Читать книгу Closer to God - John Moehl - Страница 12

Slowly Brother Mike became more acquainted with Philip and his family. With only two windows a week, the process was at times almost imperceptible, but somehow enjoyable, like peeping through a keyhole at the lives of others. He wondered if Father Alphonse from his church back home had felt this way when he had heard his confessional?

Philip had come “out” to the real world, as he liked to say, as soon as he finished his internship in a prestigious hospital in Bruges. His story was very similar to Brother Mike’s own. Philip’s father had been a common laborer, working for the city, basically filling potholes and cleaning ditches. To make ends meet, his mother worked part-time as a cleaning lady, leaving their small, nearly bare home for the extravagant and rambling estates of the rich. He had one older sister who worked in a yardage shop after finishing secondary school. He was the star of the family. They had all pooled their resources for him to be able to attend the best schools and achieve the finest education. They were, thus, shocked and even wounded when, upon receiving his medical degree, he announced he wanted to go to work and live in Africa. He left with his family ties frayed, some to the breaking point.

But Belgium and his Belgian life faded as he immersed himself in his new career and his new environment. He found he had a great, nearly unquenchable appetite for two things: his work and beer; a close third was the ladies. As the first ophthalmologist in the country, Philip, or Doctor Bwana Phil as many of his patients called him, had many waiting at his doorstep. With great pride, he treated each equally and was as thrilled today to help someone see better as he had been when he helped his first patient (an 80-year-old man from a far-off village in the mountains of the North) all those years ago. He could and did spend countless hours in his clinic.

Early on, as a bachelor, he would stay in the clinic at night until the last patient was seen and then head to his favorite bar, a small off-license called Chez Martin, situated in a working-class neighborhood with few expatriates. This reminded him of the bars his father used to frequent in Belgium. He relished the frosty beer and took pleasure in trying to pick up the local dialect as he chatted with fellow customers who, once they grew used to a white man in their midst, treated him just like any other drinking buddy.

Philip avoided the expat watering holes and the expat social events. He had not come all this way to live as a Belgian in Belgium. That was the life he had forsaken to the great chagrin of his family, a family that had indeed sacrificed greatly to get him to where he was.

As he began sinking African roots, Philip moved into the small bungalow he occupied to today. He hired Joseph as his cook, launderer, cleaner, and live-in caretaker. The same Joseph who still cooked his frites just so, and kept the fridge stocked with ice cold beer.

For several years his life seemed like a record on a Victrola—when the needle got to the last groove, the arm lifted up automatically and gently placed the needle on the first groove and it all started over again. Up—coffee, cigarette, and baguette for a starter—to the clinic, closing when the last person had been seen—to Chez Martin (he used to keep the bottle caps in his pocket to know how many beers he had drunk, but this disgusted him so he abandoned the practice)—home at some point finding dinner prepared by Joseph and warming in the oven, to bed—either alone or accompanied. The next day it all started over again.

Then one day his routine changed forever. As usual, he went into his exam room to see a patient the nurses had prepped. As he glanced into the chair, he felt a lump in his throat—a sensation with which he was completely unfamiliar. Here in his chair was a rather diminutive youngish lady but who had the most mischievous eyes and enigmatic smile. He was truly taken aback. Aware of his reaction, he felt compelled to at least try and find out more about his patient than her vision problems. In fact, it turned out her eyesight was 20/20. She had been working in a garden, pruning a large Euphorbia plant, when her machete splashed the milky sap into her eyes and she felt she was blinded. Once Philip washed the eyes thoroughly and let them rest with some comforting ointment, her sight returned—uninjured and perfect. He sensed that her relief at his findings made her let her guard down and she did at least impart enough of her story for him to ascertain that she was single, the daughter of a rather prosperous businessman who had three sons and was disappointed that his last born was not also a male.

She seemed disinclined to give much more information. However, what she had provided—or more correctly, the cheeky fashion with which she had provided it—was enough to tweak Philip’s soul and he knew he would go to the records to get her address so that he could call upon her later.

