Sucking Sherbert Lemons

by Michael Carson

  Then Brother de Porres came into the room, smiled and sat down without a word.

  The turmoil of the last week had driven Brother de Porres from Joachim’s mind but now, here, there he was.

  “My name is Brother de Porres,” in a baritone voice which set the hairs on Joachim’s neck trembling. “I am not an Irish Brother...” He paused, perhaps expecting laughter, but no laughter came. The novices were too much in awe to see any funny sides. “No, I am an African Brother. I come from a small village in Uganda, a country in the heart of the continent. It is a beautiful country, as green as England in parts with many mountain ranges and vast lakes.”

  Brother de Porres continued to describe his country. Joachim listened but did not hear. He was too busy marvelling at the Brother’s face and the colour of it. Before, he had thought it was the deepest black, but in this, he now realised, he had been mistaken. His skin was dark brown. It had a matt patina upon it which made it seem like some sheer velvet. His ears were very small and hugged his head. Joachim felt his own. They seemed odd in comparison and stuck out too far. If he had a choice, he thought, those were the ears he would choose. The Brother’s hair, which he had thought was just a dense cap of black, was in fact, from this perspective, a soft halo. He wondered if he touched it, how it would feel. Then, when Brother de Porres turned, he saw his face in profile. The nose, quite flat and wide when viewed full-face, in profile was sculpted and honed, a perfect concave arc from the bridge to the tip. At that angle he looked much younger – almost like a child.

  And from Brother de Porres’ full mouth came the sound which mesmerised him and made him shiver. So deeply affected was he by the tone of the voice that he could not concentrate on the meaning of his words. To him the voice had all the quality of the music he was growing to love. The ‘War Requiem’ voices moved him for their sound and not for their content.

  “I want to tell you about a wicked king we once had in Uganda,” continued Brother de Porres, looking directly at Joachim, who came out of his reverie and tried to listen. “This king refused to accept the true Faith. He was disgusting in his morals, indulging in lustful practices with both women and men. Now it happened that this king had several page-boys, many of whom had become Catholics, and their Faith meant everything to them. They were all most devout. However, this devotion displeased the king and he decided to force them to commit great sins against Holy Purity. The Catholic pages refused to bow before the lusts of the king and, in a great rage, he sentenced them all to death. He had a great fire built and rush mats were brought to the edge of the fire. Each of the page-boys was stripped and forced to lie on the mats which were then rolled up and tied tightly. Then the boys were placed on the edge of the great fire so that, in the course of many hours, they were roasted. But it is said that all through their agony the page-boys sang hymns and prayed for the wicked king who was so abusing them. They all died and their souls went up to live with Jesus and His most Blessed Mother. We call these pageboys the Uganda Martyrs. It will not be long before our Holy Father in Rome canonises them.”

  Brother de Porres stopped. His tale had been a fairly standard one as tales of martyrs went. Every day the novices listened to brief lives of saints and martyrs who had expired after putting up with the most fearful torment. The Roman martyrs were usually best, and had had to put up with the most. But, because it was Brother de Porres who was telling the story, it was invested with a freshness and fascination for Joachim and the other novices.

  “Any questions?” asked Brother de Porres.

  “Yes, I have!” exclaimed Brother Ninian, standing up clumsily as he spoke.

  Brother de Porres nodded and Ninian asked, “Is your hair easy to comb?”

  By way of answer, the black Brother delved into the pocket of his cassock and produced a comb. He inserted it into his hair and pulled it upwards. With a sound of rubbing corduroy, the comb passed through the hair, though it left it much as if had been before. “Does that answer your question, Brother?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Brother de Porres looked around, smiling.

  Brother Egbert put up his hand and was called on. “Do the Uganda martyrs have individual names? When they are canonised, they’re not just going to be called the Uganda Martyrs are they?” he asked.

  Brother de Porres stroked his chin. “That’s a good question, Brother. One of the problems is that we don’t know their names. They will be saints but they will be anonymous saints – their names known only to Jesus.”

  He looked around for further questions. Joachim was thinking what a shame it was that the Uganda Martyrs should have had to go through such a dreadful martyrdom, but end up not being known by their full names. Almost desperately he wanted to ask a question but he did not dare. Had he dared he would have asked if he could touch Brother de Porres’ hair.

  Brother Ninian was not so bashful, however. “Why are your hands black on the outside but white on the inside?”

  “We have many stories at home about that. Some say it is because when the good God was painting us he forgot that bit. He also forgot another bit, the soles of our feet. They’re a little on the pale side too.”

  “But the rest of you is black?” continued the unstoppable Ninian.

  “Yes, I think so.”

  Then Novvy came in. He excused himself to Brother de Porres and turned to address the class of novices:

  “Brother Ninian, would you come with me please?” Then he looked at Joachim. “When Brother Ninian comes back, I’d like you to come to the Brothers’ Feast Day Parlour, Brother Joachim.”

  He led Ninian from the room.

  Brother de Porres continued to talk about Uganda and about the Brothers’ work there but Joachim was not listening. The voice no longer had any power to charm. He could only wait fearfully for Ninian’s return and the imminent start of his inquisition.

  *

  Ninian returned and sat down without looking at Joachim. He made his way to the front and tried to smile at Brother de Porres. His feeble attempts were rewarded by a wide, white beam from the Black Brother. For a moment Joachim felt lifted, but, as he made his way along the cloister, he was overcome with fear and could hardly bring himself to knock at the door of the Parlour.

  When he did he heard the Provincial’s booming voice telling him to enter. He was gestured by Novvy to the empty seat in front of the table, where he sat wondering what to do with his hands.

  “Well, Brother Joachim, we just want to ask you a few questions. It is important that we find out as much as we can about what happened to Brother Henry.” The Provincial sat back in his chair and Novvy leaned forward to speak.

  “Brother, have you ever spoken to Brother Michael?”

  “Yes. No. Yes ... Yes,” stumbled Joachim.

  “What did you talk about?”

  There was no escape. They had made straight for the heart of the matter. Joachim told them everything.

  “But you never went to the rubbish dump with Brother Michael?” asked Father O’Callaghan.

  “No, Father, I didn’t.”

  “Did you know that any of the other novices had been to the rubbish dump with Brother Michael?”

  Joachim did not answer for a long moment. He desperately wanted to lie and say ‘No’ but knew that the lie might be immediately exposed as such. What had Ninian said?

  “Yes, Brother.”

  “Who?” asked Novvy speaking from between clenched teeth.

  “Er, Brother Ninian, Brother, er Father.”

  “Brother Ninian said he never went there,” said the Provincial.

  “Is that what he said?”

  The Provincial nodded.

  “Well, maybe he was just showing off, but he said he had.”

  Novvy looked hard at Joachim. “Why didn’t you come to me, Brother? Why didn’t you say what was going on?”

  Joa
chim shrugged: “I don’t know. It didn’t seem so bad usually. I mentioned it to Father O’Callaghan.”

  The priest nodded and gave Joachim a smile.

  “You realise of course that Brother Henry went to the rubbish dump with Brother Michael and that was the cause of the terrible thing he did to himself?” Novvy continued stonily.

  “No, I didn’t. When it happened I thought that might have been the reason. I mean that came into my mind. I hoped it wasn’t true.”

  “But you are sure you are telling the truth about not having committed any acts of impurity with Brother Michael?”

  “Yes, Brother.”

  “You’re absolutely sure about that? I ask you again because Brother Michael says that you went with him to that place. And he says that you tempted him to unchastity rather than the other way round. What do you say to that?”

  “No! I didn’t. That is a lie!” answered Joachim, pale with fear and anger.

  Novvy sighed. “Right, we’ll leave that aside for the time being. However, it does occur to me that you seem very well versed in what might have been happening at the rubbish dump. A little too knowing for one so young. Have you ever indulged in such goings-on with other boys or men?”

  Now they had him, he thought. The devils of the garage had found their way into his hiding place. He had thought that in leaving home he would be able to banish the satanic hound that chased him and waited to pounce on his soul and drag it screaming into torment. But that, he saw now, had been a vain hope. The few miles that separated home from Wiltshire would be no obstacle for those devils. They had found him, taken up their abode in Brother Michael and bided their time.

  He did not answer. He wrung his hands. Consciously, he tried to inspire the inquisition’s pity by the intensity of his abject postures.

  “We’re waiting, Brother Joachim,” said Novvy.

  Joachim looked up at the man he had thought of as a father but saw only the face of the headmaster at St Bede’s, Brother Hooper. No longer was he the man who had kindled in him a love for music, an eye for wild flowers, a taste for poetry. He was now just another man in a cassock inspiring fear of homework undone, caps unworn, PT kit unwashed, soul unclean. Faced by this spectre, Joachim answered.

  “No, I haven’t. I have always been pure.”

  His inquisitors looked down at their desks, embarrassed by the pathetic transparency of his lie.

  Still looking down at the table, Novvy said, “What about those occurrences in the garage?”

  Ninian must have told them. There was no other explanation, for he had told no one else. His best friend had told on him. So that was how things were. “Your sin will find you out.” One always got what one deserved. There was now no point in further denial.

  He sat, looking at the floor. The floor he had cleaned so thoroughly a couple of hours ago was now scuffed and marked by the shoeprints of the other Brothers who had sat where he now sat. Perhaps that one there was Brother Michael’s and the ones at his feet Brother Ninian’s. He sat and watched the marks and wept. The three opposite him said nothing.

  Then, at that moment, from the Novices’ Room, came the sound of children’s voices singing ‘Kyrie Eleison’ to the accompaniment of an insistent and exciting drumbeat. Joachim had never heard such a sound before. It must be music that Brother de Porres had brought with him.

  Perhaps music from Uganda. The music was much too loud for the inquisitors, and Novvy went out of the room to have it turned down.

  The remaining people in the parlour sat on in silence listening. The sound lessened. Joachim could see the scene next door. Brother de Porres would have apologised to Novvy and then gone over to turn down the volume. But the sound was still there. The children sang at the upper limit of the human voice and asked forgiveness so merrily. A dark male voice intruded asking for mercy too, but so gay it was that it belied the pleas it was making.

