The Convent: A Novel (16 page)

S
ister María Inés could not tell the Bishop what had happened in her youth, even though she was confident that it would have explained her behaviour and made him understand that the arrival of the orphan was not an event determined by a throw of the dice but the outcome of Divine Grace: her ultimate forgiveness after decades of constant penance. But the fact was that she had committed a mortal sin which carried an automatic sentence of excommunication, and the Bishop would be obliged to remove her from her position as mother superior and revoke all her other rights and privileges. She could still go to Mass but would be forbidden from leading the prayers and receiving the sacraments. More importantly, someone else would be put in charge of the convent and then she, Sister María Inés, would no longer have the power to protect the child. So she kept quiet, admitting to herself that one day she would have to confess her sin, as her faith and conscience obliged her to do, but promising to do it and face the consequences only when Renato was old enough not to need her any more. For now she had to carry on living in the shadow of her act.

As to the Bishop’s conduct, his demand that she surrender the child to the authorities had come as a shock to her because he had led her to expect the opposite decision. Sister María Inés thought that he had deliberately deceived her and she no longer trusted or respected him. She revised her opinion of him and began to think of him as a vain man instead of a humble servant of God and a radical reformer: he was a scheming manipulator, a cruel diplomat who owed his success only to his affluent upbringing and his family connections. She could not believe that she had been taken in by him for so long. A feeling of bitterness came over her as she recalled the once pleasant memories of his visits and easily found fault with everything about him: his lunchtime jokes that verged on the immoral, his healthy appetite, his regular haircuts, his manicured hands, his handkerchiefs sprinkled with eau de cologne made in Paris. These things did not belong to a virtuous man. Now she scrutinised every incident involving him that she could remember, every gesture of his, every comment that unmasked the truth of his wickedness. Once, for example, he had said during lunch: ‘Those who experience temptation merit our wholehearted admiration.’ The nuns had been baffled by his remark until he had explained: ‘Because only they know how Our Lord felt in the Garden of Gethsemane.’ Sister María Inés had thought nothing of his remark then, but now she interpreted it as nothing less than a blatant encouragement for the sisters to commit sin.

When Bishop Estrada had told her what he had decided to do with the child, she had held her peace but had no intention of obeying him. She instantly knew that she had to take Renato away from the convent before the people from the orphanage came. She escorted the Bishop back to his car, waved goodbye to him despite seething with indignation and then went to the kitchen to prepare the child’s milk. Gradually her decision to abandon the convent lightened her mood. After more than thirty years of having served God and nursed a sadness which until recently she believed incurable, she was ready again to face the world for which she had nothing but scorn. It was out there that she had undergone a medical procedure in secret, had been separated from her fiancé, had witnessed human suffering while a missionary: a world capable of great evil. If she had not joined the convent, she thought, she would have never found her way out of her predicament but would have continued to live in the labyrinth until the end of her life.

She had no doubt it was God’s will that she should now return to it. But she would miss opening her eyes before the first light of dawn, getting out of bed and dressing in the dark with the care of a blind person: the white tunic and scapular, the leather belt, the black cape, the black veil, kissing every item before putting it on. Then she would go down on her knees and say the rosary, facing the wall that was hung with the pictures of the saints and the portrait of the young naval cadet. And she would miss the coldness of her room, its damp walls, the warped wooden floors that it made her seasick to walk across, the cloud of downy white feathers that blew in through the window from the storks’ nests on the chimneys.

She returned to her room with the bowl of milk, fed the child, then went for a walk round the convent cradling him in her arms. She was determined to go the following morning without telling anyone, not even Sister Beatriz, who had been on her side all this time, for this was a matter that concerned her own destiny and no one else’s. She hoped to find work under another name as a nurse in a hospital far away. She looked for a last time at the statues with the enigmatic faces in the cloister, the bell tower, the cemetery carpeted with autumn leaves, the irreparable decay that was everywhere and had cloaked her guilt all those years in its fragrant mist. In the car shed she hung the nosebag around Midas’s head, then checked the Ford. She topped up the water and the oil, filled the tank and put the jerrycan with the rest of the petrol in the back seat. She worked calmly, the door of the shed left wide open to allow the light in, unafraid that someone might see her. They would suspect nothing because servicing the Ford was her favourite pastime.

She was in the chapel in time for the midday prayer and then joined the nuns at lunch in the refectory. Sister Ana was also at the table after a very long absence. The Mother Superior winced at this proclamation of victory but said nothing. She ate without paying any attention to the reading, which that day she found dull, and thought about her plan. When she finished her meal, she waited until everyone had finished too and then made a surprising announcement. ‘Sister Teresa,’ she said with the faintest trace of a smile, ‘it is about time I had a look at your records.’

And so it was revealed that she had known for a long time about Sister Teresa’s habit of playing the songs of the gypsies despite the sock pushed into the gramophone horn, but she had never said so because the music reminded her of the Edison phonograph of her youth. A moment later Sister Teresa returned with her records and the gramophone. She asked: ‘Now what, Mother?’

