Blood & Gold Page 15

  Paris was moving fast, not glancing behind. George had to run to catch up with him. By the time Paris reached the main buildings, George was still some way behind. He entered the courtyard and found it empty. Rows of closed cell doors. A hot, blank stillness. Nothing to say where Paris had gone.

  George hesitated for a few moments and ran on. The next courtyard was also deserted.

  He tried knocking on a cell door. Getting no answer, he tried another. This was opened by a sleepy monk who was angry at being disturbed.

  ‘You don’t knock on the monks’ doors!’ he said.

  George apologised and walked slowly back to the gardens. He sat for a while thinking about what he had seen.

  24 A Monk’s Life

  The evening meal, known as trapeza, was a hasty business. Monks and pilgrims sat at long tables, where plates of vegetable stew were laid out among baskets of roughly chopped bread. A grace was intoned, a bell rang, and everyone began eating, quickly and hungrily, eyes down, without ceremony or conversation, while a monk at a lectern read in a loud monotonous voice from the life of a saint. Ten minutes later the bell rang again. Spoons clattered on empty plates. The meal was over. George felt like an inmate in a prison. He scanned the crowd of faces in the refectory. Paris was not there.

  Strolling after supper, in the courtyards and gardens, he continued his search. There was no sign of him. He grew more and more convinced that Paris was avoiding him, no doubt alerted by his father.

  At nine, George went to bed – the feeling of imprisonment still strong within him.

  Some time later, George was woken up by a hand shaking him eagerly.

  Bewildered and heavy with sleep he mumbled, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s me, Stephanos! I’m going to the early morning service. Will you come?’

  ‘Did I say I would?’

  ‘I thought you did.’

  George rubbed his eyes. ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Come! It will help you.’

  ‘Help me? How?’

  ‘Just come!’

  ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Almost three o’clock.’

  George could not see how losing half a night’s sleep would help anyone and dropped back onto his pillow.

  ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘Let me think about it.’

  ‘Come.’ Stephanos was insistent, yapping like a little dog.

  George was dimly conscious of other sleepers stirring. There was an air of almost military purpose about them, of a team preparing for action.

  Still clouded with sleep, he said, ‘OK. Let me get dressed.’

  The night was still black outside, the stars casting a faint silvery light on the stones of the courtyard and silhouetting the monastery buildings against the sky. Ahead, through an open doorway, a single candle burned in the darkness. George and Stephanos stumbled stiffly towards it, their footfalls loud in the nocturnal silence.

  Inside the chapel, George could dimly make out the wooden stalls that lined the walls, each one inhabited by a bearded figure. The candle-flame burned steadily over a lectern where a young monk chanted from the gospel, his voice echoing in the vaulted obscurity. Stephanos led him to an empty stall. ‘Go there,’ he whispered.

  George squeezed himself into the narrow curve of wood with its shoulder-height elbow-rests and its awkward little shelf of a seat. Stephanos took the stall next to him and flashed a smile of triumph.

  George nodded grimly. Four hours of chanting was not his idea of a good use of the night. Still, he was prepared to try it once, if only to experience for himself one of the realities of monastic life. Already he could see how harsh it must be, mentally and physically, and how false were those accounts that portrayed it as ‘stress-free’. With no more than five hours sleep each night the mind and body would create stress enough for a lifetime with its own desperate hunger for rest.

  As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness he began to see the painted images of saints on the walls, their harsh faces and stiff robes blackened by smoke and time. Above them floated the giant face of Christ in mosaics on the dome. George was struck by the power of the single candle. It was all stage-managed for maximum effect: the light of truth scattering the night of ignorance, the Holy Fathers hovering in the shadows, their faces reflecting the candle’s rays, while Christ gazed down from the heavens. Beyond the walls of the church lay the world, unseen, unknown, an immense and incomprehensible universe.

  Still, this chanting seemed endless! Kyrie eleison, Kyrie eleison, Kyrie eleison… The slow unwinding of an enormous reel of thread. Time barely seemed to move.

  Maybe an hour later, having dozed off, George opened his eyes and was startled to find himself looking at the face of Paris, in the stalls on the far side of the church. He had been dimly aware of monks and pilgrims occasionally moving in and out, of newcomers entering the church. And suddenly there was the man he was looking for, eyes downcast, apparently deep in contemplation.

  Paris did not look up. George watched him steadily.

  The chanting continued. Another candle was lit on the far side of the church and a second monk added his voice. The effect was dramatic. Suddenly there was a dialogue. The two melodies alternated, joined, drew apart, curled around each other like the tendrils of a vine. George was lulled into a state that resembled hallucination, where one sense entered his mind in the guise of another. Sound became colour. The smoke of incense, burning every day here for centuries, became his own memories. Past and present fused in a molten river of darkness and gilded flames.

  When he woke up again, stiff and hunched in the stall, he glanced up and saw that Paris had gone. A wave of anger shook him from his lethargy. He hurried out of the church.

  In the courtyard day had risen, painting the world with surprising colour. Birds were singing. The sun’s first rays lit the sky beyond the high monastery walls. He glanced at his watch. Seven o’clock. He was no nearer to finding Paris, but at least breakfast could not be far off.