This was Angela. Philip had courted her with ardor and all the energy his compact but muscular body could muster. He had abandoned all the casual girlfriends he had lined up, focusing totally on this one indecipherable female who so intrigued him. As he had later recounted to Brother Mike, Philip had heard that in dental school, students had to learn to tie complex knots inside a matchbox with their eyes closed to practice the dexterity needed to perform all variety of maneuvers in the space of a mouth. In trying to court Angela, Philip felt like he was trying to untie a complicated knot in a matchbox. While Angela did not shun him completely, she certainly did not encourage him. She was often aloof, keeping him, and seemingly everyone else, at arms-length. While her enticing smile that went all the way to the corners of her piercing eyes was at times tender, her mannerisms tended to be impassive, and at times glacial.

But if Philip was nothing else, he was determined. Slowly he thawed Angela’s spirit, slowly they moved through friendship to something deeper and richer. Slowly she opened and told her story.

Philip had known that she had come from a well-to-do family that had a preference for male children. But what he now learned was that, when she had just entered university, she had met a young Congolese, a sharp and savvy entrepreneur who saw great opportunities in real estate. They became engaged. She was planning on leaving her studies to work with him. Her father was choleric. He had but one daughter and she would complete university—something he had always regretted he himself, like Philip’s father, had been unable to accomplish. But she was equally resolute, she would marry the man of her dreams and they would create new, grander dreams together.

Angela had forged ahead regardless of the consequences and found herself banished from her family. They treated her as if she did not exist.

But she did exist and her love existed. Through this love she and her husband had formed a beautiful girl child. They watched their real estate holdings grow as the girl grew and life seemed to be on track. Then it had happened. In going to arrange for title documents at the national capital, her husband had been in a terrible accident; he was dead on the spot. Angela was now a widow with no close family ties, a young daughter, and an expanding business to manage. It took all her considerable will to stand up under these pressures, but stand up she did, and she transformed the real estate business into a portfolio of rental properties that, even if they did not bring wealth, would keep her daughter and herself in good shape, food on the table, bills paid, and enough for her daughter’s education.

Then Angela met Philip.

They had now been married for nearly ten years. Angela’s daughter, Lucie, was away at boarding school. Angela and Philip had had one son, Germain, who was now six. As Joseph continued to oversee the household, including Germain’s daily upkeep, Angela and Philip were free to spend the necessary hours and days taking care of their respective jobs, being a landlord and an eye doctor.

Brother Mike had no idea how the marriage now faired with two workaholic spouses. But he had heard from Philip, reading a bit between the lines, that as in Angela’s case, Philip’s family had been apoplectic when they had heard their son was to be married to an African. It was already more than they could bear that their boy had gone to some hellish place where he hid his light under a basket and where the family would never receive any acclaim for his healing skills and their grand sacrifice that had led to these skills. But now this ungracious offspring had gone native and was going to take a heathen wife. They could not support the shame. His father had not toiled in the mud and muck to put his only son through school for this. His mother had not tolerated the abuse of the rich and rude to put food in his stomach for this. His sister had not struggled for long hours to help pay his tuition for this. No, the family was beyond the breaking point. Philip was no more. Their son was dead.

Two souls, having been cast off by disapproving families; Brother Mike wondered if it was a match made in Heaven. He had no idea, but it certainly was a pairing of two very strong forces. And, like strong magnets, these forces could attract or repel. Brother Mike was uncertain how they were joined. But he found himself nearly magnetically attracted to each, seeing each as so different yet somehow part of a whole.

❦❦❦

Some afternoons when things seemed to be going as they should, Brother Mike would slip off to the pond, grab his pole, and let his mind fly as he hoped his worm would entice a nice sized bream. When the sky was that pale blue you-can-see-forever clear, the siesta hour gusts like gentle puffs from a snoozing calf, and the eucalyptus leaves rustling like shifting sands, Brother Mike’s mind would soar like a falcon, riding the zephyr, looking down at mankind as though spying on termites in a massive transparent mound—each going his own way, order out of disorder, production out of decay.

Brother Mike could be a deep thinker. He could wonder about man’s inhumanity to man. He could ponder a world overtaken by a tumescent population. He could even probe the furthest reaches of his intellect, asking himself, “Is God with us?” Brother Mike could do all these things or Brother Mike could drink a cold beer and play a hand of cards. While the former might lead to wisdom and divine understanding, it would also underscore the feeble human state. Brother Mike preferred the latter, which numbed the mind and allowed one to be indifferent as to humankind’s almost certain degeneracy.

