The Priest's Madonna Page 8

  “We need leaders in this country, true, honorable leaders! Our world is changing. It is evident to us even here, in our remote village. The factories are taking men away from the fields, women away from their homes, children away from their schools and games. True, they provide a welcome income, but they threaten the souls of our children. Our young ones leave home too early, before daybreak, and spend their days in dank, dusty interiors, under improper supervision.

  “And it is not only in the factories, my faithful ones. No, this corruption is happening here in Rennes-le-Château itself. The most innocent among us, those whom we are counseled by Christ to emulate in the purity of their faith, these very children are losing their faith.”

  At these words, my heart quickened, for I knew he was speaking of me.

  “What kind of a world are we living in when our cherished innocents are questioning the Word of God? When even our youth can conceive of a world without the Creator, a world governed only by humans and the ruthless forces of Nature? Are we intent on raising nihilists? Only the Church can save our children from the desolation of faithlessness. Do not slander the Church in your homes”—this directed toward my Father—“do not allow the blessed bride of Christ to be spoken of as a whore in your kitchens or in the tavern or the streets. If you harbor such thoughts yourself, repent, for you do not know the day of your death. If you have tainted the name of the Lord, if you have sown doubt among his people, I beg you, repent, or you will spend the rest of eternity in the devil’s house, paying for your sins with your own flesh and blood.”

  The church was silent, stunned. The chilly air of the sanctuary seemed to vibrate with the strength of his words. He began again, this time in a softer, more compassionate voice, “But for those who open their hearts and accept the love that our God has offered us in the gift of his only Son, a heaven awaits, more blessed than anything we can conceive of with our meager imaginations. Yes, my friends, believe it—you will see God in heaven.

  “Our country faces a moment of adversity. Its citizens are turning away from God, replacing devout leaders with secular ones, repealing laws that have long been in place to ensure the proper education of our children. So the ballot poll today is a solemn moment indeed. We will either triumph in support of our Church and our God or descend another step on the ladder of secularization toward the devil’s house. We must vote in support of the Union of the Right, my friends, in support of the restoration of the monarchy and the restoration of the Church to its rightful partnership in the governance of the people. Repent and pray, pray to the Holy Virgin, that we may yet see our countrymen and our brothers in Christ once again walking the path of righteousness.”

  We sang the Creed, then took communion in a shocked silence. After Mass, people filed out of the church and went immediately home. The village was quiet that day, but the polls were well attended. Bérenger’s sermon had a strange effect, for though it infuriated many, including my father, who did not speak to Bérenger for the rest of the week and who blamed him for Durier’s loss and the gains the rightists made across the country, it impressed people. It may even have changed several minds. Everyone liked a powerful sermon, everyone liked a priest who spoke his mind and really said something. People respected passion; it meant you had a heart, a soul. Bérenger had already won the hearts of most of the women through his magnetism and his pastoral visits, but his sermon won him the esteem of the men as well, both monarchists and republicans, once they got over their anger. They seemed to defer more to him after that Sunday.

  For my part, I was deeply disturbed. I hated his threats of damnation, his condemnation of those who might have disagreed. I was furious at him for using my private doubts as material for his sermon, and not only using them, but misrepresenting them: he had implicitly and unfairly accused me of atheism. I had never questioned the existence of God—not in his presence, nor even privately. It was only the actions of the Church I had objected to. But these things—the doctrine of the Church and the presence of God—were so linked in Bérenger’s mind, so dependent upon each other, that to question one meant to question—and, by extension, deny—the other.

  Once again he had betrayed me, revealing himself to be someone other than the man I thought he was, a man I could not love. I resolved to put him out of my mind, to cultivate another obsession. I asked Michelle who she thought might make me a good husband, and she joyfully listed the names of several boys in our village.

  “Martin is dull,” I replied.

  “But he’s reliable. And sweet.”

  “And how could you think that I would ever love Arnaud? He probably has pimples on his tongue.”

