The Square of Revenge (14 page)

“You mean the investigation’s being cut short?” Van In asked, still having difficulty believing what De Kee had just told him.

“I have to admit, you’re a master of the understatement, Van In.”

De Kee curled his bloodless lips into a thin smile.

“Personnel informs me that you have more than three hundred hours overtime to your credit,” he said indifferently. “If I was you, I’d start cashing them in, beginning today.”

“All three hundred?”

“Let’s say you’re taking some time off.”

“But that’s more than two months,” said Van In, quickly doing the math.

“Two months is perhaps a little exaggerated,” De Kee conceded. “Let’s agree to meet for a chat at the beginning of August.”

“You can’t be serious, Commissioner. What will the others think? I always take my vacation in September.” Van In suddenly realized he was close to begging.

“Of course, I can’t force you,” said De Kee nonchalantly.

Van In sighed. It was all show. De Kee wanted to scare the shit out of him, and the bastard had succeeded, in spades.

“But you’ll have to explain yourself to the mayor’s council. The mayor himself is refusing to budge. And if I’m not mistaken, suspension without salary is not what you want to hear right now,” he added with another thin smile.

Van In refused to believe what he was hearing.
Almost anything goes with the Bruges police
, he thought to himself.
Weird stuff happens every day … but this?
His stomach shrunk as if he hadn’t eaten in days.

“Chin up, Van In. It’s not the end of the world,” said De Kee as he watched the color drain from the assistant commissioner’s face. “Look on the bright side. Two months vacation, man. I wish I was in your place.”

“I still don’t understand what’s so bloody important about this case,” said Van In, unable to control his temper. His reverence for the chief commissioner’s authority made way for uninhibited anger-fueled defiance. De Kee took it to be nothing more than a final spasm, knowing that Van In had no alternative.

Van In clenched his fist and thumped De Kee’s desk. He felt powerless. He was taken aback as a result when De Kee appeared at his side and gave him an almost paternal pat on the back.

“If I had been leading the investigation, my good friend, they would have sent me on vacation too.”

Van In shook his head expressionlessly. He thought about the ideals of his youth and how he had renounced them.
Down with class difference, down with capitalism
, we chanted back then. And the powerful looked on in pity, let us spend our fury, and then they offered us a job. It was a simple tactic, but he had never thought about it before.
What would happen
, he thought, brimming over with bitterness,
if all the forty-somethings looking back on their lives decided to revolt a second time, even if they knew it was pointless and defeat was inevitable?

“Come, on your way,” he heard De Kee say. “Drink a couple of whiskeys and book a trip to Tenerife.”

Van In got to his feet and left De Kee’s office without a word.

As soon as he was alone, De Kee grabbed the telephone and punched in the number of Ludovic Degroof.

Daniel Verhaeghe spent his first miserable night in the hard and narrow monastery bed. He had no idea what the nuns might stuff into their mattresses to make their lives any more disagreeable. Needles and ground glass, he presumed.

There was nothing about the place that he liked.

Dinner the previous day had been a serious ordeal. He had made his way to the kitchen at six-thirty, following the schedule “sister doorkeeper” had given him. He saw no one on the way, and when he arrived the place was empty.

The layout in the small kitchen gave him some idea of what to expect. The air was filled with the smell of cheap soapsuds and stale bread, and there was a cupboard and a simple gas burner. A spotless sink glistened in the corner, the tap above it breaking the monotony of the white-tiled wall. A narrow kitchen counter took up most of the remaining space.

Thirty numbered containers were arranged side by side on the counter. Five wooden containers had been set apart to the far left. One of them had a piece of paper with his name on it, the other four the names of the other guests. The sisters apparently waited until the guests served themselves before coming to the kitchen for their own containers. On Sundays, everyone ate alone in their cell.

Each of the roughly four-inch-deep rectangular containers had the same disappointing contents: a couple of slices of coarse brown bread, a bowl of white spreading cheese, and a bottle of still mineral water.

Daniel had waited a couple of minutes, but when no one showed up he returned reluctantly to his cell with his frugal meal. He had tossed the container onto his bed, but after an hour the hunger was too much and he devoured every last crumb. While he ate, he asked himself what kind of God took pleasure in this sort of thing. To get back at whatever divinity was causing his misery, he smoked five cigarettes in a row and finished what was left of the whiskey in his pocket flask. He had then scribbled a short note and deposited it in the box marked “messages.”

He was curious to see if the sisters had already responded.

He walked to the front door in his bare feet. There was no response, as he had suspected.

He got dressed in a huff. The miserable rain outside lashed the tiny window. Sullen gray clouds had settled on the tops of the pine trees in the distance.

“Can it get any worse?” he grumbled.

The chill of the rain and the pangs of hunger made him shiver. He pulled the thin blanket from his bed and threw it over his shoulders like a cloak. He had overslept, that was clear. The nuns of Bethlehem had already started their day. He examined their schedule anew to see what they were up to.

Everyone rose at 4:45 for Matins, which he had evidently missed. They then collected breakfast from the kitchen and ate it alone in their cell. At 8:15 they chanted Terce alone in their cell. Sext was at 9:55 and the angelus was rung at 12 noon. The afternoon was set aside for meditation and Vespers were at 5
P.M
. in the chapel, followed by mass. The day was brought to a close after dinner with Compline.

The sisters devoted the remaining hours to manual labor. They decorated porcelain cups and plates and used the proceeds to provide for themselves.

This was the life and work of the nuns of Bethlehem, day in, day out, in seclusion and prayer. The only interruption to the routine was on Sundays when they ate together at noon and walked together in the garden for a couple of hours. This was the only moment in the week that they had contact with one another.

And anyone thinking such a place must be full of ancient oddball sanctimonious hypocrites would be completely off the mark. The majority of the sisters were thirty-five or younger, and most of them had one or more university degrees under their belt.

That’s what Laurent told him.

Most of them were also from wealthy families.

Is the world really such a bad place? Daniel mused.

A bell clanging on the corridor made him jump.
Shit, ten past eight
, he cursed. Daniel hoped desperately they hadn’t removed the breakfast containers. He would have killed for a cup of coffee and some decent toast.

The corridor was just as silent and deserted as it had been the day before. He crept toward the kitchen, like a shadow close to the walls. He felt a little guilty and didn’t want to bump into anyone.

He cautiously opened the kitchen door and slipped inside. A single container remained on the kitchen counter, an accusing witness to his negligence.
Thank God the nuns like variety
, he sneered to himself. Breakfast consisted of rye bread, a bowl of milk, and a ceramic pot of pear jelly.

During his visit to the kitchen, someone had slipped a note under the door of his cell.
So they are keeping an eye on me
, he thought. Scribbled in miserly handwriting on an unsightly sheet of paper were the words:
Father, please be kind enough to preside at the Eucharist today at 17:25.
The time had been underlined.

Damn you, Laurent
, he thought as he popped a chunk of rubbery rye bread into his mouth. Laurent had planned everything to the last detail as he had done before their nocturnal visit to Degroof’s. Thus far, his planning had been immaculate.

To his surprise, Daniel found the rest of the breakfast more than edible. He cleaned out the pot of pear jelly with his finger.

At nine-thirty, when he was certain everyone would be in their cells, he stuffed his jeans and sweater into a plastic bag and quietly left the building.

Fortunately the rain had stopped. He changed into his street clothes behind some bushes a couple of hundred yards from the monastery and well out of sight. It was only a twenty-minute walk from the monastery to Marche-les-Dames. Laurent had forbidden him to leave the monastery, but Daniel was intent on making the most of every day he had left. The chances of his absence being noticed were close to nonexistent, and even if the sisters became aware of it they wouldn’t ask questions. They clearly believed he was a priest, otherwise they would never have asked him to preside at mass that evening.

