by Euan McAllen
‘It would be a good choice.’
‘Of course, it would.’
Adolphinus adjusted his clothing before finally settling down behind his desk, comfortably placed in his large, padded chair; there to receive a report from his police chief. When dealing with Ingel, he preferred to have the desk between them. It gave him distance. It reminded Ingel who was in charge, who ran the place.
Ingel, frozen on his usual spot, delivered his ‘weekly report’ – except that it had not been a week since his last update. Adolphinus had demanded daily updates on the on-going preparations for the visit of his boss, the Chief, Chief Monk. Everything had to be right, exactly right. Ingel reassured him that all was in place, that nothing had been forgotten. Like each time before, he went through his checklist like a man reading a sermon. Like each time before Adolphinus grew bored and stopped him.
‘We must all be on our best behaviour, tell them that.’
‘When are we not?’
For that response Ingel received the flash of a nasty look: Adolphinus knew when the man was mocking. His cold sarcasm was not always welcomed. Recognising the mood, Ingel made a correction.
‘Rest assured, Your Excellency, your monks will not let you down. They will be on their best behaviour, I will ensure it.’
‘Good. Make it clear any infringements of rules, any bad behaviour – no matter how trivial - will be severely punished.’
‘Understood.’
‘Regulations are to be strictly enforced while he is here. No hand signals! He’s not stupid. I’m not stupid!’
‘No, you are not stupid. I will put the word out, again, just to make doubly sure.’
‘You do that. And the choir, they are up to scratch, they have been practicing?’
‘I believe so. From what I’ve heard.’
‘I want them at their very best tonight.’
‘They won’t let you down.’
‘And don’t forget, novices are to be kept out of sight – out of sight, and out of mind. Lock them up if you have to.’
Lock them up, thought Ingel. Now that is a good idea.
‘And ensure the food bank is open. I want those starving peasants off the streets, out of sight. Force them in if you have to.’
‘Understood. I will ensure it is fully-manned.’
‘Now leave me alone. I need to gather my thoughts.’
‘Understood.’
Gather your thoughts? Thought Ingel as he left the room. He wanted to laugh and alone, in private, he often did.
***
A strange, almost extraordinary sound began to drift into town. It overtook and diluted all normal sounds which issued from the streets. It trickled into the heads of the ordinary people going about their ordinary business. It was the sound of drums, beating out a rhythm accompanied by bells, as if in celebration of a coming festival. As it grew in strength, it took a grip and began to captivate. People paused and looked around but there was nothing to see. Its source was out of sight: around the corner at the end of the street. Yes, something big was coming down the road. Faces twitched. Children scattered, to reassemble in tucked-away corners, safe where they could not be seen; some sucking on thumbs; and some picking noses. Women folded their arms and stared down the street, looking for clues. Those asleep, woke up, wondering what the hell was happening. Some looked into each other’s faces, also looking for clues. Some of the women began to sway to the rhythm of the beat. A few were in the know: the most powerful man in the land, Chief, Chief Monk Bushcatti, was coming to town.
And then it came into view: a gilded carriage drawn by four horses; surrounded by guards, also on horses; some carrying trumpets which they loved to blow; seeking attention, demanding it. Chief, Chief Monk Bushcatti was careful to remain hidden out of sight. He did not wish to be seen until he was ready to be seen. Other horse-drawn carriages – less ornate, just functional - followed behind, stuffed full with servants and monks-in-waiting; and squeezed in amongst them all, his personal assistant Paminio. Paminio was in a foul mood: he always was when they travelled, for he was never allowed to ride upfront. Instead, he had to travel with the servants, a situation he found intolerable. Bushcatti knew that perfectly well, which was why it was always thus. For some peasants, the penny finally dropped, and they fell to their knees in respect. Others looked on, star-struck or contemptuous. Some stuck out their tongues when the guards were not looking their way.