  “Marie. That’s unkind. And anyway, they’ll go away in a few years. He’s sort of handsome, underneath all that.”

  We did not speak of the sermon at home. Bérenger deferred to my father’s rage, and behaved humbly. He made an effort to uphold civility, greeting everyone politely, speaking with my mother as if all was well. Suppers together were silent. I refused to meet his eyes.

  One night, my mother declared that she couldn’t sit through another evening of my father’s black mood, and if he was so determined to sulk, then he should go do it somewhere else. My father, evidently hurt, set down his fork and stood. “Mother,” Claude coaxed, but my mother glared him into silence.

  “Politics has no place at our table,” she insisted.

  I, in turn, glared at Bérenger, who was responsible for this disruption. He sat next to me. The color had risen in his face, and despite myself, I felt my own cheeks warming in sympathy. He looked mortified. As my father donned his jacket, Bérenger stood, gripping his napkin. “Edouard. Please consider my point of view. I have an obligation to express the views of the Church. Grant me that, anyway.”

  My father pulled his cap on his head, and left, the door slamming behind him.

  “Edouard!” Bérenger called after him.

  “Let him sulk. He’ll get over it soon enough,” said my mother.

  “But what if the Church is wrong?” I blurted out.

  “Don’t you start, Marie,” my mother said.

  “I don’t believe the Church to be wrong in this case,” Bérenger said.

  “When do you ever believe the Church to be wrong?” I asked. Claude was staring at me gleefully, entertained by my audacity. Michelle looked anxious.

  “In the past. Certainly. On occasion.”

  “Such as?”

  “Marie, don’t be impudent,” said my mother.

  “I can’t think of anything at the moment,” Bérenger said, stabbing his fork into a piece of meat, as if to change the topic.

  “I can,” I said. “Anyway, I don’t think you really believe that. That the Church has made mistakes. I think you believe it’s infallible.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” Michelle offered, in an effort to lighten the tone of the conversation, to make it an intellectual exercise. But argument was not her forte. “The Pope is anyway,” she added, unconvincingly.

  “How would you know if the Church made a mistake?” I continued. “You seem so intent on defending it, how would you be able to tell if it overstepped its bounds, if it did something indefensible?”

  “Marie,” my mother warned. “You will not speak that way to Monsieur le curé.”

  “You sound like Father,” said Claude, giggling.

  “And what’s wrong with that?” I snapped.

  “I understand your point, Marie,” Bérenger continued. “One can’t trust an institution run by men to be infallible. But the Church is not just a creation of man.” He turned toward me, his knee touching the edge of my seat. “It was established by Christ and is run according to the word of God. It is his Kingdom on earth, in the world but not of it. It is as holy a thing as we have.” He gripped my arm. I dropped my knife. “I hold tight to it, Marie, because it is from Christ. It is God’s unfolding revelation, and for that reason I will always, always defend it.”

  We stared at each other as his words rang o
ut in the silent room. His grip just above my wrist relaxed as the moment lengthened. I was aware of the others, but I dared not move, for I didn’t want him to drop my arm. I held his gaze until he released me. He looked at his plate, evidently flustered.

  “Bravo, Monsieur le curé,” said my mother. Her eyes were wet. I feared she might applaud.

  FORTUNATELY, THE PREPARATIONS for Michelle’s wed ding soon distracted all of us. To pay for the trousseau—a surprise for Michelle—my father spent his free hours fashioning several fancy hats to sell to old customers, and so was too busy to bear a grudge. Our house became civil once more. Joseph dined with us more regularly, which helped alleviate any persisting tension. In church, Bérenger resumed a milder tone in his sermons.

