52 Loaves

by William Alexander

  We both looked at it in silence. Finally Bruno said, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “It’s perfect, Bruno. It’s perfect.”

  Day 5: The Monk, the Baker, and the Atheist

  My last full day at the abbey was a blur of yeast and chant. I attended all seven Offices, from Vigils, at 5:30 a.m., to Compline, which ended just before 9:00 p.m., and in between baked seven loaves of bread with Bruno—another batch of a half-dozen pain de l’Abbaye Saint-Wandrille, plus the pain au levain miche that Bruno wanted to learn.

  Bruno was surprised when he heard I was doing the sweet seven.

  “I want to see what your life will be like as the baking monk,” I explained, another of the half lies I was becoming distressingly comfortable with.

  Alone in the bakery for much of that day, Bruno and I discussed the future. Bruno thought he could bake three times a week, and he already had an assistant baker lined up. In my wildest dreams I couldn’t have anticipated such success. So perhaps I was feeling a little cocky and just a little too comfortable with my new best friend when I decided to have a little fun, and to let him in on a secret.

  “That levain you love so much, I told you it’s twelve years old, no?”

  “Oui.”

  “That it’s from Alaska?”

  “Oui.”

  “That it was given to me by an atheist?”

  Bruno froze and looked up, his face contorted in alarm.

  Damn! I realized I had made a mistake, had misjudged, had forgotten where I was. What I thought was merely a little irony was a spiritual crisis for this young man. I could see the whole week going down the drain. How incredibly stupid of me! You don’t joke about religion with a monk!

  “But he’s a very good man,” I added quickly, frantic to save the situation. “Very generous, very kind, and dedicated to bread. I think he would be happy to know that his levain made it here and that the abbey is baking bread again.”

  Bruno relaxed a bit. “Make sure you tell him his levain is in an abbey,” he said, with a wry smile.

  “Oh, I will. I will.”

  Then Bruno let me in on a little secret of his own, one that, like mine, also threatened the resurrection of the abbey fournil. The acceptance of the bread had been almost universal, but not quite. Only one person in the abbey wasn’t happy with the bread. Unfortunately it was the abbot. He had trouble with his digestion and didn’t like this slightly darker, denser bread. He wanted a baguette.

  “I’ll leave you the recipe,” I told Bruno, wishing I had another day to spend with him. “Baguettes are very easy and quick. In fact, you can make up a big batch once a week and freeze them in plastic bags. Your oven is still nice and warm at dinnertime if it’s a baking day, and you just put the baguette from the freezer into the oven. The abbot gets a fresh, warm loaf of white bread. When he breaks it open . . .” I mimed inhaling a loaf of bread, closing my eyes, and smiling. It was easier than continuing in French, which was exhausting. Bruno nodded and laughed. He got the idea. We both knew, if the abbot ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.

  My final meal at the abbey featured moules frites, a real treat. Steamed mussels and, best of all, more of those great french fries. When the food was brought out, though, I immediately saw a problem. In the best of circumstances—say, quiche—it was a challenge to eat enough before the food was whisked away. How on earth would I ever eat enough labor-intensive baby mussels to fill my growling stomach? As I dug the little mollusks out with my dinner fork, growing more frustrated with each shell, I glanced at the long table across from me and realized I was doing it all wrong. The monks had solved this problem. Most used half a shell to scoop out the mussels, far more efficient than my attempts to pry them out with a fork, but a few dropped all niceties altogether and were eagerly slurping them right out of the shells. Now, that was really efficient.

  I adopted the shell-scoop method, but what I really wanted was more of those frites. Alpine Hiker, the collar of his jacket almost covering his mouth, was still seated to my left, and the plate of frites was to his left, so near, yet so far. He failed to notice that my plate was empty (violating one of the unwritten rules of abbey dining—scratch that, it is written, in the Benedictine Rule, which clearly states that “the brothers shall serve the needs of one another, so no one needs ask for anything”). So, feeling rather at home now, and with little to lose, I swallowed hard, leaned over, and broke the rule of silence while the abbot burned rubber, whispering, “Frites, s’il vous plaît.” Lightning did not strike, no one hustled over to escort me out, and I got to enjoy more frites before it came time to lay the napkin ring on top of my by now well-soiled napkin. Right on cue the père hôtelier snatched it up, marched the length of the hall, and dropped it into the drawer with a clink.