This particular afternoon on the pond back, Brother Mike wondered about his own direction, sensing he might be getting too mixed up with Philip and Angela. How had he spent all these years without even knowing them and now they seemed to preoccupy his thoughts? If there was a reason for everything, what was the reason for this? Two nearly antisocial souls who had been excommunicated by their families. A household that had nothing to do with the Abbey, a household that did not even attend church. What was the attraction? What was the magnetism?

❦❦❦

Brother Mike tried, and usually succeeded to keep below the radar. He was thus a bit concerned when he was summoned urgently to the Abbot’s office. He entered the sparse headquarters of the Abbey with some trepidation, knocking softly on the Abbot’s stout door before entering, hat in hand.

The rotund and aging Abbot was silhouetted against the big windows that looked out over the courtyard that was the epicenter of the monastery as well as the concourse for the mission’s impressive chapel. He turned as he heard Brother Mike entering, extending his right hand, a golden ecclesiastical ring clearly visible. Brother Mike genuflected on his left knee saying, “Father Abbot, may I ask your blessing?”

As the blessing was given, Brother Mike brushed his lips along the icy surface of the ring, stood and took the chair offered by the Abbot. Seating himself behind a rough-hewn desk, the Abbot entertained a few pleasantries before going after the meat, “Michael, my son, I believe you know Doctor van Hoot who comes regularly to our health center from the provincial hospital?”

Brother Mike indicated he did know the doctor, although in his mind he was wondering about the question as he and the doctor were certainly not close in any way; in truth, they rarely saw each other.

“Well, Doctor van Hoot has a bit of a problem and I would like you to look in on him as you are frequently in town and you seem to have good contacts across the board, including at the hospital.”

“Thank you Father,” Brother Mike interjected, “for thinking of me, but I scarcely know the good doctor.”

The Abbot frowned a bit and replied in a neutral tone, “That is of no matter. I’ve just told our good friend the Doctor that we will extend a hand of help should he choose to accept it. Your connections and talents in dealing with the outside world make you perfectly suited for this assignment. Simply see our good friend and offer any assistance the Abbey may provide. If he chooses to decline, we have stood by him as we promised. If he asks for your intervention, do try and see how this can be done with as little disruption as possible. Come back to me if you feel this is an area where there are matters that could impact on the Abbey or the Abbey’s population.”

With that, Brother Mike was dismissed with the understanding that sooner rather than later he would seek out Doctor van Hoot.

As he walked along the corridor that took him out to the courtyard, Brother Mike wondered if there was deeper meaning in the Abbot’s comments about his “talent in dealing with the outside.” Were his machinations known to the Abbot? To others? Was he in jeopardy?

Ahhhh, he decided, this is much ado about nothing. If anyone knew they would quickly try and bring all to a halt. Having too avid an imagination was often not a blessing and he should not be looking for scorpions under every stone. This was about some sort of promise the Abbot had made to van Hoot and nothing else. The sooner he followed up on the Abbot’s behalf, the sooner this would be a closed case and he could go back to his normal routine.

❦❦❦

Brother Mike found Doctor van Hoot in his office at the hospital. He was an internist and one of the senior doctors, the team leader for a project of the Belgian Government aimed at building local public health capacity while at the same time treating the needy.

Doctor van Hoot looked like anyone you might see on the streets of Brussels—a little overweight, a little balding, medium height—completely ordinary. Brother Mike knew that, not too different from Goldfarb, van Hoot had married a young local girl. However, he had never been married before and the word was that their marriage was sound. Van Hoot did not frequent the Crane or other sites of laxness or lasciviousness, and it was assumed he was a “good man.”

Brother Mike explained he had come at the request of the Abbot as his Father had understood Doctor van Hoot might need some help from the Abbey?

“Help from God?” he quipped with a smirk. “Now that would be a solution to my problem that I had not considered. I need forgiveness, but I am not sure God is ready to intervene into the mess I’ve created.”

“God is always ready to help those who ask for His assistance,” replied Brother Mike.