  It was a hopeful time in the village. The harvest had been good, grain and grapes both. Bérenger declared it a blessing from God, and it did seem that way. The year’s plenty allayed ancient resentments: old foes shook hands, gossip became less malicious. The harvest festival was raucous that year. All the village turned out. The Verdiés opened the new wine and most of us drank until we were giddy or sick. Mme Ditandy, mistress of one of the larger houses in the village, made a gorgeous harvest bouquet—a cross of dried maize, lilies, and grass—and M. Ditandy hung it above the entrance to the square for all to see. M. Malet played his accordion, Messieurs Baudot and Fauré joined him on guitar, my father and M. Lébadou sang, and we danced into the early-morning hours.

  Our family, as a kind of surrogate family for Bérenger, finally began to gain acceptance that fall. Mme Paul came out to chat with Mother as she was hanging the laundry; Mme Gautier, the butcher’s wife, became her good friend. And, most memorable of all, Michelle and Joseph married in a wedding that entranced the whole village. Michelle swept her beautiful black hair into a sophisticated twist and circled it with a garland of anemones. She wore a silk dress that Joseph had bought for her with a bodice of lace that lay like sea foam at her throat. Mother and I helped her dress, and I kissed her before the ceremony and whispered encouragements in her ear.

  Then Toussaint came, and with it, the beginning of winter. The oaks, figs, and laurels were bare, the thistles flowerless. It rained for days at a time. The red soil absorbed the rain thirstily but still blew in the wind, dirtying the stucco houses.

  One morning, as I was in the midst of preparing the midday dinner, M. Deramon, the postmaster, arrived with a letter for Bérenger. He refused to give it to me until I wiped my hands on a towel, and even then, he warned me to handle it carefully. “Can’t you see who it’s from?” he admonished, his arthritic finger poking the return address: Monseigneur Calvet, Carcassonne. “Monsieur le curé is not at his desk, otherwise I would have brought it to him directly.”

  “Don’t worry, monsieur, I’m not going to add it to the stew.” I set it on the chair by the door. M. Deramon eyed me suspiciously before he left. He disapproved of young women.

  I handed the letter to Bérenger after I served him dinner. He received it with raised eyebrows and opened it immediately. Mother and I ate as he read.

  He gave a short laugh. “I’ve been suspended,” he said. He set the letter on the table beside his bowl.

  “What?” said my mother. “What do you mean?”

  “The Minister of Religion has suppressed my salary. I must leave immediately for Narbonne. The bishop has a teaching post at the seminary for me.” He slurped his stew as if the news were no more than a minor alteration in plans.

  “What?” said my mother, her voice quiet with horror. “How can that be?”

  “It is what it is. A priest does not make his own fate.” He did not look at either of us. I could tell from his brusque speech that he was wounded.

  “But why would they suspend you?” I asked.

  “Because I counseled my congregation on how to vote. Because I guided my flock in the appropriate direction for the faithful.” He slurped forcefully.

  “But they can’t do that!” my mother said. She stood. “How can they do that?”

  Bérenger shrugged. “The world is changing, Isabelle.” He finished his stew and set his spoon beside his plate, then looked at me pointedly, as if he had something important to tell me. I felt my pulse race. I could not tell what was in his mind, but his gaze was full of passion, and I began to hope—against all reason—that he might take me in his arms.

  Finally, he set his napkin on the table. “Very good stew, Marie,” he said. Then he stood and declared that he would pack his bag.

  That night, Mother and Father argued at supper. “This is just what you’ve wanted since he arrived!” said my mother.

  “It is not what I’ve wanted,” my father said. “You know me better than that.”

  “How do I know you weren’t the one who told on him in the first place?”

  “Now, Isabelle,” said Bérenger. “Edouard would never have done such a thing.”

  “Shut up!” my mother screamed at Bérenger, shockingly. Claude laughed with surprise. Mother burst into tears and ran upstairs, where she muted her sobs with a pillow.

  “You’ll have someone else to continue your catechism, Claude,” said Bérenger. Claude nodded solemnly.

  “We’ll miss you, Bérenger,” said my father.

