‘“In the past I have already warned … The hearts of men are hardened. They forget that Heaven is watching.”’
A sudden chime as the clock struck four, a series of notes that echoed in the hushed room, marking the passage of time. Gradually, the sound faded, and silence settled once more over the room.
‘Why you?’
She had finally spoken up. Standing behind the sofa, in the shadow of Father Erwann, Sister Anne reminded everyone of her presence; until now she had been utterly silent, waiting with bated breath, mute witness to a confession she could no longer endure.
‘Why would the Blessed Virgin appear to you? To you?’
She had sensed the feeling welling inside her, coursing beneath her skin, like a fever radiating from the nape of her neck to the tips of her fingers; a deep, dull ache that racked her body in a way her faith had never done. She was finally discovering, finally grasping, what it meant to hate.
‘You’re not even a believer … I’m sure you’ve never prayed to her.’
‘Sister Anne.’
‘Such visions must be earned … You have not earned this, you don’t even want it! I do!’
‘Sister Anne!’
Father Erwann got to his feet and stared at the nun. He no longer recognized her; the radiant face with its quiet, unfailing serenity was twisted, contorted by some terrible thing the young priest would never have suspected. Almost instantly, Sister Anne turned and fled the place where she had just revealed her sin; only her voice still echoed, her strangulated words, like a curse called down upon this place.
The day had begun to fade. The dusk was muffled by a thick layer of blue-grey cloud. The coast was silent and serene. Lights flickered on the headland; lanterns, candles sheltered from the breeze. Around the base of the statue of the Virgin lay scallop shells, orange-pink, perfectly chiselled ornaments from the sea; here and there amid the grass stood small cairns fashioned from stones, markers of a sacred place. Sprays of lilies, columbines, roses, irises and other flowers were strewn across the patch of ground that had become a shrine.
‘He’s coming.’
A whisper rippled along the headland: the shadowy figure of the boy had just appeared on the path. All voices trailed away. Candles were held aloft. In the long seconds of hushed silence, Isaac approached, effortlessly moving through the throng of people. Behind the child, Father Erwann was staring in wonder at the scene, these hands reaching out to touch the boy’s curls, the rosary beads held close to hearts. There were soft murmurs and prayers as Isaac slowly passed among them; in the midst of this crowd, he looked frail, too young to understand the searching eyes. He could have turned on his heel and fled this unwanted attention, since even the stoutest soul would baulk at this level of expectation. Yet he walked on, oblivious to their invocations, seeing nothing but the darkening sky. Suddenly, he fell to his knees. Instantly, there came a tumult of cries and jostling bodies as the crowd surged towards him.
‘Don’t touch him!’
Madenn suddenly appeared and repelled the heaving crowd, ordering them to take a step back. People pushed and shoved, craning their necks to get a glimpse of Isaac. The tightly crammed throng seemed to be in danger of tumbling off the outcrop on to the rocks below at any moment. It looked like every crowd that had ever existed, every horde that had come to view religious ecstasy, to witness a miracle, some proof that the Blessed Virgin still visited the earth, proof that humankind still warranted her grace.
Madenn spread her arms wide to protect the boy behind her. The last light withdrew from the coast, turning the crowd into a dark, quivering mass. Madenn watched every gesture, every movement, keenly aware that nothing was more unpredictable than an excitable mass of people, that a single shout could shatter this fragile balance. After a moment, she noticed a distant figure further along the path: the woman’s arms hung limply by her sides and she did not move, as though disdaining to come closer, as though scorning the impassioned crowd. The breeze lifted the veil that covered her hair. Still, she stood, watching from a distance, a frozen shadow robbed of every breath.
The cry of seagulls, close at hand, strangely close; the lapping of waves. The cold was all around. Sister Anne opened her eyes and was surprised to see a pale glow. The only roof above her was the sky; her only bed, a sandy hollow. She had taken a fall. She remembered now, last night: the memory came back to her … She had fallen into the ditch but had not called out for help. After a time, she had walked away from the headland, tired of the gullible crowd, of the prostrate child. She had carried on walking, hands brushing the tall grasses, not knowing where the dark path might lead her. After a while, the ground had begun to slope steeply and she had descended, feeling the sand beneath her feet, listening to the sea. Then, suddenly, the ground had opened up beneath her and she had tumbled into the darkness.
During the night, she had opened her eyes and stared up at the clouds as they receded, at the moon, the bluish glow unique to the coast, the starry firmament that she had never seen before, the one that people in cities could never see; the one they had all but forgotten, but which still existed, there, above the tall buildings that blotted out the sky and dulled its radiance. She had wanted to keep looking at it, to contemplate each new star as it revealed itself to her eye, but she had sunk back into unconsciousness, as though death were calling her, here on this bed of fine sand – or she wished it were so, because now that she was awake again, this return to consciousness, this resurgence of memories, filled her with dread.