The guards were a mean bunch of soldiers. They were his personal guard, the official security of his office, and they carried his flag, the flag of his office. The guards intimidated all those ahead of them: what crowd began to form soon disintegrated and fell back; some unsure whether to run for cover; others unsure whether to stand firm and clap and cheer for someone very important had arrived in town. Their presence ensured the road ahead automatically cleared itself. Delay the Chief, Chief Monk, and you would feel the wrath of his guards. Led by their captain, they all sported moustaches, and the same short haircut. They all had special gold buttons and colourful braid on their uniforms. They looked special. They felt special. They were special, and they demanded special treatment from those less important, less powerful than them. For now, they were under control because they were in control, but it was not always like that: alcohol would release their casual brutality, and dilute further their sense of humanity.
Novice monks rushed out of the sweetshop, dissolving their own queue, which was a blessing for Timothy: he had been waiting outside, waiting for them to leave. He went inside and joined the queue that still remained: the queue of trade and peasant kids. Timothy had happy memories of the sweetshop, and happy memories were what he wanted to relive right now. Right now, he could do with something sweet to suck on.
‘You new around here? A new novice?’ growled one of the bigger boys.
‘No,’ said Timothy. ‘Just passing through. I heard this place sells excellent sweets.’
‘It’s the only place that sells sweets.’
‘I see.’
The shop owner looked at him and sized him up.
‘I know you. You’ve been here before. A bit old for sweets now, aren’t you?’
‘Never too old for your sweets,’ said Timothy, and he made a purchase.
Clutching his bag of sweets, he rushed out to see what all the commotion was. For a while, he indulged himself: he allowed himself to be a big kid again; free of all his adult responsibilities and anxieties; free of the weight of manhood, destiny, and desire, love and loathing.
The peasant, Rigger, sat with his family at the kitchen table – the only table in their small, cramped home - all of them thinking of food. When there was food on the table, his wife would shout at the kids ‘eat it up, don’t waste my food!’. ‘Eat it, or I’ll slap you!’ was the expression she loved to shout the most, even though there was never a need for it: none of her kids had ever said ‘I’m not hungry’.
Rigger looked at his wife, impatiently, while she checked her youngest son’s head for lice. His eldest son, the family cripple, looked down, as always wishing not to be noticed, while his daughter wished for the complete opposite. Annoying and brainless like her mother, she had been a pain all morning and sooner or later she would receive another hard slap – from either her mother or her father, whoever would break first. A bang on the back door woke them all up.
‘Who’s that banging on our door?’
‘I don’t know, woman – open it and find out!’
Under protest, the wife opened it and was disappointed to see that it was one of her husband’s drinking mates. She wanted to turn him away, but he was not having it. He ignored her as she ignored him, and pushed past as she did her best to stop him entering.
‘Rigger he’s here!’
‘Who’s here? What are you talking about?’
‘The big chie
f! The man in charge of all the monasteries! Come to visit! Surrounded by soldiers and everything! You have to see it!’
‘Oh my god!’ shouted the wife, and she grabbed her youngest two kids, intent on dragging them outside to see the great man. Both kids tried to fight her off, but she was not having it.
Rigger jumped up to join the rush, then stopped and looked at his eldest, the least excited one in the room.
‘You coming, son?’
‘You go, I’ll catch you up.’
Rigger knew he wouldn’t, but no matter. He ran off to catch up his wife. His eldest, the cripple, would take up position by the window and watch the world go by. It went past so fast, and never noticed him. He yearned to run like his brother: run from and run to; run up and run down; run in and out; run and shout. Sometimes he wanted to dance, like his sister. Sometimes he just wanted to weep. Like his dad, he wanted to have it. Like his mum, he wanted to keep it.