‘Now we listen to music,’ Sister María Inés replied.

Sister Teresa put on her favourite record and turned the handle. When the needle reached the end, the Mother Superior asked the woman to play another record and then another, and listened tapping her fingers on the table. None of the other women sitting around the table could grasp the significance of that moment: it was a ceremony, as sacred as any Mass, to mark Sister María Inés’s imminent return to the world.

After she had listened to all the records from beginning to end, Sister María Inés knelt in front of the Jesus on the Cross and left the refectory. She went straight to her room, and took out the suitcase which she would only pack when it was time to visit the Superioress General in the capital. She was still packing when later that evening Sister Beatriz knocked on her door. The Mother Superior hid the suitcase under her bed before giving the nun permission to enter. Sister Beatriz came in and asked: ‘How is the child, Mother?’

‘He will need his milk soon.’

‘What did His Excellency say to you?’

The Mother Superior rocked the cradle and replied while looking at the child: ‘Everything will be fine. We have won. Renato can stay.’

‘I don’t understand. His Excellency told me that he wanted the child taken to an orphanage far from here.’

‘Far from here? What is wrong with the one in the city?’ Sister María Inés asked and bent down to pick up the child. ‘In any case I persuaded him that the best thing for Renato is to stay with us. It was not easy, of course. You know that His Excellency has studied diplomacy in Rome.’

Sister Beatriz was surprised as much by the news as by the Mother Superior’s great calmness. ‘When I left your room, I had the impression that the matter was closed,’ she said.

‘No matter is closed if you have faith,’ Sister María Inés said. ‘And persistence of course.’

‘It is unbelievable. His Excellency spoke to me with great conviction.’

Sister María Inés gave the young nun a look of disapproval. ‘It seems to me that you do not believe me, Beatriz.’

The nun stood in the middle of the room, saying nothing.

‘Don’t just stand there,’ Sister María Inés said. ‘Aren’t you happy to hear the news?’

‘I hope His Excellency will not change his mind.’

‘He will not. Bring me some milk.’

When Sister Beatriz returned with the milk, the Mother Superior took it and sent her away. After she had fed the child and put him to sleep, she went back to packing her suitcase. There were very few clothes that she could take, for she had used the old dresses in her cedar chest, whose airtight lid had kept the smells of her ill-fated courtship alive all those years, to make clothes for the baby. When everything was finally done, she lay in bed, too tired to take off her habit, and fell asleep almost at once. During the night she left her bed to go to nocturns before the bell had even rung, obeying a routine that had become an instinct to her. She made her way to the chapel, led the prayer and returned to her room like a sleepwalker. She fell into a deep sleep again and dreamed that she had died and was lying on the table in the refectory. The sisters were all there around the table, together with the Bishop and Father Mateo, but instead of performing the last rites they were dancing to the music on the gramophone. Later, with the music still playing, they carried her to the woods, opened the hole where the poisoned dogs were buried and threw her in among the rotting carcasses.

She woke up sometime before dawn with the music still ringing in her ears, unable to understand her macabre dream. There was no time to think about it–she had to leave. She lit the candle at her bedside and pulled out the suitcase from under the bed. But when she went to take the child from the cradle she saw that he was missing.

I
t was still night outside with only a thin crescent moon, but she did not need much light to find her way in the dark. She had walked countless times to the chapel in the middle of the night and knew well every corner of the convent. She did not think to take her lamp but ran out of her room and climbed down the stairs, two steps at a time. Before reaching the ground floor, she stepped on her habit and fell down several steps, grazing her ankle where the dog had bitten her. She felt a sharp pain but quickly stood up and went on, panting and holding up the train of her habit, so as not to trip over it again. At the far end of the cloister she climbed the stairs and went across the loggia to the last door. She threw it open and entered the room. For a moment she could make out nothing, but slowly her eyes became accustomed to the dark, and she began to see the easel, the table with the jars of pigments, the brushes. On the bed something shifted under the covers, and when she hit it with her fist she heard a muffled cry.

‘Wake up,’ she said.

Sister Ana opened her eyes, terrified by the hit in the dark.

‘Tell me where the child is,’ Sister María Inés said.

The other woman tried to hide under the covers again. ‘Go away,’ she said. ‘You are controlled by the evil spirits.’

‘Answer me!’ Sister María Inés screamed.

When the other sisters heard the screams, they came to the door with their lamps. The Mother Superior ordered them to light the room so that she could search it. She looked everywhere but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Then she saw that Sister Beatriz was not among the women. No one knew where she was. Sister María Inés quickly went to the young nun’s room. The bed was made with fresh sheets, while the cold air from the open windows had long cleared the warmth and odour of human presence. On the table, next to a pile of books from the convent library, a vigil lamp burned in front of a small statue of Madonna and Child: it felt like a gesture of farewell. Most of the oil in the lamp had burned, which meant that it had been lit some time ago. The Mother Superior then knew that she had arrived too late.