“Thank you for the kind offer. Kindly tell my good friend the Abbot I am most appreciative, but must deal with this on my own.”

“I will gladly inform my Father the Abbot, but I am sure he would appreciate a bit more detail as to the nature of the problem at hand to ensure the Abbey cannot offer assistance in one way or another, even if it is not Divine Intervention.”

“This is truly not an issue that concerns the Abbey, the church, or any religious order or person. This is my problem and mine alone.”

“Surely my Father would want me to offer to help you with your burden. God does not give us more than we can carry, but sometimes we need to hold hands to be able to carry the heaviest of loads.”

“I can see your Father has given you strict orders and that you are unlikely to leave me in peace until you have more tidbits to carry to the Abbot.” And so it was, without a blush and without missing a beat, Doctor van Hoot told Brother Mike his problem was that he had slept with his mother-in-law. He seemed to think a further explanation was really unnecessary, but did add, as almost an afterthought, that his wife had been away at the time of his mother-in-law’s visit. They had both partaken of too much wine and found themselves in a compromising position. A position, he could not help from adding, that was most probably unknown to members of the religious community such as Brother Mike, who had taken a vow of chastity.

The once-off indiscretion had taken on new importance when his wicked mother-in-law threatened to tell her daughter of the union, not portraying it as an alcohol-induced mistake, but the sign of a maturing relationship where the Doctor had finally realized that he was more akin to an older, more experienced woman than a young child. This was nonsense and the Doctor had no intention of leaving his true wife. Nonetheless, he also wished to avoid as much drama and outrage as possible. He simply wanted to turn back the clock and find again the life that he had known and enjoyed.

Brother Mike’s brain was ticking off the options, starting to idle like a well-tuned engine. His survival skills had often shown him that the best tactic was the lowest common denominator. This was a prurient subject that would benefit neither the good Doctor nor the Abbey. While it could certainly set tongues a wagging, it was destined only for ruin for the family and, by inference, friends. His task was to find a means of avoiding this nearly certain outcome, while restoring honor and peace to the Doctor.

There was no advantage to even fill the Abbot in on all the salacious details. It would suffice to say Doctor van Hoot had some delicate family issues which Brother Mike, on behalf of his Father the Abbot, had been able to address to the mutual satisfaction of all. The Doctor would then be in the Abbey’s debt, the Abbot would, in turn, be in Brother Mike’s debt, or at the very least see Brother Mike as an ally with sensitive secrets that were best kept suppressed. As the Abbot’s emissary, moreover, Brother Mike might be able to call in a favor or two from Doctor van Hoot, and maybe even a few from his close associates.

The sordid affair of two old drunks doing things they wished they had not was as old as the hills. Stifling any negative repercussions in the name of the Abbey could bring benefits all around.

But, Brother Mike had no idea of how or where to start. Nevertheless, this was not a time for complete candor, so Brother Mike took his leave of the Doctor, thanking him for sharing his problem; hoping the intervention of the Church could bring some solace. He further assured the Doctor he would provide his Father with only the briefest summary while he himself would examine how it might be possible to mitigate any negatives from this unfortunate happenstance.

Brother Mike believed in taking prompt, but well thought out action. His first call was on Antonio. The shopkeeper knew all the businessmen and would-be businessmen in town. He knew not only their business, but their stories. He found such knowledge invaluable in optimizing the profits from his own investments.

When asked about Doctor van Hoot’s mother-in-law, with no explanation offered as to why this person was of interest, Antonio’s first reaction was, “Oh her!”

As Brother Mike dug deeper, Antonio unveiled a tale of many twists. The good lady’s husband, now long departed, was seen by all, including the Doctor, as the father of the Doctor’s wife. However, the madam had been more libertine than a Bangkok hooker. In her youth she had been known, in the Biblical sense, by many of the community, regardless of their age, ethnic origin, or social standing. Her daughter was a case in point. She was in truth not the child of the good lady’s husband, but the child of an Arab trader who sold motorcycle parts, a Muslim merchant.