Bushcatti sat well back, snuggled up in his vast cushioned seat of crimson satin; not wishing to look out of the window for fear of seeing something distasteful; not wishing to see the poor peasants who frequented the side of the road begging for handouts, nor those toiling in the mud of the fields. Bushcatti did not like to see peasants, but they were an economic necessity. Who else would do their awful work? He preferred grace and beauty, for that inspired him to think deep thoughts, great thoughts, and so speak with great dignity, and reverence, and weight, and insight. At least that was the theory. A man in his position – the highest, noblest position in the land - could not be distracted by the scum and disharmony of everyday life. He was the Chief, Chief Monk. He had a mission, a duty, an obligation. He always had to be at his best, and always be seen as the best, to ensure, amongst other things, that the worst tried to be better.
Bushcatti went everywhere in style, with a fanfare, with tight security; often with impatience; and always with his personal assistant. Just about the only place, he didn’t take the man was to the toilet. Even when in the bath, he might want his man to take notes, to record some important thoughts for prosperity. (Paminio often complained to his companions that he was nothing more than a bullshit collector – but a well-paid one he had to admit).
Bushcatti was tired and feeling grumpy. The roads had shaken him up. He needed a good proper rest, followed by a hot meal. Bushcatti did not like to travel so much these days. He was old, an old dog, and he knew it. The younger dogs were snapping at his feet. He was fragile, yes, but he was mentally sharp, for he had not worn his brain out with tiresome trivialities: he had always preserved it for the best thoughts.
Only when his train began the ascent up to the monastery, did he finally take a peek, wondering why there were no monks to cheer him on. Poor service. He did not know it, but monks had been waiting for him, for hours before, cold and miserable, retreating back inside. Their glorious leader was late. Perhaps he had cancelled and not bothered to send word? The Chief, Chief Monk was known to be late for appointments, sometimes extremely late; not that he cared; not that he ever gave an apology. He set the time. He set the agenda. He was king. Finally, the carriage drew to a halt. The king had arrived.
Bushcatti whipped out his gold ruby rings, his charm bracelet, his gold and silver encrusted badge, and his chain of office; and rushed to slip then on into position. He was about to go on stage, and he had to look the part: a man of wealth and power; a man above all other men. His chain of office hung heavy around his neck, pulling him down as if wishing to break it. He loved the look of it but hated its weight, its size, and the feel of its cold metal against his skin. Still, as he had to keep telling himself – and as repeated by his personal assistant – looks were everything.
Adolphinus stood stiff, to attention, his red robe half-hidden beneath his best fur coat; his best monks right behind him; his worst monks making up the back row. He took a deep breath and looked back one last time, to ensure that all his monks were standing in line and displaying the required expression of solemnity and gravity, reverence and respect for their esteemed visitor. He had nothing to worry about. Ingel had made sure of that, and he was watching everything that moved from the sidelines. Not being a monk, he did not have to play this stupid game, but he loved enforcing the rules. That was his job, and he loved his job - as others hated him for it.
The Chief, Chief Monk alighted from his carriage, stretched and stretched some more. His red robe seemed to glint in the sun as if it was made out of metal, and to Adolphinus it looked redder than last time: a darker, bloodier red. Bushcatti looked up at the sky and sniffed the air, and finally acknowledged the presence of his chief monk. Then he accidentally broke wind, and it seemed to many present that that action, and the previous, were somehow connected. As Adolphinus walked towards him, he stuck out his hand in anticipation of a firm handshake, but what he received was rather limp, rather disappointing. The captain of his bodyguard dismounted and surveyed the scene as if looking for the enemy, as if longing for a fight.
‘Your most esteemed excellency, welcome.’ Adolphinus stuttered as he spoke.
‘Thank you. It’s good to see you again. It’s been too long.’
With that Adolphinus gave the signal for his choir to burst into song: a song of welcome; their heavenly voices turning the moment into something beautiful, something refined. Adolphinus was very pleased with what he heard. His smile was broad, and a sign of relief. Bushcatti stuck it out with a forced smile, for he was desperate to sit down. But he looked satisfied, which made Adolphinus extremely pleased: the perfect start; the first hurdle jumped smoothly. Then Bushcatti spoke, and Adolphinus was all ears.
