The Convent: A Novel (6 page)

S
ister Teresa wanted to see the child again. She knocked at the door and entered the room, where Sister Carlota was pacing up and down with the child in her arms. ‘Let me have him for a while?’ Sister Teresa said. ‘I promise to be careful.’

Sister Carlota gave her a worried look. For a long time she had been trying without success to put the child to sleep, and although he was quiet she had to hold him because the Mother Superior had asked her to. She was behind with the baking of the altar breads and would have to work late in the kitchen that evening. She handed the other nun the child with a sigh of relief. ‘Only a mesmerist could make him close his eyes,’ she said. ‘It is impossible.’

Sister Teresa began to rock the baby and sing to him. She had studied hymnody and sang in the chapel with a voice that had earned her the admiration of the other sisters, but her true love was popular music. She could imitate the voices of the famous flamenco singers of the time so well that the other sisters could not tell the difference. She could also sing Argentinian tangos, Cuban
sons
, Portuguese
fados
, even American jazz and English dance music, despite the fact that she did not know what the words that she sang meant. She borrowed the gramophone, which Sister Ana did not object to lending her, and played the records that Sister Beatriz secretly bought for her in the city. On Sundays, usually in the afternoon, when the other sisters were in the garden and the Mother Superior read in the library, she stole away to her room, wound up the gramophone and pushed a sock down its horn to reduce the volume. Then she sang along to the music, not too loudly but with great emotion, while keeping her eye on the door: if the Mother Superior knew, she would have punished her severely.

As she rocked the baby in her arms and sang quietly, the child looked at her with curious eyes. She sang about death, love and betrayal: a world of horrors. Her face, pale from the lack of sun and the strict diet, was not the face of a singer. Still rocking the baby in her arms, she gazed out of the window at the earthen road that twisted and turned through the pine trees and went out of sight down the hill. High in the sky, a few storks glided silently. She touched the baby’s forehead with the tip of her fingers and paced the room, the wooden floor creaking under her feet.

She had never been alone in the Mother Superior’s room before, and while singing she looked round her with curiosity. When she opened the wardrobe, the smell of mothballs made her sneeze. There were only a few dusty clothes and the boots that the Mother Superior wore when she went into the forest to collect wood. Then she saw the old suitcase in which the baby had been found and could not resist having a look inside. She pulled it out and, holding her breath, opened it, but the suitcase hid no secret, and she put it back. On the bed was a pile of bed sheets smelling of lavender: it was where the baby slept. Sister Teresa studied the portrait of the man in uniform about whom the sisters knew nothing. The baby opened his mouth and made a little sound. ‘Sh,’ the nun said. ‘Let’s see what other secrets besides you the world hides.’

She walked on, rocking the baby in her arms and humming a tune. She bent down and read the paperwork on the Mother Superior’s desk, but it was nothing interesting: just bills and letters to women who wanted to join the convent. She opened a drawer and peeked inside: a stamp with a wooden handle, a few pencils, a penknife. Then, carelessly, she shut the drawer with a slam that scared the child. Immediately he began to cry. Sister Teresa gave him a terrified look. She said: ‘Stop, little angel. You will land us in trouble.’

The child continued to cry. ‘Please hush. Hush now,’ she said and began to sing. The baby did not stop. ‘Oh Mother of God,’ the nun said.

She looked at the door with hope, but Sister Carlota was not coming. ‘Oh, be a good boy and stop crying. Or we will both fall from grace.’

She walked up and down the room, with the baby in her arms. ‘Sh. Oh, why now? You were such an angel…’

The baby was still crying and his face was turning red. There were tears in his eyes, and she wiped them on the cuff of her habit, saying, ‘There, there.’ She rocked the baby faster, looking at the door. She considered whether she should go to get Sister Carlota. She could not take the child with her: the Mother Superior might hear the crying. She was rocking him so nervously that all of a sudden she felt him slipping off her. She caught him–but he had been scared again and was now crying louder. ‘Oh, hush, please,’ she said. ‘Why are you crying, sweet thing?’ She rocked him, repeating, ‘Oh, oh, oh.’

She walked to the windows and pointed out. ‘Oh, oh, oh. Look at the little birds.’

She sang to him again, raising her voice above the cries, so that when the door opened behind her she did not hear it. A voice said: ‘What is happening here?’ She gave a start and quickly turned round. The Mother Superior was staring at her. Sister Lucía was with her.

‘I don’t know why he’s crying,’ Sister Teresa said and handed the baby over. ‘He was so quiet a moment ago.’

Sister María Inés pushed back the cloth that covered the baby’s head and searched it for bruises. She said: ‘Tell the truth.’