This presented a particular dilemma for the once so vampish lady. She was nonchalant about her many past imprudences, oblivious of her reputation, and unavoidably carried the baggage of her slattern past to the present. Nevertheless, at her husband’s death she had inherited his considerable assets with the codicil that these riches be used for their daughter, both for her dowry and a stipend for her after her marriage. Any additional funds over and beyond the daughter’s needs were to be available for his loving wife. And, the madam made sure her daughter’s needs were modest at best, living a fine life on the residue. But these arrangements had been, and continued to be, much contested by the late husband’s brother, with whom he had held many of the investments in partnership.

Brother Mike now saw light in the tunnel. If the wanton and now venerable madam went ahead with her scheme to try to turn her daughter against her doctor husband, then the daughter could seek retribution by informing her uncle of her mother’s promiscuity, which would certainly make her father’s will null and void as she was not in truth her father’s daughter. Thus, the wealth of the dear man should pass to his brother, not to his wife and child. Ah yes, thought Brother Mike, circles within circles.

With the power of intrigue and innuendo now in his hands, Brother Mike could see about organizing things. He gave a scanty accounting to the Abbot with his affirmation that the Abbey would be seen as a unifier and peace-bringer to a common-day domestic problem, enhancing the monastery’s standing and placing the good Doctor in the Abbey’s debt. He then found the Doctor busy in his office, professing to him that he, Brother Mike, would be able to heal this unfortunate wound and that the Doctor and his wife would once again find joy and comfort in their home—the mother-in-law would be making no problems.

Finally, the most difficult of the trilogy of plans—convincing the most unpleasant madam to cease and desist. Almost as though bent on self-destruction, her notoriety indicated she would indeed be the toughest of the trio to get on board. But Brother Mike could be very convincing when he was committed.

Brother Mike found the lady in question at her home, a pre-Independence brick structure with what must have been at one time very nice ornamental gardens. Unfortunately, at least from Brother Mike’s perspective, the home and garden were in need of a lot of loving care. The lady of the house herself was found in the parlor, sipping a glass of whisky, still in her bathrobe.

While she exuded an air of nonchalance, Brother Mike immediately sensed an aura of danger. Danger, yet in some way a sensual peril. This woman would be a testament to his skills.

She seemed to put out tentacles to test the waters, could she seduce or otherwise entice this religious man? Apparently her on-the-spot assessment was negative and, like an amoeba, she changed shape, assuming a less defiant and aggressive mien.

Politely declining her offer to imbibe with a charming smile and an imperceptible bow, Brother Mike sat upright in the rocker across from his subject. He realized diplomacy would be a wasted effort and cut immediately to the core of the matter: was she intent on making the otherwise honorable Doctor van Hoot pay for his recent and regrettable indiscretion?

She only smiled over the rim of her glass. Brother Mike, expecting as much, came forth with his carrot and stick: the stick first. In the most succinct of terms, he recalled how he had proof (perhaps a bit of a stretch on his part) that the father of her daughter was in fact a Muslim trafficker and not the upstanding businessman the community as a whole had taken to be the girl’s sire. Were this irregularity to be made widely known, unquestionably the uncle would feel obliged to go to court to right this grievous wrong. However, to ensure that no such action was taken, and to allow all parties a respite, Doctor van Hoot was happy to provide the lady with a return ticket to Brussels where she could go to visit the family undoubtedly anxious to hear from her, passing a few leisurely months enjoying the climate and the food, free from the cabals spinning around her here.

Brother Mike had known instinctively when he entered the house that a threat would not be sufficient to achieve his aims—he needed a carrot. While he had not discussed the payment of airfare with the Doctor, he was sure he would feel this a small price to pay to get this lubricious event dismissed and have his family life return to normal.

Brother Mike took the lady’s continued silence as acquiescence. He stood up, indicating that he felt the affair was closed and saw himself off. The lady took a gulp of whisky as he closed the door.