She walked with a lamp to the car shed, where she was surprised to find that Beatriz had taken the donkey instead of the Ford. But the car was useless: its tyres were slashed and its engine damaged in a way that could only be repaired with parts brought from the city. For a moment Sister María Inés did not understand why the nun had chosen not to drive away in the car. Then she guessed that if Sister Beatriz had left the animal behind one might still get to the city and raise the alarm. Now, of course, the nuns were completely cut off from the world and had to wait for someone to come. Under the car was a pool of lubricant, and Sister María Inés knelt down with the lamp to inspect the damage. She regretted having taught her protégé how to service the car: she could not refill the engine with oil because the plug of the sump was missing. She shone the lamp into every corner of the shed and her despair grew. It was impossible to go after the woman and child in the night. She did not even have an idea which direction they might have taken.

When she came out of the shed, she was still inconsolable but somehow no longer surprised by what had happened. It felt like a prophecy she had pretended to ignore but had nevertheless come true. Her breath was white in the night air. She worried about the child being out on such a cold night. The scant moonlight did not reach under the arches of the cloister as she walked back to the dormitory. She tried to remember whether Beatriz had ever done anything that could have warned her about this but came up with nothing. She thought: ‘What will happen to me now?’ If it was another test of her faith and ability to serve God, she had failed it. Perhaps, even, the coming of the child was never meant to be a chance to redeem herself but was part of her never-ending punishment. Either way, it was clear to her now that she was damned to perdition.

She did not understand why Beatriz, her favourite nun, would steal the child. A feeling of hatred grew in her stomach and almost made her vomit, but it abruptly passed. It was difficult to despise her truly: she had exhausted that feeling on Sister Ana. She wondered whether she would ever find Beatriz and realised that she did not even know her real name. The Order did not demand to know anything about the past of its members; they could call themselves whatever they liked and when they took their vows they were given a religious name.

She went back to the young nun’s room and searched with great care but little hope. She found no clues that could explain her actions, only the traces of a life neatly and quietly lived. She opened the wardrobe–it was empty. She returned to Sister Ana’s room and told the other nuns to leave. Sister Ana gave her an angry look. The Mother Superior said: ‘You are responsible for this.’

‘I only obey God and the law. Beatriz is as guilty as you are, but at least she is not a lunatic.’

‘Why did she take the child?’

‘I don’t know. She was no friend of mine–she was yours.’

‘Is she taking him to the city? To the orphanage?’

Dawn was breaking outside. It was time for prayer but the Mother Superior did not care for that now. She stared at the window and again considered whether she should go after Beatriz and the child. She admitted to herself that it would be pointless–she would not find them. Suddenly she regretted having poisoned the dogs. They might have been able to pick up the scent of the donkey. She said: ‘I was responsible for that child.’

‘If it were not for you, the child would now be safe in the orphanage. In any case the matter is settled as far as our convent is concerned. The rest is up to the Guardia. What you did was against the law.’

‘Christians should not be troubled about the earthly laws.’

‘I always suspected that there was something wrong with you, but I could not quite put my finger on it,’ Sister Ana said. ‘It seems to me there is something in your past–a crime maybe? You still try to escape from it. Your obsession with the child must be related to it.’

‘The child is in danger. They will not make it across the mountains. The cold is terrible at night.’

‘Don’t worry about them. They will be picked up by the Guardias soon enough.’

‘I hope not. For Renato’s sake.’

‘For the Order’s sake,’ the other woman said. ‘Or else everyone will know what happened here. You would be in trouble with the Guardia too.’

‘I did what God wanted me to do,’ the Mother Superior said without anger. ‘It does not matter what happens to me now.’

The more she thought about the child, the more she believed that the misfortune had little to do with anyone but herself. She knew that other people played a very small part in a predicament that was intended solely for her. She said: ‘Everything is lost.’

The bell rang for dawn prayer. ‘I am going to the chapel,’ Sister Ana said. ‘Ask God to forgive you for your madness.’

The Mother Superior waved her away. Something drained from her soul like blood. Feeling weak, she asked the other woman to lead the prayers that day. She was tired and all she wanted to do was go to bed. The sun already stood above the mountain ridges. She had never before watched the moment after sunrise from the windows of the convent: she had always been in the chapel getting ready for prayer. She thought that there is a multitude of worlds one is not aware of–worlds that are as elusive as the spirit world. Then, one day, something happens…She laughed, feeling absurd, and said: ‘Excuse me, Sister Ana. I am not feeling well. I have to lie down for a while.’ She went to her room, where she lay in bed all morning without falling asleep, in case she had another bad dream like the previous night. Then, just before lunchtime, she heard the van from the orphanage pulling up outside the convent.