The Sacrament Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Begin Reading

  About the Author

  Also by Olaf Olafsson

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  HE HAD COMMITTED A CRIME. WHILE THEY WERE knitting he had allowed his mind to wander. He liked to let his thoughts drift to distant places, where there was no sadness and the nights were filled with pleasant dreams. Sometimes he would travel to the farm where he had spent the summer before last, to the barn, where he threw himself onto the hay, or to the stream, where brook trout hid beneath the banks. Sometimes he would lose himself in the comic books his father brought back from his voyages. But he never let his thoughts take him to the hospital or the cemetery.

  She had snatched the knitting from him and ordered him to place his palms facedown on the table. His hands trembled slightly, but of course he obeyed. The other children pretended to be absorbed in their own work, but he could feel their eyes watching him, and her as she loomed over him.

  Still you insist upon sullying yourself in the eyes of the Lord, she said, unraveling his work, the first tentative rows of a scarf. And what is this mess supposed to be?

  Assuming she didn’t expect him to reply, the boy remained silent. But she repeated the question, hissing this time:

  What is it?

  A scarf.

  She scoffed, holding the tangled wool aloft for the other children to see.

  Look at this scarf! Who wants to try it on?

  Too terrified not to humor her, the children gave nervous, stifled laughs. Save for her class favorites, two girls who chortled out loud.

  Clasping one of the knitting needles, she pressed it into the back of his right hand.

  Why did our Savior suffer on the cross? Why? He suffered for you. They drove nails into his hands, like this . . . That is how he saved you. And what do you do to repay him? You belittle him. You shame his memory.

  With each emphasis, she dug the needle harder into his hand. Tears pricked his eyes, but he dared not make a sound. When at last she fell silent, she waited a few seconds, which seemed to him like an eternity, before pulling the needle back and ordering him to stand up. He followed her into the corridor where she unlocked the broom cupboard and pushed him inside. He heard the key turn, and then her footsteps receding.

  He knew the cupboard well. It was where they kept buckets and mops, detergent and cleaning cloths, as well as salt for deicing the sidewalks. Once, he had used an upturned bucket as a seat, which had earned him further chastisement when she finally opened the door. And so, this time he decided to stand and gaze out the window high on the wall, a tiny window that looked out on the church. He rubbed his sore hand, where the needle had left a red indentation, but no blood.

  The sky was thick with clouds, and soon it started to snow. They were small flakes that took so long to find their way to the ground that he wondered if they had gotten lost. He followed their descent, moving closer to the window to see if any of them had made it all the way. Standing on tiptoes, he could see across the yard to the fence between the school and the church, and up to the gray, flat-topped tower. He soon grew tired of craning his neck and gave in to the temptation to turn over one of the buckets and climb on top of it.

  That was when he noticed something moving in the open window at the top of the tower. His rubbed his eyes and saw to his amazement that Batman himself had suddenly appeared in all his glory. His hero surveyed the city then turned toward him, as though aware of his exact location, giving the boy a meaningful, reassuring look.

  Batman would save him, just as he had so often in the past, and together they would set off on an adventure, down streets and alleyways, to the harbor and out over the city—ready to assist anyone who might be in distress.

  The boy held his breath as his friend took to the air. Bracing his elbows on the sill, he lifted himself up to watch the dark figure swoop down from the tower, wings flapping. For a moment, he felt a surge of hope, as well as the thrill of confirmation, for he had always feared that Batman existed only in his comic books and his imagination. But then, in the blink of an eye, his hopes were dashed, as his hero’s wings appeared to falter, and he flipped over and plummeted, landing on the turf with a dull thud. For a while, the boy stared at the body on the snowy ground, slowly realizing that his hero had inexplicably transformed into Father August Frans, or rather a dark heap who only a stone’s throw away showed no sign of life.