  He breathed deeply, drinking in the cool morning air.

  Back inside, he whispered to Stephanos: ‘How much longer does this last?’

  ‘Until breakfast.’

  ‘I know, but when’s that?’

  ‘It depends. Seven-thirty some days, eight-thirty on others.’

  ‘And today?’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘What does it depend on?’

  ‘The saint’s day. If it’s a feast, the service is longer and they eat later.’

  ‘I’m hungry,’ said George.

  ‘This is the food of eternal life,’ said Stephanos.

  ‘Of course,’ said George. ‘I was forgetting.’

  He leaned back in the stall, rolling his shoulders to ease his aching joints.

  At last the service ended, and the monks flowed out through the church doorway, a river of black ink. George watched the congregation leave, monks then visitors. Paris was not among them.

  Nor was he visible at breakfast time. George began to suspect again that Paris was avoiding him, perhaps already planning to escape. He asked a monk what time the first boat would come in.

  ‘They arrive all the time,’ was the reply.

  George asked how he could find a fellow visitor.

  The monk seemed puzzled. ‘There are many visitors,’ he said.

  ‘I know. There’s a particular one I need to talk to.’

  ‘Do you have his name?’

  ‘Paris Aliveris.’

  There was not even a flicker of recognition. ‘What do you want with him?’

  ‘I have to ask him something.’

  The monk looked firmly into George’s eyes. ‘This is a place of prayer, not of worldly affairs. If you need to talk to a man, you should do it on the mainland.’

  ‘This is for his own safety.’

  ‘You have a message for him?’

  ‘Can you pass it on?’

  ‘If I can find him I will.’

  ‘And if I told you h
e was wanted by the police?’

  ‘I would expect the police to speak to the monastery through official channels.’

  ‘So you offer sanctuary to criminals?’

  ‘You appear to be in some confusion.’

  ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps not. If I had a murderer as a guest in my house I would like to know about it.’

  The monk was taken aback at this. He reflected for a few moments before speaking.

  ‘That is a serious matter.’

  ‘You see why I’m concerned.’

  ‘I will speak to the Abbot as soon as he returns.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘On his way from Thessaloniki. He has been in hospital.’

  ‘It’s quite possible that Mr Aliveris will try to escape.’

  ‘In that case he will meet his destiny elsewhere.’

  ‘That destiny could be very unpleasant indeed.’

  ‘If he has taken life, God will punish him. In just measure.’

  ‘You’re happy to leave it to God?’

  ‘We’re all in His hands.’

  George took a notebook from his pocket, scribbled ‘Paris Aliveris’ on a fresh page and tore it out.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked the monk.

  ‘His name.’

  ‘No need.’ He tapped his skull with a forefinger. ‘I’ve got it in here.’

  George thanked him. The monk said, ‘Try to leave your business behind when you come here.’

  ‘I wish I could,’ said George.

  ‘Come to the sea gate in an hour.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We are welcoming the Abbot. If I find Aliveris I’ll tell him to come too.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said George.

  Shortly after breakfast a buzz of expectation began spreading through the monastery. Heavy wooden doors opened. Monks stepped out of their shadowy cells into the sunshine, formally robed, their stovepipe hats draped with black cloth. They greeted each other, gathering in small groups along the alley that led down to the port. There they waited, saying little, quietly excited. Soon the whole monastery had turned out, maybe two hundred people. Stephanos the gym teacher was standing with a trio of older monks, talking, gesticulating nervously. They listened with solemn faces to his desperate tale.

  Paris Aliveris was not there. George walked among the crowd, working his way slowly towards the port, searching for that elusive face.

  As he reached the sea gate, he saw a neat little coaster approaching, its blue and white smokestack puffing dark smoke. A shiny black jeep was parked on its quarter deck. The ship slowed, dropped anchor, hooted three times and backed carefully onto the jetty. A wheeled metal ramp was rolled out from her stern and the jeep lumbered off. It turned up the hill, its windows down. George glimpsed a smiling grey-bearded old cleric waving from the front passenger seat. The monks cheered and crossed themselves as he drove slowly past. ‘Welcome back, Father!’ they cried. ‘I ora kali!’

  George was surprised by their enthusiasm. Until now they had seemed emotionless creatures, pure spirit, going efficiently about their business, their minds rigorously bent on duty. Yet here they were in the grip of their feelings: loyalty, admiration, love. It seemed miraculous that a leader could inspire such devotion in a community.

  So absorbed was George in his thoughts that he failed to notice two figures approaching. One of them took him by the elbow. He jumped with surprise. It was the monk he had spoken to earlier.

  ‘Mr Zafiris, Father Seraphim. I have brought the man you were looking for.’

  ‘Oh?’

  He turned, and found himself face to face with Paris Aliveris.

  George offered his hand, which the musician refused to take.

  ‘You wanted to see me?’ he said coldly.

  ‘Can we talk in private?’

  Paris glanced at Father Seraphim. ‘I prefer to have my confessor present.’

  ‘Makes a change from a lawyer,’ said George.

