The Letter Killers Club (7 page)

My canvas is primed. Now then:

Françoise and Pierre loved each other. Simply and dearly. Pierre was a strapping lad who worked in the vineyards. Françoise looked more like the women inscribed in gold nimbuses along church walls than the young girls who lived in the cottages next to hers. No gold nimbus encircled her delicately delineated head, of course, for she was her mother's only helper and it would have hindered her in her work. Everyone loved Françoise. Even ancient Father Paulin, whenever he met her, always smiled and said, “Here is a soul aglow before God.” Only once did he not say “here is a soul”: when Françoise and Pierre came to say that they wished to be married.

The first publication of banns was made after Sunday Mass: Françoise and Pierre waited together in the vestibule, their hearts pounding; the old priest slowly climbed the pulpit stairs, opened his missal, and searched at length for his spectacles; only then did the two standing side by side hear their names said—through the incense and sunlight—one after the other.

The second publication took place during the evening service on Wednesday. Pierre could not be there, he had to work; but Françoise came. The dusky church was empty—except for a few beggars by the entrance—and again decrepit Father Paulin, causing the steep pulpit steps to creak, labored up to meet the arches, took out his missal, fumbled in the pockets of his soutane for his spectacles, and joined their names: Pierre-Françoise.

The third publication was set for Saturday. But that day coincided with the Feast of the Ass. On her way to church, Françoise heard countless shouts in the distance and a wild wailing rushing toward her. She stopped at the porch steps, wavering like a flame in the wind. In the open doorway, the Feast of the Ass was raging and braying in animal and human voices. Françoise was on the point of turning back when Pierre arrived: the good fellow didn't want to wait any longer: his arms, used to hoe and mattock, wanted Françoise. He found Father Paulin, who had shut himself away from the riotous church, and asked, abashed but insistent, that he not delay by even one hour the last publication. The old priest listened in silence then looked at Françoise standing in the corner; he smiled with just his eyes and, again without a word, hurried to the open church doors—followed by groom and bride. On the threshold Françoise tried to wrest her hand from Pierre's, but he wouldn't let go: the roar of the milling mob, the howls of hundreds of throats and the donkey's half-human cry of suffering stunned Françoise. Through the censers' fetid fumes her wide pupils saw first only arms thrown up, mouths agape, and bulging bloodshot eyes. Then, ascending the pulpit steps, the priest appeared, his face calm and wise. At the sight of him everyone fell silent: Father Paulin, standing above the sea of heads, opened his missal and slowly put on his spectacles. The silence continued.

“The third publication. In the name of the Father and …”—a dull droning, as from a covered cauldron coming to a boil, wrestled with the priest's weak but clear voice—“we shall join in holy matrimony God's servant Françoise …”

“And me.”

“And me. And me.”

“And me. And me. And me,” the raucous crowd began to bellow. The cauldron boiled over. Its contents, gurgling and burbling up with bubbles of eyes, brayed, yelped, and moaned, “And me. And me.”

Even the ass, turning its foam-covered muzzle to the bride, opened its jaws and joined in: “Mee-hee-haw!”

Françoise was carried out onto the porch in a dead faint. Frightened and dispirited, Pierre set about trying to revive her.

Then life resumed its normal course: the lovers were married. This would seem to be the end of the story. In fact, it was only the beginning.

For several months Françoise and Pierre lived in perfect harmony, body and soul. Work separated them by day, but the nights returned them to each other. Even their dreams, which they told each other in the morning, were alike.

But then late one night, before the second cockcrow, Françoise—the lighter sleeper—was awakened by a strange noise. Resting her palms on her pillow, she listened: the noise, at first dull and distant, gradually grew louder and nearer; through the night, as if on the wind, came an unintelligible jumble of voices punctuated by a beast's shrill shriek; a minute later, she could distinguish separate clamoring voices, another minute, and she could make out the words: “And me—and me …” Suddenly cold, she slipped quietly out of bed and—barefoot, in just her nightshirt—went to the door and pressed her ear to it: yes, it was the Feast of the Ass, Françoise knew it. Hundreds and thousands of bridegrooms, come like thieves in the night, were begging and demanding: “And me—and me.” Myriads of wild weddings whirled around the house; hundreds of hands banged on the walls; stupefying incense streamed through cracks in the door along with someone's soft, suffering plea: “Françoise and me …”

