The Sacrament Read online

  God, I say . . . I should point out that at this stage I still wasn’t convinced of his existence. But I knew I had to attempt to find him in order to understand myself; I had to get close to him so that I could speak with him directly, ask him his purpose, question him—confront him.

  That was why I decided to study theology in Paris.

  I PUT DOWN THE REPORT AND TAKE A PHOTOGRAPH OF George Harrison out of my handbag. It looks like we’re approaching Bourges, and yet I have barely glanced at the preface.

  My first attempts with the iPod failed, but finally I succeeded in making it work. I lean back in my seat for a while and listen to music—the good old Beatles who always cheer me up, Abbey Road in this instance. I find it hard to get used to this gadget, but Sister Marie Joseph has done her best to instruct me and has been very patient with me. She had long had it in for my Walkman, which was admittedly on its last legs, and probably one of the last—according to her the last—still in use. I had taken it to the mender’s several times, and finally it gave up the ghost, so I had no other choice but to modernize.

  I miss the feel of the cassettes, which remain in their boxes in my cell, and I’m hopeless with the touch screen. Sister Marie Joseph has shown me countless times how I must slide my finger over it, but I still manage to regularly make a mess of it. The other day, while I was listening to the Brandenburg Concertos, I accidentally tapped the screen, and suddenly Diana Ross started singing. Not that I don’t enjoy listening to her song about solitude, only I’d like to have some control over the process.

  The photograph is actually of me and George Harrison in the rose garden. I am reposing, seated on the grass with the dog in my lap. We are gazing into each other’s eyes, and he is stretching his muzzle toward me, so earnest and adoring that I feel close to tears as I contemplate the image. I miss him already, and I can see him before me as Marie Joseph and I drove away in the Renault, forlorn and whimpering in the doorway, as if he knew I wasn’t coming back anytime soon. I know that Marie Joseph will take good care of him while I’m away, but all the same it upsets me to leave him.

  The report. Eighteen typewritten pages. I had great difficulty composing it, and despite my best efforts every word was a chore. I was still in Iceland at the time, and when I spoke to Cardinal Raffin over the telephone, he advised me to take my time, to weigh and assess the events from the proper distance, to consider the broader context, to take into account all points of view. Those were his words, as he warned me not to exceed myself, not to let my emotions run away with me.

  I have seen mistakes being made, Sister Johanna Marie, he said. And it’s not easy to retract something that’s written in black and white; it sticks in the mind. There it takes root, refuses to go away, even when other words are added, words intended to set things straight. We mustn’t forget that there is only one judge of the living and the dead. Only one.

  I had finished the report before Father August Frans’s demise. Hours before, to be precise, and then I had added the two-page postscript after I returned home to the convent in France. During my stay in Iceland, I had lived close to Landakot Church, in a small apartment on Ljósvallagata, which I shared with two visiting nuns from Germany. On the strip of lawn outside the house was a laburnum tree, which I imagined in summer must look lovely, but whose limbs were bare and unappealing then. From the desk in my bedroom I had contemplated the tree, and the gray cemetery across the street, as I sat listening to the silence, which before had been broken by my sporadic tapping on the typewriter—a deep, insinuating silence that, far from calming me, increased my unease.

  This time I had held nothing back in my report. I had refused to allow the “broader context” to cloud my vision. Even though I knew it might all be in vain.

  I was exhausted when I went to bed that night, and yet I couldn’t sleep. I could sense the finished report on the desk next to me, see the words before me in the dark, hear the tap tap of the typewriter. I waited until the German nuns had gone to Lauds, then I got dressed and went to the kitchen to make tea.

  It was never my intention to follow them. I left the house at eight, when I knew that they and the other worshippers would no longer be in the church, for I had a sudden overwhelming urge to speak to my God, to tell him my thoughts.

  What if I hadn’t gone? What if I would have just handed in my report later that morning, and said my good-byes? What if I had just stayed home?

  I had slept badly. Maybe that was the explanation. Maybe things would have been different had I been more rested.