  Father Seraphim said, ‘Let’s go to my room.’

  He led them to the innermost courtyard, where they climbed a staircase to the first floor. Father Seraphim extracted a bunch of keys from his pocket and let them into a large study made smaller by hundreds of books on the walls and in piles on tables. A desk in one corner faced a pair of straight-backed wooden benches.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Father Seraphim. ‘I’ll make some coffee.’

  He vanished through a doorway behind the desk. George and Paris sat tensely side by side, not speaking.

  Father Seraphim returned but did not sit down. ‘Did you come to Athos just to see Mr Aliveris?’ he asked.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘But you also attended morning service.’

  ‘I thought I might see him there.’

  ‘Are you a Christian?’

  ‘In a general way, yes.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I don’t reject the claims of Christianity, nor do I accept them uncritically.’

  ‘For example?’

  ‘The miracles.’

  ‘And the resurrection, the greatest miracle of all?’

  ‘Strangely enough I can believe that.’

  ‘I see.’ He looked displeased. ‘Still, it’s a start.’

  ‘What are you trying to tell me?’

  The monk gave him a long, level look. Slightly pitying, George thought. Slightly ironic.

  ‘I’ll get the coffee,’ he said.

  He returned with three little cups on a tray.

  ‘I’m going to get straight to the point,’ said George.

  ‘Fine,’ said Father Seraphim.

  ‘Mr Aliveris, I came to your home to question you about your wife’s death. You received me with hostility, and a few hours later you vanished. People who run away are assumed to be guilty.’

  ‘I didn’t run away.’

  ‘You flew to Bucharest.’

  ‘For good reason.’

  ‘Please explain.’

  ‘I was exhausted and harassed. I needed a break.’

  ‘Why Bucharest?’

  ‘I have friends there. Friends who are not Athenian, people of faith who could help me.’

  ‘Did they?’

  ‘Greatly.’

  ‘After Bucharest you came here?’

  ‘As you see.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘To talk to Father Seraphim. To take strength from this community.’

  ‘And to seek forgiveness?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘What do you mean “always”?’

  ‘I come here every year. And confession is a sacrament.’

  ‘Did you feel in particular need of confession?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My mind was polluted with bad thoughts.’

  ‘What kind of thoughts?’

  ‘Revenge, hatred, regret…’

  ‘Directed at anyone in particular?’

  ‘At my wife’s killers.’

  ‘Why regret?’

  For a moment or two he seemed too distressed to reply. Then he gathered himself. ‘I believe I failed to protect her. Failed to love her enough.’

  ‘Let’s be clear about this. You say regret, not guilt?’

  ‘I leave guilt to the evil souls who destroyed her life.’

  George watched him closely as he spoke. No sideways glances, no slippery replies. He seemed calm. That could mean innocence, or a psychopath’s detachment. George had no doubt which it was. In his pocket was a phone with a recording on it. It lay there coiled like a snake. All he needed to do was press Play. That would be the end of it.

  Before that, he wanted to see how far this cold-blooded liar was prepared to go in his denials.

  ‘Does Mr Aliveris’s story make sense to you?’ he asked Father Seraphim.

  ‘Complete sense,’ said the monk.

  ‘To me it’s puzzling,’ said George.

  ‘You’re not a confessor.’

  ‘No, I’m an i
nvestigator. I know guilty behaviour when I see it.’

  ‘I wonder if you do, Mr Zafiris.’

  Resenting the monk’s tone, George reacted sharply. ‘Really? That’s amazing. How many criminals do you talk to every month?’

  Father Seraphim replied calmly, ‘As a confessor I am granted insight into people’s souls.’

  ‘Oh yes? I suppose they always tell you the truth?’

  ‘Of course not. Some things are too unbearable to confront, impossible to put into words. And yet, through God’s grace, I can see, sometimes “through a glass darkly”, as St Paul says, but often face to face.’

  George could sense where this was leading. Higher truth, mystical knowledge, a swamp of mumbo-jumbo. ‘The fact is, though, Father, you are bound by the secrecy of confession. Even if Mr Aliveris had killed his wife and admitted it to you, you would never tell me.’

  ‘That is correct. But since he did not kill his wife, that painful contradiction between earthly justice and heavenly mercy does not arise.’

  ‘If he had killed her would you grant absolution?’

  ‘I cannot possibly answer that. It depends on the individual. Normally I would encourage a person who has committed a crime to surrender himself to the police and pay the penalty. I am not in favour of avoiding responsibility.’

  ‘In what circumstances would you allow them to take sanctuary here?’

  Father Seraphim frowned, his eyes two glittering black pools.

  ‘Exceptional circumstances,’ he said.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘We cannot know the mind of God, but occasionally His purpose requires us to allow a sinner to redeem himself through work, prayer and fasting.’

  ‘Work for the monastery? Like the addicts in rehab?’

  ‘That’s the general idea, but it would be a much more intense and complicated process.’

  ‘And how do you judge who is suitable?’

  ‘That is up to God.’

  ‘But you must decide?’

  ‘We would examine the case with the Abbot, with the Council of the monastery, and pray for enlightenment.’