Françoise did not understand how Pierre could sleep so soundly. A mortal horror seized her: what if he were to wake up and find out: everything. Just what that tormenting and sinful everything was, she didn't yet know—the heavy latch gave way, the door opened, and she walked out, nearly naked, to meet the Festival of the Ass. Instantly, the din ceased about her but not in her. She walked on, barefoot over the grass, not knowing where she went, or to whom. Soon she heard a clopping of hooves, the jingle of a stirrup, and someone quietly calling her: a knight-errant, perhaps, who had lost his way in the moonlessness, or a passing merchant who had chosen a darker night for the smuggling of contraband. A nocturnal bridegroom has no name—on a dark night he takes what is darker than all nights: he steals the soul; having come like a thief, so he goes. In short, the stirrup again jangled, the hooves clopped, and in the morning, seeing Pierre off to work, Françoise looked into his eyes with such tenderness and held him for so long that he couldn't stop grinning and, swinging his mattock on his shoulder, whistled a merry tune.

Again life seemed to resume its old course. Day-night-day. Until again it descended. Françoise vowed not to give in to the delusion. She knelt for hours on the cold flags before the blackening faces of icons, twining prayers around her rosary. But when, rending her sleep, the frenzied Feast of the Ass again began to dance, swirling around her in ever closer circles, she, again losing her will, got up and set off—not knowing where, or to whom. At a pitch-black crossroads she met a beggar who had gotten up off the ground for the white vision floating toward him through the darkness; his hands were scabrous, the stench from his rotten rags revoltingly acrid; neither believing nor understanding, he still took her hungrily—and then: the coppers in his sack tinkled, his crutch-stick tapped, and, skulking like a thief, the nocturnal bridegroom, frightened and bewildered, vanished in the gloom. When Françoise returned home, she listened for a long time to her husband's even breathing and, bending over him with clenched teeth, wept soundlessly: in disgust and happiness. Months went by and perhaps years; husband and wife loved each other still more dearly. And again, as suddenly as ever, it happened. Pierre was away that night, ten leagues from the village. Called by voices, Françoise went out into the darkness between the hazy shapes of trees; skimming the ground like a large yellow eye was a flame; keeping her eye on that eye, Françoise went to meet her fate. In a minute the eye had turned into an ordinary glass-and-metal lantern; clasping the handle from under a soutane were bony fingers and, a bit higher in the flame's turbid gleam, the withered face of Father Paulin: past midnight he had been called to a dying man and, having promised his soul heaven, was returning home. On meeting Françoise in the middle of the night, naked and alone, Father Paulin was not surprised. He lifted his lantern up to illuminate her face, peered at her trembling lips and glazed eyes. Then he blew out the flame, and in the blind blackness Françoise heard: “Go home. Get dressed and wait.”

The old priest plodded on with shuffling step, often stopping to catch his breath. Walking into Françoise's house, he saw her sitting motionless on a bench by the wall: her palms were pressed together, and her shoulders shuddered only rarely under her clothes, as if with cold. Father Paulin let her finish crying; then he said, “Surrender, soul, to what has inflamed you. For in the Scriptures it says: only on an ass, a foolish and stinking beast, can one reach the broad streets of Jerusalem. I say unto you: only thus and through this can one enter the Kingdom of Kingdoms.”

Françoise looked up in amazement, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Yes, the time has come for you too, my child, to learn what not everyone is given to know: the Secret of the Ass. Flowers bloom so purely and fragrantly because their roots are manured, in mud and stench. The way from small prayers to great supplications lies through blasphemy. The purest and the highest must fall, if only for an instant, and be besmirched: how else shall one learn that pure is pure and high, high? If God has assumed flesh and the law of man, even once in eternity, how can man despise the law and flesh of an ass? Only by abusing and insulting what one's heart loves and needs most can one become worthy of it, because on this earth there are no roads without sorrow.”

