The Bells (19 page)

XIV.

D
o not think me such a coward to suppose I retrieved that blindfold, cleaned off the dirt, and hoped to make her wear it again. I left it in the street for the horses to trample.

As I endured the week of Holy Offices, I knew my deceit was at an end. She would know I was a castrate—even if she somehow did not read it in the softness of my face, I would tell her. Though I fought back visions of her laughter cruel as that of Feder and the other choirboys, in my heart I knew she would not be spiteful.

She might insist it made no difference. That she loved me as much as ever. This she might even believe. But I knew different. Orpheus was a man and I was not. If I took her back to that attic, we would both blush. We would stare at the spots of paint on the table and not know what to say. If our eyes met, we would smile shyly. Would she hug me like a sister?

I ached with regret as I sat in the stalls, oblivious to the chanting around me. The only sounds I heard were those in my memory that I treasured most, which soon I would have no right to hear. Yet, as the week wore on, I noticed an eagerness growing inside me. Soon someone would share my secret.

When the sun had finally set on that last day of waiting, I lit a candle and stood before the remaining shards of mirror on my wall. I had bathed, scrubbing off every speck of dirt. Since the last time I observed my own reflection, my eye sockets had lost their dark circles. My cheeks had grown fuller and gained a healthy flush.

Out in the city, I circled Haus Duft twice, waiting for the lights to extinguish. I tried to mine the sounds from within, but they still beguiled me. I heard the clangs of kitchens where I knew the sleeping quarters to be, excited talk from a room whose window was dark.

The last light was extinguished just after the abbey’s bell struck midnight. I hid outside the garden gate, listening for the creaking hinge. She did not come. At one, I grew impatient and resolved to see if she had left a note. I withdrew the key she had given me, opened the gate, and crept to the garden window.

What disappointment I felt to find a slip of paper on that sill! I retrieved it and tilted it toward the moonlight. I almost had to touch it to my nose to read it:

My dearest Moses
,

How glad I will be in the morning when I find no note on this windowsill and know that you have come. I so want to see you with my eyes! I can think of nothing else. But tonight it is not to be. There is something about. Karoline is a crafty witch—she left for Bruggen, but then I heard her in the cellar. I dare not come. But next week she shall be gone again, and I will be out in the night, gazing at my Orpheus
.

A
.

I pressed the note to my chest, as if her voice could caress me through the ink. Another whole week! How could I fight back my doubts so long?

Then I heard a door open into the garden.

She had come after all! I nearly leapt out into view, but I did not want to frighten her, not on this night with so much at stake.

“Amalia,” I whispered.

There was a gasp, and I realized in an instant that I had made a most terrible mistake. That heavy breath was not Amalia’s.

“Did you hear that!” said Karoline Duft. “I told you I saw something coming through the gate. I have the eyes of a cat. We will catch this scoundrel yet.”

I had not seen her for several years, but I immediately knew that silhouette stamping into the garden, though now her hips were so wide one could have believed she hid her brother’s fortune in her underclothes. She whipped her narrow head from side to side as if she wished to shake something loose inside of it.

With a thump of boots, two men—the abbot’s soldiers both of them—stepped into the garden behind her. They moved slowly.

“He is here,” she said. “In this garden. Find him.”

They looked languidly behind bushes as she pulled up her skirts and hunted. She was the loudest cat ever known to nature, snapping limbs off shrubs, huffing with the effort, cursing quietly with whatever air remained.

I did not move. I prayed that they would search in the other direction first, so I could dart across the garden and out the gate, but the soldiers poked the hedges along the garden wall with their bludgeons, and Karoline drew nearer to me. Then she was upon me; her hips blackened out the night.

“Come out!” she instructed. “You are apprehended!”

I did come out. I sprang around her so silently and swiftly she squeaked and fell onto her soft behind. I darted for the gate. But a soldier waited there, and as I passed him, he raised his forearm and caught my throat. I fell to the ground. I choked and gasped and was sure I would never breathe again. A boot pinned my chest to the ground.

I heard her thumps along the ground. Then her white face appeared above me, partially obscured by the planet of her waist.

“A monk!” she cried.

“No, madam,” said the second soldier, whose weary face joined the two others staring down at me. “Just a novice.”

“Wickedness!” she said, and shook her finger as if she would drive the stuff out of my filthy soul. “But you shall not stain this house! Not while I am alive! These eyes are always watching. I saw the guilt in her eyes! Wickedness! Evil! And a monk! You wait until the abbot hears of this!”

“And he will,” said the soldier with his boot grinding into my chest. “First thing in the morning.”