‘I need the use of a private room.’
‘Use of a private room? Will my study suffice?’
‘No, something private. I need privacy.’
Adolphinus looked confused, so Bushcatti grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him in close. Adolphinus tried hard to avoid the smell of his breath – but in a way that could not be taken as impolite. Bushcatti whispered in his ear.
‘I need to shit and piss, in peace and quiet, and solitude. No one should hear the chief of all monks shit and piss.’
‘Sorry, understand now. No, definitely not. Guest quarters have been prepared for your exclusive use while you are with us. No one will disturb you there. You will not be heard.’
‘Excellent, Adolphinus. And I require a hot bath immediately afterward, and I mean hot.’
‘I will have one prepared straight away.’
‘Excellent. And afterwards Adolphinus, we can lunch. I will be hungry then. You are hungry, yes?’
‘Absolutely.’
Adolphinus was not hungry. Not only was he too nervous to eat, but he had had a late breakfast.
‘Come, Adolphinus, show me.’
Adolphinus led the way, his chief still holding on to his arm. When they were both out of sight, Ingel waved at the monks: they could stand down; they were dismissed. The choir, on the other hand, had to carry on singing until he told them to stop, for Ingel was consumed by the sound of their singing, as were the other new arrivals. All were entranced.
***
The two chiefs – one with greater clout than the other – sat at opposite ends of a dining table. Adolphinus looked down its length at Bushcatti who was looking down at his plate. Was his master satisfied with his meal?
‘Is the food satisfactory Your Most Esteemed Excellency?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you have a pleasant journey?’
‘No.’
Adolphinus tried to make polite conversation, but his master just wanted to eat. The penny dropped, and Adolphinus confined himself to observing his master eat, and the moves he made: the way he pushed the meat and vegetables around the plate, seeking out only the best bits to put into his mouth; the way he chewed as if it hurt. Adolphinus, not hungry, went through the motions, and sat impat
iently; wishing for the serious talk to begin, like a dog waiting for the bone to be thrown his way.
While the two chiefs sat in a cold embrace, and ate without conviction or conversation, in another part of the monastery, the Chief of Police was engaged in raucous laughter with Mostrum, Captain of the Guard. They were drinking beer and munching on pork pies, without a care in the world. It was a reunion, but not of old mates.
During the course of the previous visit, they had come to know each other well: each admired the other for his aggressive, heartless application of authority; for his secret contempt for the trappings of power and the egotism it generated. Both felt driven to puncture the pomposity, the pretentiousness of the world - not because they laid claim to the moral high ground, but because it was wicked fun. Each took pleasure in dominating weak, fragile souls, and the opposite sex. Each admired the rebel inside the other. Each stuck two fingers up to God, for when had God ever struck them down? Neither believed in him. He was just a convenient device, and each played the game of lip service. There was something close to pure evil buried deep within the both of them, and each sensed a hint of it in the other. They were soulmates, but without a soul to share between them.
The two were in their element, for lunching with them was Paminio, personal assistant to Chief, Chief Monk Bushcatti; and he was suffering. Mostrum beat him near senseless with his verbal abuse, purely for the entertainment of the chief of police. Not wishing to make a scene, or appear defeated, Paminio put up with it. He expected nothing less from the captain. The captain was a fool, a moron, a degenerate. And this chief of police seemed to share the same characteristics. Paminio was outnumbered and outgunned. But what was it his mother had once told him? Sticks and stones may break your bones but words can never hurt you. Unfortunately, she had got it wrong. Words could hurt.
As on previous occasions, Mostrum ridiculed Paminio for his preoccupation with cleanliness, body odour; and his aversion to alcohol.
‘A man who does not drink beer is not a normal man!’ shouted Mostrum.