CHAPTER VI (from The Long Habit of Living).
Owen intimated one day, back in
New York, that he still wasn't certain about the hope of love. After a long period of inactivity, which for
Owen was unusual, and which was caused by anxiety and other, less identifiable
exertions which occurred previous to the night about which we didn't speak, sex
invariably became a topic. Of course,
that wasn't to say that Sarah for her part lacked any sensual demand. On the contrary, she was a dynamic lover, as
Owen, without imparting details, had attested to both Sylvester and me on many
occasions.
Often
in New York, when I'd come downstairs from my apartment to visit them and, if
by chance that visit had followed their lovemaking, Sarah's face would be
flushed for an hour, her eyes sparkling, her ears red, as if she'd been standing
on her head. Her movements, usually
graceful, were then instinctive: Touching, arranging, moving objects or fixing
herself with ease and a sense of union.
I wasn't a little jealous of the intimacy between them, for I had yet to
find someone with whom the flush and contact of sex would be equally as
affectionate and endearing as was theirs.
Sipping
a glass of hearty red wine, my hands still clutching the French newspaper, I
thought strangely that the dog days had yet to pass: Until Owen could be healed
of his guilt I would have to watch the chronometer. I would have to listen to everything he said,
go wherever he went, look at whatever he saw, meet whomever he met, keep track
of everything, until he himself was satisfied that he was whole again. It was a condition that was hopeless in its
immediacy yet possible only if I could believe that it was all beyond our
control. The metaphysical in life made
it possible for me to hope; yet after that New York winter night in the
previous year, what remained of the metaphysical?
"I
don't know what I'm going to do with you," he shouted in French, looking
at the wounded animal's bleeding skull.
"But I can't let you go."
I
looked around at the other patrons in the restaurant. No one appeared to have noticed the
scene. Was I the only spectator to
this? I watched the priest again. It was Fr. Revenant. At once he moved away from the cove in which
he found a momentary sanctuary and then he ran down a nearby alley, clutching
the injured dog.
Within
moments he vanished and I was left to my lamb and my hearty red wine and the
image of the strange cleric in this, I thought, dry, uncomplicated, French
town. I didn't see him again for the
rest of the afternoon. After dinner,
however, brought on by an indulgence in the wine, my curiosity and a sure
amount of daring overtook my body and pulled me to the alley along which Fr.
Revenant had disappeared.
My
self-assurance enabled me to walk carelessly down the narrow back street, one
which I hadn't explored before. I didn't
know what to expect, nor did I care, but with time on my hands and with
wine-inspired curiosity, I searched for any hint of a desperate priest holding
an injured dog. The smell of soggy grass
and warped wood drifted toward me as I continued downhill, until I realized
that I walked nearly to the edge of town by the Durance River. Late afternoon changed to twilight when I
turned to my left. I knew that the river
was close by since the breeze intensified as I walked and I knew that it was
the river to which I wanted to direct my prowl.
Being
solitary and stuffed with food and without friends or conversation, I
remembered my fellow expatriates who weren't with me. I thought of Sylvester and his walking-dead
wife, of Owen's dead parents, and then of mine who were safe and sound in
Connecticut. I thought of Andy McLean
and Aunt Gloria, of Brenda Larkin and Thomas, of Leah and Army, and of course,
Lucian.
How far
away they seemed; how much time had really passed? I walked on.
At that moment, a hand reached out, grabbed my neck, and pulled me into
a darkened niche off to the side of the alley.
"Don't
speak until I've explained everything!" raged the voice in clear yet
accented English. I could see well in
the darkness and knew that it was Fr. Revenant.
His breath smelled like celery.
"You
are safe," he added. "There's
nothing to worry about. Just me and
this...this little lamb here."
He
showed me the bleeding dog. I was
shaken. I hadn't come all the way from
New York City to be mugged in the south of France. My mind raced with the possibilities. What now?
What now?
"What
do you want?" I asked.
"Thieves!"
he yelled to the alley. "You
thieves!" he screamed again out toward the night, ignoring my
question. He released me and hugged the
pup. The dog's brown and black skull was
covered with blood and its eyes implored the out-of-breath priest to
"Please, leave me to die, alone."
"Should
I introduce myself?" I asked, not knowing what to do, hoping that a few
choice words and the semblance of a cool head would give me the advantage to
think.
"I
know who you are," came the indifferent reply.
"Well
I don't know you!" I exclaimed.
"Young
man," he said, lowering the animal to the ground. "There's no cause to be
jumpy." He stood up and placed his
hands thoughtfully on his hips. "I
am a priest. I have a wounded dog. But I am lost."
"So
am I," I said.
"We'll
talk about that later," he replied.
"My name is Father Albert Revenant," he extended his
blood-stained hand for me to shake.
"Father Revenant to most. I
know your name is Walter Vann and that you live in the Fontaine house. You're not what I would call a good Catholic."
"How
d'you know?" I asked.
"I
can't afford the luxury to sit all day in church and pray, Mr. Vann. This is my village. I have to be alert. What goes on I hear about."
"What
are you doing with this animal?" I asked cautiously.
"That
depends," he mused and bent over to pick it up. "We'd better hurry."
"What
for?" I replied.
"My
God," he spoke caressingly to the dog.
"My God, the day they start using lambs like you for...for
their..."
For
their what? I thought to myself:
Vivisection? Animal drug
testing? I studied Fr. Revenant. Above a sturdy chin, his mouth rested nobly
and was embraced by a large Roman nose that met his forehead with a perfect
furrow. Two thick wavy eyebrows guarded
his eyes which, in the alley light, were glints so full of compassion that I
saw two thousand years of Gallic evolution behind him. His eyes were those of a philosopher wolf,
captivating the onlooker before giving way to his bushy, uncombed hair.
At that
moment, the clock in the old Protestant church near the water struck nine.
"Good
God," he remarked aloud.
"Good
God what?" I asked.
"Where
are we?" he grabbed my collar.
"Tell me where we are."
"I
don't know. I'm new here, Fr.
Revenant," I answered.
"I
told you, Mr. Vann, that I knew that," he said scornfully.
"Then
why did you ask me..."
He let
go of my shirt.
"Now,
let me see. Let's go," he cried and
crooked my arm, ushering me toward the Durance.
(Photo by Michelle Kidd Drechsel)
(Photo by Michelle Kidd Drechsel)
When
the blackened water came into full view and all that lay between us and the
water was a slanting bank of grass and weeds, we slowed our pace to a
walk. Fr. Revenant surveyed the
neighborhood. There were stucco walls glowing
with the usual blue of a hidden ray of light not yet given up to silence. Each door to each house along the way was
closed with an invisible sign posted for the unworthy traveler: You Are Not Welcome Here, it read. The place made me nervous. Fr. Revenant caught sight of a dark suit
hanging from a window across the wide open promenade. It was out of fashion and somewhat
threadbare. I pointed to it as well.
"Laundry,"
he commented, "for everyone to see."
Every
object, every drain pipe that climbed along the walls overlooking the
neighborhood, every ceiling hoist or electrical conductor slashed into my
heart new threats against our safety.
Curiosity killed the cat I thought; and I believed I uttered it.
The
neighborhood was a dark, secretive catacomb in the rain. The moisture from the water was
light-feeling, yet noticeable. We were
both trying to regain our composure when Revenant spotted a man sitting on the
quay fishing. He was dressed in dark
clothes, a fisherman's cap, and he sported a thick beard. One of his pants legs was rolled up to the
knee. He smoked a pipe; actually, it
jutted like a lantern from the edge of his mouth.
"Hello,"
said the Reverend Father.
"Evening
to you," the man replied and returned his attention to his fishing pole.
The
Durance was pitch black, save for a distant lantern atop a rowboat and the
reflection of the stars from the night sky.
The sounds of the village were all lost to this damp escape way.
"Please
don't think that I'm a criminal," said Revenant to the man.
The
fisherman turned around, glanced at the priest once and then looked across the
river. I looked at Revenant, caught his
glance, and asked him why he said that.
"Now
why would I think that?" the fisherman reiterated before Revenant could
reply to me.
"I
don't know," Revenant replied. He
stared at the fisherman with rapt attention.
"But you don't, do you?"
"No,
I don't," he said. "I think
nothing of the kind, sir."
"I'm
not running from anybody," exclaimed Revenant. "I happened to be in a hurry and lost my
way."
"And
then you got scared?" asked the stranger.
"Yes,
I did," replied the priest.
"And I came upon this young man who was on his way home and we're
all now lost together."
"Wait
a minute," I said. "Don't drag
me into this."
"You
probably, with all good cause, then," stuttered Revenant, shivering,
"suspect that I am mad?"
I
certainly do, I thought.
"No,
no, my dear man," answered the fisherman.
"I believe you. I thought of
nothing but the best for you when I heard you were coming."
"I
really have lost my way," insisted the priest.
"I
can see that," said the fisherman.
"What
are you called?" Revenant asked.
"I'm
not from here," he replied.
"That's why you don't recognize me."
"But
you don't think I'm crazy?" asked Revenant, clutching the dog closer to
him.
"He
already said no," I offered.
Fr.
Revenant shot me a look of contempt.
"Be
still!" he said.
I
didn't argue with the lunatic. The
scenario was incomprehensible and the priest was making a fool of himself.
"I
don't know why I should think so ill of a stranger," replied the
fisherman. He smiled and looked past
Revenant's shoulder to me.
"A
man comes running out of the night," he continued, "wearing vestments
no less, out of breath, carrying a blood-dripping bundle. I'm sitting here, holding a rod, just
fishing. Why should I think anything of
it?"
I
laughed and shoved my hands into my pockets.
"Mr.
Vann, please!" Revenant was annoyed.
The
priest, puzzled by the lie and the intrigue inspired in the fisherman, handed
me the covered puppy and walked nearer to him.
He found him agreeable. He sat
down beside him and kept looking back to us:
The Nervous and The Wounded. The
fisherman looked at him again and smiled.
"Your
package seems to be dripping all over," he said.
Revenant
looked at his shoes. There were drops of
blood splattered on them. He glanced
sideways to the fisherman.
"It's
an animal, badly hurt," said Revenant.
"I was confused about what to do with it."
"May
I see it?" asked the fisherman, leaning backward and turning toward me.
"No,"
exclaimed Revenant. "It's too
unpleasant."
"So
it must be," replied the man, gazing again out into the darkness.
"Are
you here often?" asked Revenant.
"Often
enough," the stranger answered.
"I sit and I fish. I'm
always fishing."
"What
do you fish for?" asked Revenant.
"Oh,"
began the fisherman, stretching his back which had become stiff from sitting
too long. "I fish for anything and
eat what I catch. Would you like to try
your hand at it?"
Extending
his pole to the priest, he offered Revenant a chance. He smiled like an idiot, and the pipe in his
mouth remained lit and perched between his lips. Revenant, bewildered, looked away from him
and moved several feet in the opposite direction.
"No
thank you," he muttered. "Not
now, thank you."
The
fisherman's eyes found Revenant's and glued them to his. At that moment, as I watched without
blinking, so interested was I in the proceedings, a steady light appeared
against the darkness. Their faces were
lit up and neither moved a muscle for what seemed like hours. I stood alone, off to the rear, holding a now
lifeless mass.
"When
I come here," the fisherman began, "I usually get what I fish
for. Are you sure you don't want to take
it from me for a while?"
"No,
no," replied Revenant. "I'm
not sure."
"Then,
what's there to worry about?" asked the man.
(Photograph courtesy of There And Back Again)
He raised his head and looked out upon the flowing Durance. Passing us, in the center of the river, was the rowboat we saw earlier. It was being paddled by a solitary figure: a man in a cap, with a pipe, almost the reflection of the fisherman on the quay. The boat, however, was moving at such a great speed that I wondered how dangerous the current must be. I was glad to be on shore, considering the situation.
He raised his head and looked out upon the flowing Durance. Passing us, in the center of the river, was the rowboat we saw earlier. It was being paddled by a solitary figure: a man in a cap, with a pipe, almost the reflection of the fisherman on the quay. The boat, however, was moving at such a great speed that I wondered how dangerous the current must be. I was glad to be on shore, considering the situation.
"Your
dog is good bait," suggested the fisherman.
The
terrified priest suddenly got up from the quay and ran to lean against a wall,
one which must have belonged to a shack or an out-house.
"Father
Revenant!" I called. The priest
remained glued to the wall. "Father
Revenant!" I repeated.
"What?"
he shouted, not taking his eyes off of the fisherman.
"I
think we should be leaving," I insisted.
"I think we should go, now!"
"It's
not my dog," he shouted back to the man, ignoring me.
The
fisherman didn't respond. He sat and
silently held his fishing pole. His
dark, unmoving body blended into the night.
All that Revenant or I could see was the light of the still burning
pipe, and I could have sworn to heaven that I heard what sounded like a sigh,
or was it a sob.
In
seconds, Revenant was again upon the fisherman.
He swooped down beside him, facing him, breathing heavily and
anxiously. Bending over the stranger, he
whispered loudly into his wrinkled ear:
"And
besides," Revenant stammered, "I don't need it!"
Whereupon
the priest ran to me, grabbed the dead bundle, nearly knocked me over, and ran
back to the fisherman. He dropped it
into his lap and then hurried over to me.
Grabbing my hand, he led me running through the alley along the windowed
wall of the warehouses and back out into the street, into the noise of drunks
singing and the ever-present veil of the night.
"How
I do discover myself," Fr. Revenant sighed. He was sitting in his overstuffed parlor
chair, staring at the closed venetian blinds.
The instep of morning was still some hours away, and the full night
finally brought stillness to the town and ease to our hearts.
He was
rubbing the disturbing numbness of his left leg and realized he had been
sitting improperly for too long, as we had been in conversation for some time. He was not, he assured me, upset because of
the dog, the fisherman, or the blood.
"I
have met their kind before," he exclaimed wearily.
We'd
been drinking brandy and tea and rehashing all that we'd seen and heard that
night. There was an attraction that I
felt toward him, as if I'd met the priest before, an attraction which he
readily observed and communicated to me in comforting tones in his voice. His demeanor, since we left the streets and
came here, had changed dramatically. I
was playing with the thought that I might be reinfused with conditions of faith
because of his sympathetic glow and warm personality; but I didn't want a
return to faith. I had my hands full
bringing Owen back to normalcy. Yet I
was unmovable in my fascination with the priest.
"I'll
say it again, only because I'm at fault, but I'm sorry if I frightened you, Mr.
Vann," he said. "I couldn't
have predicted that meeting with Monsieur the fisherman. It was...unfortunate."
"Fr.
Revenant," I replied, "you didn't frighten me. As I said, everything together scared the
hell out of me, but not you personally."
"No?"
he responded, almost hurt by my statement.
"I didn't once send you to the grave with fear?"
"Well,
maybe once," I allowed.
"Be
honest, Mr. Vann. I'm a priest. There's no fun in lying to me when I'm the
one you will confess to later."
"You
have a point, Father," I laughed.
"You had me worried most of the time."
He
laughed contentedly.
"Don't
misunderstand me, Mr. Vann," he said brightly. "I didn't intend to cause you harm. I'm a priest.
I know better."
"Fr.
Revenant," I looked across the room, out of focus, out of color, "how
did you know I was going to follow you?"
He sat
up, gazed at the couch opposite him, facing the dormant fireplace and the two
fragile, antique endtables. A leather
hassock lay in front of his feet; I could tell that he rarely used it.
"I
didn't know you would follow me," he said.
"It was a discovery that was as wonderful to me as it was to
you."
We
smiled together at his conclusion. My
eyes roved over indistinguishable shapes of pictures on the walls, as well as
over two ceramic cherubim heads which hung near the doorway. The unlighted figures of a fresco hailed from
the last wall as I brought my perusal to a complete stop. I sipped my brandy and winced from its
strength.
"Who
painted that thing?" I asked, trying to sound less like a critic and more
like a friend.
"John
the Baptist?" he reflected, finishing his own brandy. "It was here when I arrived. Painted by a young art student, I'm
told. He was eventually killed in
Indochina, in October 1950. A certain
General Carpentier had delivered his soldiers along Rout Coloniale 4, to
retreat from a Viet Minh onslaught. My
dear Walter, there were six thousand French troops lost; they just disappeared,
in the jungle, without a trace.”
It was
the worst overseas defeat of the French since Wolfe beat Montcalm on the Plains
of Abraham in Quebec, in 1759.
“It was
a year that France had more than its turn with shame," he ended sullenly. "Or should I say, fulfilled it?"
"Sorry,"
I said, feeling the foot in my mouth.
"I'm
sorry that your country didn't learn the same lesson," he cried. "We spelled it out plain as day for
you. Lost miserably. Yet you went right ahead in as if they were giving
land away for free."
His
voice became animated with politics. I
hardened my face at the adolescent memory of our war in Viet Nam.
"Never
understood it," he added.
"I
still haven't understood why you were carrying that dog and why I'm here,"
I said, fingers to my temple, my head inclined toward hopefulness.
"You
will," he said. "It's not a
secret or anything, Mr. Vann. The more
obvious some things are the less you can see them. I, for one, happily have given up trying to
make sense of life. I'm committed to
serving God in Heaven and for my reward I understand less and less.
"Would
you like a cigar?" he added, getting out of his chair.
"No,
thank you," I replied.
"I
have no pipe tobacco," he said consolingly.
"I
don't own a pipe, Fr. Revenant."
"Probably
too much bother," he said.
"Would you like a piece of advice?" he offered, with an air of
indifference.
"Yes,
certainly," I answered.
"Keep
away from the Hun," he clouded.
"I
don't even know him."
"You
will," he said. "Keep away
from him."
"Why?"
I asked cautiously.
He
stared for a moment then rose.
"Thank
you for sitting with me, Mr. Vann," he said, standing in the doorway. "I think I'm going to bed. Unless, of course, that is, you have anything
you wish to confess?"
"Confess?"
I said surprised.
"Yes,"
he said seriously. "Now is as good
a time as any. Confess and be
forgiven. The eternal recurrence for a
priest, eh?"
"What
makes you think I've done anything wrong?" I said.
"Wrong
or right..." he said as he tapped the framework. "That's up to you."
"What
if I don't believe?" I asked.
"Christ!"
I felt
my temper begin to rise. This was the
second man today who reminded me to seek forgiveness.
"Mr.
Vann," he said, holding up his right palm.
"Judge not lest ye be judged!"
I
watched him go up the stairs toward his room.
"What
does that have to do with anything?" I called, getting out of my seat.
"Look
it up, my boy," he yelled from the darkness. "Look it up," and he laughed as he
climbed the stairs.
At the
last of his words I heard a door shut.
Jesus Christ! I exclaimed to myself.
Three o'clock in the morning, left alone in a stranger's house, a
priest's house no less, after a near collision with insanity or death, left
alone answering accusations about sin and confession, a dead dog in my arms and
a conversation with a fisherman who's a freak!
I'd get more peace in a circus.
I
looked at my watch and, just realizing how late it was, and that I might be
arrested for vagrancy or prowling (the French word for it was rôder; je rôde: I
prowl, therefore I am). I wondered if I
were going mad. I searched for the
hallway to the front door and quietly let myself out.
After
securing the front door, I stepped back a few feet to examine the rectory. The number thirteen was posted on the
left. The windows, each divided into
eighteen individual glass panes, were paired up with wooden shutters, which
were in desperate need of paint and which were etched upon with symbols out of
the head of John Dee. There was the
archangel Uriel, holding his bronze disk marked with the symbols of the zodiac;
there were crystals and bulls framed by the overgrowth of ivy. One in particular displayed the fish-entwined
anchor of Jacopo Sannazaro. Vines of
healthy, arcadian ivy grew up the sides of the house and around the windows,
giving me the impression at first that they were closing in. On further inspection, I realized that the
windows assumed personalities all their own; cajoling the ivy, inviting it,
"Come in. Come in." I walked in the direction of la Fontaine and
tried to restrain the presence of the metaphysical in my life.