Bouncing back to the Abbey in the pickup, Brother Mike wished he were on the pond back where he could contemplate in a more suitable, calming setting. But here he was. This was not and had not been just business as usual. This was damage control for things that had run amok. The mess had not been a mess of the Abbey, and God knew there were many headaches there awaiting attention. The mess was not a mess of the Church, although God also knew His Church needed special attention in many areas. The mess was not even a mess of the town, province, or country. The mess was the mess of two inebriated foolish people, the same type of mess that foolish people everywhere get themselves into all the time. Why had this warranted his intervention? Not his intervention as Brother Mike, a relative nobody who was hopefully someone still relatively invisible to those surveying the landscape. This had indeed been an intervention by himself on behalf of the Farther Abbot and by inference, on behalf of the Abbey and even the Church. This role for him was either the pure and simple coincidence of the Abbot deciding he should provide a helping hand to someone, anyone, to demonstrate the Abbey’s good faith. Or, this was a calculated intervention by the Abbot using Brother Mike as his agent. Flukes did happen. In fact, they happened with surprising regularity, but this did not feel like a fluke. This felt like the beginning of a movement or an offensive. The sands had begun to shift in some direction and Brother Mike needed to make sure he did not lose his balance.

❦❦❦

Over the next poker game, Brother Mike fixed his sights on Antonio who had been so helpful in exposing the history of the van Hoot quandary. “Antonio,” he asked, “who best knows the annals of the various religious groups hereabouts from before Independence to the present?”

After briefly pulling on his chin, Antonio recommended Brother Gustaf of the Jesuits, a member of the order that had a monastery in the north of the province where they raised a lot of bananas and made particularly potent varieties of banana beer and banana liqueur. Brother Gustaf, Antonio figured, must be in his eighties and, like so many of the community, he had come here as a young man during the colony and never left.

Brother Mike devised a plan. He went to his confrère who managed the kitchens, a sort of dietitian who decided what would be on the menu and when. He suggested the community would be most blessed to partake of a bit of the splendid local banana beverages so meticulously blended by their Jesuit brothers.

As was often the case with all things involving spirits, the debate was short lived as each saw things through the same lens: more drink made the Abbey joyous, and joy was good.

Accordingly, Brother Mike made arrangements for a day trip to the north of the province to procure banana spirits; and of course, to encounter Brother Gustaf. Most of the 80-km trip involved relatively well-maintained paved roads that wove between the hills, crossing several wide, papyrus-filled wetlands on stout concrete bridges built by the Chinese. However, the last 15 km was on a typical bush road—a washboard and rutted laterite passage that was rarely maintained. The Jesuits, as others before and after them, had chosen a beautiful hilltop for their Abbey. They had planted eucalyptus as a palisade, with coffee plantations, banana stands, and vegetable gardens spiraling down the hill in a most ornate fashion.

Brother Mike found Brother Gustaf waiting for him in a small gazebo sheltered away in the eucalyptus where the aroma of these fragrant trees filled the air, along with the whispering of their leaves. Brother Gustaf was a bit hunchbacked with slightly milky eyes, but seemed in generally good form for a man of his age who had spent a lifetime in the service of our Lord in Central Africa.

Without providing much in terms of background, Brother Mike posed his questions as he expansively anointed Brother Gustaf with the oils of ancestry—referring to him as the living legacy of their community, a treasure, and a font of knowledge.

Brother Mike only explained that his Father Abbot had asked him to be of assistance to Doctor van Hoot, who Brother Gustaf most certainly knew. To be able to fulfill the Abbot’s wishes to the fullest, Brother Mike needed to know the history of the good Doctor and, if relevant, any relationship with the Abbot or the Abbey.

Brother Gustaf assumed a relaxed pose to where it seemed he was almost dozing, his eyes mostly closed, with his breathing deep and regular. Brother Mike could practically visualize Gustaf digging deep into his memories. After a brief interlude, he stiffened a bit and began, “You may recall that in 1940 there was a fascist party in Flanders, the Vlaams Nationaal Verbond (the Flemish National Union), that wanted an independent Flanders. With the German occupation of World War II, this party ultimately metamorphosed into the Duits-Vlaamse Arbeidsgemeenschap (the German Flemish Work Community) under the pennants of anti-communism and anti-clericalism, but also with the aim of integrating Flanders into Hitler’s Reich. There were a number of young Flemish men who fought with Hitler in the Waffen-SS. Among these SS soldiers was a young schoolteacher from Gistel, outside Oostende. He was a mild-mannered man with two younger brothers, and although he was considered as compassionate by many, he was a fervent Flemish nationalist. His SS duties transformed this young man from the docile teacher into the efficient and ruthless killing machine and in due time, he was held responsible for the deaths of dozens of Belgians in the Resistance. Although he survived the war unscathed, he was brutally killed by vengeful Belgians after the Armistice. His disdain for the Church led to his burial in an unmarked grave somewhere west of Bruges. At the time of his death, his own parents had died but his two younger brothers and their young families had to go into hiding. Their older brother had been a truly diabolical person, scaring many families in both Flanders and Wallonia, and they feared retribution for his acts spilling over onto themselves and their families.