She sat up. Damp sand stuck to her hands, so she rubbed her palms together and looked around. The pale shore was deserted. The sea was calm and clear, the tide slowly coming in. To her right, rising above the water, she saw the lonely headland, the flowers that had tumbled on to the beach, the melted wax of the candles, the absence of the faithful now that the boy had gone; there was only the little statue of the Virgin, ringed with rosary beads, patiently waiting for the next call to prayer.
Leaning on one knee, Sister Anne got to her feet. Her hair was uncovered; her wimple had been blown off during the night and now floated like seaweed on the surface of the waves. She ignored it and took a few faltering steps, looked up at the sky, gazing into the pale light; she turned back, called out to this desolate place, demanding that she too might see. She looked like a madwoman, meandering along this cold shore, her habit crusted with white sand, staring into the heavens, waiting for a response – some sign, however small, that she had not spent her nights praying, had not renounced the world, only for grace to be bestowed on another.
From behind her came the roar of an engine. In the distance, beyond the beach, a battered Citroën 2CV was driving along the track. It stopped outside the house at the end of the road. A little girl rushed out to meet her father as he slammed the car door shut.
‘Gently does it, Julia. Remember your asthma.’
Michel Bourdieu lifted the child into his arms. The rest of the family came out to greet him, pestering him for details of his trip, the train there and back, the hotel where he stayed, whether he was exhausted.
‘We made the right decision when we left Paris. The city has been ruined by the people who live there.’
Breakfast was made, coffee and hot chocolate, butter and jam, toast and orange juice; the room was filled with sweet scents that told of morning and warded off the problems of the day. There was a knock at the door. The mother, who was always surprised when someone called at the house, set the coffee pot down on the table and went to open the door. On the threshold Sister Anne looked like a ghost, standing straight and pale, as though nothing now inhabited her icy body. She fell into the mother’s arms.
‘He has seen her …’
Though somewhat taken aback, the mother took the nun in her arms, registering all the details that revealed how she had spent the night: the sand in her hair; the damp, frosty cloak. The nun’s sobs strangely reminded her of her daughter. Michel Bourdieu appeared at the far end of the hallway; he recognized the voice, even if he did not recognize Sister Anne in the figure standing in the doorway, stripped of her blue veil, her innate reticence, the serene composure she usually presented to the world. In his wife’s arms, she was no longer a nun, nor even an adult; she was like a tearful child seeking comfort for some sadness they fear they will never get over.
‘This is about the boy, isn’t it?’
Michel Bourdieu stepped closer. A mounting sense of foreboding had haunted his entire trip, a bad feeling he’d had ever since he had been told that a boy on the island had seen the Virgin Mary.
The sister looked up at him, her eyes filled with tears.
‘It’s all true.’
The sobbing had abated. Only a faint, barely perceptible echo still lingered, as though Sister Anne’s grief had not quite left the house. The light had changed, become insipid, now that the morning was drawing to a close. A silence reigned over the house, the sort of austere calm that follows an argument, the silence of solitude.
‘Could you make me another tartine?’
Julia took a large mouthful of bread, spreading strawberry jam everywhere and leaving her mouth smeared with butter. She ate greedily, dipping the tartine into her milk, untroubled by the morning’s upheaval. On the other side of the table, Hugo seemed preoccupied.
‘Finish that one first,’ he said.
‘Oh, don’t try to be like Papa. Anyway, you need to eat, too. Your chicory must be cold by now.’
It was true that Hugo had not touched his bowl, unable to swallow, let alone eat anything. He had lost the ease of childhood, when appetite is seldom suppressed by external events. Outside, the Citroën 2CV had driven away; a cloud of dust still hung above the dirt track. We’re taking Sister Anne back to Roscoff. Don’t go out. Don’t open the door to anyone.
What had invaded their home that morning was a strange kind of excitement: the distraught nun who had to be consoled, though no one truly understood her anguish; who had to be warmed up, as her shivering body looked as though it might shatter on the floor. She had been served hot tea, dressed in a woolly jumper, and Hugo had stared at the nun who no longer looked like a nun as she sat on the sofa, cupping the tea in her hands, staring into space and repeating the same words over and over: Isaac, he has seen her, Isaac. From that moment on, Hugo had been unable to eat, unable to think of anything but the knot in his stomach.
At the sound of the doorbell, he flinched. Sitting opposite him, his sister dropped her tartine and climbed down from her chair.
