The Priest's Madonna (27 page)

The doctor visited and pronounced Father’s recovery an act of God. “And for such a sinner as you, Edouard!” he said, shaking his head.

“It’s because I’ve a priest for a son-in-law,” my father said.

“Shut your mouth, Edouard,” said my mother. “Don’t listen to him, Doctor. He’s still delirious.”

“I’ll tell you something,” the doctor said, licking bits of goat cheese from his fingers. “If you don’t fix up this house, get some mortar into those cracks, miracle or no, that pneumonia will come back with a vengeance.”

But we had no money to hire a mason, and it was not the sort of work that could be done easily by volunteer neighbors. The stones were irregularly sized. One or two had already come loose and had to be wedged back into their spots with the help of wet woolen scraps. Other stones threatened to do the same. The stones on the north side of the house were slick with slime and a thin coating of moss. A family of doves had nested in the eaves just above the door and used our doorstep as a chamberpot. “It’s not worth fixing,” Claude said one winter evening. “You’d have to spend a year’s worth of pay just to get the stones cleaned up, forget about the mortar. This place is as old as the castle.”

“Why not move in with me?” Bérenger suggested. He was sipping some spiced wine that Mother had served, leaning back in his chair, expansive and merry.

My father did not shift his gaze from the fire.

“Consider it a kind of insurance,” Bérenger said. “Just until Edouard recovers fully and you can afford to have a mason patch up the house.”

My mother set the skein of wool she was winding on her lap. We all looked at Father. Taking his time, he rocked for a long moment. “It’s a generous offer,” he said.

“You think it odd, Edouard,” said Bérenger, smiling apologetically.

“You know me,” my father said. “Altruism makes me suspicious.”

Bérenger shrugged. “I have the room. You have the need. It’s very simple.” When my father still did not respond, he said, “You’re my family here.”

My father beckoned for Bérenger to approach him and when Bérenger moved close enough, Father grabbed his face and planted a kiss on the top of his head.

We moved the next month, before winter set in. The presbytery was not much larger than our house, but it was much better insulated. There was an extra room upstairs, which my parents took as their bedroom, and a small chamber next to the kitchen, which I claimed. Claude slept on a cot by the hearth. He had taken to staying out late—he was old enough now to frequent the tavern—and he did not like to disturb us when he came in. It would not be too long until he found a bride, a girl he met at the factory, and moved to his own house, also in Rennes-le-Château. And as for my father, after several months of rest, he was able to return to work.

Meanwhile, I began to pray often, finding comfort and peace from my prayer. God expanded in my mind to fill the sky and the earth, the
feux follets
and the swift-winged owl; he was no longer limited to the dimensions assigned him by the Church: Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Or, rather, the God I had only experienced as Father and Son I now grew to know more fully as Holy Ghost: immanent, omnipresent, accessible, close by.

The reawakening of my religious feeling did nothing to ease my physical longing for Bérenger, as one might expect. If anything, it intensified, for Bérenger, as my priest, was my mediator to the world of spirit. My new yearning for intimacy with God merged with my desire for physical intimacy with Bérenger—despite his secrets from me. To embrace him would be, somehow, to embrace the mystery that was belief, that was faith.

Now our constant proximity kept me in a state of perpetual want. I inhaled deeply in his presence. I stood closer to him, brushed my sleeve against his when I served him. It was not a calculation, I had no plan to seduce Bérenger, in fact, quite the opposite, for I wanted nothing but to keep things as they were, to maintain the affection we shared, the coziness—but the impulse toward touch was an instinct, irrepressible. I was a cat drawing toward warmth, a child clamoring to be held. It embarrassed me, my need. I wanted to box it up and tuck it away, but it would not be hidden. It painted itself across my face, emanated from me like a fragrance. Even through anger I felt it, tingling at the tips of my fingers, causing an excitement of sensation just beneath my skin.

