“In the library?” The librarian chuckled. “No, I doubt he’s ever set foot in a library. He was painting rooms in the hostel and the prior’s offices, I think, but just between the two of us, he’s a disaster. And that woman needs to have her eyes checked as soon as possible.”
Manuel didn’t find a photo of Mario Ortu?o anywhere in the archive, but he had no problem finding plenty of pictures of events with Brother Verdaguer. It was easy to see why Lucas had called him one of the most beloved of the brothers. Chubby and with pink cheeks that stood out even in the black-and-white photos, he turned up leading sports teams, excursions, and games. Though he always wore the robe of the order, it was apparently no hindrance in competitions. He was shown posing with the sports teams and their trophies, as well as directing the Christmas choir. In one of the most bizarre images, he was playing Basque handball against the side of the church, his habit held up almost to his waist with one hand while he punched the ball with the other. Manuel asked Brother Julián to print that photo in a batch of about twenty. The carefully chosen miscellaneous collection included photos of Brother Verdaguer with schoolboys, aerial views of the buildings, and old snapshots of classrooms. He left the librarian busy at work but only half-convinced by Manuel’s assurances he’d be able to find his own way to the orchard. That’s where the elderly Brother Matías whiled away the hours.
“I’m sure it was for a woman,” Brother Julián commented as Manuel was leaving.
Confused, Manuel turned and gave him an inquiring look.
“A woman; the reason for Brother Ortu?o’s crisis of faith. The record shows he was twenty-five years old when he renounced his robes. It had to have been for a woman. Otherwise he would have come back.”
Manuel just sighed.
Once outside, instead of heading for the fields behind the monastery, he went in the opposite direction, hoping not to run into any of the monks. He found the garage as described by Nogueira, its doors standing wide open. He took from his pocket the roll of adhesive tape he’d purchased that same morning, tore off a length, applied it to the scraped edges of the dent on the pickup truck and jerked sharply. Small flakes of white paint remained stuck on the tape. He secured them by winding the tape back onto the roll.
The librarian hadn’t been kidding when he said that Brother Matías loved to talk. The man told long, rambling stories about the students, the orchard, the greens he enjoyed cultivating in the garden that had kept them alive during the war, and how he eventually found himself hating Swiss chard. The brothers had gotten into the habit of calling it “monk-killer,” because they’d been reduced to eating little else during times of great hunger.
A long narrow stretch of garden plot separated the orchard from the cemetery. As they strolled through the area, the monk pointed out the oldest graves, some from three hundred years before. They were marked by plain stones set in the ground. The austerity reminded Manuel of those at As Grileiras, though this cemetery mostly featured stark iron crosses with plaques recording names and dates, unlike the Galician stone crosses at the estate.
They walked in silence among the graves. Manuel stopped before each one to read the inscription. Eventually they came to that of Brother Verdaguer. “That’s odd!” he exclaimed.
The elderly monk appeared surprised. “What do you find odd?” he asked in a slightly defensive tone, looking down first at the little cross and then again at Manuel.
“Nothing, but I was taken by surprise. The name reminded me of what I read about him this morning. I happened to come across a death certificate that recorded him as a suicide. I thought the canon prescribed a different burial regime for suicides.”
The smile dropped off the monk’s face. He walked away, obliging Manuel to hasten to get an explanation.
“Things have changed considerably in recent years. Our consensus was that Brother Verdaguer should be laid to rest with his brothers. This man was afflicted by a cancer that caused him terrible suffering.” His extremely serious expression lent weight to his words. “The illness was lengthy and debilitating, and he steadfastly refused all treatment. He put up with extreme pain, far more than most humans could have endured, but it exhausted him. He was completely drained, and he choose to give up the fight. We did not approve, but only God has the authority to judge him.”
Manuel lowered his voice. “I’m very sorry if I stirred up painful memories. I didn’t mean to be insensitive. It’s just that his name caught my attention.”
“Never mind. I’m an old sentimentalist, and I’m a bit tired. Perhaps you’d best come back tomorrow. I’ll stay here a bit longer to pray.”
Manuel saw that his guide really did look fatigued. His extreme thinness accentuated his frailty. He looked as if he might snap in two at any time.
“Of course, just as you like, Brother Matías.” He gently patted the elderly monk’s shoulder and turned toward the exit.
Manuel looked back before he disappeared around the corner of the main building. The old man stared stonily at him from the center of the cemetery.
BELESAR
He drove aimlessly, taking a long trip to nowhere as he struggled with the contradictions. Random images from old photographs rose before him, and his heart begged him to reject them, to flee, to run and hide from impending horror. It was as sharp and unnerving as static electricity preceding a howling thunderstorm.
He pulled up in front of Nogueira’s house, not knowing how he got there or why he’d come. Or what had driven him here in search of the refuge he so desperately needed.
He called Nogueira’s number, but a recorded voice informed him it wasn’t available. He started the engine and took a last glance at the house. Just as he was about to pull out onto the road, Laura appeared at the door and gestured at him to stop.
She reached the car before Manuel could turn off the engine. She rested her hand on the door next to him. “Andrés isn’t home. He went to Lugo on an errand. Were you supposed to meet him? He didn’t mention it.”
Manuel shook his head slowly. “No, we hadn’t arranged anything, it’s just that . . .”
Laura’s sunny expression gave way to one of concern. “Has something happened, Manuel?”
He raised his eyes to her. She’d crossed her arms, rested them on the bottom of the open window, and leaned down to pose her chin on them. Her eyes and expression were warm and sympathetic.
Manuel gave her a barely perceptible nod that admitted his distress. In that moment of intimacy he closed his eyes, knowing that the weight upon his soul had begun to overwhelm him.
He looked up and surprised himself by repeating Daniel’s invitation to the most beautiful place on earth. “Are you doing anything right now?”
Rocked by the waves from a passing yacht, the motorboat pitched against the mooring of the jetty. Xulia and Antía resisted the impulse to abandon ship, held one another tightly in the stern, and endured the rocking as they watched an otter deftly picking river mussels off the pilings of the pier.