Andrew Davidson - The Gargoyle

We entered Mainz on the east side, through the gates that opened onto the Rhine. You would not believe how fascinating it was for me. There were people shouting! I know that doesn’t seem like much, but remember that I’d lived my entire life in a monastery. We pushed through the crowds by the food stalls, and past the drunks stumbling out of taverns. Not a single person bowed in my direction, as they’d always done when I was in my habit. I was just another citizen.

We headed for the poorer areas of town, in search of the cheapest accommodations we could find. Eventually we found decent lodgings in the Jewish section behind a shop run by an older couple. They were a little puzzled by why we’d want to live there, because it didn’t take the woman long to place me as Christian. I assured them that the last thing I wanted to do was press for converts, and this was good enough. I suppose our sincerity was obvious and they could see that we were nothing more than an anxious couple in love. Whether we were or not was another story altogether-I certainly wasn’t sure yet-but so we appeared to our landlady. We paid our first few months in advance and they even gave us some bread in welcome.

We took some time to explore the town, as you weren’t ready to immediately throw yourself into the hunt for work. I had my fingers crossed during that entire first week, hoping that we’d like the city and, more important, that we’d continue to like each other. Mainz was only a kilometer or two across, not so large, but there must have been twenty thousand people. A good size at the time. There was a citizens’ center with a market in the northeast corner, and the first time we visited we encountered a lively festival. The city hall was there, as well as the hospital dedicated to the Holy Spirit, the one that I’d suggested when you were first burned. There was an orchard on the west side, and a pig farm run by the Antonite monks. For some reason, they believed that raising swine perfectly complemented their other work of caring for the sick.

The sheer number of religious orders in Mainz was remarkable. There were the Franciscans, the Augustinians, the Teutonic Order, the Carthusians, and the Magdalens, and…I don’t know, too many to remember. But I was most interested in the Beguines, who were essentially nuns without any formal orders. Given my situation, you can imagine that I felt a kind of kinship with them-they were not quite of the Church but not quite of the world, either. They seemed to be everywhere on the streets and it lifted my heart a bit. Even though I had deserted Engelthal, I had no intention of deserting God.

The Cathedral of St. Martin towered over all the other churches in the city. It was built under the direction of Archbishop Willigis around the year 1000, because he needed someplace grand after securing the right for German kings to be crowned in Mainz. But on the day before its official consecration, St. Martin caught fire. It seemed to develop a taste for flames, in fact, because by the time that we arrived it had burned twice more. I always thought that there was something appropriate about that. Burned three times, resurrected three times.

St. Martin was a thing of great beauty. There were bronze doors and a stunning carving of the Crucifixion, and beautiful tracery windows that flooded the nave with amazing colors on sunny days. There was a main choir loft behind a transept and a secondary choir loft in the east. It contained the tombs of some of the archbishops-Siegfried von Epstein, I think, and Peter von Aspelt. During our years in Mainz, a tomb for Archbishop von Bucheck was added. You couldn’t step into the place without feeling the weight of its history.

After we finished our exploration of the city, you set about finding work. You knew that you’d have to start at the bottom, but you were certain your work ethic would ensure that good things would follow. Every morning you got up early to visit all the churches under construction, and every day you’d be turned away by them all. Then you started visiting private houses being built, commercial buildings, and new roads, but all these worksites turned you away as well. You became as well known around the construction sites as a colorful dog, but no matter what you did, no one would offer you a job.

Your first problem was that you refused to lie. When foremen asked about your experience, you were always forthright that you’d not practiced masonry for some time. When they asked about what you’d done in the interval, you would say that you’d been a soldier. If pressed about exactly what type of soldier, you’d remain quiet. But the real reason you were turned away, time after time, was your burns. They weren’t nearly as extensive as they are today, but try to imagine the superstition of the age. Who knew what a burned man had been involved with, especially if he withheld the details? Something sinister, no doubt.

Every night you’d drag yourself home, but you’d take a moment outside the door to our lodgings. You’d straighten your clothing, and then clench your fists and splay your fingers a few times before shaking a smile onto your face. I know this because I used to watch you through the little window. Before you entered, I’d reposition myself so that you never knew that I’d seen it.

My pains in adjusting to our new life were different. I felt oppressed by the freedom. With no schedule of prayers to follow, I visited the churches around town on my own time, but it was different praying when I really didn’t have to. I started teaching myself to prepare food, something I’d never done in the monastery. I stuck with fresh vegetables and fruits, thinking I couldn’t go wrong, until, after a few weeks, you indicated that you’d appreciate something more “substantial.” That meant something heated, something involving meat. Overcooked, undercooked, mixed improperly, I managed to destroy just about everything I lit a fire under. You smiled your way through my efforts, hiding the scraps in your pockets and telling me that I was getting better. More kindness on your part. In the end our landlady, who could no longer stand the smells from my kitchen, finally showed me enough tricks to get by.

But cooking was simple, compared to playing the role of a lover. God, was that terrifying! But again you were patient, certainly more than I could have reasonably expected. Perhaps in part that was because of your burns; some nights you were too tender to be touched. You weren’t innocent and it would have been naпve of me to expect that, but you never apologized for the fact that you’d known women before me. There was the time before we met and the time after, and that was that. Just as I’d left my previous life behind, I had to accept that you’d done the same. For the most part it wasn’t too difficult, although sometimes I had to wrestle my jealousies into the closet when you weren’t looking.

There was an advantage to your experience in the arena of physical love. Strangely enough, it was the same thing that I had spent my entire life trying, but failing, to perfect in spiritual love. I never had to lead, I only had to receive. You introduced me to a sensuality that I had no idea I possessed. I discovered that I…Look at me, all these years have passed, and I still blush. I still can’t talk about it. Let’s just say that I had always lived with my vows, but after a few months with you I realized that a life of chastity was hardly any life at all.

In any case, I adjusted to living outside the monastery. I still visited St. Martin but I was soon praying for your health and success in finding work, which meant I was praying for what I wanted to happen rather than for what God did. Outside the church, I found myself talking to the Beguines on the street, and I struck up friendships with a few.