The Sacrament Page 2

  The cardinal observed me in silence, and when he spoke again, he had changed his tone subtly, to remind me of his position.

  As you are aware, for a long time it has fallen to me to investigate such matters, alas. In my opinion, the man has nothing new to say. Time plays tricks on the mind, and memories are capricious. He was a mere child—although, naturally, my heart goes out to him.

  I scanned the letter once more, looking for the sentence.

  “I didn’t tell you everything . . .”

  Children have vivid imaginations, Raffin said. I recalled his statement. Batman . . . the boy’s upbringing had been difficult, and who knows how things have gone for him since. Who knows where life has taken him.

  I found him purely by chance, I said. In the broom cupboard.

  Without replying, the cardinal reached once more for his briefcase, took out a thin folder, and handed it to me.

  The report you wrote back then. I’ve skimmed through it. I’m afraid that as things stand, I see no alternative but to deal with the matter. And he will only talk to you.

  Couldn’t we do this over the telephone? I felt like saying. Is it necessary for me to travel all the way to Iceland? And yet I knew there was no other way.

  My heartbeat had slowed, but I still felt faint and had as much difficulty rising from my chair as the cardinal did. Years ago, I had come here seeking refuge. Slowly but surely, time has come to my aid, time and the rose garden, and the days that passed like clockwork, the mountains and fields that blossomed and withered. And more recently: George Harrison.

  But now that peace was shattered, and as I watched the cardinal climb into the car that was waiting for him outside, I felt as if the woman who had lived here for thirty years suddenly no longer existed.

  THE STATION AT SAINT-AMAND-MONTROND IS QUIET and unassuming. Only five of us await the Paris train, and I was one of the first to arrive. Having bought my ticket in advance, I sat down on the bench on the platform, Sister Marie Joseph standing next to me, stealing a glance at her cell phone. From here you can see along the tracks as far as the mill, where they turn eastward before disappearing into a copse. Yesterday it rained, but today is overcast, and quite chilly for this time of year. I made sure to bring a shawl with me and have wrapped it around my neck and shoulders.

  Sister Marie Joseph drove me here in the Renault. It’s a bit of an old wreck, probably reaching the end of its days. Apart from myself, Sister Marie Joseph is the only nun who has a driver’s license, a fact which I suspect makes her feel rather proud. I taught her myself, but I can’t have been a very good instructor, as everybody agrees that she’s a terrible driver. She has great difficulty coordinating her hands and feet when changing gear, and on top of that frequently forgets to pay attention to the traffic around her. She is an excitable, chatty person, and her mind often strays from the things she should be focusing on, namely the car and the road. That is what happened this morning when she started asking me about Iceland, and my careful replies did nothing to deter her.

  The glaciers are magnificent, aren’t they? Can you see them from Reykjavík? And aren’t the waterfalls and hot springs splendid? Did you take many trips when you were there? Are you planning any this time? Only three hundred thousand inhabitants, amazing! And most of them Protestants . . . What made you learn Icelandic in the first place?

  And so she prattled on, grilling me in the same way she had about my years as a missionary in Africa, while I kept my eyes on the road, ready to grasp the steering wheel at a moment’s notice. Mercifully, there was light traffic, and she was driving more slowly than usual. I muttered something about the glaciers and waterfalls and responded to her questions about the Catholics in Iceland—who are only ten thousand in number.

  Then I see why they need all the support they can get, she said. Do you think there’s a rose garden next to the church?

  The only explanation I had given her for my trip was that I’d been asked to fill in for someone on sick leave, telling her the church was shorthanded since the Order of the Sisters of Saint Joseph had moved out of the country after having been there for over a hundred years. Of course, this was only partly true, but I didn’t have much of a choice. Even so, I felt bad and was tempted to tell her more, but fortunately stopped myself. Sister Marie Joseph is so young and naive—I was going to say simpleminded—that sometimes I worry about her. By this I do not mean that she is stupid. On the contrary, I would go so far as to say that she’s in many ways highly gifted, her university degree being proof of her intellectual capacity. She is also blessed with a pure, beautiful soul, and a kind, loving nature. And yet I worry about her, the same way I worry about my roses, which are in need of constant care and attention.

