The Convent

by Panos Karnezis

  Sister María Inés took a deep breath and said: ‘I came to see you because we did not have the opportunity to speak in private last time.’

  ‘I already know where you stand on the matter, Sister. But I am glad that you came. I do not want you to think I ignored you or that I am being unfair in any way.’

  ‘I never thought that of you, Your Excellency.’

  ‘Good,’ Bishop Estrada said and got up from his seat. He stood at the window, whose heavy drapes were tied back; only a pair of muslin curtains hung across the glass. He parted them with a finger and observed the tall column with the statue of the Archangel in the square. ‘Your request is highly unusual,’ he said. ‘Highly unusual.’

  ‘It would be no more than doing my Christian duty.’

  ‘Would it? I am not convinced. As you know, there is an orphanage in the city.’

  ‘In an institution like that…Of course, it is a great blessing that it exists. I know your great commitment to it. But with so many children it is inevitable that Renato would not get the attention he would be receiving in the convent.’

  ‘It seems to me that you are the only one who wants him there.’

  ‘I believe Sister Beatriz also agrees with me, Your Excellency. She has a great affection for him.’

  The Bishop nodded without enthusiasm. ‘Oh yes, Sister Beatriz.’

  ‘I am prepared to do anything for the child. I will care for him until he is at least old enough to go to school.’

  ‘You did not have to poison the dogs, Sister.’

  ‘I do not regret it. They were likely to harm him. I feel sorry for Sister Carlota, of course.’

  The Bishop did not really care about the dogs. He said: ‘The child has to be properly registered. There is always the chance, no matter how remote, that the real mother will come forward.’

  ‘Oh, there is no mother, Your Excellency.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Sister María Inés hesitated whether to tell the Bishop that the coming of the child was a miracle. In the end she decided against it and said simply: ‘I mean that a mother who abandons her child does not deserve to be called a mother.’

  ‘Although legally she still is,’ the Bishop said. ‘And there is also the mystery of the bloodied sheet.’

  Then he told her, in a frank and serious voice, about the bed sheet that Sister Ana had showed him and their search round the convent for more evidence of the presence of evil. Sister María Inés showed no emotion when the Bishop said that the other woman suspected her of being under the influence of Satan. He added: ‘I do not need to tell you, of course, that I do not believe one iota of what she says about you.’ Nevertheless, the accusations filled him with dismay because they could only be the creations of a disturbed mind. ‘I want to hear your opinion,’ he concluded.

  ‘I have not seen that bed sheet,’ Sister María Inés said. ‘But it is undoubtedly a fabricated piece of evidence.’

  The Bishop looked at her keenly. ‘You think so too?’

  ‘It only takes a splash of paint.’

  ‘I know. But it has to be said that Sister Ana seems genuinely terrified about it.’

  ‘I hope you do not think it more likely that I am possessed, Your Excellency.’

  ‘No, Sister. I simply believe that the sheet could have been there for a number of years. The fact that it was buried is odd, of course, but I do not believe it has anything to do with you or the child.’

  The door opened and the deacon came gliding in. Bishop Estrada said: ‘Yes, I am coming, Ignacio. Thank you.’ The young man went away and the Bishop made a gesture of helplessness. ‘A busy schedule,’ he said. ‘Anyhow, Sister, I admire your dedication to that poor child. My first instinct is to let you keep him.’

  Sister María Inés stood up from the sofa and bowed to kiss his ring. ‘Thank you, Your Excellency. You will not regret it.’

  The Bishop withdrew his hand. ‘Do not thank me yet. I have not decided. I must think very carefully about this.’ He sighed. ‘It is harder than squaring the circle. Sister Ana is only one variable in the equation. What about the other sisters? They do not agree with you either.’

  ‘It is only because of Sister Ana. If Your Excellency arranged it so that she moved somewhere else I am confident I can make them see sense.’

