August stares sleeplessly into the convergence of beams above his bed. Even the saints were tempted, he reasons, even Christ Himself. His hand fumbles at the scrolled base of the bedside lamp, twisting the little serrated knob to spread a circle of light over his shoulders and head. Better.
Beside the lamp, a precarious tower of books, the top volume winking glossy black letters from its yellow spine.
Confessions
. There—Saint Augustine was tempted. More than tempted. He succumbed, lost the path and found it again, then had the tremendous courage to record his travails.August reaches out greedily, sitting up a little, shoving a pillow in at the small of his back before cracking the book.
My soul being sickly and full of sores, it miserably cast itself forth, desiring to be scraped by the touch of objects of sense
.
August nods eagerly. That’s what it is, a sickness.
Don’t scratch
. Aggie bending to lift him from the slippery baking-soda bath, pulling white cotton socks over his small hands.
They’ll get infected if you do
. He faced himself in her long mirror, three years old, a scrawny, pot-bellied child, enough like a plucked chicken without the pox.
He skips ahead.
I defiled the spring of friendship with the filth of concupiscence—
His eyes cloud over with chagrin. It’s true, he thinks savagely. A fine young woman confides in her priest, and he rewards her with sinful thoughts and a lustful gaze. Well, no more, he resolves with a sudden righteous surge, no more. Encouraged, he flips forward.
His concubine gone, the saint laments,
my heart which clave unto her was torn and wounded and bleeding
.
Duo in carne una
. A red ribbon of Genesis crosses the backs of August’s eyes.
Wherefore a man shall leave his father and mother, and shall cleave to his wife: and they shall be two in one flesh
.
One flesh? Then how a sickness? Vaguely upset, he finds himself jumping again to a fresh page.
The eyes love fair and varied forms—
He jumps again.
For pleasure seeketh objects beautiful, melodious, fragrant, savoury, soft
.
“Fragrant,” he says aloud. “Savoury.” His mouth dries out. Suddenly desperate, he rifles madly through the book, as though searching for some memento left pressed between pages—a dark violet, a brittle, hand-shaped leaf. The word
Thou
catches his eye. He thrusts his face close to the type.
Thou flashedst, shonest and scatteredst my blindness. Thou breathedst odours and I drew in breath and pant for Thee
.
Words inscribed hastily, no doubt, an outpouring of the saint’s sensual regard for his God. August should be transported, should feel himself brimming over with the wine of devotional love. He realizes this, even as he feels keenly the lack.
HIS COUNTENANCE
Locked in the bathroom, Mathilda reads feverishly long after Thomas has given in to a heavy, disenchanted sleep.
“ ‘His eyes,’ “she murmurs, “ ‘are as the eyes of doves by the rivers of waters, washed with milk, and fitly set.’ “She looks heavenward.
His eyes
. For a moment they float above her, ringed like targets, the colour of rainy slate.
She turns hastily to what is fast becoming her favourite line. “ ‘I am my beloved’s,’ “she whispers, “ ‘and my beloved is mine: he feedeth among the lilies.’ “She can see him—not all of him, just his naked shoulders and face—crouched in a fiery meadow, the red goblet of a wood lily at his lips.The image is terrible, wonderful. It spurs her on to more mysterious parts, the passages that move her in a manner she can’t begin to understand.
“ ‘His countenance is as Lebanon, excellent as the cedars.’ ”
Pages later she stumbles on another, deep and inviting as a country well. “ ‘The mandrakes give a smell—’ “She pauses.
Mandrakes
. Are they animals or plants? Their smell skunky or sweet, fetid or delicate or divine? In the end it doesn’t matter. The word itself thrills her to the marrow of her bones.
7
HOC EST ENIM
Beside the lamp, a precarious tower of books, the top volume winking glossy black letters from its yellow spine.
Confessions
. There—Saint Augustine was tempted. More than tempted. He succumbed, lost the path and found it again, then had the tremendous courage to record his travails.August reaches out greedily, sitting up a little, shoving a pillow in at the small of his back before cracking the book.
My soul being sickly and full of sores, it miserably cast itself forth, desiring to be scraped by the touch of objects of sense
.
August nods eagerly. That’s what it is, a sickness.
Don’t scratch
. Aggie bending to lift him from the slippery baking-soda bath, pulling white cotton socks over his small hands.
They’ll get infected if you do
. He faced himself in her long mirror, three years old, a scrawny, pot-bellied child, enough like a plucked chicken without the pox.
He skips ahead.
I defiled the spring of friendship with the filth of concupiscence—
His eyes cloud over with chagrin. It’s true, he thinks savagely. A fine young woman confides in her priest, and he rewards her with sinful thoughts and a lustful gaze. Well, no more, he resolves with a sudden righteous surge, no more. Encouraged, he flips forward.
His concubine gone, the saint laments,
my heart which clave unto her was torn and wounded and bleeding
.
Duo in carne una
. A red ribbon of Genesis crosses the backs of August’s eyes.
Wherefore a man shall leave his father and mother, and shall cleave to his wife: and they shall be two in one flesh
.
One flesh? Then how a sickness? Vaguely upset, he finds himself jumping again to a fresh page.
The eyes love fair and varied forms—
He jumps again.
For pleasure seeketh objects beautiful, melodious, fragrant, savoury, soft
.
“Fragrant,” he says aloud. “Savoury.” His mouth dries out. Suddenly desperate, he rifles madly through the book, as though searching for some memento left pressed between pages—a dark violet, a brittle, hand-shaped leaf. The word
Thou
catches his eye. He thrusts his face close to the type.
Thou flashedst, shonest and scatteredst my blindness. Thou breathedst odours and I drew in breath and pant for Thee
.
Words inscribed hastily, no doubt, an outpouring of the saint’s sensual regard for his God. August should be transported, should feel himself brimming over with the wine of devotional love. He realizes this, even as he feels keenly the lack.
HIS COUNTENANCE
Locked in the bathroom, Mathilda reads feverishly long after Thomas has given in to a heavy, disenchanted sleep.
“ ‘His eyes,’ “she murmurs, “ ‘are as the eyes of doves by the rivers of waters, washed with milk, and fitly set.’ “She looks heavenward.
His eyes
. For a moment they float above her, ringed like targets, the colour of rainy slate.
She turns hastily to what is fast becoming her favourite line. “ ‘I am my beloved’s,’ “she whispers, “ ‘and my beloved is mine: he feedeth among the lilies.’ “She can see him—not all of him, just his naked shoulders and face—crouched in a fiery meadow, the red goblet of a wood lily at his lips.The image is terrible, wonderful. It spurs her on to more mysterious parts, the passages that move her in a manner she can’t begin to understand.
“ ‘His countenance is as Lebanon, excellent as the cedars.’ ”
Pages later she stumbles on another, deep and inviting as a country well. “ ‘The mandrakes give a smell—’ “She pauses.
Mandrakes
. Are they animals or plants? Their smell skunky or sweet, fetid or delicate or divine? In the end it doesn’t matter. The word itself thrills her to the marrow of her bones.
7
HOC EST ENIM
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