The Priest's Madonna

by Hassinger, Amy

  “And tell us, Monsieur le curé,” began M. Baudot in his slow, husky old man’s voice. “Have you been forgiven? Has the State pardoned you?”

  There was a tense silence as we waited for Bérenger’s answer. We were unsure whether he might take offense. But he smiled and said pleasantly, “Since when does the State have the power to forgive?”

  We luxuriated in the warm afternoon as it extended into evening, drinking, snacking on the sausages and bread brought out by M. Ditandy, who owned the tavern, and reveling in the festive mood. Eventually, most of the women left to tend to children and supper. Darkness fell and a chill entered the air. Mother had gone, as had Claude, who was bored, but I stayed on, having assured Mother I would make sure Father didn’t drink too much. When it had gotten quite late, Bérenger, a bit tipsy himself, made an announcement. “I had planned to save this until Sunday, but I can’t keep it to myself any longer. We have the good fortune of being graced with a generous gift from a donor who has taken an interest in our village. The gift will provide us with enough money to replace the roof of the church and to begin to renovate the interior. Please, all of you, say a special prayer of thanksgiving tonight for the grace of God and the generosity of strangers.”

  A murmur rippled through the gathered group. My father spoke up: “Who’s the money from?”

  “The donor wishes to remain anonymous.”

  Another murmur.

  “We’ll have a true temple now,” Bérenger continued. “A fitting house of worship. Praise be to God.”

  There was an awkward silence and then someone offered a “Hallelujah,” and a few people echoed him, joining in with applause, which swelled until the whole group was clapping. Bérenger beamed.

  I tried to find a private moment with him in the next few days, not only because I wanted to ask whether the anonymous donor was the Austrian archduke, but also to provoke some kind of personal recognition from him, a special greeting for me alone. But it was impossible, for Mother had a thousand chores for me to do at home while she helped him get settled in the presbytery. And Bérenger himself appeared preoccupied, his thoughts almost wholly bent on the execution of his great project: the renovation of the church.

  First, he hired a contractor and a team of workers from Limoux to repair the roof. The men hauled a cartload of tiles up the hill and spent sweltering September days laying the tiles beneath the hot sun. Old M. Baudot grumbled about how Bérenger had spent his money on Limoux workers instead of hiring some of the able-bodied young men in Rennes. “He’s the one who doesn’t like the young ones working in the factories.” But on the whole, the town was pleased to see that the church was being cared for.

  My hope for a particular acknowledgment from Bérenger was not to be fulfilled. But I didn’t mind; his presence was thrilling enough. I performed my duties with a renewed dedication, knowing that now I was doing them, at least in part, for him. I julienned carrots and diced shallots with precision and, when it was my turn to cook, planned elaborate dishes: barbecued pheasant rubbed with rosemary and lavender, a cousinat from chestnuts I’d collected myself, rabbit served with cream sauce and juniper berries. On days when I tended to the church—Mother and I had taken to alternating our duties, to alleviate some of the monotony—I ironed the linens reverently, lingering over the stoles and chasubles. I swept and dusted, removing the layer of white silt that sifted into the nave as the men worked on the roof. I washed and dried the cruets, polished the chalice and paten and the candlesticks and trimmed the candles. I replaced the water in the font, which Bérenger blessed every morning before he said Mass. When the deliveries of the Host arrived from Narbonne, I opened them, handling the canisters as if they were baby birds.

  I still half-believed in the transubstantiation of the wine and the Host into the blood and body of Christ, even though my anxious questioning had by that time undermined the edifice of my faith. It made no sense. I could argue against it easily, but I could not argue it away. I wanted it to be true, even as I knew it could not be, in much the same way that, as a child, I’d longed for Père Noël to be real even after I knew he wasn’t. Such a miracle, and yet so mundane! A daily incarnation. It was the final relic of my faith, and I held it in reserve, tucked deep in the tissues of my heart. Once Bérenger returned, I again went faithfully to Mass, huddling in the chilly nave most mornings at seven, along with my mother and a handful of other women. I scrutinized the dance of his hands over the Host and the wine as he recited the blessings and raised the paten and the chalice skyward, searching for a sign of disturbance, some evidence of the wafer and wine becoming flesh and blood: a drop splashing on the altar, a falling crumb.