Old Father Paulin rose and proceeded to light his lantern. “Our church has opened shrines to the Festival of the Ass: the Church, Christ's bride, wishes to be mocked and abused: because she knows the great secret. Everyone enters into the festival, into the joy, with merriment and laughter—but only the chosen go farther. Verily I say unto you: there are no roads without sorrow.”

Having adjusted the flame, the old man turned to go. Pressing her lips to his bony knuckles, Françoise said, “Then I must keep silent?”

“Yes, my child. For how can one reveal the Secret of the Ass to … asses?”

Smiling as he had the day of the third publication, Father Paulin walked out, closing the door tightly behind him.

Tyd fell silent and, tapping the steel key against the arm of his chair, sat with his face turned to the door.

“Well, all right”—Zez cut short the pause—“the masonry of your conception in some dozen bricks. We're used to doing without cement. Therefore, since we still have time, perhaps you would agree to reassemble the elements of your novella in a different order? As for the first brick—the period—let it lie where it lay; at the center of the action, put not the woman, but the priest; and give him significance owing to the significances of the Feast of the Ass. Separate it from the roots, so to speak, take only the tops, and then—”

“And then,” the corpulent Fev interposed with a derisive wink, “end everything not in life, but in death.”

“I would also ask you to revise the title,” Hig snickered from the corner.

The muscles under the ruddy blotches blooming all over Tyd's face twitched and tensed; he leaned forward as though preparing to jump; his entire shape—short and wiry, agile and precise—recalled the brevity, dynamism, and clarity of the novellas among which he evidently lived. He sprang to his feet and strode past the black shelves, then spun abruptly round on his heels to face the circle of six.

Fine. I'll begin. Title:
The Goliard's Sack
. This alone will allow me to remain in the same period. Goliards,
*
or “merry clerics” as they were called, were—as I think you all know—wandering priests who had lost their way, so to speak, between the church and the show booth. The reasons for the emergence of this strange jester-chaplain hybrid remain unexplored and unexplained: most likely they were priests from impoverished parishes; since their cassock did not feed them or fed them only by half, they took to earning money from whatever they could—mainly farcical acting, a trade that did not require guild membership. The hero of my story, Father François (I'll transpose the names, if I may, along with everything else), was one such goliard. In high boots of tanned leather, a stout staff in hand, he tramped the dusty bends of country roads, from cottage to cottage, changing psalms into songs, Gallic sayings into scholarly Latin, and the ringing of the Angelus bell
*
into the tinkle of jingles on a foolscap. In his sack, a string-tied bundle on his back, lay side by side, like man and wife, neatly folded and pressed against each other, a harlequin's cloak of colored scraps trimmed with trinkets and a black soutane
*
well worn at the seams. A flask of wine bobbed about his belt; black rosary beads wound around his right hand. Father François was a man of merry disposition; in rain and heat he walked now through ripening fields, now along snow-covered roads, whistling simple ditties and bending over his flask the better to kiss her—as he liked to say—on her glass lips; no one ever saw Father François kiss anyone else.

My wandering goliard was a man of no small use: if a ceremony had to be performed, he would untie his sack, button himself into his narrow dark soutane, unwind his rosary, fish out his cross, and, knitting stern brows, join or absolve; if a holiday entertainment were called for (interludes or a devil's role too difficult for the amateurs from some guild), the jester's cloak, from out of that same sack, all bells and spangles, would wrap itself around his broad shoulders: it would have been hard to find a slyboots better able to provoke tears of laughter and invent witty sayings than the goliard François.

No one knew if he were young or old: his clean-shaven face was always bronzed by the sun, while the bare skin on his crown could have been a bald spot or a tonsure. The girls who had laughed till they cried at the interludes or cried till they smiled at Mass sometimes gazed at François in a certain way, but the goliard was a wanderer: having performed the Mass and acted the interlude, he would stow his black cassock and jingling cloak, knot his knapsack, and be gone; his hands clasped only his staff, his lips touched only glass lips. True, striding through the fields he liked to whistle to the birds passing overhead, but birds are wanderers too, and to talk to people they would need only one phrase: “Skip it.” Here too, in the fields, the goliard sometimes liked to converse with his knapsack: he would untie its string-bitted mouth, pull out the black and the harlequin, and babble, for example, this: