William Kienzle - Masquerade

“Your turn, Father Augustine.” Sister Janet did not want the group’s attention to revert to Krieg. Indeed, she was becoming more grateful that the Reverend Krieg had not yet arrived. “Why don’t you tell us that delightful story you have in A Rose by Any Other Name- the one about the Trappist and the bishop?”

Augustine continued to cut his food and eat it. Koesler noticed that the monk’s hand trembled ever so slightly and his enunciation seemed determinedly articulate. Koesler thought the pattern might be described as overspeak.

“Well,” Augustine said finally, “all right; if you wish. It’s an apocryphal story, you see. In it, a group of monks are working in the field. Being of the Strict Order, they are forbidden to speak to each other-or to anyone, for that matter. So they work all day in complete silence. No one can tell what they’re thinking.

“One day, as it happens, a bishop visits the abbey.” He looked around the table. “Now comes time to explain that while the rule forbids the monks from speaking to each other, they are permitted to speak to their Father Abbot or to a ranking prelate-which would have to be at least a bishop.

“Anyway, this one day, a bishop visits the monastery. The monks are working in the fields as usual. The bishop goes for a walk in the field, ostensibly for exercise, though mostly to see what the monks are up to.

“He comes up to one monk who is digging away at the potato crop. Now the bishop considers himself a better-than-average amateur psychologist. So he says to the monk, ‘Brother, you look very, very sad.’

“The monk stops digging and looks at the speaker. He sees the pectoral cross, recognizes him as a bishop, and realizes they may speak to each other. ‘You’re right, bishop,’ he says, ‘I don’t feel at all happy. Not at all, at all.’

“I guess,” Augustine threw in as an aside, “I guess the monk must’ve been Irish.”

The others chuckled their appreciation.

“Anyway,” Augustine continued, “the bishop becomes interested in the monk and decides to analyze him and free him of his depression. ‘Don’t tell me, brother; let me guess,’ he says to the monk, ‘it’s the hours you keep. In bed by 6:00 or 7:00 in the evening, up at 2:00 or 3:00 to sing Matins. Up again at 6:00 for Lauds. Those hours could wear anyone out in time. That’s it, eh, Brother-the hours?’

“The monk thought that over and said, ‘Not really, bishop. I couldn’t say that was it. No, not really’

“Undaunted, the bishop tried again. ‘Well, Brother, if it’s not the hours, it’s probably your vehicle of sleep. After all, a lumpy straw mattress on bare boards. I meant to mention that to Father Abbot; how can anyone expect you to function when you have to try to get your rest on such a machine of torture? It’s the mattress, isn’t it, Brother?’ The monk thought about that for a while and finally he said, ‘No, bishop. No, I don’t think it’s the mattress.’

“The bishop considered this for a while. It was unlike him to take two straight strikes. So he said, ‘Brother, I think I have it. It’s the food. No meat, no eggs, strictly vegetarian diet, day in and day out. All the while preparing meat from scratch on your farm and serving dandy cuts of meat to your guests. That’s an exquisite kind of torture. It’s like the forbidden fruit: You can’t have it and yet it’s dangled before you. No one could take that endlessly. I don’t blame you for your depression. It’s the meals, isn’t it?’

“The monk leaned on his shovel and thought quite seriously. Then he said, ‘Sorry, bishop, but I don’t think so. You have a good point, but- no, I don’t think it’s the menu.’

“Now the bishop has had his three guesses and he has struck out. But bishops get to play by their own rules. So he gave the matter some deep critical thought. After all, no one was going anywhere; they had all the time in the world. At length, he snapped his fingers; he’d solved the question.

“‘I have it, Brother’-the bishop fairly bounced-‘how could I have been so blind? It’s right here before me. I’ve been walking around in the middle of it all this time and haven’t paid the slightest bit of attention to it. It’s the silence! Here you are, working, praying, eating, living shoulder to shoulder with your fellow monks, and you don’t even know what their speaking voices sound like. How can anyone expect a man to live so close to his fellow man-probably, all things considered, his closest friends on earth. Men you will bury. Men who will bury you. And you never speak to them. That’s it, isn’t it? It’s the silence!’

“The monk started to nod as a small smile began to form. But gradually his expression changed to one of doubt and then disagreement. He shook his head. ‘Gee, I’m sorry, bishop, but that isn’t it, either.’

“The bishop was completely baffled. He didn’t mind swinging at this puzzle all day long; it didn’t matter how many strikes he took. The problem now was he couldn’t think of any more afflictions the Trappists faced. Yet this poor monk was clearly troubled. The bishop had set out to free him of his psychological dilemma, whatever it was, but had failed. It wasn’t the hours of sleep and prayer, it wasn’t the impossible mattress, it wasn’t the strictly limited diet, it wasn’t the pervasive silence.

“‘Brother,’ the bishop said finally, ‘I give up. I can’t figure out what’s depressing you.’

“The monk thought a bit more and then said, ‘Well, bishop, I’ll tell you: It’s the whole damn thing.’”

It was a funny story well told, and Augustine’s audience appreciated it, even if at least one of them had heard it before. Still, all, including Father Koesler, enjoyed it.

Koesler himself was known for his anecdotal homilies. Many of his friends thought of him as a “story man.” A few of his confreres occasionally referred to him as “Inspector Frank Luger, NYPD,” an allusion to a character in the “Barney Miller” TV sitcom, who virtually lived in the past and constantly told stories about “the good old days with Foster and Brownie and Kleiner.”

And, Koesler thought, why not? It starts when one is a child and discovers that one of life’s greatest pleasures is to listen to adults tell stories. Skilled raconteurs were so generally appreciated that not only did audiences want to hear the same stories over and over-but without having a single cherished word changed. Finally, the Gospels demonstrate that Jesus Himself was an inveterate storyteller. Nearly everything He taught was couched in a parable.

Koesler noted that even as Augustine told his story, the monk continued to eat his dinner. And, as he did so, his hand shook less and his speech became more steady. Though there had not been all that much amiss to begin with in any case.

Koesler was the only one in the gathering who gave such attention to detail. From long experience, he did not expect the others to notice what was obvious and of possible interest to him.

As the laughter died down, Augustine raised his fork to quiet the group, and added, “Don’t anyone bother telling me what P.G. Press would have done with that story. I read one of their books, Ignosce mihi, Domine. I know that if Krieg had had anything to do with it, the monk and his abbot would have had more than words together. And the bishop probably would have been establishing a special relationship with the sheep on the farm.”

Another round of laughter.

Sister Janet tapped her glass with a knife.

A startled Koesler was put in mind of that most gauche of all customs at wedding banquets, when repeatedly tapped glasses urge spousal kisses, over and over. Such was not the case here. For one, the seating arrangement isolated the girls from the boys. For another, one woman was married and the other two were nuns. Some things deserved to remain sacred.