The Cloister

by James Carroll

  Mr. Rohan seemed disgusted with both of the men. At last, he succeeded in grabbing his son’s arm, but the boy shook free. Malloy dropped the pistol to reach for the boy, who eluded Malloy, too.

  Mr. Rohan wheeled on the other man, whom Kavanagh had pegged by now as the school authority, the headmaster. The father spoke furiously, while the headmaster sought only to placate. At last, Mr. Rohan turned and brushed past Malloy and successfully seized his son’s arm, pulled him roughly. Now the wind brought the words clear: “Come on! We’re getting out of here!”

  “No, Dad!” The boy jerked his arm free, a movement that ignited him. With clenched fists, he seemed ready to fight. Even across the distance, Kavanagh could see that his eyes were wide, maniacal. “Don’t come near me,” the boy cried.

  “How dare you!” his father shouted. He reached for his son again, but the lad dropped to his knees, a move that seemed only like defeat, until he picked up the starter gun. He aimed it up at his father, and fired. The gunshot was hollow, but loud.

  “Jesus!” Mr. Rohan cried, falling back.

  The boy stood, his face twisted now. He closed on his father, and fired the gun again. Smoke burst from its barrel. The father shrank away, half running, and fell, as if he’d taken a bullet.

  Malloy slapped the gun out of the boy’s hand.

  The boy turned to run, but Malloy stopped him, taking him by the shoulders. He pummeled Malloy, but Malloy overpowered him, taking him into his arms, a lock. At that point, the boy collapsed against Malloy, and began to sob. As Malloy held him, the muscular grip eased to become a most tender embrace. The boy wept and wept. Time stopped for a long moment. The boy’s misery superseded everything.

  Soon, a shaken Mr. Rohan came forward to stand with Malloy and his son. Kavanagh saw that tears streaked the father’s face, too. He tentatively touched the boy’s hair, and spoke words that Kavanagh heard as, “Tommy, I’m sorry.”

  Malloy opened an arm, and gently nudged the weeping boy toward his father, who took him into his arms and patted him, as if saying, “There, there, Tommy.” After some moments, the father and son, clinging to each other, turned and began to make their way up the sloping lawn, heading for the castle.

  The third man, still in the grip of consternation, had not moved. Now, with the father and son at a distance, he craned toward Malloy and snarled a burst of hateful sentences, curses. Malloy ignored him. He stooped and picked the gun up, together with what Kavanagh saw as a box of cartridges. Malloy waved off the sputtering headmaster, who turned and stormed away, back toward the castle.

  Runner stood there, looking after the man and, in the farther distance, the bereft father and son. Kavanagh had his best view yet of Runner’s face, and saw that it was broken with grief. His eyes were pooled.

  Kavanagh was not breathing. Half hidden by the tree, he thought of simply stepping fully behind it, never to be seen. But that would compound the violation of his intrusion with blatant dishonesty. He did not quite understand what he had witnessed, but his largest impression was of John Malloy’s having cared for the boy, wanting to protect him.

  As his old friend approached, Kavanagh moved away from the tree. “Hello, John,” he called.

  When Malloy saw Kavanagh, misery gave way to pure astonishment. “What?” That one word was all that he could manage: “What?”

  Kavanagh walked toward him, aware of his own blushing. He was beyond embarrassed—hiding behind a tree, a sneak, a spy. Not knowing what he’d witnessed, he knew nevertheless what an interloper he was.

  Malloy was aghast, barely able to believe his eyes. He said, “But what are you doing here?”

  “Good question,” Kavanagh answered. “It seems totally nuts right now, but I guess you could say…I tracked you down.”

  “Good Christ, Mike. Give me a minute.” Malloy’s eyes were rheumy, unfocused. He, too, was embarrassed.

  “I followed you,” Kavanagh said. “After you left Good Shepherd, I saw you go into the park, by The Cloisters.” Kavanagh heard his own reference to the museum as meaningless here, but to him its relevance stood.

  “Oh, man, Mike. Showing up at your church like that—I was drunk. I’m still drunk.”

  “You don’t act drunk. I don’t know what just happened, but I think I saw a good teacher trying to help his student.”