  I DO NOT SPEAK WITH THE TONGUES OF ANGELS, NOR have my prayers ever moved mountains. Mysteries have revealed themselves to me, not in mirrors or riddles, but face-to-face, and neither God nor man will forgive me my sins. That which is already in ruins cannot be conquered, but rather it buries itself in the soul where it awaits its time. And yet, despite everything, I still cling to the belief that if I do not have love, I am nothing.

  I won’t deny that working in the garden is becoming more difficult as the years go by. But I cannot complain, because each moment is a gift from God, and except for a touch of arthritis, and the occasional bout of tachycardia, I enjoy perfect health. I refuse to impose fewer demands on myself and have no intention of reducing my workload or carrying out less onerous tasks here at the convent. When I got out of bed this morning to attend Lauds, as I stood over the washbasin in my cell, I contemplated my hands at length. All at once, they appeared alien to me, bulging veins, gnarled, like the rugosa rose I have lately been trying to nurture. It took such a battering last winter that for a while I feared it might not survive. I am more hopeful now, although it is still too early to claim victory.

  My mind revisits the past, calming as night falls and the wind dies down, and occasionally I find solace in prayer. The path to truth lies amid the long winding passageways of the soul, where fear and hope do battle with each other. I have lost my way in the darkness, I have given up hope and been plunged into despair. And yet I have also walked in fields of joy, amid birdsong and the brightest of sunshine.

  I slept fitfully last night. I got up twice and went over to the window, where I looked out at the garden and the fields beyond, to the mountains that surround our valley. On the second occasion, the moon broke through the clouds, casting a bluish light, so that I could see the shape of our garden clearly from my window. I never tire of contemplating it, marveling at the ingenuity of its design, the hard work put into every part of it by the generations: the rows of vegetables nearest to the convent, the stand of trees between the parterre and the ornamental garden, the berry path leading to the orchard, and of course, the orchard itself. And yet during all the years I have lived here, it is in the rose garden where I have spent most of my time, and that is where I feel the happiest.

  I recognized his handwriting at once. It still looks so refined, seemingly unaffected by his age. Nowhere had his attention lapsed or his hand faltered. Each letter beautifully drawn, connecting effortlessly with those that precede and follow, forming a perfect whole, the spaces between the words oases of calm. Every line perfectly straight on the clean white paper, the blue ink like a cloudless sky. It saddens me that his handwriting should have aroused such fear in me, even before I began reading the letter.

  “. . . I have received a missive, which it is essential I discuss with you in person. I shall travel to the parish in a week’s time and have already informed Sister Marie Agnès, who is expecting my arrival . . .”

  The garden gives way to fields, and at the far end of the valley are two farmsteads, which have been there for as long as the convent. They are too far away for me to see them from my window in the moonlight, but the tractor which one of the farmers abandoned yesterday at the edge of the field is still there. I think it must have broken down, because on my way to Nones I heard a lo
ud bang in the distance followed by silence. Occasionally, we borrow the tractor, and one of my jobs is to drive it and then to return it to the farmer. It may sound strange, but I always look forward to those days. I also like to watch the farmer bouncing through the field on it, sometimes pulling a plow or a cart, sometimes nothing, slow but sure, in all weathers, although in my mind’s eye I always imagine the tractor in bright sunlight. It seems joined to the earth, part of Creation, and indeed the years have left their mark on it. I confess I feel anxious about the tractor and am afraid that this breakdown might be the beginning of the end.

  When I finished reading the letter, I didn’t put it down, but rather clasped it in both hands, waiting for my heartbeat to slow. I had taken it with me into the rose garden to read during the midday lull, contemplating the delicate handwriting, before placing it back in the envelope. I stood in the hot sun, listening to the birds, to the murmur of the well, yet all I could see was the snow surrounding the dark church, the schoolhouse next to it, the body on the ground. And across the bay, looming through the afternoon snowfall, Mount Esja.

