MEKANISMO
JOURNAL 1
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KEEPERS OF THE BELL
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Abbazia di Novalesa
Alta Val Susa
Piedmont
Italia
1938
June 4th.
Saturday
Post Terce
Madre Honoire slides her finger under the Vatican seal.
The letter contains no more than four tightly-scripted lines. She reads them carefully, reads them again, then closes her eyes to enter a silent plea.
‘Sister Mirais. Ring the tocsin. Gather everyone in the refectory.’
Since the untimely death of Padre Mension, the weight of the convent has settled unaided around her shoulders.
There is a letter for which she has desperately been waiting… but not this one.
‘Sisters. I have here a letter from The Vatican. Cardinal Ullman…’ She hesitates as the elder Sisters blanch at her utterance of the name. ‘…is to visit to discuss matters of vital importance to our Abbazia. He is to arrive by Tuesday of next week. Today is Saturday so let us waste no time. Sister Minette, take some of the novices to detail Padre Mension’s old room until it gleams. Find new bedding. Air it in the sunlight this afternoon. I want everything ready by tomorrow evening. Go… now.’
She motions to the elders where they stand conversing by silent glances along the colonnade. ‘My chamber.’
Honoire drops the letter to her table, where it glows like a vellum threat against the age-blackened wood.
‘I see you all understand.’
As one, the elders incline their heads.
Honoire takes her favourite chair. ‘How can we make the best of this?’
Sister Mirais lifts her face. ‘Perhaps there is no best of this.’
June 7th.
Tuesday
Post None
Sister Mirais’ heart trips at the sight of a small dust cloud moving independently of the wind. It resolves into an unfamiliar object moving briskly along, taking the sharp turn from the Susa-Novalesa road that will lead it to the Abbazia
She careers barefoot down the staircase from the bell-tower, her throat filled with a sour taste of apprehension.
Honoire looks up from the paperwork she is addressing.
Mirais clasps the smaller fingers of her left hand with her right, pulling them until the knuckles pop.
‘Madre! I think he is here.’
Honoire stands her pen in the inkwell and pushes her papers into an orderly pile.
‘Are you sure, Sister?’
‘There is a… I think… an automobile. So unless we are expecting anyone else from the town?’
Honoire moves from the table to stand by the door. She takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment as if it were her last act of freedom.
‘Then ring the tocsin, Mirais. I hope we are ready.’
Mirais stops, half out of the room, as Honoire calls to her.
‘Mirais, where do you think we should meet him?’
Mirais laughs bitterly. ‘Samarkand?’
The automobile hesitates at the bottom of the path to the Abbazia, its front wheels having already left the main road. Cardinal Ullman occupies a seat behind the glass screen that separates himself and Prêtre Benaud from the chauffeur. There is a sudden jolt as the tyres cross a drainage ditch and the vehicle comes to a halt.
Sun lances the windows, drenching Ullman in carmine and ivory reflections. The gold of his cross glints amongst the upholstery as the machine stands, swaying them all with the motion of its engine.
He taps the glass screen. ‘Move on.’
The directness of the sun at this altitude is giving rise to perspiration. The Cardinal’s underarms are clammy and he has a growing certainty that, despite their finery, his vest-ments have become stale.
The chauffeur throws up his hands in despair.
‘Your Eminence. The road is…’
Ullman shuffles in his seat. ‘I insist…’
Prêtre Benaud, a slight man of fifty-four years, frowns under the cover of a broad-brimmed hat.
‘Your Eminence, the Automobilist must know well what his machine is capable of.’
‘I don’t care.’
Benaud is pushed further along the seat until he is crushed into a corner. ‘Shall I open the window?’
‘No. There is too much dust. Just insist that he takes us up there!’
The chauffeur lifts his hands, palms uppermost. Benaud points along the path to where a wide phalanx of Sisters is waiting, some five hundred yards away.
‘Up there.’
The back wheels traverse the ditch. The Cardinal’s head hits the roof as the car spreads across the dirt path to lurch sideways, narrow tyres clawing at the loose soil. There is a loud metallic clang as the chassis rasps over a stone and hangs, one front wheel spinning helplessly in the air.
Benaud pushes the Cardinal away from him. The tilt of the car presses them back together.
‘I’m sorry, Your Eminence, but I think we will have to get out here.’
The Cardinal huffs his displeasure.
‘A German automobile…’
Prêtre Benaud opens the door beside him. It swings wide in an instant, dragging him to the ground. He picks himself up, replacing the broad saturno over his silvering hair.
‘I’m sorry, Your Eminence, but I really do think we will have to walk the last few yards.’
He stumbles around to the Cardinal’s side and reaches a hand into the interior. Ullman bats him away to climb out unaided. Self-consciously, he straightens his vestments before looking up to where the gathering is awaiting his arrival.
Even from this distance he can sense the collective smile they are hiding.
As the Cardinal draws near, Madre Honoire bows her head in supplication and falls in step beside him. Benaud, smiling beatifically, treads behind them, exchanging nods with the front row of Sisters. At the threshold of the gate, Honoire halts their progress.
‘Your Eminence, we welcome you to our humble Abbazia. We have felt your presence amongst us ever since we received your letter. Since that day you have been in our every thought and preparation.’
The Cardinal hesitates beside her, surveying the ranks of sisters, novices and postulants around him. He is aware of the stale odour arising from his clothing, made acute by his discomfort in the presence of so many women.
‘I assure you, Sister, my thoughts have been with you also. May we…?’ He indicates the gate. ‘It has been a long journey.’
‘And a path that we have all trod.’ Honoire clasps her hands together across her small stomach. ‘But would you grace our Order with one last favour?’
Ullman fidgets uncertainly.
