The Convent: A Novel (13 page)

T
he city had been built in Roman times on the banks of a river that poured into the ocean more than a hundred miles away, across a marshy estuary where the storks gathered every autumn to travel to Africa. Minarets and other ruins of an empire now lost in the annals of history rose above the cobbled squares, the old palaces, the exquisite gardens looked after by the worthy descendants of Babylonian gardeners whose secrets they had sworn to reveal only to their successors. The mosque that dated back to the thirteenth century also survived but had long been converted into a cathedral with giant arches, columns of jasper and marble, a honeycombed dome with blue tiles and a courtyard planted with orange trees. The only truly living memory of the time of the Moors was the scented steam coming out of the old baths, which had been shut down after the Christians had recaptured the city but had later reopened with the consent of the Church.

When the wind began to blow, the narrow streets still echoed with the immortal ramblings of the ancient philosophers who had tried to make sense of the world, the heartbreaking cries of those who had been burned alive in cruel autos-da-fé and the maddening gypsy music of the present day. The winters rarely had frosts but it still rained a great deal, a rain mixed with the soot of the fireplaces that burned coal from the Sierra Morena. In the summer there were frequent droughts of extreme heat which baked the earth and made the cobbles smoulder. In the hot air rising from the ground, the mirage of the cathedral could then be seen for miles. Dressed in his cassock and zucchetto, the Bishop would take shelter from the insanity of the summer heat at the altar and would exorcise his thirst with cupfuls of holy water mixed with rose petals and ice.

It was a long time since Sister María Inés had been to the city. She only drove there twice a year, once to attend the diocesan council and a second time to take the train to the capital for her annual visit to the Superioress General. The rest of the time she was happy to shun the world and to send Sister Beatriz for the convent supplies.

Today the sky was clear and she had folded back the roof of the Ford, impervious to the cold mountain wind that followed her on her journey until she reached the bottom of the valley where the city lay. The trip had taken her more than two hours, much longer than she had expected, because she had to stop several times and top up the radiator with water. When she reached the first houses of the city, she crossed herself with a sigh of relief. She left the car at a garage to have its radiator fixed and walked across the city towards the column with the statue of Archangel Raphael, the city’s guardian.

Not far from there was the Bishop’s Palace, sheltered from the clamour of the streets behind a row of poplars which had grown over the years into a wall of dense foliage. As soon as Sister María Inés crossed the threshold of the palace, the cries of vendors, the noise of cars, the sound of horses’ hooves on the cobbles died away. She walked through an arched passage to the courtyard, where the only sound was the murmur of running water in a small fountain, and climbed the stairs to the waiting room, where a young deacon sat writing at a desk. He asked her if she had an appointment.

‘No. But I do not mind waiting.’

‘It might take a long time,’ the deacon said frostily.

‘I do not mind,’ Sister María Inés said. ‘I have been waiting all my life.’

The man made a face and pretended to look through the big diary spread open in front of him. Finally he left his desk without hurry, opened the door to the Bishop’s office just enough to slip through and returned a moment later with the same sullen expression. He said: ‘His Excellency will see you now.’

The Bishop was in a better mood than his secretary. He showed the Mother Superior to a gilded sofa and made a light-hearted comment: ‘I am afraid the furniture in this room is too ornate to be comfortable.’ He sat in an armchair and added with more humour: ‘I suspect it was purposely made that way to keep visits brief–but please feel free to stay as long as you like.’

After a silence that seemed to last for a long time, he asked: ‘What is your impression of Father Mateo?’

‘We did not expect him.’

‘Are you not happy with him?’

Sister María Inés said that they were.

‘I know that he is not experienced, but he is very committed,’ Bishop Estrada said. ‘Please have patience with him. It is very difficult to find someone to fill a post that is so far away from everywhere.’

‘We like to believe we are perhaps a little closer to God, Your Excellency.’

‘Quite,’ the Bishop said. ‘But to get to heaven and back every Sunday the poor Father has to sit on a mule for ten hours.’

The Mother Superior did not persist. ‘He is very welcome. And I will personally do everything I can to assist him.’

The Bishop sat in contemplation of the vast room. After a while he said: ‘He also told me about the baptism.’

