it. Waiting for snow, I’d been sitting in candlelight, but now a brighter light spilled from my front room.
CHAPTER 8
A T SHORTLY PAST ONE IN THE MORNING, THE guestmaster, Brother Roland, was not likely to be changing the bed linens or delivering a portion of the “two hogsheads of wine” that St. Benedict, when he wrote the Rule that established monastic order in the sixth century, had specified as a necessary provision for every guesthouse.
St. Bartholomew’s does not provide any wine. The small under-the-counter refrigerator in my bathroom contains cans of Coke and bottles of iced tea.
Entering my front room, prepared to shout “Varlet,” or “Black-guard,” or some other epithet that would sound appropriate to the medieval atmosphere, I found not an enemy, but a friend. Brother Knuckles, known sometimes as Brother Salvatore, stood at the window, peering out at the falling snow.
Brother Knuckles is acutely aware of the world around him, of the slightest sounds and telltale scents, which is why he survived the world he operated in before becoming a monk. Even as I stepped silently across the threshold, he said, “You’ll catch your death, traipsin’ about on a night like this, dressed like that.”
“I wasn’t traipsing,” I said, closing the door quietly behind me. “I was skulking.”
He turned from the window to face me. “I was in the kitchen, scarfin’ down some roast beef and provolone, when I seen you come up the stairs from John’s Mew.”
“There weren’t any lights in the kitchen, sir. I would’ve noticed.”
“The fridge light is enough to make a snack, and you can eat good by the glow from the clock on the microwave.”
“Committing the sin of gluttony in the dark, were you?”
“The cellarer’s gotta be sure things are fresh, don’t he?”
As the abbey’s cellarer, Brother Knuckles purchased, stocked, and inventoried the food, beverages, and other material goods for the monastery and school.
“Anyway,” he said, “a guy, he eats at night in a bright kitchen that’s got no window blinds—he’s a guy tastin’ his last sandwich.”
“Even if the guy’s a monk in a monastery?”
Brother Knuckles shrugged. “You can never be too careful.”
In exercise sweats instead of his habit, at five feet seven and two hundred pounds of bone and muscle, he looked like a die-casting machine that had been covered in a gray-flannel cozy.
The rainwater eyes, the hard angles and blunt edges of brow and jaw, should have given him a cruel or even threatening appearance. In his previous life, people had feared him, and for good reason.
Twelve years in a monastery, years of remorse and contrition, had brought warmth to those once-icy eyes and had inspired in him a kindness that transformed his unfortunate face. Now, at fifty-five, he might be mistaken for a prizefighter who stayed in the sport too long: cauliflower ears, portobello nose, the humility of a basically sweet palooka who has learned the hard way that brute strength does not a champion make.
A small glob of icy slush slid down my forehead and along my right cheek.
“You’re wearin’ snow like a poofy white hat.” Knuckles headed toward the bathroom. “I’ll get you a towel.”
“There’s a bottle of aspirin by the sink. I need aspirin.”
He returned with a towel and the aspirin. “You want some water to wash ’em down, maybe a Coke?”
“Give me a hogshead of wine.”
“They must’ve had livers of iron back in Saint Benny’s day. A hogshead was like sixty-three gallons.”
“Then I’ll only need half a hogshead.”
By the time I toweled my hair half dry, he had brought me a Coke. “You come up the stairs from John’s Mew and stood there lookin’ up at the snow the way a turkey stares up at the rain with its mouth open till it drowns.”
“Well, sir, I never saw snow before.”
“Then, boom, you’re off like a shot around the corner of the refectory.”
Settling into an armchair and
CHAPTER 8
A T SHORTLY PAST ONE IN THE MORNING, THE guestmaster, Brother Roland, was not likely to be changing the bed linens or delivering a portion of the “two hogsheads of wine” that St. Benedict, when he wrote the Rule that established monastic order in the sixth century, had specified as a necessary provision for every guesthouse.
St. Bartholomew’s does not provide any wine. The small under-the-counter refrigerator in my bathroom contains cans of Coke and bottles of iced tea.
Entering my front room, prepared to shout “Varlet,” or “Black-guard,” or some other epithet that would sound appropriate to the medieval atmosphere, I found not an enemy, but a friend. Brother Knuckles, known sometimes as Brother Salvatore, stood at the window, peering out at the falling snow.
Brother Knuckles is acutely aware of the world around him, of the slightest sounds and telltale scents, which is why he survived the world he operated in before becoming a monk. Even as I stepped silently across the threshold, he said, “You’ll catch your death, traipsin’ about on a night like this, dressed like that.”
“I wasn’t traipsing,” I said, closing the door quietly behind me. “I was skulking.”
He turned from the window to face me. “I was in the kitchen, scarfin’ down some roast beef and provolone, when I seen you come up the stairs from John’s Mew.”
“There weren’t any lights in the kitchen, sir. I would’ve noticed.”
“The fridge light is enough to make a snack, and you can eat good by the glow from the clock on the microwave.”
“Committing the sin of gluttony in the dark, were you?”
“The cellarer’s gotta be sure things are fresh, don’t he?”
As the abbey’s cellarer, Brother Knuckles purchased, stocked, and inventoried the food, beverages, and other material goods for the monastery and school.
“Anyway,” he said, “a guy, he eats at night in a bright kitchen that’s got no window blinds—he’s a guy tastin’ his last sandwich.”
“Even if the guy’s a monk in a monastery?”
Brother Knuckles shrugged. “You can never be too careful.”
In exercise sweats instead of his habit, at five feet seven and two hundred pounds of bone and muscle, he looked like a die-casting machine that had been covered in a gray-flannel cozy.
The rainwater eyes, the hard angles and blunt edges of brow and jaw, should have given him a cruel or even threatening appearance. In his previous life, people had feared him, and for good reason.
Twelve years in a monastery, years of remorse and contrition, had brought warmth to those once-icy eyes and had inspired in him a kindness that transformed his unfortunate face. Now, at fifty-five, he might be mistaken for a prizefighter who stayed in the sport too long: cauliflower ears, portobello nose, the humility of a basically sweet palooka who has learned the hard way that brute strength does not a champion make.
A small glob of icy slush slid down my forehead and along my right cheek.
“You’re wearin’ snow like a poofy white hat.” Knuckles headed toward the bathroom. “I’ll get you a towel.”
“There’s a bottle of aspirin by the sink. I need aspirin.”
He returned with a towel and the aspirin. “You want some water to wash ’em down, maybe a Coke?”
“Give me a hogshead of wine.”
“They must’ve had livers of iron back in Saint Benny’s day. A hogshead was like sixty-three gallons.”
“Then I’ll only need half a hogshead.”
By the time I toweled my hair half dry, he had brought me a Coke. “You come up the stairs from John’s Mew and stood there lookin’ up at the snow the way a turkey stares up at the rain with its mouth open till it drowns.”
“Well, sir, I never saw snow before.”
“Then, boom, you’re off like a shot around the corner of the refectory.”
Settling into an armchair and
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