home I knew in all my twenty years. There in the church I was fed, clothed by the parishioners, and educated by Father Dominique, who was both my guardian and teacher.”
An expression of pain gripped his face. He grabbed his coat in one hand and his possessions in the other, strapping them over his shoulder. “I have told you enough,” he said, rising to his feet. “I can’t say any more. What kind of priest are you if you turn away a needy soul like me?” He flung open the door.
Before the monsignor could recover from his accusing words, François disappeared into the dimness of the hallway. The whooping sound of his cough lingered.
CHAPTER THREE
T ime began its torment once his guest departed. Alone and dreading the next six hours of darkness, Pierre tossed on his cot. He knew the routine of insomnia so well. It had first troubled him in his old bedroom when he was ten, the evening his mother had died, and it had returned to disturb him every night since. Here in another unfamiliar room, when the light faded into obscurity, he again became that bereft ten-year-old.
His cell was warm, and the night, through his half-closed eyelids, was an undulating indigo in which he was sinking. In this viscous space burned the red shadow of the urn, so dim he seemed to be staring at the sun from deep within a pit.
He had gone to the Far East at the age of twenty-four, and had lived in India, Siam, Kampuchea, and Annam. Six years ago, under a cluster of bamboo by the edge of a rice paddy, he had built his first mission, a bunch of mud-drenched, thatch-covered huts. The image of the Annam that he knew merged into that of the painting created by the drifter. He marveled at how accurate it was for someone who had never set foot in a tropical terrain. Could some intuitive bond between them have provided the artist with such keen vision?
Soon Pierre would be traveling to the Far East again, leaving the winter behind.
He turned to one side, his eyes squinting shut as he tried to trick his mind into drowsiness. If he achieved two hours of sleep tonight, he would consider himself fortunate. Often, he masked his frustration by conducting predawn sermons, seizing the opportunity to ridicule any monks or novices who were unable to keep awake. He regarded those who overindulged in sleep as grave sinners. He knew his suffering showed clearly in the dark rings under his eyes and in the lethargic way he moved.
Pierre ran his fingers under his pillow to search for a crude wooden box. The unvarnished texture was familiar to his touch. On the lid he felt the metal crucifix fastened next to a faded inscription. In the box he kept a small Bible, a rosary made from olive pits, and a few unopened letters from his brother Joseph. These were the only possessions that remained from his past.
Home
was a comforting word that soothed his mind with tranquil images. Many a spring day he had sat on the doorstep of his house on the outskirts of Origny watching his brothers and sisters play in the meadow. Once, behind the rows of apple trees, he had spotted a pair of young lovers, their colorful garments showing through the green leaves like ripened fruits. Curious, he observed them. Their passion made him wonder about his own sexual apathy. For as long as he could remember, he had felt no interest in women nor courted any from them. Something inside him seemed radically wrong; he believed it was his heart. Instead of love, it harbored only resentment, and most of it was directed toward his father, Doctor Abraham Pigneau de Béhaine. His mother’s body was not even cold in the grave before there was a new bride in the house.
When Pierre decided to leave home at the age of seventeen, his family’s governess, Mademoiselle Émilie Tournelle, had already been Madame Pigneau de Béhaine for more than seven years and had borne five more offspring for his father, including a set of twins. Pierre needed a change in his life. Enrolling in L’université
An expression of pain gripped his face. He grabbed his coat in one hand and his possessions in the other, strapping them over his shoulder. “I have told you enough,” he said, rising to his feet. “I can’t say any more. What kind of priest are you if you turn away a needy soul like me?” He flung open the door.
Before the monsignor could recover from his accusing words, François disappeared into the dimness of the hallway. The whooping sound of his cough lingered.
CHAPTER THREE
T ime began its torment once his guest departed. Alone and dreading the next six hours of darkness, Pierre tossed on his cot. He knew the routine of insomnia so well. It had first troubled him in his old bedroom when he was ten, the evening his mother had died, and it had returned to disturb him every night since. Here in another unfamiliar room, when the light faded into obscurity, he again became that bereft ten-year-old.
His cell was warm, and the night, through his half-closed eyelids, was an undulating indigo in which he was sinking. In this viscous space burned the red shadow of the urn, so dim he seemed to be staring at the sun from deep within a pit.
He had gone to the Far East at the age of twenty-four, and had lived in India, Siam, Kampuchea, and Annam. Six years ago, under a cluster of bamboo by the edge of a rice paddy, he had built his first mission, a bunch of mud-drenched, thatch-covered huts. The image of the Annam that he knew merged into that of the painting created by the drifter. He marveled at how accurate it was for someone who had never set foot in a tropical terrain. Could some intuitive bond between them have provided the artist with such keen vision?
Soon Pierre would be traveling to the Far East again, leaving the winter behind.
He turned to one side, his eyes squinting shut as he tried to trick his mind into drowsiness. If he achieved two hours of sleep tonight, he would consider himself fortunate. Often, he masked his frustration by conducting predawn sermons, seizing the opportunity to ridicule any monks or novices who were unable to keep awake. He regarded those who overindulged in sleep as grave sinners. He knew his suffering showed clearly in the dark rings under his eyes and in the lethargic way he moved.
Pierre ran his fingers under his pillow to search for a crude wooden box. The unvarnished texture was familiar to his touch. On the lid he felt the metal crucifix fastened next to a faded inscription. In the box he kept a small Bible, a rosary made from olive pits, and a few unopened letters from his brother Joseph. These were the only possessions that remained from his past.
Home
was a comforting word that soothed his mind with tranquil images. Many a spring day he had sat on the doorstep of his house on the outskirts of Origny watching his brothers and sisters play in the meadow. Once, behind the rows of apple trees, he had spotted a pair of young lovers, their colorful garments showing through the green leaves like ripened fruits. Curious, he observed them. Their passion made him wonder about his own sexual apathy. For as long as he could remember, he had felt no interest in women nor courted any from them. Something inside him seemed radically wrong; he believed it was his heart. Instead of love, it harbored only resentment, and most of it was directed toward his father, Doctor Abraham Pigneau de Béhaine. His mother’s body was not even cold in the grave before there was a new bride in the house.
When Pierre decided to leave home at the age of seventeen, his family’s governess, Mademoiselle Émilie Tournelle, had already been Madame Pigneau de Béhaine for more than seven years and had borne five more offspring for his father, including a set of twins. Pierre needed a change in his life. Enrolling in L’université
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