  The train is racing along. It will arrive in less than an hour and still the report lies on the seat beside me, unread. I finger the photograph of me and George Harrison, while the Beatles sing about the weight we carry. In the background, I see one of my favorite roses, Rosa gallica. She is hardy, tolerates the cold, and thrives in all types of soil. Yet she mustn’t be neglected, for underneath she is delicate and needs caring for after surviving the winter. Then it’s as if she says to me: See how good I’ve been, now you be good to me. I do my very best, and we enjoy the warm summer sun, without thinking about how fleeting it is, or that fall is just around the corner.

  I HAVE A FEELING OF SLIGHT APPREHENSION AS THE TRAIN pulls into Gare d’Austerlitz. On the train, my mind was so taken up with thoughts of Iceland, the terrible events that took place there, that I am completely unprepared for my arrival in Paris and the memories I know await me here. I put the report and the iPod in my little suitcase and wheel it off the train and then along the platform.

  The weather couldn’t be more splendid, and the people making their way hurriedly through the station have an air of summer. A group of students is gathering at the entrance, and inevitably my attire arouses some interest. That’s how it always is, wherever I go, more so lately, as there are now fewer of us. However, when I smile at them, rather than looking away they smile back, and I see only warmth in their eyes.

  I had been planning to rent a locker for my luggage at the station, but I realize that would be foolish, because then I would be forced to come back here, and of course that would be out of my way, for the train to the airport leaves from Gare du Nord or Saint-Michel/Notre Dame. My flight is at eleven o’clock tonight, and I am thinking of catching a train no later than half past eight. I want to arrive at the airport in good time, and moreover I suffer from night blindness—a condition that is worsening with age and is particularly bad when I’m tired.

  I feel more unsure of myself than I had expected. I already sensed it when Sister Marie Joseph and I were planning my day in Paris on the convent computer. We sat side by side, her fingers gliding over the keyboard. She pulled up a map of Paris and showed me all the metro stations, the easiest way to get from A to B. The computer managed to confuse me, and as I took notes, I felt old and useless, and I said as much. It’s only Google Maps, she replied, as if that explained everything, yet I was none the wiser.

  Despite having written down everything carefully and gone over my itinerary on the train, I am daunted by the thought of traipsing around the city on my own. With the exception of the underground system, the city can’t have changed much since I lived here and therefore my worries seem silly. I pause outside the station and decide to change my plan: I will not take the metro to Sacré-Coeur, but instead walk to the Sorbonne and from there down to the Seine. It isn’t too hot for a stroll, and the wisps of cloud drifting across the sky create occasional pockets of comfortable shade on the streets.

  I quickly become accustomed to pulling my suitcase, which is light, and the sound it makes almost comforting. As soon as I enter Le Jardin des Plantes, I feel a further sense of harmony; it is remarkable that this should happen the moment I am near some greenery. As I have plenty of time, and for my own enjoyment, I take a detour via the Grandes Serres, where I stand beside the open doors and inhale the aroma of damp soil.

  When I first arrived to take up my place at the Sorbonne, in the late summer of 1965, I came across Le Jardin des Plantes during my first week in Paris and instantly fell in love with it. I discovered it by accident, for I usually went straight from class to the Sacré-Coeur guesthouse in Montmartre, where I was fortunate enough to find paid employment. The guesthouse is right next to the basilica and the convent and offers accommodations to those coming to take part in devotional exercises and to commune with the Savior. I worked three hours a day in exchange for which I was given lodgings—a room in the cellar, which I shared with a Belgian student named Isabelle Bonnet, an extremely pious young woman. Like me, she was studying theology at the Sorbonne but was in her final year. She kept to herself, and we had little in common, but nonetheless we got along well enough as roommates. We each did our own thing and neither bothered the other.