‘I hope Your Excellency does not think it was improper of me to have asked him.’

The Bishop smiled. ‘You did not
ask
him, Sister. He says you
forced
him to do it. Anyway, I do not think it was wrong at all.’

‘I wish it had been you who performed the sacrament. But I missed the chance to ask you on your last visit.’

Bishop Estrada remembered how he had left the convent without having said Mass as he had promised. He said: ‘I would have been honoured. But I had to leave. It was one of those occasions when duty forces me to make a trip I do not like.’

Sister María Inés took a deep breath and said: ‘I came to see you because we did not have the opportunity to speak in private last time.’

‘I already know where you stand on the matter, Sister. But I am glad that you came. I do not want you to think I ignored you or that I am being unfair in any way.’

‘I never thought that of you, Your Excellency.’

‘Good,’ Bishop Estrada said and got up from his seat. He stood at the window, whose heavy drapes were tied back; only a pair of muslin curtains hung across the glass. He parted them with a finger and observed the tall column with the statue of the Archangel in the square. ‘Your request is highly unusual,’ he said. ‘Highly unusual.’

‘It would be no more than doing my Christian duty.’

‘Would it? I am not convinced. As you know, there is an orphanage in the city.’

‘In an institution like that…Of course, it is a great blessing that it exists. I know your great commitment to it. But with so many children it is inevitable that Renato would not get the attention he would be receiving in the convent.’

‘It seems to me that you are the only one who wants him there.’

‘I believe Sister Beatriz also agrees with me, Your Excellency. She has a great affection for him.’

The Bishop nodded without enthusiasm. ‘Oh yes, Sister Beatriz.’

‘I am prepared to do anything for the child. I will care for him until he is at least old enough to go to school.’

‘You did not have to poison the dogs, Sister.’

‘I do not regret it. They were likely to harm him. I feel sorry for Sister Carlota, of course.’

The Bishop did not really care about the dogs. He said: ‘The child has to be properly registered. There is always the chance, no matter how remote, that the real mother will come forward.’

‘Oh, there is no mother, Your Excellency.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Sister María Inés hesitated whether to tell the Bishop that the coming of the child was a miracle. In the end she decided against it and said simply: ‘I mean that a mother who abandons her child does not deserve to be called a mother.’

‘Although legally she still is,’ the Bishop said. ‘And there is also the mystery of the bloodied sheet.’

Then he told her, in a frank and serious voice, about the bed sheet that Sister Ana had showed him and their search round the convent for more evidence of the presence of evil. Sister María Inés showed no emotion when the Bishop said that the other woman suspected her of being under the influence of Satan. He added: ‘I do not need to tell you, of course, that I do not believe one iota of what she says about you.’ Nevertheless, the accusations filled him with dismay because they could only be the creations of a disturbed mind. ‘I want to hear your opinion,’ he concluded.

‘I have not seen that bed sheet,’ Sister María Inés said. ‘But it is undoubtedly a fabricated piece of evidence.’

The Bishop looked at her keenly. ‘You think so too?’

‘It only takes a splash of paint.’

‘I know. But it has to be said that Sister Ana seems genuinely terrified about it.’

‘I hope you do not think it more likely that I am possessed, Your Excellency.’

‘No, Sister. I simply believe that the sheet could have been there for a number of years. The fact that it was buried is odd, of course, but I do not believe it has anything to do with you or the child.’

The door opened and the deacon came gliding in. Bishop Estrada said: ‘Yes, I am coming, Ignacio. Thank you.’ The young man went away and the Bishop made a gesture of helplessness. ‘A busy schedule,’ he said. ‘Anyhow, Sister, I admire your dedication to that poor child. My first instinct is to let you keep him.’

Sister María Inés stood up from the sofa and bowed to kiss his ring. ‘Thank you, Your Excellency. You will not regret it.’

The Bishop withdrew his hand. ‘Do not thank me yet. I have not decided. I must think very carefully about this.’ He sighed. ‘It is harder than squaring the circle. Sister Ana is only one variable in the equation. What about the other sisters? They do not agree with you either.’

‘It is only because of Sister Ana. If Your Excellency arranged it so that she moved somewhere else I am confident I can make them see sense.’