Honoire looks down at his feet, at the gold thread slippers he wears. ‘Would you please remove your shoes before entering?’
‘What?’
Prêtre Benaud nudges him surreptitiously from behind.
‘What? Oh, yes. I see. Of course.’
Benaud knocks dust from the slippers as His Eminence treads cautiously into the yard. As they pass through the gate, Ullman glances briefly behind.
The Sisters have closed ranks and are following, sealing him in.
SEXT
Padre Mension’s old room bears a slight echo, despite the abundance of chests and boxes that have been carried up the hill by donkey from a second motor car.
In the centre stands a single bed with a rough wooden frame. The wheat-husk mattress crunches beneath Ullman’s weight and he hopes he will not be sharing it tonight with too many of God’s lesser creatures.
‘Benaud!’
Through the opened door, the Cardinal can see the rough cot the sisters have prepared in the corridor for Prêtre Benaud.
‘Yes, Cardinal?’
‘Is there any hot water in this forsaken place?’
‘I am sure there is, Your Eminence. I shall see what I can do.’
Prêtre Benaud returns wheeling a zinc hip bath.
The Cardinal assumes a look of sullen amazement.
‘What is that?’
‘It is Madre Honoire’s own.’
‘Then make sure it is well scrubbed before I get in.’June 8th.
Wednesday
LAUDS
Madre Honoire opens the door of her office to find the Cardinal already waiting. His skin is pink and flushed. A night at the Abbazia seems to have done him little harm and in the early light through the niche window he carries a certain rudeness of health that the dust had masked the day before.
In her absence he has seated himself behind the desk in her own favourite chair.
As he shows no sign of relinquishing it, she takes the edge of the supplicant seat she keeps for visitors and tries to ignore the fact that he is pawing through her personal papers.
‘Good morning, Cardinal.’
He beams across the desk at her. ‘I see the locals keep you busy.’
‘The world is filled with woe, Your Eminence.’
‘Yes. But some of these…’
‘To an ant, a few grains of sand become a great burden.’
‘But really… look at this one…’
‘Your Eminence, given the weight of responsibility your position carries, how should the world expect your concern over a few grains of sand?’
‘Right… right.’ The Cardinal pushes the papers into a loose pile. ‘I suppose there is a place for you people.’
Honoire sits back into the chair. ‘And in everything a purpose… including your visit?’
The Cardinal leans his elbows onto the desk, lacing his fingers in the air. ‘Yes. Padre Mension.’
Madre Honoire looks the Cardinal steadily in the eye.
‘Forever in our memory. He will be sorely missed.’
‘Yes. Yes. Good man, so I heard.’
‘Irreplaceable.’
The Cardinal returns her direct stare. ‘Hell teems with irreplaceable people.’ He sits back from the table, enjoying the moment. ‘Which returns me to the purpose of my visit.’
Honoire shudders visibly. The Cardinal’s face adopts a look of solicitous concern, but his eyes remain fixed with a dark humour.
‘My dear Madre, are you unwell?’
‘Nothing that time will not cure, Your Eminence.’
‘Then it is time indeed that Padre Mension was replaced.’
‘We feel that too. I have done my best, but my Sisters are now long without patriarchal guidance.’
‘We shall attend to that need. Assemble them in the great hall this evening and I shall personally hear their confessions.’
‘Would it not be better for them to wait until the new Priest is installed?’
‘Madre, you have done your best, but while I am here it would be uncivilised of me not to rectify your shortcomings. A matriarchal order should never be left unattended for long.’
‘Then it shall be as you wish. After Vespers?’
‘Indeed.’ The Cardinal eases himself from the chair.
Madre Honoire hesitates, thinking to gain her seat, but Ullman sits down again.
Another tremor runs visibly through her body.
‘Madre? Are you sure you are not unwell?’
‘I am fine, Your Eminence. Though we are under great pressure perhaps without a priest… so many ants… so many grains of sand.’
The Cardinal nods sagely. ‘Yes. A new priest will relieve you of the more important tasks of spiritual welfare.’
‘Your Eminence…’ Honoire feels the lump rise in her throat but knows that she must climb over it.
She understands that she is being forced to ask, and that she hardly dare. ‘Do you have a particular priest in mind?’
Ullman leans back into the chair. ‘Yes, Madre. I do.’
Honoire studies his eyes as they narrow, incipiently porcine where the folds of his fat flesh obscure the lids.
‘Madre?’
‘I’ll be fine. As you say, the rest may be good for all of us.’
Ullman discards her papers across the desk without significance.
‘Your new priest will have the willing ear of myself and therefore that of Rome. If there is anything you need he will immediately let me know.’
Honoire straightens in the chair and draws a single deep breath.
‘I thank Your Eminence. I am sure we shall find that useful.’
The Cardinal greets her acceptance with a nod.
‘Good. Good. But no grains of sand, eh?’
‘Certainly not, Your Eminence.’ In unaccustomed haste, she adds. ‘Is there anything we can do to enhance your stay with us?’
‘Yes. You can make it shorter. Please order the motor cars to return from the town for tomorrow morning.’
‘As you wish, Your Eminence.’
‘I shall leave behind a small box. It is of no great significance but please ensure that the new padre receives it unopened immediately upon his arrival.’
He bellows from the chair. ‘Benaud!’
Prêtre Benaud opens the door from the corridor at such speed that Honoire realises he must have been listening to the conversation.
‘Benaud! Fetch the box.’
Prêtre Benaud returns immediately with a small box dressed like a packing crate.
Through the slats, Madre Honoire can see the glow of darkly polished wood.
‘May I ask Your Eminence what is in the box? If it is of significance I shall place it out of reach of accidental harm.’
‘Do not concern yourself with the contents, Madre.’
Ullman taps the box with the tips of his fingers.
‘Mere grains of sand.’