Once inside, the reason for the abbess’s presence there becomes obvious. On the flagstones beneath the altar is the great, newly repaired crucifix, lying in all its glory, ready to be lifted back into place. In between the choir stalls a tower, hoist, and pulley are waiting to start the process.
The abbess is on her knees to one side of the cross, prostrated upon the ground, her body reaching out toward His own. His sculpted flesh is so close that if she were to put out her hands any farther she would surely touch it.
Zuana hesitates. She has seen her often enough in chapel, where she always makes the prettiest picture of a nun at prayer, but as she watches her here it appears that she is at a deeper, private devotion. She finds herself almost embarrassed to be watching.
After a while, as she turns toward the door, the voice says, “Sit, Zuana. I will be with you soon.”
Perhaps not so private after all.
From her vantage point in the choir stalls, Zuana now studies the sculpture. On the ground, Christ’s figure seems larger than life-size. Along with making repairs to the crossbar and the hand, the workmen have cleaned and revarnished the body, removing a century of candle smoke and grime so that the surface of His skin seems to glow.
At last the abbess straightens up. She sits back on her heels for a moment, staring at the body, then leans over and kisses the wood of the cross before getting to her feet.
“You know, when I first came here as a child, the story was that the man who sculpted this had used the body of his own son, who had died in a brawl, as his model.” Her voice is calm, conversational even. “It was said that his grief was so overwhelming it informed his hand when it came to his chisel on the wood. He’d been a handsome young man, by all accounts. A favorite with the young women. I used to wonder how it could be that his body had now become that of Christ. For there was never any doubt that this was who this was.”
She finds a place to sit near her dispensary mistress and spreads her skirts around her.
“Over the years I have come to realize that we nuns are wondrously adept at seeing what we believe.” She hesitates. “Or rather believing what we want to see, perhaps even when it is not there.”
Both her words and manners are a long way from the rage with which they had parted company less than a day before. The rule of their order is clear on such things: a Benedictine nun must not give way to anger or foster a desire for revenge. She must love her enemy and make peace with an adversary before the setting of the sun. And she must never, ever despair of God’s mercy. It is an arduous list, and the abbess must be seen to be a shining example to all around her.
Even when she had not agreed with her, Zuana had admired her more than any abbess before her. Would that she could feel that way again.
“It appears I have you to thank for the fact that she did not stab herself in the middle of Matins.”
“It was not simply me, Madonna Chiara. The girl herself has no wish to do you or the convent harm.”
“No, she did make that clear. Nevertheless she hates me. The eyes show more than the words.” She pauses. “Well, in her place I would hate me, too. I assume you supplied the extra blood to make the performance complete?”
Zuana hesitates, then nods.
“It was most impressive. I hope you left enough for Federica’s blessed cakes. Though it is likely that there will be no Carnival feast by next year.”
“There will be a feast,” Zuana says firmly. “You will still be abbess. And then, as now, you will be much loved and admired.”
“Oh, Zuana, please. Do me the courtesy of refraining from false praise. We are, I think, beyond that. We are here to negotiate, are we not? In which case let us get on with it.”
“Here?” Her eyes slip to the crucifix.
“Why not? We will never have a better witness. And I would not like it to be thought that we sought to hide anything from Him.”
And so Zuana speaks, first of the disease and then of the remedy. The words she uses are clear and simple, as befits a good physician or scholar who has studied something deeply and wishes to convince others of its efficacy. The abbess, for her part, listens well, never once taking her eyes off Zuana’s face.
ON THE CHAPEL floor, on the cross, Christ’s face is turned away from the two nuns. The falling angle of the head suggests a man close to death rather than one still in agony. For Him at least the worst is past and there is resurrection to come.
“Do you know the greatest fear women have when they enter a convent against their will?” the abbess says at last. “It will surprise you, I think, for often they do not even know it themselves. It is not about children, or the latest fashion, or even stories of the marriage bed. No. At root it is that if they do not find comfort in God, they will die of boredom. Boredom.” She smiles. “I must say, in all the years I have been abbess of this convent, thanks to sisters such as yourself and even Umiliana, that has never been my problem.
