly it occurred to her that with so much else to worry about, she hadn’t thought about Theo since before lunch yesterday, on the bus. Sitting in the pilgrims’ garden, separated from the rest of the world, Menina took a deep breath and probed the terrible memories, like probing an aching tooth to see how bad it made her feel. It hadn’t gone away, but she was safe and at peace for the moment. Not wanting to break the spell, she sat watching the stars until the singers grew tired and the singing stopped. She knew she had better try to sleep. She stood and stretched, felt for her matches to relight her bit of candle in its glass. There was a faint rustling noise—a plant stirring in the wind, a salamander, or perhaps a mouse. She held the light up but didn’t see anything. “Good night,” she said anyway.

  CHAPTER 11

  Las Golondrinas Convent, Spain, Spring 2000

  Menina pulled the thin pillow over her head to muffle the noise, but it came closer and got louder. Sor Teresa shrilled “Deo gratias!” in her ear and banged the breakfast tray on the table. Menina forced herself to sit up and pushed her hair out of her eyes.

  “Hi!” she muttered, grog
gily trying to think where on earth she was, what day it was, and what was making such an unholy racket. “Gracias!” She pushed herself upright. Tuesday. It was Tuesday. The dawn chorus outside her window was on speed.

  “Good, you are awake now, so I tell you, you are going in one hour, after Mass,” Sor Teresa said, “with Sor Clara to the Abbess’s rooms, look at paintings. I must go open the gate to the chapel, let people in for Mass.” Sor Teresa bustled out.

  “OK, sí. Great. Thanks.” Menina rubbed sleep from her eyes, reminding herself where she was. She sank back against the wall sipping coffee and eating her slice of almond bread as slowly as she could to make it last. Then she grabbed her towel and toothbrush and went down the hall to the bathroom. The first thing she would do when she got back to civilization was take a long, long hot shower.

  When Sor Clara came, Menina grabbed a notebook and ballpoint pen and followed the little old nun this way and that through the maze of corridors, until they could hear the cloister fountain. Sor Clara led her along the cloister’s colonnaded walk to the same doorway Menina had taken the day before, and then they were back in the dim locutio parlor. Menina felt she was starting to get her bearings in the maze of the convent.

  Sor Clara tugged her arm and pointed to a huge basket on the floor holding broken chunks of bread. “Alejandro. Pobres pollos! Poor chickens!” She chuckled.

  Menina needed light to work. “I can’t see,” she said in Spanish.

  “Ah,” said Sor Clara, looking surprised. “Is it dark for you?” She tottered over to the far wall and tugged at a piece of heavy fabric that looked like a curtain. The room brightened, and a breeze stirred up dust in a shaft of sunshine. Sor Clara sneezed.

  “Perfect,” said Menina, and sneezed herself. Pulling the curtain farther back and propping it there with a chair, she saw it was a heavy tapestry that had been hung from a pole. She looked at it closely. It was coarse wool, faded and frayed, though she could just see that it had been dyed bright colors once, and there was a pattern that looked like serpents and birds. There were several more like it hanging crookedly on the walls. All could use a trip to the dry cleaners.