  Qui in tenebris et in umbra mortis sedent, I repeat day in day out, week after week, year after year. God’s mercy allows the sun to rise and illuminate those who dwell in darkness, in the shadow of death . . . He no longer has any power over me, I tell myself. He cannot take from me what I have already lost. I must be strong, I mustn’t be afraid of him. His silver tongue, his elegant handwriting. His words that hang in the air.

  I try not to blame anyone, and mostly I have no regrets. Not about love at least.

  I contemplate my hands then lean over the basin to splash my face with cold water. Last spring, we found a puppy in the garden, a skinny, forlorn little thing, barely able to walk. Sister Marie Joseph and I carried him into the kitchen, fed him warm milk, and made him as comfortable as we could. The farmers knew nothing about him, and after an intense discussion, we decided to keep him. As I argued most in favor, the Mother Superior, Sister Marie Agnès, agreed on the condition that I look after him. I have done so gladly and have become as attached to him as he is to me. I had been listening to some old records that day, which may explain how I got the idea of naming him George Harrison after my favorite Beatle. There is a resemblance, particularly to the way Mr. Harrison looked in the late ’60s when they all grew a beard and long hair. The name has stuck, and now I couldn’t imagine calling him anything else. He sleeps in the alcove by the kitchen door, wakes up as soon as he hears me approach in the morning, then wags his tail and waits for me to scratch him behind his ears.

  Dawn breaks as I kneel in the chapel saying my morning prayers. I know where the sun seeps in through the windows and I choose my spot accordingly; I am aware of the light on my face although my eyes are closed. Deliver me from the hand of my enemies, I intone in silence, so that I might serve you without fear . . .

  When prayers are over, I have a cup of coffee in the kitchen, and then George Harrison and I go for stroll in the rose garden.

  Faith, hope, and love. But for me, perhaps, only love.

  HE ARRIVED AHEAD OF SCHEDULE. SISTER MARIE Joseph and I had been mending fruit baskets in the shed all morning, making good progress, even though my mind was elsewhere. For as long as the oldest nuns can remember, Sister Clemence has overseen the orchards and related matters, but with the afflictions of old age she is unable to carry on. Truth be told, she should have stopped two years ago, when she was diagnosed with Parkinson’s, but she dug in her heels. Of course, I understand: it is never easy to admit defeat, even at God’s hands. However, last winter, she quickly went downhill. She has difficulty walking and has recently been forced to move to the ground floor. Naturally, this is hard for her, for she had grown very attached to her cell, and to the view from there across the valley.

  Sister Marie Joseph and I had to unravel her feeble attempts to patch up the holes and start afresh. We only had a few baskets left to do when one of the younger nuns came to tell me that the cardinal was waiting for me in the library. She was clearly in awe, but kept from inquiring about the reason for his visit. I looked at my watch: he was almost an hour early.

  I paused before the door, taking a deep breath. Although neither of them spoke in loud voices, I could hear his and Sister Marie Agnès’s somewhat hushed tones, for a deep silence permeates the convent, especially when we are carrying out our chores midmorning. At last, I grasped the handle and knocked gently as I pushed open the door.

  When he rose to greet me, I could see that he had aged. Although he’s only a few years my senior, I always think of him as belonging to another generation. He has a small, slender build, and a pale complexion, and he holds his head slightly forward, as if he were on the alert. I’ve never been able to decide whether his eyes are green or blue, and his gaze is alternately serene or piercing, occasionally both. He was never a muscular man, but now he seemed even thinner, shrunken. I noticed the silver-handled cane propped against the chair. He didn’t reach for it as he stood up, nor did he walk toward me, but rather waited for me to come to him and greet him. His handshake was as I remembered, so limp it was like clutching air.

  I sat down beside Sister Marie Agnès, opposite Cardinal Raffin, his back turned to the windows, which reach almost up to the ceiling, and his face south. A single cloud floated past but didn’t block the sun. I was surprised at how fast it moved, because I hadn’t noticed the slightest breeze out in the garden.

  I was hoping that His Eminence would lunch with us, said Sister Marie Agnès, but he cannot stay long.

  Yes, alas, duty calls, he said.

  He and the Mother Superior have known each other since he was a young priest at Saint-Amand-Montrond, and she a simple nun here at the convent, and she sat with us longer than I had anticipated. She is both naturally talkative and eloquent, and they reminisced about old times; she shared with him the news from the countryside, to which he listened politely, asked his advice on this or that—matters about which he doubtless knew very little. Naturally, she brought up the subject of the convent’s maintenance, how difficult it was, and made special mention of the chapel. He nodded, a sympathetic look on his face, and blamed a lack of funds.

  What about volunteers? he asked.

  They are fewer and fewer in number, she replied.

  Like us, Sister Marie Agnès, he said. Like us.

  I noticed that he hadn’t lost his ability to speak to people as if he were standing in their shoes, and yet at the same time superior. His voice was just as I remembered, so soothing that sometimes only when he had finished speaking did the implication of his words become clear. Especially when he was issuing a threat.

  I listened in silence, observing him discreetly. There he sat, the master of my fate, waiting for the opportunity to speak to me alone, once more. He was careful not to appear impatient, yet I could tell he was waiting for the Mother Superior to leave. His replies were concise without being brusque, and he asked few questions.

  For years, I had tried to convince myself that he couldn’t hurt me, and now, at last here was the proof, for I no longer felt afraid of him. I was free. I no longer felt the need to please him and was amazed to find that I couldn’t wait to tell him so.

  And this was what I intended to do, when Sister Marie Agnès finally rose from her chair and walked over to the door. We watched her in silence, and only when the door had closed did we turn to face each other. He leaned forward in his chair, brushing a piece of invisible fluff from his cowl.

  I stopped off at my old church in Saint-Amand this morning, he began. I didn’t announce my arrival, but simply sat and watched from a pew at the back. People came and went, mostly old folk like us, praying to their God. The young priest . . .

  Father Minnerath, I said.

  That’s right, Minnerath. He reminded me of myself when I was his age. Determined . . .

  He takes a great interest in his parishioners, I said. And he cares for those less fortunate: prisoners, drug addicts, teenage mothers, immigra
nts . . .

  He glanced at me, then said in an impassive voice:

  And you care for your rose garden, Sister Johanna Marie.

  There was a time when those words would have stung me, but not anymore. I had worked with both Father Minnerath and his predecessor, although I saw no reason to mention this to Cardinal Raffin. Besides, I expected he already knew.

  Yes, I said, and I care for the rose garden.

  He tilted his head to one side, then, reaching into a black briefcase on the table next to his chair, he retrieved an envelope.

  The only reason I came here is because this letter is addressed to you.

  He handed me the envelope, adding:

  I assume you can still read Icelandic.

  I tried hard to conceal it, but the mere mention of the word Icelandic knocked me sideways. My heart started to hammer in my chest, and I felt so faint that I could barely take the letter out of the envelope.

  Did he see my mask slip? I don’t know. I gave it no thought. At that moment, he no longer mattered.

  The letter was short, less than half a page, printed and signed in black ink. The date was also handwritten as if he had waited to send it: May 7, 2009. I read it slowly and didn’t look up until I had finished. I folded the piece of paper then unfolded it again, contemplating the words.

  I take it you remember him.

  Yes, I said.

  Unnar Grétarsson. What role did he play?

  His choice of words didn’t surprise me; Father Raffin often spoke in that way.

  Unnar is the boy who was locked in the broom cupboard and forgotten, I replied clearly, although I doubted that Raffin needed reminding.

  He sent the letter to the bishop of Iceland, who forwarded it. Obviously, I had it translated so that I could understand it, even though strictly speaking the letter is addressed to you.

  I nodded. He settled back in his chair.

  He saw everything, I said, more to myself than to Raffin.