  I think of myself when I was her age. At first blush, we seem unalike in every way, but a closer look reveals that’s not so clear. Maybe she isn’t as self-assured as she pretends to be. Maybe she is still searching, despite speaking as one who has never experienced doubt, who has always felt close to our Savior and never questioned her faith. Perhaps there is something beneath the polished surface which I haven’t yet put my finger on.

  After parking the car, she insisted on carrying my suitcase for me, although I was perfectly capable of handling it myself, as there aren’t many stairs up to the platform. She embraces me before I climb aboard the half-empty train, waving and smiling as we pull out of the station. I see her recede into the distance, and the Renault as well as it awaits her in the parking lot. It is the only vehicle there, and I begin to worry that she won’t be able to start the engine, or that she will run into self-imposed difficulties on her way home. Of course, these are foolish notions, and I tell myself that it is just my nerves acting up.

  The journey takes approximately three hours and the views from the train are splendid, partially at least. This is the only direct train to Paris today; otherwise I would have had to change at Vierzon Ville. I am really in no hurry, as my flight doesn’t leave until late in the evening, at eleven o’clock, to be precise. I will have plenty of time on my hands once I get to Paris, and indeed, as Sister Marie Joseph pointed out, it would be ideal for me to spend the afternoon in the city, before setting out for the airport. Her suggestions made it obvious that she has never lived in Paris, only been there as a tourist, and, of course, read about it. She mentioned the main museums, and other famous attractions, although, as one would expect, churches were foremost in her mind.

  Obviously, Notre Dame, she said, although personally I find Saint-Gervais particularly beautiful. More so than the Sacré-Coeur, for example—though of course that is also very beautiful, she added, as if she thought it inappropriate of her to compare God’s houses. Perhaps because of the ivy, she went on, or the strains of the old organ . . .

  Thus, she had chattered on, and I must admit that I felt quite relieved when we arrived at the station. While she was helping me purchase my ticket online back at the convent, I told her I hadn’t been to Paris for years but failed to mention that I had lived there.

  The landscape is in no way majestic, but even so I enjoy looking out the window, at the fields stretching away as far as the eye can see, and the tiny villages appearing here and there. Occasionally, I glimpse an old palace or church perched on top of a hill, or a splendid bridge crossing a river or canal. Rather than disturbing one’s thoughts, if anything the scenery has a numbing effect, and before long many of the passengers have indeed dozed off.

  Half an hour into the journey, I open my bag and take out the report Cardinal Raffin left behind when he visited me the other day. So far, I have been unable to bring myself to look at it, leaving it untouched on the small writing desk in my cell. However, I no longer have any excuse, so I reach for my glasses, preparing to dredge up the words I had managed with difficulty to compose on a borrowed typewriter more than twenty years ago.

  ONLY WHEN I ENCOUNTERED THE DEVIL DID I REALIZE that God must exist.

  For mountains to stand out there must be plains, and without dark
ness there is no light. For years, I had been desperate to find God, to discover for myself that he existed, for other people’s assurances and obscure symbols meant nothing to me. I felt closer to him when I prayed, and despite often groping in the dark, I could sense he was near. Sometimes, I only needed a glimmer of light to show me the way, a small sign that I was on the right path. At other times, I felt so close to him that my fingertips trembled as I reached out to him. I always felt bitterly disappointed when I found myself clutching at air.