  Bérenger was pleased with my frequent attendance at Mass. “You’ve been gathering thistles, Marie,” he said, winking. I did not contradict him.

  I plotted various methods of catching Bérenger alone, just to talk with him (as I told myself ), or perhaps to tell him something about what I’d been reading. I reveled in his presence when he stood close to me, breathing him in, rebelling against my desire to touch his arm, to take his hand. Had he given me any indication that such a touch would be welcome, I might have dared—I was that besotted. Thankfully, he was too consumed by the construction projects. After the work on the church roof was completed, another team of workers, also from Limoux (more grumbles from Baudot), set to work supporting the sanctuary vault, which was threatening to collapse. They bolstered the outer walls by building four new arches in the church interior. Bérenger rarely left the sanctuary all winter.

  Despite our best efforts, the church interior was a mess. White dust coated every surface. Walking across the floor was like stepping in an enormous floured cake pan. The pews were sloppily rearranged to accommodate the steel structures that supported the half-built arches. These extended into the center aisle of the nave and blocked the view of the people who sat behind them during Mass. People began to complain, first to Mother and me, and then to Bérenger. We counseled patience. “Would you rather the roof fall in?” Bérenger cajoled. “Would you rather worship under the open sky, in the wind and the rain?”

  It was at this time, in this dusty disarray, that I made our first discovery.

  Exorcism

  The night he finally healed her was moonless. He had spent the day preaching under the ruthless sun. She had gone to a nearby well seventeen times for water for him, and each time she had returned with an empty pail, for members of the crowd had stopped her and helped themselves. The last time, she had fallen on the ground in frustration and begun to weep. She could not bear the crowd, how ragged, how incessant it was. So many people, lame, disfigured, diseased. Children with distended bellies and kindling for legs. And everywhere, eyes, enormous eyes, beseeching, like the eyes of goats just before the sacrifice. How could all these needs ever be met? Miryam wept until her tears became shrill laughter and she rolled and thrashed about on the ground.

  When her fit subsided, she saw that a small crowd of people had gathered around her.

  “Isn’t she with him?” one man said.

  “She’s his wife,” responded an old woman.

  “Don’t be a fool,” said another. “How could a devil like that be his wife?”

  “If she was his wife, don’t you think he’d have healed her by now?”

  Miryam scrambled to her feet and ran across the field, away from the stares and condemning voices. She came to a boulder and tucked herself into its shadow, hidden from the crowd. There she stayed until dark fell and the crowd had dispersed.

  She could see that the group had lit a fire and gathered around it, but she did not want to join them, for she knew that they were ashamed of her. She wanted Yeshua. She wanted him to heal her, but she was frightened. She had lived with her demons all her life. Who would she be without them?

  Still, she wanted to be with him, to care for him. To put her own hands on his sallow, sunken cheeks and stroke her thumbs across his flaking lips, to rest her forehead against his and drink his bre
ath like a tonic. She wanted to feel his rough palms against her skin, to feel them spread across her shoulders and back like wings, to feel them press her belly, cup her hips, to feel them hold her, keep her together, keep her whole, for she felt now that without his hands on her, she might separate from herself, her soul beading like oil in water, beading and then sinking into the dry earth.

  “Yeshua!” she shouted. “Yeshua!” Again and again she screamed his name until she heard footsteps thumping toward her. She held out her arms for the embrace she hoped would come—but it was Kefa.

  “He’s not here,” he said. “Can’t you be silent?”

  “Where is he?” she asked.

  “Gone off to pray.” Kefa carried a torch and held it close to Miryam’s face. She flinched and backed away. “Why don’t you bathe? You’re filthy.”

  She hissed at him like a viper. After he left, she fell asleep.