“The two brothers with their families ultimately changed their names and migrated to Congo. One family became the van Hoots and the other the de Graffs. The van Hoots stayed in what was Leopoldville at that time, becoming relatively well-to-do operators of a construction company. They were able to send their son to medical school in Belgium, from where he graduated and assumed the role of Team Leader here with us. The de Graffs moved to Costermansstad (later named Bukavu) on the shores of Lake Kivu, where they became successful coffee farmers. Their son went to seminary in Leopoldville (later Kinshasa) from where he became a member of the clergy across the border in Cyangugu. From there, he came here to join your order, ultimately becoming Abbot. Thus, the Abbot is the older cousin of the Doctor. Both are still hiding from the terrible souvenirs of their SS Uncle.”

Brother Mike had learned what he had come to learn. He thanked Brother Gustaf, complementing him on his splendid memory. He then finished his assignment by purchasing two firkins of banana beer and one of the liqueur before regaining his pickup and heading south. The road was not heavily traveled, with more bicycles and cows than cars and trucks, so he had time to consider what he had learned. The facts would seem to speak for themselves. This was no indirect way to burrow into Brother Mike’s affairs. Hopefully these were still buried under the layers of bureaucracy where he had safely interred them. This was the Abbot’s way to try and really help a cousin in need, while maintaining the secrecy of their familial relationship, both for its past and present implications. The War had been a long time ago and it was uncertain if there were still wounds here so far from Europe that could be reopened. But, the good Doctor’s role as Team Leader could be misconstrued if someone chose to document close ties to the Abbey. While there was officially the separation of Church and State in the government, the Church still had a powerful and often politicized voice. The President was a devout Catholic, his own sister a member of a convent not far from here. If international assistance programs were portrayed as being driven by religious priorities, this could have a negative impact on all fronts. Obviously, the Abbot felt it was in his interests and undoubtedly those of the Abbey, to not publicize the fact that one of the prominent physicians of the area was part of his family. Hence, Brother Mike’s commission had been an act of caring and empathy, nothing more ominous.

❦❦❦

Brother Mike was hoping there would be no more special commissions from the Abbot or from any other source and, thus far his wishes seemed to be coming true. He had entered into a period of calm routine where he was able to get to his spot on the pond bank at least twice a week. He took care of all his diverse responsibilities and still made it to the Crane on Saturday and to Philip’s for cards on Wednesday.

The tranquility of this period included an extended stretch of complete celibacy, without any even fleeting friendships. This fact aside, Brother Mike continued to be preoccupied by his relationship with Philip and Angela. This seemed to be evolving into a special relationship by his standards and his general rule of thumb was to avoid sticky serious relationships with everyone. There were unavoidable, and often positive, relationships with members of his monastic community as well as relationships with those from the community at large, but experience had taught him to avoid serious personal relationships. He lived in a world of the transitory. People—expat experts, monks, sisters, all sorts—came and went. This was not the land of his birth, although he felt it to be his home. When he died, he would be buried in the Abbey’s cemetery, but many of his confrères chose to be buried back in Europe. When people got sick, went on vacation, or had a family crisis, they left. Today’s friend was gone tomorrow. This was just one of the transactional costs for the course of life he had chosen and it was, and had always been, his choice. But real friendships, true friendships, required one give a little bit of one’s heart, and he did not have enough to give to all those to whom he could, or maybe should have over the years. It was, he knew, a coping mechanism, but perhaps—just perhaps—it kept him sane. Alas, these were thoughts best relegated to the pond bank, so he tended to lock them in a small room in his brain and only bring them out after he had baited his hook and could let his mind fly. Still, there was an uneasiness when he thought of Philip and Angela.