The Priest's Madonna (30 page)

She longed now to see her father, longed to see his bright eyes. She longed to feel the soft enclosure of her mother’s embrace. She was anxious to get to the holy city, to thread her way through the pressing crowds to the room that her family always rented, where she hoped to share the feast with them, if they would have her.

All of Yeshua’s followers, men and women, were nervous, for they did not know what to expect when they arrived. They whispered among themselves. Yeshua’s manner had lately seemed more intense, more fervent, especially when he spoke of the coming end of days.

“Is it now?” they wondered. “This Pesach? Will this bring on the Kingdom of God?” Many of them believed it was imminent. “Didn’t Daniel prophesy the resurrection of the dead at the time of the end?” they said. “And haven’t we seen Elazar newly brought to life?”

Miryam asked Yeshua, “Is this the time, then, Rabbi? Should we prepare ourselves?”

But Yeshua would only say, “Always be prepared, Miryam, always keep your vigil. The Kingdom will come prowling, without fanfare.”

They camped in and around Beit Aniyah. Yeshua stayed with Elazar’s family; Miryam, in the women’s tent near the house. She helped prepare the meals. Elazar lay on his mat and received visitors. Miryam brought him broth and wine, but always averted her eyes when she approached him. He sickened her; her skin seemed to callus against him. She—who had never given more thought than necessary to her own state of ritual purity—longed to be sprinkled with the purifying water, longed to feel the softening silt from the red heifer’s ashes on her skin. She could not help but feel tainted in his presence.

Yeshua spent most of his time away from the group, praying. He seemed distant when he was with them. He no longer came to Miryam in the night; he drew into himself only and desired no company other than that of his Abba in heaven. The men observed this. Kefa smirked, triumphant. It was clear he imagined she’d served her purpose for Yeshua and could now be readily discarded.

Yehudah sought her out. “If he is the
mashiah,
” he said, his voice agitated, “then why won’t he say so? Why won’t he announce it? We could enter Yerushalayim strongly then, as one voice. As it is, we’re disorganized. He has to lead us.”

“He’s never said he was,” Miryam said.

“But you believe he is, don’t you?” Yehudah asked. “Don’t you, Miryam?”

Miryam was silent. She was tired; she missed her family; she missed Yeshua. She was mistrustful of declarations.

They left for Yerushalayim early one morning, when the sun first pierced the metal of the night. Several of the men had not slept, so thirsty for the city they were, and these walked ahead of the rest. Miryam and Yeshua walked side by side. He seemed frightened yet resolute. He did not move his eyes from the road.

As they approached the city, the crowd of pilgrims grew. They came not only from Yehudah and the Galil, Canaan, and Peraea, but from the distant lands of Cyrenaica, Babylon, Cappadocia, Asia Minor, and even Rome. They walked, leading their braying lambs beside them, so the crowds were thick not only with the heat of human bodies and the scent of sweat, but also the tang of the lambs’ wool and the stink of their waste.

Though Elazar had remained at home with his sisters, word of his resurrection had spread through the crowds, and heads began to turn toward them as they walked, heads adorned by the simple hood of the Galilean peasant, the goats’ hair cap of the Anatolian, the ornately embroidered hat of the Persian. The people wanted to see the man who had raised a corpse from his tomb. One man—a tall, turbaned Egyptian, gold in his ears and on his fingers, cloaked in purple—walked just in front of them, and when he heard that Yeshua was behind him, he turned and met his eyes, then knelt, bowing his head, and said, “Praise be to God, Blessed be he who comes in the name of the Lord.”

Yeshua hesitated, standing over the kneeling man. The Egyptian’s retinue knelt as well, and some in front of them turned to look. Someone yelled, “Make way, make way for the miracle worker, the one who raises the dead!”

Yehudah noticed a young donkey tied to a post, and he ran to untie it and brought it to Yeshua. Laying his cloak atop it, he said, “See how they long for you. Ride, Rabbi.
Mashiah.
” He regarded Yeshua with his darting eyes. They all knew that to ride into Yerushalayim on the colt would be to declare himself king, as Zechariah had foretold: “Lo, your king comes to you; triumphant and victorious is he, humble and riding on an ass, on a colt the foal of an ass.”

Miryam glanced sharply at Yeshua. He was gazing at Yehudah, their eyes locked in a private, severe communication. But the word had already caught, as a flame touched to a branch in a dry wood. It was whispered first, person to person, wondered over, then declared, and then celebrated, shouted from treetops and shoulders, where some had climbed in order to see Yeshua better. “
Mashiah!
” they cried. “
Mashiah!
” Yeshua put his hand on the colt’s cloaked back and looked to the crowds, and under his gaze they parted, creating a path that led directly to the city gates. Still, Yeshua did not move. One man laid his cloak on the ground, and he was followed by another, and then another, so that in a matter of minutes, the dusty ground was carpeted in colorful cloth. Those who didn’t have cloaks to throw pulled branches and palm leaves from the trees and waved them madly, crying, “Hosanna! Blessed is he who enters in the name of the Lord!”

Miryam grabbed Yeshua’s hands, terrified by the frenzy of the crowd. He took them and pressed them into his eyes, as if to blind himself, to blot out the mad scene. His brow was hot and damp. She wanted to embrace him, but feared the crowds.

Leaning in, she whispered, “Are you he, Rabbi, the one they long for?”

He raised his head and brought her hands to his mouth, kissing each palm at its center. His eyes, ringed with dark lashes, flashed uncertainty and fear. “You are a daughter of God, Miryam,” he said. “Know yourself.”

And he mounted the colt and rode it through the jubilant crowds to the gates of the city, where Miryam lost sight of him.

M
ADAME HAD LEFT her lantern with me, and I carried it to the church porch. As I entered the nave, heads turned and eyes traveled to my bodice and skirt. Graveyard mud was streaked across my clothing and likely my face. But most everyone was in too festive a mood to comment. Children whispered together, grandparents cooed and beamed, mothers fussed, and a few of the fathers were already snoring, even before the Mass began. I slid into my family’s pew and sat rigidly beside my mother, who did not look up from her prayer. My father raised his eyebrows at me.

I only watched the Mass that night. I pronounced none of the responses nor the prayers, but kept my eyes fixed on Bérenger as he performed the dance of the office: raising and lowering his arms, turning toward and away from the altar, kneeling, bowing, letting his hands hover over the Eucharist in blessing. He knew nothing of Madame’s grief, felt none of her pain. Yet for all I knew, he had found the tomb, the coffin of Jeanne Catherine’s son, even the book, and was keeping it from me and in turn from Madame, who had more right to such knowledge than he did. His insistence on secrets galled me and, in my mind that night, became the cause of Madame’s unhappiness. As the Mass progressed, I felt myself filling with anger and resolve.

When the Mass was over and the congregation had filed out, Bérenger retired to the sacristy. I swept the floor and tidied the pews while the altar boys—no longer the Baux brothers, for they’d grown too old, now the Fauré boy and the Verdiés’ grandchild, Gérard’s nephew—folded the linens and replaced the paten and chalice on the altar. I bade the boys goodnight when they had finished, and closed the church door tightly behind them, then proceeded to snuff the candles that hung in the mounted sconces along the length of the nave. Bérenger emerged, dressed in pants and a white shirt, wet circles beneath the arms. His collar was unfastened and stuck out from both sides of his neck like broken basketwork.

“Where is the tomb?” I demanded.

He stared at me fixedly, then shook his head, as if trying to clear it. He had drunk a good deal of wine at dinner, and I had no doubt that he wanted only to sleep now, for he had to say Mass again at dawn. He kept walking down the nave, toward me, toward the door. I grabbed his wrist. “Don’t walk away from me,” I said. “I asked you a question.”

“A meaningless question,” he said. He was not looking at me, but I could tell from the working of his temple that he was clenching his jaw, trying to control his temper.

“No,” I said. I dropped his wrist; he did not yet move. “Not meaningless. Important. Imperative.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know very well. The tomb. The graves beneath our feet. Where is it? What have you found there, Bérenger?”

“Who put that idea into your head?”

“You can’t keep secrets from me and expect me to love you,” I said, my voice breaking.

“Marie—” he began in a conciliatory tone, but I would not let him continue.

“Where is it? Where is the book? Where is the tomb?!” I demanded, my voice increasing in volume.

Then, in a single motion, he grabbed both of my wrists, straddled my legs, and pulled me backward, down the center aisle of the nave. I had to scrabble my feet on the newly tiled floor to keep up with him. He threw open the door of the confessional and tossed me on the bench inside. His face and chest loomed over me like a punishment. “You haven’t yet made a confession to me, Marie, in all the years I’ve known you.”

“I have nothing to confess,” I protested tearily, stunned by the sudden assault. My head was full of the scent of varnish.

“That’s a lie,” he said.

“You’re the one who should confess. All your secrets. What are you hiding?”

“Why is everything your business? I have my own private affairs that are no concern of yours.”

“But my conscience is your concern? You’re prepared to hear my confession and yet you won’t give me yours?”

“I’m your priest, Marie. It’s my job.”

“You’re not my priest.”

He glowered. “Who am I then? Tell me who I am.”

I stared at him, bewildered. “What do you mean?”

“Who am I to you, Marie?” His voice softened—almost into a supplication.

“For God’s sake,” I said. “I thought you knew the answer to that.”

He let the door to the compartment shut, trapping me inside. After a moment, I heard him step into the adjoining compartment and slide the window panel back. The scent of the sweet communion wine on his breath penetrated the screen.

“I’ve put you in an unfair position, becoming your friend,” he said.

“My friend.” I repeated the word with bitter irony. I was not his friend—I was his chaste consort, his unsullied mistress, not his friend.

“My companion. My confidante.” Then, in a whisper, he added, “My heart, Marie. My very heart.”

As an experiment, I spoke the first words of the act of contrition. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been—” I paused, calculating. “Six years since my last confession.” The number startled me. It seemed too large, and I calculated it once more to be sure.

“It’s a long time, Marie.”

“Since you came to Rennes.”

We sat together in silence for a time, listening to the equilibrating rhythm of the other’s breath, feeling our pulses slow.

“I’ve sinned too many times to remember,” I began. It was awkward, confessing to Bérenger as if he were an objective ear, as if he were not profoundly associated with my most personal thoughts and deepest feelings. I laughed self-consciously, wanting to continue—not to please him, for after overpowering me as he had, he did not deserve to be pleased—but because I wanted, suddenly, to feel cleansed. Cleansed as I had after making confession and doing my penance when I was a girl. Such enviable purity! It was unattainable now, I saw, and I grieved a little for it. But what could I say? Should I speak of my desire for him, describe my longing as a matter of fact, as if I were speaking to a wall?

“I can’t do this,” I said, pushing the confessional door open.

“Wait, Marie,” he began.

“What?” I stopped, one hand on the door.

“I’m afraid I’ve hurt you,
mon ange.
I’m afraid I’ve done damage to you.”

I sat back down. “By throwing me into the confessional?” I rubbed my wrist. “I’ll be all right.”

“No. Far worse than that. I’m afraid I’ve robbed you of your faith.”

I paused, surprised. “Why? My doubts are not your fault.”

“I haven’t answered your questions well, Marie. If only I knew how to answer you better. I’ve prayed about it for years.”

I was touched by his sincerity. “That’s all right,
mon cher.
You’ve answered them as well as you could.”

“I have not been a good priest to you, Marie.”

“I have not wanted a priest,” I said. “I’ve wanted you, a man.”

He sighed heavily, as if facing his own doom.

“It’s wrong of me, I know,” I continued, relieved to finally be speaking the words. “I should have removed myself from you long ago. But I can’t help but wonder whether our love is an intention of God’s. He brought us together, after all, did he not?”

“I don’t know anymore, Marie,” he said. “I used to think he had done it as a test. A test of my fidelity to him.”

“But now?”

“Now so much has happened. I’m not sure of anything anymore.”

I leaned my head against the back wall of the confessional. I was sleepy, suddenly.

“I’m a coward, Marie,” he whispered.

“Why,
mon cher
? Why say such a thing?”

“It’s true. I have always been a coward. Unable to face my fears.”

“What are you talking about? What fears?”

“My fears of oblivion, Marie. My fear, my deepest fear, that all I do is in vain. That God does not hear me, that he has turned away from me. That I—we, all of us—are lost.”