“In the morning!” Karoline said. “Take me to him now!”

“Madam, the abbot is asleep.”

In the moonlight, I saw Karoline regard the soldier with as much scorn as she had just regarded me. “This is not some profanity with a parlor maid,” she said slowly. “He threatens the reputation of a family of first importance to the abbot. This boy threatens an engagement of first importance to this city. Take me to the abbot now.”

The soldier sighed, so softly I was sure only I had heard it. He grabbed my elbow and lifted me as if I were made of straw. “Any trouble and I’ll twist off your arm,” he said, and twisted once to confirm his proficiency in such procedures. He pushed me toward the gate.

“Give me that.” Karoline snatched the letter I still held in my hand. I had not thought to hide it.

She read it.

“I can make nothing of this foul gibberish,” she said, “but it does seem best we leave this note where you found it. She need not know you were here at all. A little disappointment will do her good.”

Karoline stomped through the low bushes below the window and laid the note back on the sill. I thought to call to my love, to shout that I had indeed come to show my face, and that I would come again, and again, even if it meant my death. I turned and opened my mouth to sing, “Am—”

That soldier clamped a gloved hand over my mouth. “Keep quiet. You’ve disturbed enough sleep for one night.”

He dragged me silently through the streets, while the other soldier rushed to wake the abbot.

XV.

I
n a windowless cellar of the Abbey of St. Gall, there is a cell where a monk, having enough of the vicissitudes of the world, may withdraw into his own for a time. The door has a gap along the floor so food may be slid inside without disturbing his peace. A hole at one end of the short room drains the occupant’s refuse into the river. This monk may sing or pray or cry out his deepest sorrows without the slightest fear of being heard, for stone walls and several thick oaken doors separate him from the dormitories above.

In our modern age, with scant esteem of silly mystics, this cell is seldom used. A mold grows along the cold, damp floor. I imagine I was its first tenant in a dozen years or more.

The abbot was kind enough to visit me after several days. This visit did not require the interruption of meditation or holy prayers, for I was using the hours of my solitude in other ways. I had curled up into a ball and cried. I had erupted in fits of anger and pounded my hands against the door until I bruised my palms. Using Europe’s largest lungs, I screamed for them to let me out. When, after many hours, my first meal arrived—light and bland, according to the needs of monkish introspection—I dashed it against the walls in fury, and then slept an exhausted and troubled sleep in the remains. I dreamed of Amalia fiercely ringing my mother’s bells.

When the abbot finally came, my strength was much diminished. I am ashamed to say I accepted the cup he held to my lips, and no water had ever tasted so sweet. He propped me against the wall, and a soldier brought a stool so the abbot might sit beside me. He fed me figs that tasted as if they were soaked in blood. I ate them greedily.

“You must use this time, my son,” he said, “for reflection. I regret to tell you that you will have to remain here some days more.”

He must have seen the terror in my eyes, for he smiled that avuncular smile. “It is for your own good. Though you have threatened both the abbey’s reputation and the reputation of this city’s finest family, do not think I am cold to your own welfare.”

He placed a new fig in my mouth, forcing it between my lips. “It is for your welfare that I am here today. You see, were you any other novice, Moses, I would still be speaking with you now, but our conversation would be different. If I were speaking to a boy who would one day become a man, I would ask him to search within his soul and ask himself whether he is prepared for the vows before him. Whether he is prepared to forsake worldly love for a higher one. He might tell me that he is not, and then, in that case, I would suggest he seek another calling.

“But, Moses,” he continued softly, “for you, all of this is different. There is no other calling. You can have what I have offered you or you can have misery. For you, worldly love is mere deception. And so I cannot offer you the choice that novices have been offered in this abbey for a thousand years. The choice has been made for you already.”

He offered me another fig, but now I closed my lips tight. I told myself I would accept no more benevolence from this awful man who kept me from my love. Nevertheless, he held the fig against my lips, patiently waiting for me to open them.

“I have spoken with Karoline Duft at great length. Great length. You may be relieved to know I have told her nothing of your”—here he let pass a respectful pause, and I cringed—“condition. She is very concerned about the honor of her respected family, and wishes, as I do, for the greatest discretion in all of this. She is doubly concerned about the approaching marriage of her niece, the girl who, it seems, you have deceived. She says this girl has been mysteriously resisting the wishes of her father, which was what first awakened Karoline’s suspicions. Karoline believes she finally knows why the girl did not wish to marry: she was besotted with another
man.
”

He drew the fig back from my lips, and as I opened my eyes, I felt the blood once again flow in my veins.
She is mine
, I wanted to scream at him, though I knew I would sound the world’s biggest fool.
Mine!

Finally, he placed the rejected fig back in the bowl. He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was slightly tinged by anger.

“How could you be so cruel, Moses? Surely you knew of such a marriage? She is a fine girl, from the best family in the abbey’s lands. He is a noble man of great standing in one of Europe’s greatest cities. My son, they will be happy.”

He sighed, waiting for my reply. I was silent. He shook his head in dismay.

“Was it jealousy? Did you loathe her because she was rich and educated? Or do you have secret reasons for your wickedness? At first, when I was informed that a novice had been up to such impropriety, I did not think for a moment it could be you.
You
last of all. But then I reconsidered. After all, they love your voices in Europe’s most depraved cities. Did you sing to her? It must be that. That naïve girl spellbound by your voice. I thank God that years ago I stopped your singing in my church.”

The abbot stood. He stepped toward the door and then turned again toward me. The hem of his cuculla hissed across the floor. Every word he said was true, and yet an anger had begun to pulse inside of me. How dare he disrespect those sounds I treasured most? “Misery, for you and for whomever you deceive,” he continued. “I hope you see that now. It is fortunate there seems to be no permanent damage. Of course, the Duft woman is so worried that you have spoilt the girl for her husband. She asked me if there were some remedy the abbey’s physicians might provide.” The abbot drew tight his lips to contain his laugh. “I told her that would be unnecessary, but she remains unappeased. So it must be. But I trust the husband will not be
disappointed.
”

I flushed in shame, and prayed the abbot could not see it in the dark.

“However, she was even more concerned that the girl would refuse the connection out of lingering”—he waved his hand in the air, searching disdainfully for the right word—“
attachment
to you, and in this, I am pleased to say, I was able to comfort her. The matter was easily settled.”

I sat up.

“You see, the girl knows nothing of what has passed. And so I wrote a letter to Herr Willibald Duft, informing him of the death of the choirboy who, years ago, sang for his ailing wife. I explained you had fallen off a roof. I could not fathom why you were up there in the middle of the night. I trust he will share this regretful news with his daughter; Karoline Duft will see to that.” He bowed his head humbly. “Perhaps what I have reported is only half true, and there is some shame in this.” His head snapped up. “But it corrects your far greater deception. It is better for you, for her, and for all of us—”

“No,” I pleaded. I crouched on my hands and knees, trying to stand. I felt so weak. “You must let me speak—”

The abbot ignored me. “It seems the girl wants nothing more now than to escape this city. The wedding is tomorrow. Here, in our church. I myself will wed them.”

I tried to stand. The abbot watched me struggle. He shook his head as if pity overwhelmed him. Then he raised his foot and placed his shoe on my shoulder. A slight shove was all it took to knock me down.

He left the cell, but he spoke through the last crack before shutting the door. “Truth, no matter how unfortunate, is always preferable to deception, Moses. I will let you out when it is safe for you—and for her.”

In the dark, I tried to call for help, but I could only moan. After several hours someone slid food beneath the door. I struggled to crawl across the floor and stuff it into my mouth. I had to grow strong again. In the blackness of the cell, I lost any sense of time; it slowed and sped. In hours or days, I heard the stamping feet and chatter of a thousand people, and I knew they were arriving for the wedding. I struggled to my feet. I yelled that there was a fire, a flood, that I was sick, that I wished to confess my sins, but no one came except to deliver food. I yelled for Amalia. I had told her she must marry, but now a sickness crept up inside of me.
No!
I would have said, if only she could have heard.
My ears tell me that we have made a grave mistake! We love each other, you and I! Stop! I am not dead!

I lost track of minutes and hours. My ears rebelled against my other senses.
You fool!
they said.
You fool!
The sounds of the festivities seeped into my cell. I covered my ears and screamed, but that just made every sound even louder, for they did not come from the church above, but from deep within my head. They were there when I paced the cell awake; they were there when I tossed on the floor wracked by nightmares. Karl Victor at the pulpit. Bugatti singing for the lovers. Nicolai and Remus in the smiling crowd. Those bells of my childhood ringing through the world. Amalia in her husband’s arms. Everyone had forgotten me.

Finally, the door opened. “You may return to your own cell,” the abbot said. His lip rose slightly in disgust at what he saw. Two soldiers stood behind him, but I was prepared to best all three. Only I needed an answer first.

“Has the wedding happened?” I asked. My voice was cracked and hoarse. “Is it too late?”

The abbot shook his head sadly. “But dear boy,” he said, “that was three weeks ago.”