  The first year went by in a flash. Besides going to lectures and studying, I occasionally had to work four or five hours a day at the guesthouse, especially on weekends. I don’t think I came any closer to my creator during those two semesters, although I read an awful lot about him. On the other hand, I was too busy to torment myself with thoughts about my inclinations. In fact, I succeeded in silencing them so completely during my first year in Paris that I began to tell myself that I had most likely been going through a phase, that this episode had only been a part of growing up, the result of me being a late developer. I think I almost managed to convince myself that the danger had passed, and nothing that summer suggested otherwise. I got a job at a café in my village, accepting all available shifts, because I needed the money. My sister and I only went swimming once at the lakes near Monsieur Hellard’s house, and, even though it had been less than a year since I spied on the old man and his partner through the trees, the excursion had no effect on me. There was no one in the garden that day, and as we cycled by I managed to think
of something other than the owner.

  I did well my first year in college, and that fall I returned to Paris feeling full of myself. I had always had a gift for languages, but it was only there that my talents were put properly to the test. I am not exaggerating when I say that I was as surprised as my teachers, when, after my first year, I was fluent in German and achieved the highest grade in Latin, despite stiff competition.

  I felt I knew the ropes when I got back and was able to take both my studies and my job at the guesthouse in my stride. I had managed to become terribly organized, making lists of things I aimed to achieve that winter—the neighborhoods I was going to get to know, places I wanted to visit. They included concert halls, museums, cafés and inexpensive restaurants, bookshops, parks, and a random collection of sites in almost every arrondissement. I told myself that now that I had gotten past the most difficult stage at school, I should take the opportunity to broaden my horizons.

  I am recalling those bygone days as I walk to my old college along Rue des Écoles. It is farther than I remembered, and I soon cross to the shady side of the street. Gradually, I slacken my pace, pausing for a moment, for so many thoughts assail me that I have a hard time keeping track of them all. I let go of the handle of my suitcase and move as close as I can to the wall, so as not to get in the way of other pedestrians. With my handkerchief I wipe away the beads of sweat on my brow.

  I am busy conjuring an image of myself almost half a century ago, when I hear my phone go off in my handbag. I become slightly flustered, for I had forgotten about it completely. I find it eventually and manage to read Sister Marie Joseph’s text after a couple of tries: Have you arrived safely in Paris? But I can’t remember how to reply, and after a few failed attempts, I give up and put the phone back in my bag.

  WHEN I RETURNED TO COLLEGE, I WAS GIVEN the same room at the guesthouse as the year before and chose to sleep in my old bed, even though the one that had been Isabelle’s had space for a bedside table next to it and a chest of drawers by the footboard, and was closer to the radiator, which barely heated the whole room in winter. But I am a creature of habit, and moreover, I wouldn’t have known what to tell my new roommate if she found out that I had changed beds and asked me why. At best it would have been awkward. And I didn’t dislike my side of the room, even if it was more cramped; for a bedside table, I used the windowsill, which was deep, and reached as far as the bedhead, and my clothes fitted easily in the shared wardrobe.

  Although my previous roommate had been perfectly amiable toward me, she had made no effort to give me the benefit of her experience or go out of her way to show me around. Not that I had expected this, but when I learned that my new roommate was Icelandic, and this was her first time in Paris, I felt duty bound to assist her. She wasn’t due to arrive for several days, whereas I had arrived early, as I wanted to have time to get myself ready for the winter semester. Also, I expect I felt rather ashamed about having gotten to know Paris so little during my first year, and embarrassingly had been forced to embroider the truth when my sister, Madeleine, and my coworkers at the café insisted on hearing about my experiences in the big city. I wasn’t about to let that happen again.

  The morning of my new roommate’s arrival, I went out into the tiny garden next to the guesthouse, picked some flowers, and put them in a vase on her bedside table. At a secondhand bookshop near the college, I picked up a guide to Paris, aimed at the curious, experienced traveler. Before leaving it next to the vase of flowers, I got lost in it myself for almost an hour. The book served to remind me just how little I had seen of the city.

