Читать книгу Closer to God - John Moehl - Страница 10

The monastery had a wide variety of quarters. In addition to the monks’ cells in the Abbey, there were dormitories for the orphans and live-in students, wards for the health center, and nearly an entire village for those helpers who worked in the various branches of the monastery. All of these structures required general maintenance and repairs, and the purchase (or import) and stocking of these materials was among the slew of responsibilities assumed by Brother Mike. Accordingly, he would often go to the big market in the provincial capital in search of hardware and building supplies.

The core of the market was the food section. Fresh fruits and vegetables were sold in almost a piazza arrangement at the center, which was surrounded by a neat, shoulder-high brick wall and shaded by translucent fiberglass roofing sheets. Other items were arranged in concentric circles around this hub. Butchered meat and fish were on one side, with live animals further out on the periphery. Clothing, new and used, was on another side while miscellaneous household necessities such as soap, toothpaste, and pots and pans formed the first echelon as one entered. Slightly separated from this spiral of open-air merchandise were several parallel rows of small, enclosed shops, generally made of an ad hoc mixture of wood and galvanized roofing sheets. These shops sold fine fabrics, tableware, pharmaceuticals, and hardware along with building supplies, with the latter vendors often recognized by the stacks of sacks of cement adorning their entrance as though they were military bunkers.

Brother Mike was perusing one such cluttered shop when he found his aisle blocked by someone scooping nails out of a metal bin on the floor; only the person’s derriere was visible in the filtered lighting of the emporium. He was taken as much by the shapeliness of the form as its evident musculature under the loose khaki trousers. This was obviously part of a hard-working person. A person who, when he turned, was not a he but a she.

She was short, coming to Brother Mike’s chin and Brother Mike was not a giant among men, at least in terms of physical stature. She had a round, happy face with braided hair falling about both sides, adorning a crooked, mischievous smile, and a glowing mahogany complexion.

It would be an exaggeration to say Brother Mike was smitten. Brother Mike did not get smitten. But he did have his curiosity aroused. While he wore no collar or other sign of his religious affiliation, most recognized the monks when they were out and about. With this recognition came a degree of deference, especially among women who often bowed slightly and seemed to evaporate into the shadows. This woman, very much to the contrary, was right in his face in the confined space, and apparently very content to be so poised.

Brother Mike was taken a bit aback, and mumbled something about it being unusual to find a woman buying nails in a hardware shop.

Rather than accepting the brief pleasantry as simply the offhanded salutation it was intended to be, the woman replied, “And I suppose you feel a woman’s place is in the home?”

Somewhat astounded by such a reaction, and even provocation from a woman in public, Brother Mike mustered his most expansive communication skills, replying, “Oh no Madame, I would never dare relegate you to the foyer whose dimness would hide your radiance.”

He had imagined his effusiveness would have engendered a modest grin that would announce the end of the encounter. However, to his even greater surprise, she intoned, “Now, who would you be to relegate me anywhere?”

He was looking for brass hinges and not heated debate. He thought peaceful thoughts, then, in an effort to disengage, he replied, “Indeed Madame, my humble apologies. We are in a brave new world without borders, and I hope you secure the necessary supplies for your project—wishing you the greatest success with its prompt completion.”

Surely that was adequate to stifle any further exchanges and allow Brother Mike to continue his search for the obviously elusive brass hinges. Alas, the lady rose as if on her tippy toes, locked eyes with him and expounded, “Maybe your world is limitless, but mine is very real and very cramped; especially right now. Good day to you sir.”

Well, at least an ending was accomplished and Brother Mike moved down the aisle where he found his hinges on a dust-covered bottom shelf.

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The monastery had a rather typical, for a monastery, schedule. The first prayers of the day, Vigils, were held at 6:00 a.m. These were followed by Lauds Prayers at 7:15 a.m. There was midday prayer at 12:30 p.m., followed by a large midday meal and gathering at 1:00 p.m. In the evening, Vespers were held at 6:00 p.m. and Compline at 8:00 p.m. For some, the day was totally absorbed in prayer, adding a mass at mid-morning and afternoon prayer at teatime. But for many, given the multitude of activities at the monastery, the daylight hours were a time of working in God’s name. Thus, the entire community was required to attend Vigils, Lauds, Vespers, and Compline; other services attended as time and responsibilities permitted.

Brother Mike followed the schedule, using all his self-discipline. While this imposed restrictions on budgeting his own time, he was only glad that, unlike at some monasteries, Vigils did not take place at 4:00 a.m. He made all efforts to organize his activities so as to be present for the morning and evening prayers, while also trying to be a regular at the midday gathering where internal politics were discussed and decided.

However, on Saturday he was consistently absent from the Abbey at midday. He had developed the habit of passing by the Crane Hotel in the early afternoon after doing his regular shopping. This hotel, dating back to before World War II, had been operated by the same Belgian family for decades. The current owner-operator and his son had a large table permanently reserved for them in one secluded corner of the veranda. This was called Petit Bruxelles. Members of the local Belgian community would congregate here to play cards, drink Stella beer, and on special occasions, eat imported European mussels. Older members of the group had been around since before Independence, while younger newcomers generally worked for bilateral or multinational development agencies, although some were local Belgian businessmen or farmers. On nearly any night there was a full table of Europeans adorned by empty beer bottles and coagulating mayonnaise near mostly eaten frites.