  “I’ll miss all of you,” said Bérenger, looking at me. “Very much.”

  Natzaret

  They reached Natzaret on the day before Shabbat, climbing the hill into town. Some of the townspeople welcomed them joyfully, but Yeshua’s mother—also called Miryam—ushered him into the house, her face tight with anxiety. “There are people here who want to kill you,” she said. “They have heard what you have been saying.” She pleaded with him to stay home that night, not to come to the synagogue at sundown, for she feared for his life. But he scolded her.

  “So they’re not happy with me.” He shrugged. “Should this keep me from worshipping my Father?”

  But Miryam was frightened. She watched anxiously as Yeshua and his brother Yakov donned their prayer shawls and phylacter ies. Miryam held the fringe of Yeshua’s shawl as he prepared to go to the synagogue, and when he shook her off and left with his family, she opened her throat and howled as loudly as a cow bearing her calf. Kefa struck her and she fell to the floor. He closed the door and barred the exit from the outside. “Do not open your mouth while we are gone,” he said, “or I will cut out your tongue myself.”

  The fear came then, overtaking her like the quiet night. The air was cooling quickly as the light left the sky. She strained to hear voices, song, anything from the synagogue, but she could not. Only the crickets offered a respite from the unanswerable silence. But soon their chirping became louder and louder, swelling into a unison scream. She raced from corner to corner, knocking over stools and baskets like a trapped beast. She fought the urge to throw herself against the mud walls. She could not stay inside.

  There was a small ladder leaning against the wall. This she perched on a bench, allowing her to reach the underside of the roof—a covering of mud-caked branches spread across several planks of wood. She scratched at the mud with her fingernails. The ladder tipped beneath her, causing her to fall twice. Once she caught her jaw on the edge of the bench and bit into her tongue, tasting blood. Eventually, a few branches came loose and fell to the floor. She tore at the roof then, pulling more branches onto herself and tossing them aside, until she had opened a hole large enough to climb through. Then she grabbed the edge of one of the planks and, exerting all her effort, pulled herself up through the hole. Yeshua’s family would be angry with her for destroying the roof—they would probably forbid her from entering the house again, but she did not care, so frightened she was by the night and his absence and by the unknown fate that awaited him.

  She could see the synagogue from here: the door was closed, but a flickering light leaked from beneath it. She jumped to the ground and ran there, her skirts in her hand. The door opened with a creak, releasing the scent of the mint that had been sprinkled on the floor before
the service. She hesitated at the entrance, afraid she might be discovered. But no one came, so she continued in, circling the inner room to find the stairs that led to the balcony, where the women sat. A ring of children played knucklebones at the door; she crept behind them and slid against the wall, trying to keep out of sight. Yakov’s wife sat with her daughter on her lap and Yeshua’s mother sat next to them, stroking her granddaugh ter’s hand.

  One of the boys in the ring—the son of Yakov—ran to whisper something in his mother’s ear. She turned and then nudged Yeshua’s mother, who also turned. They studied Miryam curiously. Earlier that day, Yakov’s wife had asked Yeshua’s mother who “that woman” was. “Yeshua sits by her and walks with her,” she had said, her voice full of implication. “Has he found his new wife?” Yeshua’s mother had shaken her head and sighed; she did not know, she said, but she hoped not. She had seen Miryam twitching and whispering to herself.

  Miryam could not see well through the screen, but she could hear. It was Yeshua chanting now. She knew his voice better than her own. It sang out with solemn passion the verse from Yeshayah, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me. He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives. To proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” Then there was a pause, and she felt her heart rise into her throat.

  “Today,” he said, “this scripture is fulfilled.”

  There was a tense silence and then an explosion of sibilant whispers. The children stopped their game and looked toward the screen.

  Yeshua continued, “I speak to you in the Spirit of the Lord God of Yisrael. His day has come. The lame walk! The blind see! Demons flee from him! Rejoice in his name!”