  Some hours later, she awoke. It seemed that something had changed near her, as if the wind had suddenly ceased to blow. She sat up and put her hand against the rock, which was still warm from the day’s sun. Her fingers brushed something hard and smooth—leather—and she scooted backward, afraid.

  “It’s me, Miryam,” he said. He was sitting on top of the rock, his sandaled feet hanging where her hand had been. He jumped to the ground. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

  She stood. “No,” she said. “I mean, thank you.”

  “Why were you calling me?” he asked.

  “You heard me?” she said.

  “I wasn’t far away.”

  She didn’t know how to respond. He stood before her, the cavity at his throat gently swelling and caving with his breath. The span of his shoulders seemed vast, and she imagined herself encircled in his sinuous arms, his callused, dry palms warming her back. She wanted him to tell her she was special, to say out loud that he loved her more than all the rest. But how could she ask him to make such a statement? His eyes—large, dark, heavy-lidded— made her think of the enervating eyes of the crowd, and she saw that her desire for him was no less desperate and despicable than the desire of the multitudes. She was just another hen pecking at his feet. She turned and ran into the dark.

  “Miryam!” he called, and followed her. She ran faster, feeling the strap of her sandals digging into her heels.

  “Don’t run, Miryam!” he shouted. “You’re always running!” She felt a breeze at her elbow from his hand as he tried to catch her, but she pulled her arm out of reach and kept on. The well was up ahead—she’d made the trip often enough that day that she could find it even in the dark. It would be a long fall and the water would be cold, but it would be no darker than the night.

  She reached the well and gripped the stone, then threw one leg over the side. A cold wind rose from the hole, and she balanced for a moment, feeling the contrast in temperature between the warm night and the frigid depth of the well. In that moment, he grabbed her around the waist and dragged her off the edge, scraping the inside of her thigh against the stone. He threw her to the ground and stood over her, panting.

  She curled into a ball.

  “Stand up,” he said. When she did not move, he shouted it: “Stand up, Miryam!” He grabbed her wrist and pulled her to her feet, but she fell again to her knees, her face in the dirt, and covered her head with her arms. He could beat her if he chose; she would not look him in the eye again.

  “Miryam!” he shouted again, a lament. Then she felt him kneel before her, felt his hands cover her own. He whispered, still out of breath, “Don’t you know, Miryam? Don’t you know how I need you?”

  She began to weep, her tears falling on the dusty ground. He took her by the elbows and gently lifted her until she was facing him. He smoothed her hair, brushed the dust from her face, cupped her chin in his hand, and then kissed her lightly on the mouth. His lips were dry. She kept her eyes closed, wanting only to feel, not to see. His breath warmed her face. Then it was gone. She opened her eyes. He knelt in the dust facing her, his hands open, palms upturned, as if waiting for her to place a gift into them.

  “Let me heal you, Miryam,” he said. “I need you with me. Let me heal you.”

  “Oh, Rabbi,” she said. She bowed her head and folded her hands at her chest, as she’d seen others do.

  And as the seven devils left her, one after the next, keening like petulant gulls, racking her body with convulsions, he held her, and when the last one was gone—its wailing becoming thunderous, and then dissipating into the night until there was no sound but the clicking and whirring of the insects and the sure beat of his heart, so close, as if inside her head—he lifted her in his arms and carried her through the field, back to the fire, where he laid her on a bed of grass, pulled his cloak over her, and sat with her, his hand on her head, warming her scalp, until she fell asleep.

  Chapter Six

  IT HAPPENED EARLYone spring morning, before Mass. I was sweeping the sanctuary floor when M. Lébadou cleared his throat behind me. “Excuse me, Marie, but I want to show you something.”

  I followed him to the base of the bell tower stairs. He pointed to the old oak baluster that usually stood in the corner of the hall. It was lying on its side as if it had been kicked over. Chunks of plaster littered the floor beside it. “I was just coming in to ring the bell,” said M. Lébadou, “when I saw this.” His lips quivered with rage. “That baluster is hundreds of years old. It’s been here since the church was built. There’s no cause for these fellows from Limoux to tear the place up so. The Lord’s house isn’t some wood shop.”