  After dinner, back in my room and tired from a day of baking and bowing, I was half-undressed when I happened to glance at the abbey schedule under the clear desk protector. I still had one more Office to attend. I quickly bundled up and headed to the church for Compline, the only Office I hadn’t been to yet. Operating in true monk fashion now, I was late, and the service had already started. Even for this church, it was dark, so dark I could hardly see where I was walking as I groped my way to the front pew. The only light glowed dimly from behind the altar. As my eyes adjusted, I could make out the monks in the choir, faces hidden deep inside their hoods—Compline being the only service during which they wore their cowls. It was a thoroughly spooky, medieval scene. And about to become spookier. As usual, my eyes drifted up to the life-size, gold crucifix hanging above the altar.

  It was swaying.

  I looked around but didn’t see a source of moving air. All the church doors were closed, and there were no electric fans in sight.

  Yet, dear Mother of God, it was swaying! Almost imperceptibly, but back and forth ever so slightly, as if Christ were on a playground swing, not a cross. Or was it? Was I hallucinating? My eyes fixed on the cross, I tried to find a reference point behind it, a mark on the wall, so that I could determine whether the cross was swaying or I was, but the church was too dark. Disturbed, I needed something familiar to look at. I lowered my eyes to the choir and sought out Bruno, towering above the others. I could only make out his shadowy silhouette. His face hidden deep in the recesses of his hood, he was no longer my new best friend, his ear-to-ear grin lighting up the fournil. He was a stranger—unfamiliar, unfathomable, unapproachable. I shivered. I was back in the cold darkness of an earlier century.

  It was time to go home.

  Day 6:Pain Surprise

  I woke to unexpected good news. My airline seat had been miraculously upgraded to business class. It looked to be a relaxing, easy trip home today. Before packing, though, I wanted to have breakfast and attend Lauds because, mindful of the selfish prayer I had uttered on my first day here, I had some unfinished business in church. A surprise treat awaited in the guest kitchen, where someone—presumably Bruno—had left half of the pain au levain miche we’d made the previous day, turned on its cut end, just as I had instructed on my first day. I smiled. When I turned the bread over, I was stunned at the beautiful, open crumb and the distinctly alveolar structure. This was my bread? I had never baked a loaf that looked like this.

  I cut a slice, the knife leaving a yeasty fresh-bread aroma in its wake, and took a bite. The bread bit back, announcing its presence, filling my mouth, my mind, my soul, with a medley of flavors and textures. The crumb was firm but yielding, with suggestions of rye and whole wheat, and just enough levain. I let the bread play on my tongue, which delighted in finding and poking through the generous holes, the vacuum of life left from the wild yeast’s frenetic anaerobic activity as, fueled by the intense heat of the abbey oven, it furiously metabolized, leaving little contrails of gas until, at about 125 degrees Fahrenheit, it exhaled its last breath.

  I bit into the dark brown crust, crackly but not overly hard, remarkably and naturally sweet and complex, the product of those Maillard reactions I’d
been seeking. I took another bite. And another. And one more, just to be sure. This was the best bread I’d ever tasted.

  I had baked the perfect loaf.

  The quest was over. Yet I felt cheated—there was no one to celebrate with. In fact, I was four thousand miles away from anyone who could even appreciate what this meant. Then I remembered where I was and realized that this was an occasion for contemplation and reflection, not hugs, noisy shouts, and champagne. I did at least get the pealing of bells, although they were intended for Lauds, not me. I took a photograph of the bread and scurried to the church one last time.

  Afterward I’d expected to meet only Bruno in the bakery, but a small farewell committee awaited me: Bruno and Philippe, of course, but also the prior, Jean-Charles, and the monk whose pocket knife had opened our first sack of flour what seemed like ages ago. I returned Bruno’s computer flash drive with all of the recipes on it, including one I’d written up the previous night for baguettes. Jean-Charles then made a short, gracious speech, thanking me, and presented me with a wrapped gift, “something for the eyes and something for the ears,” which turned out to be a gorgeous book of photographs of the abbey and a CD, recorded at Saint-Wandrille, of Gregorian chant.