  They left it at that. Sister María Inés bowed again and this time Bishop Estrada allowed her to kiss his ring with the silent understanding that he was very likely to deliberate in her favour. She left his office calmer than when she had arrived and made her way across the palace without a hurry. Reluctant to leave that paradise and face the madness of the city, which after so many years of solitude terrified her, she sat on a bench in the courtyard and immersed herself in the serene beauty of the garden. There was nobody about. Attracted by the trickling fountain, a pair of birds splashed in the water. More birds sat on the rim of the fountain, and she picked up the rosary looped round her belt and began: ‘In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti…’ She had not finished when the deacon came up to her and asked her if she wanted anything else. Sensing that she was unwelcome, she finished her prayer quickly and went away.

  At the garage the car was not yet ready and she looked for a place to have lunch. When she came back, the garage was shut. She had forgotten it was the time of the siesta–she never slept in the afternoons herself. She went for a walk across the sleeping city until it was time for the garage to reopen, gazing with admiration at the windows on either side of the narrow streets with their ornate iron grilles and pots of roses and jasmine.

  The orphanage of San Rafael the Healer stood on the edge of the city and had been built with the support of Bishop Estrada, who had given the project, soon after his consecration, priority over the erection of churches across the diocese. He donated the land on behalf of the Church, paid for the furnishing of the wards, advertised it in every parish and established an annual bazaar towards its upkeep. At the time his decision had caused a scandal among the most pious members of the local community, who had interpreted his generous support for the orphans as an encouragement for men and women to sin. But the Vatican had stood behind him and a letter of support from Pope Pius XI had been read in every church of the diocese to placate the firebrands, though many of them doubted even the authenticity of the stamp with the papal emblem in red ink. Several years had passed since then and now everyone acknowledged Bishop Estrada’s charity and foresight, but the money raised at the annual bazaar was not enough. The orphanage suffered from a perpetual lack of funds which worsened as a result of the steady increase in the number of orphans.

  It was the first time that Sister María Inés had visited the orphanage and she was struck by the similarity between the suitcase that had been left on the steps of her convent and the night depository for babies: on the wall next to the gated entrance, a few feet above the ground, was a small perforated cupboard lined with wool blankets where during the night one could leave a baby, unseen and safe in the thought that a nurse would collect the baby first thing in the morning.

  A wide path paved with cobbles led to the main door, which was simple and unadorned, without steps or portico. Inside the building the tiled floor, the shut windows, the bare walls reflected the distant voices of children whom she could not see. A nurse in a blue uniform, white pinafore and starched cap appeared in the corridor and surprised her with an inexplicable greeting: ‘Nice to see you again, Sister.’

  ‘I do not know you,’ Sister María Inés said.

  ‘We met last year.’

  ‘I am afraid you are mistaken.’

  ‘I still remember our discussion about the institution and the children.’

  ‘You spoke to someone else. I have never been here before, Nurse.’

  The woman wrinkled her brow. ‘I apologise. Well, it’s quite possible. It’s your habit and veil. You all look alike. We nurses have the same problem.’

  ‘Did someone visit you last year?’ Sister María Inés asked. �
�Someone like me–in a white habit?’

  The nurse shrugged. ‘I think so, yes. She never told me her name.’

  Sister María Inés would have to think about that. Right now she wanted to look round the orphanage and the nurse was happy to give her a tour. She led the way down the corridor, the heavy bunch of keys that hung from her belt clinking with every step. Despite the hot summers, there were permanent damp patches on the walls and the ceiling. The signs of neglect and the indelible smell of carbolic soap were everywhere. In room after room there were rows of iron beds where young faces with hair cropped against lice peered at Sister María Inés. Guessing her thoughts the nurse said: ‘We do all we can.’ Sister María Inés nodded with secret satisfaction. What she saw strengthened her determination to keep the child. At the very least, in the convent he would be safe from disease. She knew the dangers of so many children living in a small space. Parasites and infectious diseases, dysentery, hepatitis…She had seen all that in Africa. The nurse was saying something but Sister María Inés paid no attention. She was thinking how she would teach Renato herself, at least until he was old enough to go to secondary school. She knew everything a child needed to learn–and there were books she could order by post.