It started to drizzle around four in the afternoon as he slipped back inside. He thought it strange that sneaking in and out of one of the strictest and most isolated convents in the world had been so easy.

Instead of one plastic bag, he returned with three. The first contained his jeans and sweater. The second was bursting at the seams with drink and other provisions. He had guzzled half a bottle of whiskey in the course of the day, and at lunchtime he had tucked in to a healthy entrecote with fries. He didn’t touch the food containers in the kitchen after that.
Let the sisters think I’m fasting
, he thought.

In the safety of his cell, he hoisted the bottle of J&B to his lips and gulped. He had to be careful, of course. Just enough to suppress the gnawing stage fright. He had to celebrate mass later and that meant a public, an expert public. He had rehearsed the ritual ad nauseam, but it still let him uneasy. Just the thought of it made his stomach turn with nervousness.

He took his last mouthful of whiskey at ten past five and when the taste had subsided, he popped a couple of Fisherman’s Friends in his mouth and returned the box to his pocket. He then hurried to the chapel, to his relief slipping unnoticed into the sacristy via a side door. The sister sacristan had set out the vestments with great care.

He pulled the spotlessly white alb over his head, his knees knocking. There was no one with him in the sacristy to witness it, but he kissed the cross on the stole nonetheless. He then popped his head through the opening in the chasuble and draped it over his arms and shoulders just as he had learned.

When he was ready, he looked in the mirror. Real priests always did the same.
Probably the only mirror in the convent
, Daniel imagined. The idea that it was intended for the exclusive use of the monastery’s few male visitors made him smile.

As he examined himself, the singing in the adjacent chapel fell silent. Daniel wasn’t sure if this was the end of Vespers, so he shilly-shallied by the door leading from the sacristy to the chapel. Just as he was about to open it, a bell started to ring. He decided to wait a little longer. He broke into a cold sweat and yearned for a slug of whiskey and a cigarette.

After five minutes, the door was cautiously and noiselessly pushed open. Sister doorkeeper shuffled into the sacristy.

“Good evening, Father.”

Daniel nodded politely and even attempted a benign smile. He took stock of the diminutive sister unobserved. The wimple covered most of her face. He had studied the photograph of Benedicta Degroof for hours on end, but it wasn’t going to be easy to recognize her under a habit like this. Not to mention the fact that the photo had been taken more than sixteen years ago.

“Please follow me,” said sister doorkeeper, her voice unexpectedly hushed.

Daniel raised his eyes to the heavens, took a deep breath, and followed her.

It was dark in the chapel. The sisters didn’t have the money for electricity and only a small part of the monastery had been wired for it. What light there was came from five gothic windows, peering downward like eyes smoldering gently in the roughhewn stone.

The place was like a medieval fortress chapel and looked more fifteenth-century than eighteenth-century. The rib vaults, dark uneven floor tiles, and small cube-shaped altar reinforced the impression. The sisters had assembled in two rows along the side walls. Two nuns were holding on to a rope that was connected to a bell through an opening in the vaulted ceiling.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” Daniel had learned the texts by heart just to be on the safe side, but he still had to give the impression he was reading it all from the missal. Laurent had surprised him when he said that few, if any, priests were capable of saying mass without textual support.

Every now and then Daniel looked up and scanned the chapel. But no matter how hard he tried, he was unable to identify Benedicta. All the sisters participated in the service with their head bowed, and a couple were even shrouded in complete darkness.

He was going to have to be patient until communion time.

Laurent had been right, as usual. It was the only way to get a good look at them.

Much to his surprise, the celebration went off without a hitch. But he was troubled by muted remorse at the consecration when he realized he was about to deceive these unsuspecting, trusting creatures. The bread they would be receiving today was just bread and not the body of the God for whom they had offered up their lives.

“And on the night He was betrayed, He took bread in his sacred hands, blessed the bread, broke it, and gave it to his apostles saying: take and eat, this is my body.”

As Daniel spoke these words, he thought back to the night he and his mother had been betrayed. He was grateful to Laurent for warning him against such moments of weakness.