  Although I wasn’t supposed to start work until the following week, I felt I had no choice but to help out at breakfast that morning, but as soon as it was over, I went to look out for the new girl. I was told she was due sometime before lunch but wasn’t given an exact time. The house quieted down late morning, after the guests went off, and I stood outside on the sidewalk, as though expecting her at any moment. Later, I liked to think that I had intuited her arrival, but of course I was just imagining it.

  As expected, she came from the direction of the Sacré-Coeur, struggling with her two suitcases, one of which was clearly terribly heavy. I half ran toward her, helping her on the final stretch, but it was only when we reached the door that I made sure it was her.

  Halla? From Iceland?

  Oui.

  Had I fallen for her even before she arrived? Strange as it sounds, I started to wonder whether I hadn’t been looking forward so much to her arrival that I was well on my way to being enamored of her before I even set eyes on her. I told myself that we learn to love our Savior simply by thinking about him. Indeed, the only image we have of him is born of the words in the scriptures, which we re-create in our minds, bringing out the best in us. That image is one of hope and love, of tolerance and forgiveness, beauty and temperance. It is the image we would like to have of ourselves.

  This is what I told myself, for Halla appeared to me as a vision of joy, of beauty incarnate, as she staggered toward me with her suitcases, suppressing a giggle, as though amused at having packed too many things and at finding herself in this strange place. She was quick to acknowledge my help by saying “Oh, thanks” and giving me a dazzling smile that would have caused the most battle-hardened warrior to lay down his arms. “Thank you, thank you very much,” as if I were doing her a favor.

  From the beginning I realized that she was as carefree as I was conscientious, as fleet of foot as I was lumbering when life got complicated or difficult. She laughed about how long it took her to find the right words in French, and yet she was instantly fearless, despite the mistakes she knew she was making. She asked me to correct her, and not to go easy on her.

  In exchange, I’ll teach you Icelandic, she said and laughed.

  She noticed the flowers when we entered the room.

  Did you do that? Really? She gave me a fleeting embrace, instantly noticing that I had also given her the best part of the room.

  No, you must have this side. I insist.

  But I refused to give in, and soon afterward she went off to meet our supervisor. But before leaving, she had opened her suitcases then snapped them shut again, muttering to herself: What was I thinking? I’ve brought far too many things.

  I stood still after she left the room, gazing at the flowers on the table, the guidebook beside them, her suitcases on the floor. I stood still and puzzled over what was happening to me. Strangely, amid my confusion, all I felt was happiness.

  THE CATHOLIC BISHOP IN ICELAND HAD RECEIVED A letter, which he had forwarded to Rome. This was in the late ’80s, during the papacy of John Paul II, when it was customary for bishops to sort out any problems in the priesthood without troubling the Vatican. However, the bishop of Iceland had rather hastily requested assistance, possibly to avoid his responsibilities, but more likely because he was frightened of those named in the letter and felt incapable of confronting them. Naturally, he didn’t say this, but it was obvious to me from our first meeting.

  In his defense, he had been appointed directly by the Vatican not by the archbishopric of Europe. The letter ended up at the Secretariat of State, on the desk of a man who had a reputation for solving conflicts, for making uncomfortable issues go away.

  Raffin hadn’t yet been named cardinal. But he had done well for himself, progressed within the Catholic hierarchy and gained the trust of his superiors. He was both resourceful and prudent, his brain a repository for information.

  I hadn’t spoken to him for years, but clearly he had stored my name somewhere in his brain. I suspect that deep down I had always feared the day would arrive when he would dredge it up again. More so during the first few years, of course, and yet somehow I never managed to feel at peace and was always half expecting the past to catch up with me—inevitably in association with Father Raffin.

  But I’m going to try not to think of him. Not right now, at least, as I stroll around the grounds of my old college, peeking into the library, recalling so many things I believed I had forgotten. Before setting out this morning, I made myself a sandwich, which I wrapped in a napkin and placed in a paper bag, with an apple and a few grapes. I realize I am feeling peckish so I sit down on a bench beneath a tall maple tree to rest my tired bones. The shade offers an oasis of calm and peacefulness, despite the endless stream of tourists passing by.