I always knew his location in the house, for my body acted as my compass. If Bérenger walked above in his room as I worked in the kitchen, the hairs on my arms and my neck tugged me toward the ceiling; if he came in while I was upstairs making the beds, I felt the air between us funnel into a directional current—my mind, which might have been wandering peacefully, snapped back into my body, and, united, mind and body would converge on him. I listened for his movements, anticipated the first footfall on the stairs, his voice calling my name. I parsed his behavior in an effort to know his mood, to decipher his thoughts. Nor was I alone, for I could feel the same emanation from him, the want traversing plaster and wood, seeking me. He always looked for me upon entering the presbytery, and only when he’d found me and learned how I was occupied would he go about his own business.

Still, he managed to be restrained. I do not know from what reserve he drew his will. He returned my touches affectionately—if I leaned into his shoulder while serving his plate, he would pat my wrist; if I stood close to him, he might place a momentary hand on my waist—but with no impropriety. This is not to say that he was not moved: for I could see the skin at his nostrils whiten with the effort of his restraint, and I could sense the power of his own longing. But he was valiant, unwilling to renounce his priestly vow. I think he received consolation in the knowledge that his will was victor over his desire.

There was always this underlying inequality between us, this imbalance of powers. I reached up to love him, heavenward, while he had to slide down. Loving me kept him tethered to the earth. I tempted him, drew him away from his more perfect self, beckoned him from his spirit to his flesh. This was how I spoke to myself on bad days, when Bérenger was moody or unfriendly. I told myself I deserved his scorn, for if it weren’t for me he would be free to float, spirit hovering in body, living in the world but not of it. This was pure fantasy, however, for Bérenger was not and never had been a spiritual person, despite his ambitions. He was squarely in and of the world. His love for me was simply a manifestation of his earthly orientation; his obsession with building was another. Still, he had made his vows, and that very fact made us both aware that his was the greater sacrifice. What did I have to sacrifice, after all, to love him? Children. Normalcy, perhaps. But these were things I had never really wanted; he was what I had wanted. Bérenger, on the other hand, longed to live in the sheltering shade of God’s love. We both knew, then, the measure of self-hatred and guilt that colored our love, we both feared and regretted that he was choosing me, an earthly companion, over an eternal one.

Home, I am afraid, became somewhat hazardous for Bérenger. If he was not working to resist me, he could be found arguing with my mother, for they had lost some of the mutual respect that had once characterized their friendship. She sniped at him, making insinuations about his moral health, until he grew sullen. She would occasionally apologize when she saw that she’d wounded him, for she did love him and knew that we owed Father’s health to his generosity. But she could never entirely forgive him for his imperfections—his weakness in the face of temptation, his this-worldly love of me.

It was partly for this reason, then, that Bérenger turned his attention once more to his construction projects. He spent the cold winter months drawing plans for a garden to be planted in the church courtyard, a half-acre of land in front of the cemetery, and when spring came, he set to his project with enthusiasm, laying paths, installing benches, planting hedges and dwarf trees as well as a variety of flowers. He ordered a statue commemorating Our Lady of Lourdes and erected it that June in an enclosure of the garden he had dedicated to the Virgin. People were so pleased with the garden—they strolled through it and lounged on the benches all that summer—that no one objected to Bérenger’s next project: to dig a cistern adjacent to the cemetery entrance. He declared that he needed it to water the garden. But I was suspicious. I wondered whether his ulterior goal was to gain access to the tomb. I inspected the progress of the project during the day and listened for strange noises at night. If a branch rubbed another in the wind, or a dog scrabbled in the dirt, I would stand in the dark doorway in my nightdress, trying to discern Bérenger’s shape in the vicinity of the garden.

The cistern was completed by summer’s end. As far as I could tell, after peering into it several times, there was no secret doorway. Bérenger planned to build a chamber above the cistern to serve as a library, but he did not accomplish this project until the following year. He had become very busy with the temporary assignment of an extra parish in Antugnac, some three miles distant. Every Sunday after our Mass, he would set out with his walking stick and would return after nightfall, bathed in sweat. I sat with him as he ate a late supper of fresh vegetables and
chèvre,
listening to him complain about the unfriendly treatment he was receiving at his new parish. Some nights we sat together in the garden, feeling the wind cool our skin, letting the roses and the lilacs overwhelm our senses. I could not help but feel on those evenings that the universe favored our intimacy. God had blessed us with a love. Why should we not revel in it?