‘I promise. I did nothing to him.’

Sister María Inés continued to examine the child until she was convinced that he was not hurt. She covered his head again and asked: ‘Where is Carlota?’

She received no answer. Holding the baby in her arms, she guided Sister Lucía through the preparation of his food. As soon as she began to feed him, the baby stopped crying. The door opened and Sister Carlota entered the room in a hurry. The Mother Superior gave her an angry look. ‘I will decide the punishment of you two later,’ she said. ‘Now go away, all of you.’

The three nuns trooped out of the room and Sister María Inés sat on the bed holding the baby. He went to sleep in her arms while she continued to suffer from the terrible thought that he could have been harmed, and a feeling of mistrust stirred in her heart. She could not trust the nuns to do what she told them, to help her raise the child, who was her only hope of forgiveness in the world, and who had come at an age when she should have been thinking about wearing her shroud. She resolved to punish the sisters for their disobedience, vowed not to be lenient with anyone any more, decided never to allow Sister Ana to speak about the Devil and the child again.

She placed the sleeping baby on the bed and sat in a chair facing the window. She knew that there were people who hurt babies, even mothers and fathers who harmed their own children. In the mission hospital where she had worked, there had been cases of children with burns, cuts and broken limbs, and there had also been reported instances of infanticide: the newborn buried alive after the mother had died giving birth, a pair of twins killed because they were considered a bad omen, the little girl of a tribal chief sacrificed to bring rain. She knew, of course, that she was guilty of the greatest infamy too, for to her mind the end of her pregnancy years before amounted to nothing less than murder.

She was not surprised by Sister Ana’s behaviour towards her. She knew that she was her implacable enemy ever since her last annual visit to the Superioress General in the capital. The elderly woman had held the post for half a century with a success that owed as much to her virtue as to her mastery of compromise. On her latest visit, Sister María Inés found her tired and complaining of her health.

‘Life is losing patience with me, María Inés,’ the old woman said.

‘I am very sorry to hear you are unwell. What do the doctors say?’

‘They no longer care. I am now under the jurisdiction of a funeral director.’

She invited the Mother Superior to sit next to her and listened attentively while Sister María Inés talked about the affairs of the convent. Then she asked something that she had wanted to ask her for a long time: ‘Tell me, is there any problem with your nuns?’

Sister María Inés was taken aback at the question. ‘I do not believe so, Mother General.’

The other woman walked with great effort to her desk, opened a drawer and took out a bundle of letters. She placed them on top of her desk and pointed at them with a mocking finger. ‘These say that you are incompetent,’ she said.

Sister María Inés looked at the letters from where she sat.

‘I guess you know who they are from?’ the Superioress continued. ‘You should know that I have answered none of them. I do not approve of intrigue. Remind me again who Sister Ana is.’ A few clues were enough for her to remember. ‘Oh yes. She has caused trouble before, hasn’t she?’

‘She came to us from the convent of the Heart of Jesus,’ Sister María Inés said. ‘She believed that she was being persecuted there.’

‘I know the matter. What I had been told at the time was that she had an inordinate ambition.’

‘She still does,’ Sister María Inés said.

‘The line between serving God and trying to take His place is rather thin. Do not take it to heart. She probably thinks that prayer is not enough. She wants to offer Our Lord practical help. She has great faith in her abilities.’ The Superioress General sighed. ‘An
innovator
, God help us–just like the builders of Babel.’

‘As a matter of fact, she does speak several languages,’ Sister María Inés said.

‘Do you want me to write to her?’

‘It might make things worse. She causes no real problems. I suppose her clerical skills
have
proved useful. Oh–and she showed us how to dig an artesian well.’

The Superioress General put the letters back in the drawer. ‘An artesian well? As you wish. But in your place I would be careful.’

When Sister María Inés had returned to the convent, she had told Sister Ana nothing about her conversation with the Superioress General, but had begun to watch her more closely, unsure what the nun might try next, yet certain that she would not cease to behave in a manner that took her further away from the path of God.

The child slept quietly on the bed. She took the rosary that hung from her belt and prayed for a long time until she realised that she had missed lunch. She was still angry at the two nuns who had disobeyed her instructions about the child. She did not want to eat and did not want to see anyone right now, not even at the refectory table, where they did not speak to each other. She begged the Virgin’s pardon for having interrupted her prayer and resumed with closed eyes, every Ave Maria and Gloria Patri taking her a step closer to Heaven and giving her strength. But despite her effort to concentrate she soon strayed again from her contemplation and began to think about Sister Ana and how she, Sister María Inés, ought to put an end to her mutiny once and for all.

T
he discovery of the bloodied cloth convinced Sister Ana that the convent was visited by evil. Terrified but determined to thwart the plans of the Devil, she told no one what she had discovered. She did not know whom she could trust. There was always the possibility that not just the Mother Superior but also some of the other sisters were possessed. She spread the cloth out on the floor and examined it. She had assumed that it was a shroud but now saw that it was really an ordinary bed sheet. There was no doubt that it was stained with blood. She traced the stain with her finger, suspecting that it had to do with a ritual animal sacrifice. She crossed herself, repeating: ‘Almighty God, father of Our Lord Jesus Christ…’

Her room was on the upper floor of the dormitory, at the far end of the loggia that overlooked the courtyard, past several rooms where no one lived any more. She had chosen that room herself, seeking peace and quiet in a place that could not be more peaceful. On an easel by the window stood a small painting of the Transfiguration with an unfinished Jesus floating in the air above the figures of Saints Peter, James and John. On a table next to the easel was a palette, together with many brushes and knives for impasto all cleaned and arranged in size. Sister Ana had taken up painting only a few months before but was already on her second painting. She hoped to finish this one and two more by the end of the year, all with themes taken from the life of Jesus, and present the Bishop with the best painting. She folded the bloodied cloth and hid it under her mattress, then thought better of it and put it in a box and the box in a drawer. She felt her confidence return: she had God on her side.

Over the next few days she searched every corner of the convent for other evidence of demonic rituals, taking care not to give rise to suspicions. She did not miss any prayer, carried out her daily duties with the eagerness the Mother Superior had come to expect from her and no longer protested about the baby. In her spare time, she took a spade and pretended to go to the garden, but as soon as she was out of sight she strode up to the wall that ran round the convent and began to dig near where she had found the bloodied sheet. She found nothing and decided to search the derelict buildings of the convent.

One afternoon she pushed the door and entered the school for novices. The air smelled of decay and was filled with dust that reflected the light like a curtain made of gauze. Clutching her rosary she searched the empty rooms, terrified less by the Devil than by the floorboards, which, damaged by rot and wood-worm, might give way at any moment. Most of the furniture had been carried off to be sold or used in other parts of the convent, and the only pieces that remained were those too damaged to be of any use. She came across nothing on the ground floor that aroused her suspicions. She lit her hurricane lamp and searched the cellar, but there was nothing there either. Then she took the stairs up to the scriptorium, the room with the big windows where in the old times the nuns used to copy manuscripts to stock the convent library, and it was there that she finally found what she was searching for.

In a corner of the otherwise squalid room, under a pile of rolled parchments eaten by the rats, she noticed that the floor had been scrubbed clean very recently. Short of breath from having climbed the stairs, she knelt down and studied the floorboards in the light from the big windows and her lamp. Along the joints, where the scrubbing brush had not reached, there were traces of blood. She shuddered at the thought that somewhere among the lecterns and parchments scattered about the room might still lurk the demon invoked by the evident ritual. She kissed the cross on her rosary and quickly made her way out of the building. The autumnal sunlight slanted over the roofs of the convent and through the arches of the cloister, where she went to sit. For a moment her mission felt too great for her. She was only a nun in a distant corner of the world, and even though she believed she could achieve many things in life if she set her mind to them, she doubted whether she could fight the Devil all by herself. A voice close by greeted her. It was Sister Beatriz.

‘Where did you come from?’ Sister Ana asked.

‘You left in a hurry after lunch.’

‘I had to work on my painting. There is still a lot to do.’

‘Are you still worried about the baby?’

‘You know what I think,’ Sister Ana said. ‘Am I the only one who has not taken leave of her senses? The baby should be in the orphanage. Our vocation is the contemplative life. There are things appropriate to our calling that we should commit ourselves to.’

‘An orphanage is not the best place for a child to grow up,’ Sister Beatriz said.

The other woman shrugged. ‘We live in isolation. Let’s suppose the child falls ill one day.’

‘The Mother is a trained nurse.’

Sister Ana waved her away but did not protest when the other woman sat next to her. They stared at the well in the courtyard, the chapel behind it, the bell tower with the stork nest. Sister Beatriz said cautiously: ‘I saw you walking round the old buildings earlier.’

‘I like to walk. It’s good for my indigestion.’

‘You spent a long time inside the old school. I thought it strange.’

‘Many things seem strange lately. I have been saying so, but none of you want to listen.’ Sister Ana glanced round. There was no one else in the cloister. She leaned over to the other nun and added: ‘I have no doubt the Mother is possessed.’