  God did not loom large in my childhood home. I was born during the last days of the war, in a small village near Lyon. I was christened Pauline, after an aunt who died young. Pauline Reyer. My father was a teacher, my mother a housewife, and although my sister and I were taught the appropriate prayers, passages, and psalms, my parents were not keen churchgoers, and the Bible was only brought out on religious holidays. Even so, they instinctively followed Christ’s teachings, which my sister, Madeleine, and I naturally picked up on. The two of us followed different paths when we grew up; like father, she studied to be a teacher, while I went to Paris to read theology at the Sorbonne.

  My parents weren’t expecting me to devote my life to religious contemplation, and my decision took them by surprise. Not that they tried to dissuade me, but when we were alone, my mother asked me what had encouraged this choice. She asked because she cared, but also because she was a little worried. I can still see us in the kitchen now. It was late afternoon and I was helping her prepare quenelles de brochet, having just added the cream to the chicken stock.

  Has Father Bernard influenced you, Pauline?

  No, I said.

  And yet you meet with him regularly.

  Not anymore. This is my decision.

  We were standing at the stove together, and she turned to look at me, as if to satisfy herself that I was telling the truth.

  Naturally, we’ll support your decision, she said, although I can’t imagine what a young woman like you is planning to do with a theology degree.

  I remember an immense feeling of relief. Not because she had given me her blessing, but because for a moment I had feared that she’d been able to read my thoughts. As I stood next to her, avoiding her gaze, I felt so afraid that I started to whisk furiously to hide how much my hands were shaking.

  It took me a long time to realize that I was different from other girls. Many years. Of course, I found it strange that as a teenager I had no interest in boys, especially as my friends spoke of little else, even though it wasn’t all that long since we had found them all rather unbearable. Their change of heart surprised me more than my own indifference. At first, I tried to ignore my feelings, and when that failed I began to despair. It felt as if I was suffering from a disease, which I couldn’t get rid of no matter how hard I tried, a terrible disease, a chancre of the soul. I certainly couldn’t go to the doctor or discuss it with friends or family. People like me were only ever referred to obliquely at home, and my parents made their attitude quite clear.

  I tried to inform myself, but it wasn’t easy finding books on the subject in the local library. I didn’t know where to look and I had to be careful no one saw me taking off the shelves works I thought might be instructive. After several trips, I ended up finding enough material to satisfy my curiosity, and to shine a dim light on my condition, although I was no closer to understanding why my soul had strayed.

  Among other things, I discovered that it was against the law for people like me to pursue their inclinations until they were twenty-one. Obviously, I was horrified to learn that not only were my feelings inappropriate, they were also unlawful, and things didn’t improve when early in 1960 sanctions against same-sex relations were made harsher. I remember coming home from school and seeing the front-page headline in the newspaper, which my father had left on the kitchen table. The article appeared at the bottom, but my father had folded the newspaper in such a way that it was the first thing I saw. Two thoughts occurred to me simultaneously: that he had left it like that on purpose, and that those in power must have discovered something new and terrible about people like me.

  I was so absorbed by this article, which I read with a lump in my throat, that I didn’t notice Madeleine until she was leaning over my shoulder.

  You aren’t reading about those deviants, are you, Pauline?

  I gave a start and tossed the paper aside.

  I was just browsing.

  Monsieur Hellard is one of them.

  What? I said. Monsieur Hellard came from a wealthy family and lived in a big manor house outside the village.

  That’s why he isn’t married, and why no one will work for him.

  I hardly ever heard Monsieur Hellard’s name mentioned, and I knew nothing of his problems with hiring staff. I only ever cycled past his house in summer, when we went swimming in the lakes beyond, and yet now that I thought about it, I could see that the house was somewhat in disrepair, and that the windows needed painting.

  But I’ve seen a servant working in his garden, I said.

  He . . .

  Isn’t he a servant?

  Madeleine didn’t reply, but sighed softly, as though she had realized there was no point in discussing the matter with her little sister.

  I must emphasize that Madeleine had a sweet nature and was kind and considerate to everyone. I had never heard her speak ill of people, which is why her remarks about Monsieur Hellard took me by surprise. Especially as there was no trace of malice in her voice, but rather compassion and sadness, as when one speaks of the dying.

  It was after this that my search for God began, for I believed that in him I would find the answers to the questions that plagued me. I wasn’t accustomed to going to confession, but I started visiting Father Bernard, a man in his forties with a ready smile, who had delivered a beautiful funeral service when my grandmother passed away. I didn’t go straight to the heart of the matter—that took time—and never quite admitted that I was talking about myself. However, Father Bernard was no fool, and when I attempted to broach the subject, rather than question me directly, he was content to answer my general inquiries about human nature and desire.

  Finally, I took the plunge and asked him the question that had been plaguing my nights for months on end: How could God make people like that if he disapproved of such feelings?

  He was taken by surprise. I could hear him stirring in his seat behind the grille and thought I saw him lower his head. At last, he seemed to find the answer, and, clearing his throat, he sat up straight.

  To overcome evil in the world, we must first overcome the evil within ourselves, he said. God knew this when he created man. He knew that he could not send him unarmed to fight against evil. With each inner battle the armor forged in our soul grows stronger. Our weapon in this battle is God’s kindness. But without that armor we stand exposed.

  The evil within ourselves . . . That night I cried myself to sleep, and the next day I didn’t trust myself to go to school. I had the impression that I was damned, even though all I had done was to be as God made me, and as I lay in bed staring up at the ceiling, I saw no difference between God’s justice and man’s injustice.

  I did not declare war on him. Not then. I felt too confused, too weak. But I stopped going to confession, and during the weeks that followed, I avoided Father Bernard and didn’t go to church, even refusing to attend Easter Vigil, much to my parents’ surprise. Still, they didn’t question me or try to persuade me to go.

  Instead, one fine morning, I set off from the village toward Monsieur Hellard’s house. It was a twenty-minute bike ride, and the views from the winding country road were pretty—rolling hills, vineyards, and animals grazing in the fields. Even though I cycled slowly, my heart was pounding. More than once I stopped to look over my shoulder, perhaps to make sure that no one was following me, or because I was tempted to turn back. But I carried on, dismounting just before I arrived, and wheeling my bike along the final stretch, toward a stand of trees, where I would be able t
o observe the house without being seen.

  It looked smaller than I remembered. Not that so many years had gone by since I last saw it; indeed I had cycled past only the previous fall, after our last outing to the lakes. It was cooler now, May having barely started, the trees were in bud, and there was an acrid smell from the dead leaves composting on the ground.

  I was warm after my bike ride, but soon the air felt chilly. I buttoned my cape and wrapped my scarf about my neck. There were no signs of life outside the house, or in the windows, but still I waited, as if for a sign or, perhaps, a revelation.

  After a good while, my wish came true. A door at the side of the house opened, and two men emerged. One looked quite old, the other perhaps in his sixties. The older man was dressed in a thick coat, rubber boots, and a hat. He seemed unsteady on his feet, and yet he ambled about the garden, looking at the trees and shrubs, every now and then stooping to pick up a twig. Then he paused, glanced back at the house and the yard, at the sky above, the road going past the house and the copse where I was standing.

  I gave a start, although I knew he hadn’t seen me among the trees. Instinctively I looked away, then, collecting myself, I continued to observe him contemplating his garden and the arrival of spring. There was a remarkable serenity about him, and nothing to suggest that the devil had his claws in him.

  At last, he turned around and started back toward the side door. But then he stopped in his tracks, as if suddenly the path back had grown longer, as if he had realized that he’d come too far. For a moment, he seemed to despair, unsure which foot to put first, but then the man I had thought was his servant approached, took him by the arm, and helped him to advance. And so, one step at a time, they made their way toward the door, hands clasped, palms joined in a loving gesture. Their affection for each other was clear, the consideration, the bond between them: it was as if they weren’t separate entities, but rather that God had created them as a whole.