  They came back to the entrance and Sister María Inés stepped out into the light with relief. The nurse was still talking: ‘…which His Excellency was kind enough to donate. Next year we plan…’ The Mother Superior excused herself and walked back towards the garage. Now the thought returned to her mind: who had visited the orphanage? All the nuns had been to the city at one time or another during the previous year. Perhaps it meant nothing, she thought: a nun on holiday from another diocese, or a visit by one of her nuns out of curiosity or the wish to make a donation, which the nun did not want the others to know about. She would have to think about that but now she had to hurry up. She missed the child. At the end of the road the garage had reopened after the afternoon siesta and the Ford was ready.

  Sister Ana was very upset. She had expected the Bishop to have ordered the Mother Superior to hand over the child to the authorities by now. She did not understand why the irrefutable evidence of satanic practices she had showed him had caused him no alarm. After he had left the convent she had returned to her room, dropped in bed and burst into tears because he, the only person in the world whom she trusted, had not believed her. She was certain of his kindness, admired his intelligence, believed he was fair, and therefore she had to blame herself for not having made him understand. She had buried her head in her pillow and sobbed with frustration because she knew that there was something evil about the child in the suitcase even if she could not convince anyone else.

  While she had sobbed she had realised that she was no longer driven by her mistrust of the Mother Superior but by her deep faith in God. She reproached herself for not having expected that her task would be testing. She had to apply herself, observe carefully, think very hard about how to solve the mystery, and only then could she hope to defeat the demons that were laying siege to the convent. And so she had stopped sobbing, wiped her tears and begun: ‘The Lord is my light and my salvation…’ She had prayed gladly, and then had blown her nose on her sleeve and regained her poise with the promise not to shed another tear until she had triumphed over evil.

  On her easel was a canvas she had started only days earlier, Saint George slaying the dragon, but she was not in the mood for painting. What she wanted to do was rest a little before resuming her search for the truth about the child. She had just lain down in bed when there was a knock on her door. Sister Teresa walked in.

  ‘What do you want?’ Sister Ana asked.

  ‘I wanted to borrow the gramophone. I thought I could play my records.’

  ‘The Mother might hear.’

  ‘She’s gone to the city.’

  ‘No doubt to see His Excellency,’ Sister Ana said.

  Ever since the incident with the crying child, when the Mother Superior had chastised her for singing, Sister Teresa had not played her records, terrified that if the Mother Superior caught her again she would excommunicate her. Sister Ana waved her to the desk, where the gramophone was, but then changed her mind. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Bring over your music instead.’

  It had taken Sister Teresa years to build up her record collection with the money that the Mother Superior gave each nun every month, their share of the small profit from the selling of the altar breads. Sister Teresa returned a moment later with a stack of records, cranked the gramophone and took off her shoe to put her sock into the horn. Sister Ana said: ‘You don’t need that. No one will tell the Mother that you were playing music.’

  The music sounded loud and melodic in the room with its bare walls. Sister Teresa tapped her feet to the rhythm and began to hum.

  ‘If you want to sing, sing,’ Sister Ana said. ‘I don’t mind.’

  The other nun began to sing in a low voice. When the record ended, she asked Sister Ana for permission to put the needle back to the beginning and gave the crank a few turns. This time she sang better but still blushed with embarrassment, standing up with her eyes shut, imitating her musical idols, whose photographs she hid between the pages of her religious books. She had never sung popular songs in front of anyone before, only hymns in the chapel, but soon her embarrassment passed and she was pleased to have an audience. She asked for a little water, changed the record and started another song.

  She believed that her voice was a gift from God and it would have been a sin not to use it, even if the words of her favourite songs were admittedly too bold to be uttered by a nun. She knew that she would never convince the Mother Superior but was happy that at least Sister Ana was on her side. She liked her for it, despite the woman’s lack of humour, her meanness, her manic persecution of a little child who had no one in the world. Sister Teresa continued to sing as best she could, reaching the high notes without difficulty, switching with great ease from festive bulerías to solemn malagueñas.

  Soon after the Mother Superior had left in the Ford that morning, it had begun to rain and it still had not stopped. The rain soaked the empty nests on the chimneys, turned the courtyard into a pool of muddy water and slaked the thirst of the dead waiting under the mossy gravestones of the convent cemetery for the Second Coming. Sister Ana listened to the songs. Although she did not approve of them, she said nothing. Sister Teresa finished a song and asked: ‘Would you like to hear another, Sister?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  The younger woman picked up another record from the stack, and Sister Ana went to the window. The courtyard was starting to flood. It would remain flooded most of the winter and when it snowed the rainwater would turn to thick ice. A nun with an umbrella passed under the window and crossed the courtyard, walking between the puddles. Sister Ana watched her indifferently. She felt something hit her cheek and looked above her head at the dripping ceiling. She put a bucket to catch the leak and the drops fell noisily in it. Music played on the gramophone and Sister Teresa continued to sing. Sister Ana concentrated her thoughts on the events of the previous weeks. She tried to remember everything that had happened from the moment the Mother Superior announced the discovery of the child on the steps of the convent: the old suitcase, the bloodied bed sheet, the mopped-up floor in a corner of the abandoned school for novices. She rearranged the events over and over again in her mind and tried to recall any peculiar incidents that had taken place days, weeks, even months before they had found the child…anything that might have been important. To her surprise it was not too difficult to do, for life in the convent was regimented with a simple routine that made it easy to identify any unusual event. While all that went on inside her mind, the lines on her forehead deepened and she held her breath. Then suddenly her eyes opened wide and she gave a loud gasp that made Sister Teresa stop in the middle of her song.

  A few doors away Sister Beatriz had been swaddling the child when the music had begun. She recognised the flamencos of the placid Sundays from before
the trouble began, when she used to sit at her desk reading while the notes from the muffled horn of the gramophone next door travelled into her room and dissolved the words of the Church Fathers she was trying to memorise. When she heard Sister Teresa’s voice, hesitant and low, she was pleased: the convent was at last returning to some semblance of normality. She finished wrapping the child in the strips of cloth, covered him with a blanket and observed him with affection. The Mother Superior had not asked her opinion but Beatriz liked the name she had given him. She decided to take the child to listen to the music. She pulled up the blanket to cover the top of his head and left the room with him in her arms. She walked in the direction of the music but after a few steps understood that it was not coming from Sister Teresa’s room but Sister Ana’s. Disappointed because she knew that there was no way Sister Ana would let the child in, she turned back. At the refectory she picked up an umbrella and went for a walk with the child round the convent.

  She crossed the courtyard under the rain, her shoes getting wet and the cold wind passing through her habit. She was confident that the Mother Superior would convince the Bishop to let them bring up the child in the convent. Renato coughed a couple of times and she wrapped him more tightly in the blanket. She took him to the garden, where the last flowers of the season were sinking into the mud, and passed near the spot where Sister Ana had found the buried bed sheet. On her way back from her walk, she heard the bell ringing for midday prayer.

  It was time to feed the child. That morning the Mother Superior had instructed her to pray in her room and not take the child to the unheated chapel, where he might catch a cold. She would be angry if she found out that she had taken him for a walk in the rain. But it was not the first time that the young woman had disobeyed her: whenever she had the chance she did not feed him from the bowl. Today she did not have to worry about being caught. The Mother Superior was away and the sisters would be in the chapel. She waited until the prayers began and made her way to her room, where she placed the child in his cradle and then began to undress.