  “Failing to help his student. That boy is being kicked out for no good reason. Worse: he’s being scapegoated.”

  “That gunshot—good Lord. I thought he’d actually—”

  “Just blanks, a starter gun.” Malloy gestured with the pistol, the cartridge box. “Tommy knew that.”

  “But—”

  “The boy is troubled, that’s for sure, but with every right. He’s a misfit, but he’s also an ace sprinter, best I’ve ever coached. The one uncomplicated thing about him. Away from the track, he’s a mess. And now he’s paying for it. A screwed-up athlete being screwed. Remind you of anyone?”

  “You? Not as far as I knew.”

  “There’s the point…how deeply buried it was.” Malloy hesitated, then went on. “When Tommy told me I was the one teacher he could trust, I sensed what was coming.” Again he paused, before continuing. “When he told me what was happening, I wanted nothing to do with him—just shut him off. This was last week. I ran from the kid instead of helping him. My own shit…out of nowhere…dumped all over me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He came to me. I said I couldn’t help him. I fled this place…went to New York, saw Father Donovan, got plastered. I was a pinball, slapped from pillar to post, until dawn…found myself at Good Shepherd, on my fucking knees, no idea how I got there. God, Mike, I apologize for that.”

  “What’s going on, John?”

  Malloy braced himself. He said, “Tommy was seduced by a teacher here. One of the gods. English teacher. An overnight field trip to Camden, visiting the grave of Walt Whitman, for Christ’s sake. The asshole tapped Tommy as his hotel roommate. Back rubs. Massage. Singing the body electric. Fill in the blanks. The school is protecting the teacher. Ergo, they’re screwing Tommy. They have to get rid of him. When they accused him of lying, the boy went berserk, which works for them, of course.” Malloy stopped. A long silence. Then, “Obviously, I have my own issue here. What happened to Tommy—what they’re doing to him now—it ambushed me.”

  To Kavanagh’s surprise, tears began to wash down Malloy’s cheeks. With the heel of one hand, he pushed into his eyes, trying to pull himself together. “Christ,” he managed, “I’m astonished to see you.”

  Kavanagh replied, “That’s how I felt Tuesday morning.”

  “You have no idea, Mike. No idea…This kid…He’s what took me back, which obviously took me back to you. But then, when I actually laid eyes on you…at Mass…oh my God…”

  “I don’t get it, John.” The word “ambushed” hung in Kavanagh’s mind. He said, “I have my version of the same astonishment. Seeing you at the Communion rail—a ghost, then running away—threw me for a loop.” His use of the cliché—again—made Kavanagh think of the Jewish woman. The Frenchwoman. That silenced him.

  At last, Malloy found it possible to ask, “How’d you get here?”

  “I have a car back in the village.”

  “There’s a bar called the Swiss Alps. Give me an hour. I have to take another stab at getting to Tommy’s father, before they leave. I have to get to him without having the headmaster block the way.”

  “Maybe I should just take off. This is—”

  “No. No, Mike.” Malloy stepped toward Kavanagh, with fresh urgency. “I need to talk to you. Kneeling before you at Good Shepherd, I saw something. An epiphany, sure as hell. Like waking up. It’s why I took off like that. Foolish goddamn thing to do. But what I saw brought me rushing back here, to this Kingdom of the Blind Eye. No more blind eye for me. I had to help Tommy. Still do. Please, wait.”

  “Sure, Runner.”

  Malloy reacted as if slapped. “ ‘Runner,’ ” he said. “
Good God, nobody calls me that.”

  “It’s how I think of you, still.”

  “Jesus, Mike…” Once again Malloy’s eyes filled, but he fell silent.

  To claw out of the swamp of feeling into which they’d sunk, Kavanagh asked, “You teach Latin?”

  Malloy forced a grin. “What else could I do with my Dunwoodie education?”

  “I ask because I’m reading a Latin book.”

  “What?”

  “Historia Calamitatum.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes,” Kavanagh answered. “But you’re surprised. Why?”