However, whatever happened the night before, Saturday morning was the time for all hands on deck. This was the period for national community labor. Everyone in fit condition was expected to undertake some activity for the benefit of the state: sweeping a street, cleaning a gutter, planting a tree, or clearing a field of weeds. Although, to Brother Mike’s great satisfaction, religious communities were exempt from these wearisome duties—the principle being they were thus engaged full-time—nearly all who could stand did turn out, expat and local resident alike. After these purported arduous Saturday morning humanitarian duties, the duty after the duty was to fall upon the city’s drinkeries and replace lost bodily fluids. To this end, the veranda of the Crane was a wild and wooly place on Saturday afternoons and Brother Mike liked nothing more than observing the spectacles clandestinely from Petit Bruxelles.

Brother Mike was not a typical denizen of Petit Bruxelles. Unlike many of his countrymen, his tastes ran more to local than imported brews, when he was forced to forego his much-loved Courvoisier. Moreover, he put little value in reminiscing about a homeland of which he was so happy to be rid. In a sort of abstract way, he was, however, fascinated by the nostalgia-laced discussions of those seated around the table and equally enthralled by the drunken outspokenness, even lewdness, that could emerge from any point on the veranda as the levels of inebriation and free-spiritedness mounted.

These public displays of depraved lack of self-control were usually even more riveting than the continuous lamenting by old Europeans of times of yore—bemoaning that, in their view, today all was headed to rack and ruin due to the new order of things—in short, due to decolonization. These open theatrics, at times melding into pointed accusations by outsiders, were the very opposite of (indeed, perhaps the motive for) the government’s manifesto that the country’s neotraditional society should be stoic and detached from corrupting foreign ways—an isolationist message delivered at regular intervals over the airwaves.

To most, however, the political rhetoric was far removed from the daily challenges confronting many foreigners and native-born citizens alike. Life could be tough, and the exhaust valve of the Crane’s terrace on a Saturday afternoon was a welcome relief to plenty of those feeling weighed upon by the rigors of the previous week.

During his stopover at the Crane early one such Saturday afternoon, the table of Petit Bruxelles was joined by a young man introduced to Brother Mike as Philip. Through the course of the exchanges, it became clear that Philip, although previously unknown to Brother Mike, was no newcomer. He worked at the provincial hospital as an eye specialist. Since the monastery’s clinic was not a part of the core public health system, but an adjunct institution, the staff of the larger public program was often unaware of the sectarian facilities, and vice versa.

Brother Mike and Philip seemed to have been born under the same star. They both disclosed they could only take Petit Bruxelles in small doses, that they felt exceptionally blessed to be where they were, doing what they were doing, and that they really didn’t give a damn about the rest of the world. They were truly kindred spirits.

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Brother Mike and Philip continued to meet on the veranda of the Crane most Saturday afternoons, ultimately choosing their own table a safe distance from Petit Bruxelles. Well-chilled beer and heated discussions further cemented their relationship and one day Philip asked Brother Mike if he played poker. Brother Mike loved poker. He loved taking the risks and loved even more winning, which he did frequently. Here was another nail reinforcing their bond.

Philip explained he had hosted a group of four to play poker at least one evening a week. One of the group, a professor of geography at the local university, was retiring and moving back to Belgium. Philip wondered if Brother Mike would like to take his place?

Brother Mike did very much want to join the group. Alas, he immediately foresaw a conflict with his ordinary routine: he had evening prayers every day. He clarified his conundrum to Philip. He would very much like to enter the group, but he had Vespers every evening, a convention he could not break without incurring the wrath of the Abbot.

Philip very much liked Brother Mike and even more, he was curious how he would be as a card player. In their weekly reunions on the veranda, Brother Mike demonstrated an affable camaraderie and open mind. But when they entered into frank and often serious discussions as the beer loosened the spirit, Brother Mike ever so slightly lifted the cover on a much more deliberate and calculating core that seemed to reflect a very strong dose of sangfroid. How would this circumspect personality fair on the combative and, at times, insidious terrain of poker?

Philip thought for a while and came up with a proposal for Brother Mike, “Wednesday afternoon my eye clinic is closed as the space is needed for a program focusing on pregnant and soon-to-deliver mothers. Another member of our group, Karl, is also a professor at the university, an international law specialist. I happen to know he has no academic responsibilities on Wednesday afternoons. Finally, the third member of our group is Antonio. You may know him? He has the small grocery store before you get to the main market. His time is his own and his sons generally take care of the store, so I am sure he too could be free on Wednesdays. So how about it? We could arrange our game for 3:00 p.m. which would give us a good run at the cards and still allow you to get back for prayers.”

