Conroy was seated at an old olive press, installed as a table beneath orange trees in the middle of San Giovanni’s ornate fifteenth-century cloister. A large jug of wine and a bowl of peaches in water lay on the press. At Larkwood it would now be the Great Silence after Compline, but for Conroy it was time for ‘a bit of a wag’.
‘And there’s plenty more where this little divil came from,’ he said, nodding at the jug. ‘A bit rough, mind.’
Anselm pulled up a chair and they sat opposite each other like card players in a cheap Western surrounded by shooting cicadas.
‘Now, can you tell me what the holy men had to say?’ asked Conroy
‘No.’
‘Thought not,’ he replied, gratified.
Anselm remembered Conroy’s warning about mirrors twisting things out of shape. He had been wrong, which was not altogether surprising. The likes of Conroy, while highly entertaining, were not disposed to understand the subtleties of high office and the demands it placed upon its servants.
Conroy held the jug in his hand, saying, ‘There isn’t much time, you know, so give me that glass. We were born to celebrate.’ He poured, squinting at some private thought, and then, measuring his words carefully, said, ‘If ever you want information above and beyond what the holy men have told you, let me know I’ve got a pal or two in the library with very sticky fingers.’
Conroy dropped a peach in his glass.
Anselm shook his head. There was no need for any such thing. And then, with dismay, he heard himself say, ‘As a matter of fact, I do.’
‘Tell me, so.
It was as though another person was talking and Anselm was being helplessly pulled along. He said, ‘What is known about a French Priory, Notre-Dame des Moineaux?’
Anselm winced as he sipped savagely dry white wine. Conroy quaffed and said, ‘I won’t write that down, so.’
‘No, please don’t.’
‘And I won’t write down the answer either.’
‘No, please don’t.’
They looked at each other, conjoined by deceit.
‘Have a peach,’ said Conroy
‘I will,’ said Anselm, laughing for no reason, ready to celebrate he didn’t know what.
Then Conroy took off at a pace. ‘Did I tell you the story about me and the Cardinal? No? My God, well, listen.’
Conroy filled his glass.
‘After I got a clattering for my book, I was invited, invited I tell you, to share evening prayer with the Prince of the Sacred Congregation for the Defence of the Faith. Well, I made an awful hash of it. You know that antiphon for Lent, “Heal my soul for I have sinned against you”? Well, God forgive me, it came out wrong. As solemn as you like I spoonered the opening words, with emphasis, and Jasus, you should have seen his face:
Conroy was fishing in his glass, trying to grip his peach. ‘It was gas, I can tell you.
‘What book did you get into trouble for?’ asked Anselm, intrigued.
‘You won’t know it. I agreed to have it withdrawn. The clever boys behind the door weren’t happy with my Christology. Too low.’
‘I’d like to read it.’
‘I burned every copy, thousands of ‘em. But I’m thinking of writing another. Now, Father, your glass please, it’s empty.’
Anselm was rapidly slipping out of his depth. These were Roddy’s waters, not his. But by tomorrow night he’d be back in Larkwood obeying the bells, so he dived in with Conroy and swam for his very life.
Anselm woke between two and three in the morning, lying on the kitchen floor with a block of English cheddar in one hand and a potato peeler in the other. Conroy was nowhere to be seen. He could remember little of their conversation except for one exchange which seemed to bring them both to sobriety. Conroy had asked what Schwermann was supposed to have done, and Anselm had told him. Conroy’s face had darkened and his features had contracted in pain. He’d played with his glass, rolling its slender stem between his thick, gentle fingers.
Very slowly he’d muttered, ‘Once you’ve heard a child cry out to heaven for help, and go unanswered, nothing’s ever the same again. Nothing. Even God changes.’