  Malloy shrugged. “I had to leave the Church to read that,” he said, palpably relieved to be discussing something else. “In our day, Abelard’s misfortunes wouldn’t have qualified as a priest’s spiritual reading.”

  Kavanagh laughed, “Well, ‘our day’ is long over. And, oddly enough, I’m reading it because I followed you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I endeavored to appease his anger by a sincere confession of all that was past, but he was only plotting a cruel revenge, as you will see by what follows. I took a journey into Bretagne, in order to bring back my dear Héloïse, whom I now considered as my wife. When I had acquainted her with what had passed between the Canon and me, I found she was of a contrary opinion to me.

  “No, Peter,” she said. “We will not. My uncle is a viper. Surely, you know that by now.”

  “He hisses, but has no fangs,” Peter replied. “In any case, a viper can be handled.”

  “By a Saracen snake charmer. Fulbert cares nothing for your philosophy.”

  “He cares for himself. I can show him how he benefits from my release,” Peter Abelard insisted. He was surprised that Héloïse, at this loaded moment, was mustering an argument against him. He went on: “Fulbert can intercede with the Bishop, who can sponsor the writ of my dispensation.”

  “Not dispensation. Banishment!” Her eyes flashed with feeling. She leaned toward him, saying, “You saw the Council decree: all marriages of clerics and monks invalid! A brutal reinforcement of Gregory’s so-called reform! The power of Rome—and the protection of its treasure from the heirs of clergy—depend on this emasculation of men like you. As for the would-be wives of your kind, the Pope would have me sold into slavery. The Church, rejecting our marriage, would reject me. At best, I would be assigned a place at the Royal Court, not as a Lady, but as a courtesan—a universally available sex servant.”

  “Héloïse, you are—”

  “And our son!” she cried. “Our son would certainly be seized by the Bishop. You know this! Our son a thrall! All this even before turning on you. Master Peter Abelard—deprived of his license! Muted forever! The power of the Church slammed down on you! You imagine pathetic Canon Fulbert as your sponsor now? That coward standing against an onslaught aimed at you? Never!”

  Abelard shook his head. “Fulbert is tied to my case, whether he would be or not. His prestige is hostage to mine.”

  “That is what makes him dangerous,” Héloïse insisted. “Even if he were inclined to untangle the knot for you, he would never do it for me. Not after his humiliation when my great coming out in the court at Bourgogne proved to be fiction.”

  “That humiliation is private. No one who matters knows of it. Only to the Bishop did he boast of your commendation, and the Bishop, in his wily prudence, forbade Fulbert to speak of your elevation at the Royal Court until the King was informed by the Duke, which never happened.”

  “Ah, but there it is,” she said. “The Bishop was deceived, and Fulbert lives for his approval.”

  “If there was dishonor in the matter, reaching as high as the King, the Bishop of Paris will want it known no more than the Cathedral Canon. There is no scandal.” Peter Abelard was carrying himself by now as if he were in disputation with his pupils.

  “Nevertheless,” she said, trying to rouse herself to the match, “the Bishop will want it adjudicated, the stain on his honor removed.”

  “Stains unseen, dear wife, are not stains.”

  “Do not ‘wife’ me, Peter. We are not married. We never will be.”

  Peter eyed her coldly. “You pretend to revere my intellect, but you hold my conscience in contempt. And conscience is the soul of intellect.”

  “I love your conscience, Peter. As I love you. Intellect. Soul. Body, too.” She smiled, but wanly. Then she added, “I refuse to marry you, since marriage would destroy you.” She was beginning to drift into another realm.

  He missed that about her, and said blithely, “A lever and a place to stand! The prestige of the Cathedral school, which I enhance, is my ground. My lever is logic.”

  “Peter…”

  “If need be, I will make our case to the Bishop. I will make it to the King.”

  “And the Pope?” she said, but wearily.

  “Rome is full of concubines and whores. The Pope’s apartments, too! This law of clerical chastity is empty.”

  “Ahhh…” The sound came from deep in her throat.

  Still, he missed it. Peter rattled on, “Honesty, Héloïse. A simple statement of what is. Even those living in the lie must bend to the truth when faced with it. And I intend to face them.”