Brother Mike was most appreciative. It seemed where there’s a will there really is a way and he really wanted a way to play poker with this man whom he saw as an able adversary as well as potentially a genuine friend. If Philip was as good at cards as he was at organizing a card game, the planned contests could be most interesting.

Brother Mike thanked Philip for his ingenuity and efforts to arrange things such that he could partake of this worthy pastime. They agreed to meet at Philip’s house, not far from the Crane, the next Wednesday.

Brother Mike then took his leave as, exceptionally this Saturday afternoon, he had to attend to some monastic business. A young novitiate, Jean-Baptiste, was being proposed to be assigned to him as a sort of assistant. Given the delicacy of his affairs, he was not sure he could accommodate an assistant without jeopardizing all he had put together over the years. Accordingly, he had agreed with Jean-Baptiste to meet for a drink at a well-known outdoor cabaret on the road to the southern border.

With his religious life of piety and penury, Brother Mike did not own a vehicle himself. However, this curtailment was no obstacle. As the responsible person for the community’s logistics, he had access to the monastery’s motor pool which, to support their assorted tasks, was large if not exhaustive. Consequently, he was assigned a rather aged Toyota pickup that now, with a score of bunches of bananas in the back that he had picked up earlier in the day for the orphanage kitchens, he drove south to his rendezvous with Jean-Baptiste.

He found Jean-Baptiste sitting at a shaded table, enjoying the cooling gusts that began to whirl around the hills in the afternoon, while consuming an equally cool brew. Jean-Baptiste was in his late twenties. Brother Mike knew that he was the son of a major entrepreneur, one of the chief petrol importers into the country. Given the weaknesses in the public school system, Jean-Baptiste’s father saw a life in a religious community as the best means for a good education—something he valued greatly as not having benefited from the same himself. From his early teens, Jean-Baptiste had attended Catholic schools and then migrated into more specialized studies and training with several religious communities, ending up with the Brothers of Piety. There was always a worrisome parallel agenda that, should he lose his enthusiasm, Jean-Baptiste could opt to leave the religious world and return to the world of money, politics, and power that flowed around his father. The various religious community members who were engaged with Jean-Baptiste were always praying that he stays the course and remain a strong proponent of monastic life because, through this moral support, the various communities received considerable financial support from the father, support they feared they would lose if the son left.

To the surprise of many, in spite of his good looks and joie de vivre, from all appearances Jean-Baptiste was leading a devout life, still passionate about his calling and serious about his studies. One unexpected detour had been the revelation that Jean-Baptiste had a talent for sculpture, an art form for which he also seemingly had the necessary fervor to be able to transform thoughts into tangible objects. It was perhaps a bit unfortunate that his father still wanted to micromanage Jean-Baptiste’s ecclesiastic life. Apparently trying to cover all his bases, his father promoted a business orientation to his son’s intellectual growth such that, when the day came, the son would be able to leave his theological pursuits and assume control of the father’s empire. It was in this vein that he had been pushing the Brothers of Piety to get his son more involved in the business side of things and in this way that the son had landed on Brother Mike’s doorstep, unexpected and unwanted.

Brother Mike put on his most congenial smile and sat across from his would-be protégé after giving him a strong embrace and heartfelt wishes for a good Saturday afternoon. He had been planning, as he was wont to do, for some time how he would handle this dilemma. He could not alienate Jean-Baptiste as this might raise some eyebrows at the Abbey and cause far more in-depth looks into his various practices. Yet, he could not afford to have an attendant of any sort—his affairs were his alone and must be overseen by but one person: Brother Mike himself. He had a plan. He had to test the ground to see if it could stand up to the rather complex requirements of the situation. But, as everyone knew, Brother Mike was good at organizing things.

He had considered starting with a “How are you my son?” type of father-son approach, but he quickly sensed this would be to no avail. Strategically, he needed to start on the upper hand. With complete openness, he asked, “Tell me about your sculptures.”

With no hesitation, Jean-Baptiste flowered and expansively described the various statues he had created and how thrilling it felt to be able to see these objects materialize from amorphous stones. He went into great detail as to how the process was one with his religion and how it was through his faith that he saw the stones transform into divine works.

Brother Mike ordered more beer and enquired as to how much time Jean-Baptiste was able to devote to his sculptures given all the rigors of the Abbey. A frown entered the corners of Jean-Baptiste’s eyes as he conceded he was frustrated because his sculpting time was minimal with all the obligations he must fulfill to take his final vows and enter the order.

It would work.

Brother Mike smiled to himself, maintaining a solemn air as he offered, “If you were to be assigned to me, I have a vacant room near the panel beating shop where you could set up a studio and spend all your time, at least in that part assigned to me, developing your wondrous works of art.”

Yes, this would be fantastic, an excellent solution. So let it be written, so let it be done.

Brother Mike shared a few more beers with Jean-Baptiste, steering the conversation to an analysis of the late rains and the impact these might have on the harvest. As the sun moved further west, Brother Mike reminded Jean-Baptiste of Vespers and offered him a ride back to the Abbey.