I was coming to … I heard ringing … maybe the bells again, crowding into my mind … and then I opened my eyes and saw a woman’s face. It was beautiful, I wanted to speak but couldn’t move my tongue, I couldn’t move … honey, I dredged out … and then focused, no, it wasn’t Černá. It was a gentle face, viewing me from up close with concern, a girl with some kind of veil or hood over her head … the room was dim, I could feel her touching my hand, and it was bliss … she was close, I noticed that she didn’t have even a smidgen of makeup on …
Thank God you’re recovering, she said. And walked out.
It was a nun.
I was in a small room, whitewashed, over my head hung a crucifix. The sheet was stretched tight, and the blanket, no, a down comforter, it had been years … smelled good, I caught a whiff of old lavender, none of that new stuff made outta monkey guts … I couldn’t move though.
I didn’t wake again till the middle of the night, and there on the wall … where before there’d been nothing, I spotted another face … a woman’s, also in a hood, a veil, her eyes were smiling … on her face she had a scar though, some saint, I thought, and felt … guilty, maybe I’m in some convent, it occurred to me as I looked at her … because, I admit, that face was sexy … turned me on, but in a friendly way, not like one of those wrestling matches with stuff sprayin right an left … I studied the face, she was an ambitious woman, I think, there was something burning inside her, she was strong. And then I closed my eyes, and suddenly I hear … little brother, hey … get up outta that fuckin … deathbed … it was her, that raspy voice … I hear you unmistakably, Černá, that means you’re alive, no Saint ever talked like that, do you think about me, Černá … at least sometimes … and I waited, tense and ready, but I couldn’t move … and nothing else happened and I fell asleep.
Yeah, Bog knows I’m recovering, I thought … Sister Maria Coseta came to see me every day. At first I was a nervous wreck, I knew whose bride she was … but she knew how to talk to me. She was younger than me. Yes, definitely there’s a lot more people younger than me around. Than at the beginning of my story. I’m aware of that. That’s the way it goes in ordinary time.
As time passed … it struck me that she enjoyed coming to see me, and I said so. She told me the story of her order … the Silent Sisters of the Divine Child. Its members swore an oath of silence.
That’s why I like visiting you so much, said Sister Maria. To chat. And you’ve been so many places. How’s the head?
Doesn’t hurt at all now. I’ve only traveled around Bohemia, but maybe that’s not what you mean. Anyway, you never told me how I wound up here. This is total salvation for me.
You mustn’t speak of salvation that way. They found you on the street, not far from here.
But I mean you can’t go puttin up every stiff … pardon me, Sister, every needy person … you find.
You know why we took you in? Perhaps I shouldn’t, but … she took a step toward me … undo your pajama top, yes, there … she touched me with her finger, and all I wanted was for that hand to stay there, she must’ve been able to tell … she quick drew back her finger … we eyed each other … how long’ve you been in the order?
Over a year now.
Sometimes I could sense in her … not exactly the street or the bar … but we had something in common. I didn’t like that idea at all. My … friend was alive, she knew how to move. I think she knew how to be pretty fast. That chamber of mine was full of her. And the life she gave off, it was like even her skin was breathing … it was probably the best medicine I could’ve had. I told her she was rescuing me with every move she made. She laughed. But one day she said: That’s why we’re here. That’s why we’re all here.
Since I couldn’t read yet, she would read to me. Her voice was bright and clear. Sometimes when she was speaking, formally and properly, an ending would drop off. Sometimes she would swallow conjunctions. Every now and then she would laugh from her throat, a laugh that didn’t seem to go with the silent corridors around me. Sometimes it was like she was telling me old things beneath the words. Her eyes gave off flashes and mist.
If a nun, God forbid, put on makeup, she’d look the same as a waitress, I theorized pointlessly. And the other way around. Sister Maria was the only one I saw, maybe that’s why I was so preoccupied with her. I tried to lower my chin to my chest so I could see the spot where she’d touched me, gently, like silk … and then I saw it and threw up on my pillow. I looked again and again, until my neck was sore. There was the Madonna. My Black Madonna, tiny as the medallion, in all her beauty, in the pain of her scar. She who weeps eternal. It didn’t look like a tattoo … you’d think a tattoo would embarrass a nun, but Sister Maria told me she liked the dragon very much … the Madonna looked like it was seared into my skin, or maybe like an engraving … right above the dragon! … I was very happy to have her there. So they took me in because of that?
We had both gotten into the habit of referring to the order as they, Maria was a novice.
I suppose so. I don’t know too much about it though.
Are there a lot of sick people here?
No. Just a few.
Why did you take down that picture?
Huh?
I told her about the woman’s face, the picture I’d seen my first night. That upset her. She was holding a book she’d brought me, nearly dropped it on the floor.
So you saw her … no kiddin, yeah?
She ran out of the room. About an hour later returned … I tried to sit up straight or whatever … this was the first time I was seeing the other nuns, they had different habits … there were three, just one young one … and she looked strict … the two older ones had an air of kindness … they were ladies … I mean you can tell, whores or ladies, even when they merge, that was the sinful abomination that flashed through my bandaged head, I admit … Maria stood beside me, unpainted eyes not even blinking, apparently it was a serious moment.
They wanna know if you saw her besides the first night.
Yeah. Yes. Can you hear them?
Yes. They already taught me that. They want to know how you feel and whether your head hurts.
Tell them I’ve tried walking already and I feel fine. Just weak is all.
They can hear you. Wait a sec, she turned to them.
They’d like to see what you have on your skin.
You mean the dragon?
She blushed. I undid my pajama top, personally I’ve never owned any. Then I thought of something and froze.
So can they hear what I’m thinkin too? I asked Sister Maria.
One of the older nuns looked at me, smiled, and … shook her head.
Just in case, I said.
They leaned over me and inspected the Madonna. But didn’t touch me.
It seems weird me not seein a doctor, I declared.
They say you don’t need one. Not anymore.
Then they left us alone. Maria had already told me a lot about the order. But apparently she didn’t know that much herself. She said they came from Spain and that a lot of the sisters were South American. The first thing I asked about was the bells.
You see, said Sister Maria Coseta, you’re Catholic, I suppose … weelll, I said, I didn’t even mention that stuff about Bog, not me, I was glad to be there … the sisters feel themselves bound by their mission, so it’s just … the chapel where they assemble, the bell’s in there … uh-huh, I said, attempting to catch a pesky fly … they care for the Divine Child, the Baby Jesus, all through Latin America … the Indians worship it … you’ve no doubt heard of the Carmelites, my little sister lectured me, she’d brought in a chair, not like at the beginning when she’d sat on the edge of my bed … this order split off from them in the seventeenth century, but wasn’t recognized … seventeenth, that’s baroque, right? I inquired craftily, Sister Maria had brought me a book of poems called Rose of Wounds* with some old and beautiful words in it … even read the flaps, out of boredom.