  In turn, I thanked Jean-Charles for this unforgettable experience, for allowing an American amateur baker to bake in their fournil and stay at this abbaye magnifique. Jean-Charles, embarrassed at my effusiveness (or perhaps my French—who knows what I really said), laughed. The festivities were cut short by some bad news: la grève had returned, with scattered strikes wreaking havoc with rail traffic into Paris, and trains running intermittently and off-schedule. They wanted to rush me to the station and an earlier train. I had ten minutes to pack.

  Saying my good-byes quickly, I almost missed Bruno, my dear apprentice, shyly standing back. “Oh, Bruno!” I laughed, returning. He put out his hand. I shook it, then spontaneously embraced and kissed him, French-style, on each cheek. “Bon chance, mon ami,” I whispered in his ear.

  I may have arrived by taxi, but I was leaving by chauffeur. Philippe drove me to the station in the abbey’s little car, winding past pastures and farms as I nervously glanced at my watch. Along the way, we reflected a bit on the week.

  “Bread is important to the church as a symbol, no?” I said.

  “Bread is the church,” Philippe said as we pulled into the train station nearly simultaneously with what would turn out to be the last train into Paris until evening, delivering me from the abbey in the same dramatic fashion in which I’d arrived.

  With one last wave to Philippe, I ran aboard with my bags. As the train pulled out of the station, out of Normandy, out of the Middle Ages, I collapsed into a seat.

  And wept.

  VII.

  Compline

  Compline (from the Latin which means “to complete”) marks the completion of our day and leads back into the darkness of the night, but a darkness different from that of vigils.

  This is the darkness of God’s mysterious presence.

  WEEK

  47

  What Would Bruno Do?

  If my first days in the Abbey had been a period of depression, the unwinding process, after I had left, was ten times worse.

  —Patrick Leigh Fermor, A Time to Keep Silence

  Weight: 196 pounds

  Bread bookshelf weight: 64 pounds

  To say I experienced a rough reentry back to earth is putting it mildly. I returned with the grace of astronaut Gus Grissom, whose Mercury capsule sank in the Atlantic when he allegedly panicked and prematurely blew off the door of his spacecraft while bobbing in the waves. No one was hurt, but no one was happy, either.

  I had read of Patrick Leigh Fermor’s difficulties in readjusting to outside life, but he had spent weeks at the abbey, and I a mere five days, so the moodiness and depression that followed caught me off-guard.

  Arriving home on a Tuesday night, I went to work on Wednesday. That was a mistake. I called in sick Thursday and Friday, giving myself a four-day weekend. I needed time to think, to find my center of gravity, to understand what had happened in those five extraordinary days.

  I hardly talked. I slept a great deal and, when in the kitchen, listened to the CD of Gregorian chant the abbey had recorded. I thought I recognized some voices. I could tell Anne was worried. Finally I felt I had to broach the subject. I cleared my throat as we sat alone at the kitchen table. “I’m having some readjustment problems,” I finally said.

  She laughed nervously. “No kidding.”

  That was the end of the conversation. I had nothing to add.

  The next day, Anne leafed through the book of photographs of Saint-Wandrille that I’d been given, looking for clues, and asked, “If you’re ready to talk about it—what is it about the abbey that you miss? It looks like such a peaceful place in the photographs.”

  “I’m not ready to talk about it.”

  We sat in silence. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk about it. I just didn’t know what to say. I considered trying to describe an image I’d had while sitting on a wall my last afternoon at Saint-Wandrille, an image I’d not been able to shake, but one so odd I hesitate to mention it even now.

  It was of a dessert plate, of all things, covered with white chocolate sauce, over which lay a perfect circle of dark chocolate drawn from a chef’s squeeze bottle. If you watch cooking shows, you already know what happened next: a disembodied hand bearing a knife descended and, with a quick stroke, pulled the circle outward at one point, disrupting the perfect arc, before withdrawing. Silently recalling that image, I held back tears. Finally I got up and left. I wanted to be alone.