They left it at that. Sister María Inés bowed again and this time Bishop Estrada allowed her to kiss his ring with the silent understanding that he was very likely to deliberate in her favour. She left his office calmer than when she had arrived and made her way across the palace without a hurry. Reluctant to leave that paradise and face the madness of the city, which after so many years of solitude terrified her, she sat on a bench in the courtyard and immersed herself in the serene beauty of the garden. There was nobody about. Attracted by the trickling fountain, a pair of birds splashed in the water. More birds sat on the rim of the fountain, and she picked up the rosary looped round her belt and began: ‘
In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti
…’ She had not finished when the deacon came up to her and asked her if she wanted anything else. Sensing that she was unwelcome, she finished her prayer quickly and went away.

At the garage the car was not yet ready and she looked for a place to have lunch. When she came back, the garage was shut. She had forgotten it was the time of the siesta–she never slept in the afternoons herself. She went for a walk across the sleeping city until it was time for the garage to reopen, gazing with admiration at the windows on either side of the narrow streets with their ornate iron grilles and pots of roses and jasmine.

The orphanage of San Rafael the Healer stood on the edge of the city and had been built with the support of Bishop Estrada, who had given the project, soon after his consecration, priority over the erection of churches across the diocese. He donated the land on behalf of the Church, paid for the furnishing of the wards, advertised it in every parish and established an annual bazaar towards its upkeep. At the time his decision had caused a scandal among the most pious members of the local community, who had interpreted his generous support for the orphans as an encouragement for men and women to sin. But the Vatican had stood behind him and a letter of support from Pope Pius XI had been read in every church of the diocese to placate the firebrands, though many of them doubted even the authenticity of the stamp with the papal emblem in red ink. Several years had passed since then and now everyone acknowledged Bishop Estrada’s charity and foresight, but the money raised at the annual bazaar was not enough. The orphanage suffered from a perpetual lack of funds which worsened as a result of the steady increase in the number of orphans.

It was the first time that Sister María Inés had visited the orphanage and she was struck by the similarity between the suitcase that had been left on the steps of her convent and the night depository for babies: on the wall next to the gated entrance, a few feet above the ground, was a small perforated cupboard lined with wool blankets where during the night one could leave a baby, unseen and safe in the thought that a nurse would collect the baby first thing in the morning.

A wide path paved with cobbles led to the main door, which was simple and unadorned, without steps or portico. Inside the building the tiled floor, the shut windows, the bare walls reflected the distant voices of children whom she could not see. A nurse in a blue uniform, white pinafore and starched cap appeared in the corridor and surprised her with an inexplicable greeting: ‘Nice to see you again, Sister.’

‘I do not know you,’ Sister María Inés said.

‘We met last year.’

‘I am afraid you are mistaken.’

‘I still remember our discussion about the institution and the children.’

‘You spoke to someone else. I have never been here before, Nurse.’

The woman wrinkled her brow. ‘I apologise. Well, it’s quite possible. It’s your habit and veil. You all look alike. We nurses have the same problem.’

‘Did someone visit you last year?’ Sister María Inés asked. ‘Someone like me–in a white habit?’

The nurse shrugged. ‘I think so, yes. She never told me her name.’

Sister María Inés would have to think about that. Right now she wanted to look round the orphanage and the nurse was happy to give her a tour. She led the way down the corridor, the heavy bunch of keys that hung from her belt clinking with every step. Despite the hot summers, there were permanent damp patches on the walls and the ceiling. The signs of neglect and the indelible smell of carbolic soap were everywhere. In room after room there were rows of iron beds where young faces with hair cropped against lice peered at Sister María Inés. Guessing her thoughts the nurse said: ‘We do all we can.’ Sister María Inés nodded with secret satisfaction. What she saw strengthened her determination to keep the child. At the very least, in the convent he would be safe from disease. She knew the dangers of so many children living in a small space. Parasites and infectious diseases, dysentery, hepatitis…She had seen all that in Africa. The nurse was saying something but Sister María Inés paid no attention. She was thinking how she would teach Renato herself, at least until he was old enough to go to secondary school. She knew everything a child needed to learn–and there were books she could order by post.