  “Concubines and whores…” Her voice faltered. “I never had such reason to think well of them”—she bent forward, then added, softly—“as now.”

  At last, Peter, the dunce, realized that the radiant cloud of heaven had come over her. She bucked and lurched, and clasped her heaving abdomen. “Oh, Peter, there! There it is…the gush of water! Fetch Lucille! Quickly!”

  Peter rushed from her side. Héloïse was in her bed, in the small windowless room to which Lucille herself had repaired in the days before the births of two of her four children. Héloïse had been confined for seven days. For these last three, Peter, having come from Paris, had been with her. Her hair was unpinned, and she was wrapped in the pale blue coverlet—our Lady’s color—that had seen Lucille through. A pair of candles stood on each of the bedside tables, throwing light to dance on the low, slanted ceiling.

  Lucille, with her two serving girls, was soon ready with cloths and steaming water. They entered the room calmly. At the threshold, Lucille turned back to her brother, stopping him. “A while yet, Peter. I will let you know.” She closed the door. Peter turned to Marcus, who said only, “Terra incognita to the likes of us.”

  When, some time later, Peter heard a torrent of screams, he could not help himself and crashed into the room. The three women were bending over Héloïse, at her knees. Peter went to her head. Her contorted face was a mess of hair and sweat. She was up on her elbows, off the bolster. From behind, he took the weight at her shoulders. At first, she continued screaming, apparently unaware of him. But the pain worsened to the point of silencing her. She turned a monstrously twisted face to him. He put his ear by her mouth. She managed to gasp, “Am I dying?”

  “Yes, my darling,” Peter whispered, “but not today. Today, you are life itself.”

  Timelessness, then. Not movement along the horizon of thought, one image parading past after another, but a penetration to the depth of awareness, one single feeling—pure absorbedness. Eternal consciousness. After what might have been moments, or hours, Lucille presented the swaddled child to Héloïse. The child was open-eyed and quiet.

  Héloïse received the child, but tentatively. She looked up at Peter. “Was I wrong?”

  Peter exchanged a look with Lucille, who said, “You have a fine son.”

  Héloïse said nothing, but her eyes overflowed, and Peter alone understood. Certain for many months of a coming male child, she had nonetheless prayed for a daughter instead—a child to whom the principalities and powers of the Church would be indifferent, and who could therefore live free. But now she shrugged that wish away, to draw their son into her absolute caress. She put her cheek against the infant’s, washing him with her tears, loving him.

  When, finally, she lifted her gaze from the baby’s, she found Peter�
��s eyes right beside her. Between sobs, she said, “He has your nose.”

  Peter nodded, and leaned yet closer. “You are magnificent,” he said.

  Across subsequent days, for the sake of their son, Héloïse told herself that perhaps her brilliant and courageous Peter was right in his blind certitude that some way forward could be found for them. She, far more than he, continued to be alive to the impossible reality of their condition, yet a startling new hope had become incarnate in the very person of their son. How vulnerable he was, how desperately in need of protection! The child was all in all to her, even while sealing the love she felt for Peter. Peter Abelard was her refuge, her protection, her everything.

  Thus, it was the most natural thing in the world, when it came time to christen their baby, for Héloïse to want him named for his father. She ignored some deeply buried qualm to insist upon it.

  The day came. Lucille, Marcus, and their children gathered with Peter, Héloïse, and the baby in the baptistry of the Nantes Cathedral. No one else was present; indeed, no one else knew of the occasion. The domed octagonal room replicated the form of the octagonal baptismal font around which the family drew itself. Each of the boys held one of the smaller sisters. Light poured in from the ring of clerestory windows above. The surrounding wall mosaic, made of gilded glass and marble chips of green and blue, glistened to show an aureoled Jesus before a skin-draped John. At the proper moment, Héloïse unswaddled the baby and handed him naked to Peter. As the liturgist, Peter was robed in white, an alb powdered with chalk, with the collar embroidered in blue and green. In preparation for the splash, his sleeves were rolled. The squirming child was poised to protest until Peter deftly soothed him by blowing softly in his ear, while swaying him slightly.