  I bent near the baluster to lift it, and noticed a strange glint inside the capital. A section of it had been cut away, leaving a hollow shaft. On the floor was the missing piece. When the baluster fell, the piece had been knocked from its slot, revealing this narrow hiding place, where something glinted.

  I righted the baluster, then stood in front of it, blocking M. Lébadou’s view. “Yes, monsieur, you’re right. I’ll have a word with Monsieur le curé.”

  “The whole job’s a disaster,” he muttered as he plodded up the spiral staircase to the bell tower.

  When he was out of sight, I reached inside the slot and pulled out a small silver flask, corked with a handcut plug and engraved with the initials A. B. I brought the flask to my nose, expecting the scent of liquor, but I smelled only dust. When I tried to remove the cork, it turned to powder in my fingers.

  The bell clanged brilliantly, deafeningly, four, five, six times. With one of my hairpins, I scraped away about a third of the cork still lodged in the neck of the flask; most of the rest of it fell into the bottle. Inside I saw a tiny rolled piece of paper.

  By this time, I heard M. Lébadou making his slow way down again, so I quickly slipped the flask into my pocket and then fitted the dislodged piece of the capital back into place. As he came into view, I was sweeping up the plaster debris. He stopped on the final step and leaned against the railing, catching his breath. He was spry, but the climb up and down the stairs had winded him. “Pardon me, Marie,” he said, “but I wonder if you know what else Monsieur le curé intends to restore around here.” His voice was ac cusatory, as if the whole renovation project were my idea.

  “No,” I said. “He doesn’t share his plans with me.”

  M. Lébadou raised his eyebrows. “He acts as if all that’s old is rotten. But there’s virtue in age, too, Marie. You can tell him.” Taking the final step down to the floor, he ambled proudly outside.

  Quickly, I sat on the bottom step and tried to shake the paper into my hand. A stubborn piece of cork blocked it, so I pierced the corner of the paper with my hairpin and extracted it. It was brittle; I unrolled it gingerly. At the top of the page was a small sketch of what appeared to be the interior of our sanctuary. The artist had paid the most attention to the secondary altar—the small one, recessed into the north wall, dedicated to the Virgin—and the area surrounding it, outlining the stones in a darker tone. Beneath the sketch were a few lines of text, apparently Lat
in, composed in small and shaky lettering.

  I walked back to the nave. Mme Flèche, the baker’s wife, had arrived and was kneeling in her pew, her head bent over her rosary. I rolled the paper tightly and held it against the flat of my palm, then went to examine the Virgin’s altar. I counted the number of stones before it, noticing the largest stone directly in front. It seemed abnormally large, in fact—larger than any other stone on the floor. Then I left, glancing once again at Mme Flèche. Her eyes were closed, her lips silently enunciating the words of the prayer.

  Outside, I saw no one about, and so I unrolled the paper once more. The drawing was a near-perfect replication of the altar, down to the dimensions of each of the stones on the floor. I noticed a new mark: a faint dot in the right-hand corner of the largest stone.

  I felt vulnerable standing in the daylight, holding the crumbling piece of paper. Already one of the corners had flaked into my palm. I could not carry it around with me, even in my pocket, without inflicting further damage, nor did I know of a proper hiding place. I decided to bring it to Bérenger, as he would be able to translate the Latin, and would certainly be able to keep it for me.

  He opened the presbytery door at my knock, a piece of bread in hand. “Come in, Marie, come in,” he said, pulling out a chair at the small kitchen table. He offered me the seat, then halted when he saw my face, which must have appeared disturbed. “Is something wrong?”

  Nervously, I presented him with the paper and flask and described to him where I had found them. I pointed out the details I had noticed, including the faint dot on the largest stone before the altar. Bérenger peered at the paper with interest.

  “What does it say? The Latin.”

  He paused a moment before answering. “It’s a fragment from scripture. Job. ‘Have the gates of death been revealed to you? Have you seen the gates of deep darkness?’ ”

  “Strange,” I said.