The bell sounded the Ninth Hour. The two nuns joined the other sisters crossing the courtyard on their way to prayer. In the chapel they sat separately. Later that evening Sister Beatriz went to see Sister Ana in her room. She was standing at her easel working on the Transfiguration. She asked: ‘Has anyone seen you coming?’

Sister Beatriz had come across no one. The other women were all in their rooms. Sister Ana continued to paint with her back to her for a while, and then she stood back and asked her her opinion about the painting. Sister Beatriz came closer. ‘You have talent, Sister. You ought to paint something on the wall of the refectory.’

‘You mean a fresco. The Mother thinks it would be an indulgence.’

She picked up another brush and returned to her work. She painted with great concentration and a steady hand, her nose almost touching the canvas. Sister Beatriz stood and watched while the evening grew darker and the owls in the roof began to coo. Finally Sister Ana put down her palette and cleaned her brushes with turpentine. ‘Now,’ she said. ‘Let me show you.’

She took the bloodied sheet out of its hiding place and spread it out on the floor. ‘Mother of God,’ Sister Beatriz said and crossed herself.

‘It was buried on the far side of the convent. I found it by chance.’

Sister Beatriz pointed a finger at the stain.

‘Blood, of course,’ the other woman said. ‘It is unmistakable.’

‘Do you think that someone had an accident?’

‘Accident? You talk nonsense. Why would someone bury it? And so far out of the way?’

‘Perhaps it had been there for many years.’

‘It doesn’t look old. The rain and the worms would have ruined it.’ She knelt down and began to fold it up. ‘Besides, it’s not the only piece of evidence.’ She put the sheet back in its box and told the other woman what she had seen in the scriptorium: ‘The floor had almost no dust at all. It appears to have been cleaned recently. I have no doubt. Someone had scrubbed the blood well, but it had trickled into the gaps between the floorboards.’

Sister Beatriz shook her head. ‘But why would someone do all that, Sister?’

‘It must have been some ritual.’

‘A ritual?’

‘A sacrifice–some animal,’ Sister Ana said and added in a lower voice: ‘I believe it was one of Carlota’s strays.’

‘Do you think
she
is behind all this?’

‘Who–Carlota? Oh no, poor Carlota is quite harmless. One never knows, of course…but I think it’s very unlikely. I can’t say the same for the Mother. Her behaviour has been very questionable lately.’

‘Because she wants to keep the child? Do you think he has something to do with this?’

‘Naturally. The coming of the child and the ritual seem to have happened at about the same time.’

‘So you think the Mother brought him to the convent, Sister?’

‘Perhaps. Don’t ask me where she found him–I have no idea. And I don’t know what she intends to do with him. Maybe she plans to use him in another ritual. Of course, there is an even worse hypothesis. Maybe she didn’t bring the baby
herself
. Maybe she performed the ritual to ask for the baby.’

‘Ask whom?’

‘Satan, of course.’

‘It’s only a baby, Sister Ana.’

‘He does seem human, yes. But Satan has great powers of deception.’

‘You don’t really believe that.’

‘If you believe in God, you shouldn’t doubt the existence of evil.’

Sister Beatriz said: ‘I mean that cases of demonic visitation are very rare. And besides, I doubt the Devil would dare come into a convent. It’s a place that is guarded by God.’

‘Exactly,’ Sister Ana said. ‘It is what makes churches and convents even more desirable targets for him. Corrupting people like us is a greater victory than corrupting someone who is not devoted body and soul to God.’

‘God help us,’ Sister Beatriz sighed.

Sister Ana said: ‘There may be more evidence around but I couldn’t find it. In any case,’ she added and tapped the box containing the bloodied cloth, ‘this will be enough for the Bishop.’

‘The Bishop?’

‘The Bishop. I trust him to act. But I will need your help, Beatriz.’

‘What can I do, Sister?’

‘Have you started to drive again?’

‘The Mother says to arrange it with Lucía.’

‘Good. You will take me to the city, and the two of us will go see His Excellency.’

Sister Beatriz did not like the idea. She said: ‘Perhaps we should make an appointment first.’

‘We have no time to waste. Let’s just hope he’s in the city when we go.’

‘But he’s a very busy man. He might have no time to see us.’

‘He will,’ Sister Ana said. ‘His Excellency is a very good friend of mine.’

Before they parted, and although it was very late, Sister Ana insisted that they knelt and prayed to God and the Virgin to grant them courage. Then she anointed the doorpost and the window frames with oil from her votive lamp and gave some to Sister Beatriz, urging her to do the same in her room to keep out the Devil.