  Novvy returned, but somehow the mood of doom had dissipated, been dispersed, by the happy sound from next door. Joachim sat on and the tears continued, but he felt cheered somehow. When Novvy repeated his question, he answered that, yes, he had been unchaste before he came to St Finbar’s but that he had not done anything bad since entering the monastery.

  He did not know if he was believed. Part of him did not care. He wanted only to get out of the parlour and back to Brother de Porres to listen to that music.

  “Very well, Brother Joachim, you may go,” said Novvy, without looking at him. “However, we may want to talk to you again.”

  Joachim got up and fled back towards the music.

  He went straight to his seat. Brother de Porres nodded to him and smiled. The record turned and the male voice sang the Credo. At first he was conscious of Ninian behind him, but then he forgot about him as a long drum solo announced the words, “Crucifixus etiam pro nobis sub Pontio Pilato passus et sepultus est”. Then a different drummer took over and beat out a wild celebration, followed by the words, “Et resurrexit tertia die secundum scripturas” sung by the exultant voices of the children. Despite everything, he could not help smiling.

  When the music had finished the novices clapped. Brother de Porres took the record off the player and returned to the front of the class.

  “ ‘Missa Luba’ ... the voice of African Christians,” he said. He looked over at Brother Joachim. “I’m very sorry you missed my introduction to it. This is a mass from the Congo, Brother. I could see from your face while it was playing that you liked it. I am happy about that. Whenever I am homesick for my mum and dad I play it and I am back home.”

  Joachim smiled at Brother de Porres, his heart full of love for the man and relief to be near him and away from the inquisition next door.

  For one mad moment he wished himself older, preferably black and, above all, the best friend of the black Brother. They would go away together and convert the heathen during the day. Then each night they would return to their hut to eat, pray, and listen to ‘Missa Luba’.

  “The Congo is having its problems at the moment, Brother. The Belgians have left its people in a very bad state.” Joachim thought of what Brother Michael had told him about his sister, the nun, but dismissed it from his mind. Then Brother de Porres gave expression to what he was thinking. “Still, a country that can produce such a sound must have some hope for a brighter future.”

  Novvy returned and Brother de Porres bade the novices good morning and was gone.

  For the remainder of that day and the day that followed, Brother Ninian seemed to be avoiding Joachim. Novvy too behaved very distantly, as did the other novices. When, on the third morning after the inquisition, Ninian was absent at breakfast, Joachim knew that he had been sent away, and he was torn between regret, relief and anger that he had not at least been allowed to say goodbye.

  He knew too that the matter was not closed and that he too might well be sent away from St Finbar’s. The idea of leaving did not strike horror into him. It was only the thought of having to return to St Bede’s as a failure that gave him pause. It was obvious to him that the monastery was no place of escape. If he was a homo he would have to fight it here or there. Changing the geography would not change the problem. He would carry around his nature from place to place as a snail carries its shell.

  So, when, a week later, he was called back to the Brothers’ Feast Day Parlour and sat down next to Brother Michael, he was not afraid.

  When Novvy asked Brother Michael to repeat his accusation, he was not shocked when Brother Michael said it had been Joachim who had led him into sin at the rubbish dump. He rather almost felt that the old Brother was telling the truth.

  Then, when Novvy asked him, “Is that true? Did you lead Brother Michael astray?” Joachim thought of Bruno, Eric and the man he had stared at in the toilet and answered, looking at Brother Michael: “Yes, it is true. I am responsible. I tempted Brother Michael and he reluctantly gave in.”
/>
  Brother Michael gazed at Joachim. He inhaled suddenly, startled, as if the inhalation might be his last. Joachim, looking at Brother Michael’s old, tired face could imagine how the face would look on a pillow breathing its last breath. His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish in a bowl of water starved of oxygen.

  But Brother Michael did not say a word.

  After that it was merely a matter of time. Novvy took Joachim aside and told him to say nothing to any of the other novices. He would contact his parents and make arrangements for them to collect him. He would not tell them the real reason for his departure from the monastery. He would tell them simply that Joachim no longer felt he had a vocation.

  Novvy was hard and strange as he said, “You will leave your habit on your bed, together with your crucifix, Rule Book and Office Prayer Book.”

  On the morning of his departure, Benson was dressed and ready when he heard Novvy’s footsteps coming towards his cell.

  He had made his bed and folded the sheets and blankets, placing them over the stains his bed-wetting had made on the mattress. Next to them he placed his cassock, stock, collar, belt, and books. On top of these he put the crucifix.

  Novvy nodded at the pile and told him to make his way to the eastern door of St Finbar’s, where his father was waiting. Curtly, he shook Benson’s hand and wished him luck.

  In the cold dark, Benson walked along the corridor, hoping against hope that Novvy would not lift the pile of blankets and discover the stained mattress. He walked down the stairs and along the corridor to the cloister. Numbly he walked the length of the cloister. As he turned towards the next section of the cloister, there, under the Station of the Cross showing St Veronica wiping Christ’s Face, he saw a tall figure.