E
VENTUALLY, BÉRENGER TURNED his attention to the installation of the new pulpit—another ornate creation he had ordered from Toulouse. The work team arrived one morning in September to prepare the floor for the installation. By afternoon, they were gone: Bérenger had fired them.

“They were lollygaggers,” he said. “We can find better men.”

His decision was strange, for he had admitted the previous day how excited he was for the new pulpit’s arrival. “It’s beautiful, Marie,” he had boasted. “Decorated with gilded plaster statuettes and all surrounded by pastel blue arches.” He had seemed so impatient. Now he would have to wait longer while he looked for a new crew.

But I was beyond surprised—I was shocked—when I walked into the church later that day to find the Virgin’s altar demolished and the knight’s stone missing. In place of the stone lay three wooden planks side by side, surrounded by a flimsy wire fence. I ran to find Bérenger in the presbytery.

“Where’s the stone?” I demanded.

He affected a confused expression.

“The knight’s stone,” I persisted. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Oh, the men took it out. The new pulpit will be put in its place.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It was routine work, Marie. I didn’t think of it.”

“You knew I was interested in it.”

“I’m sorry.” His tone was dismissive.

“What have you done with it?”

“It’s in the cemetery, in perfect condition.”

I found it there moments later, propped up against the outer wall of the church, its carved surface facing inward. I pulled at it, but it was too heavy to budge, so I knelt beside it and inspected it with my fingers. Satisfied that it had not been damaged, I returned to the sanctuary, where I intended to move aside one of the planks to see what was underneath, but when I got there, Mme Flèche was already in her pew, so all I could do was stand by the fence and peer over it futilely.

The new pulpit was not installed for more than a month. In the meantime, the planks and fence remained, taunting me. Once, when the church was empty, I went to pry up one of the planks and look beneath, but I found that the fence, though flimsy in appearance, was locked and would not be budged. When I asked Bérenger what was under the planks, he simply shrugged and said, “Dirt, Marie. What else?”

I was certain he had found the tomb. He grew more aloof, more evasive, and appeared to be losing sleep. He brooded continually, and if I asked what was bothering him, he became snappish. One evening, I heard the front door creak open after midnight. I listened, thinking it might be Claude returning from the tavern, but heard no further sounds. Quickly, I donned my robe and slipped out the front door. The night was chilly; I clasped my arms to my chest and ran to the church door.

It was locked. A dim glow lit the windows—lantern light. I rattled the door. “Bérenger!” I shouted. But he did not come. I waited until my skin was rigid with goose bumps and my teeth began to chatter.

At home, I sat on the settee, resolved to stay awake until he returned. Claude had come home and was snoring by the hearth. I watched the coals grow dull. The room was cold; I curled into a ball, my feet tucked into my gown, and rested my head on the cushion. Finally, I fell asleep.

I woke to the creak of the door. Bérenger was shutting it behind him, dressed in mud-smeared trousers and a work shirt. He started at the sight of me: my face undoubtedly haggard and drawn, my hair loose.

“Marie,” he said.

“What have you found?” I asked.

“Marie, you’re shivering.” He stepped closer, touched my hand with a warm finger. “Your hands are ice. Get in bed this instant.”

He was right: my body was tense with cold. I allowed him to walk me to my bed and tuck me beneath the bedclothes, then waited, still shivering, while he went to revive the fire. He heated the kettle, then brought me a cup of steaming coffee and a bottle of hot water, which he set at my feet.

“You’re keeping things from me,” I said. “What were you doing in the church all night?”

“Hush, Marie,” he said, his brow creased with concern. “Drink your coffee.”

I fell sick, then, with a brutal cough, and had to stay in bed for weeks. Mother nursed me and Bérenger visited me every afternoon and evening, ignoring my demands for him to tell me what he was up to. I found it difficult to maintain my self-righteous anger, for he was so faithful, so thoughtful, so concerned. He brought me beguiling colored stones, told me of Pichon’s latest triumphs—his first two-word sentence (
Mama, no!
), his efforts at walking—and prayed for me, earnestly and with evident apprehension. “You must get better soon, Marie,” he scolded me. “I’m in need of your fine cooking.”