  Over the next few days, I became aware that the sharpening of senses I’d experienced while at Saint-Wandrille had remained. For the first time, I heard the drone of the overhead ventilation as I received physical therapy on my back (which had been pain free at the abbey but was now aching again). I noticed how a radio host signed off, not with the usual “Have a good day,” but with “Make it a good day,” which I must’ve heard a thousand times before, yet had never before heard. I found it very appealing. The voice of a yardman, a Haitian immigrant, in the lumberyard who acknowledged a two-dollar tip with “God bless you,” instead of “Thank you,” reverberated with me for days.

  My mind wandered down previously unvisited corridors. Still in my first week back, while waiting with Anne in the eye doctor’s Office, I saw a poster with a diagram of the human eye. “Did you ever wonder,” I asked when she returned from being dilated, “what kind of species might have evolved if there were no eyes? Vision is just an illusion, the result of light bouncing off an object and our eyes and brains making sense of it. But strictly speaking, it’s not necessary for intelligent life.”

  “Well, there’s slugs,” she said, to satisfy me.

  “Yes, and deep-sea fish and lower forms of life, like microscopic organisms, but that’s because any animals that evolved with sight crowded out those without. But if no one had the advantage of sight, would there still have been higher forms of life that create music and poetry? And what form would that life have taken?”

  Anne opened up the newspaper, no doubt wondering how long this business was going to last and when the old me was going to return. Problem was, I was becoming kind of comfortable with the new me.

  “Vision,” I repeated, “is an illusion.”

  The first crack in the thin crust that separated me from my old life came as I lay in bed early one morning, half-asleep, listening to the radio, undecided if I was going to the Office or not. I’d dreamed about the abbey again, as I would every single night for the first six days I was home. (The dreams stopped, weirdly but appropriately enough, on the seventh night.) The topic of this morning’s radio stargazing feature was a noteworthy but regular phenomenon in the heavens. Venus, the host explained, was rising in the east four hours before the sun, a particularly advantageous circumstance that made it glow particularly bright.

  My eyes flew open,
suddenly wide and alert. Of course, I’d known that my morning star—that brilliant star I had seen from the abbey—had an astronomical explanation, but I’d been clinging to the slim hope that it had been something, however improbably, cooked up for me. The fact that it was a regularly occurring phenomenon diminished its impact, making me wonder if the entire week had been, not a spiritual experience, but an illusion that my subconscious, sensing the need for a good show, had created.

  The next crack in the crust shattered it to crumbs, when I received an e-mail from Brother Philippe, thanking me and inquiring about my trip home.

  “The Father Abbot will ask the community on Monday evening if we want to continue making our own bread or not,” he added. What? I thought it was a done deal, that the bread was a smash, Prior Jean-Charles was onboard, and if Bruno could throw together a decent baguette once in a while, the abbot would be happy. This sudden uncertainty made me jittery and shocked me back to my old self.

  “Can you believe this?” I fumed to Anne. “They’re putting it up to a vote? I travel eight thousand miles for them, and these overgrown choirboys are going to have a meeting and take a vote? Isn’t anyone in charge there?”

  I immediately regretted “overgrown choirboys,” especially since Philippe, one of those choirboys, had added, “I will pray for you.” I had wanted to hold on to that abbey feeling and was finding out just how difficult that was going to be. Less than a week after I’d left, it seemed that what happened in the abbey did in fact stay in the abbey. Saddened and ashamed by my outburst, I resolved at least to try to adopt the temperament of the monks, to ask myself before gritting my teeth over traffic or swearing over a burnt loaf of bread, “How would Bruno react?”

  The next day, a handful of teenage French exchange students, including one who coincidentally was staying with us for two weeks, ended up at our house with their American hosts. I’d noticed that our student wasn’t too crazy about American food, although she was too polite to say anything. I figured the others might also be missing French food—not to mention home—so I did something totally uncharacteristic for me, something I couldn’t have imagined myself doing a month ago: I invited the whole crew to stay for dinner.