A Matter of Time (3 page)

Bartholomew nodded. And relaxed—a little. He’d been through too much with this man, over too many years, to remain flint-hearted.

“Each of us is required to press toward the mark,” Anselm went on, “and cooperate with God as He prepares us to be His companions
for time and eternity. We encourage the young ones to practice His presence by dialoguing with Him in their spiritual journals.
And periodically we check them, to make sure they’re hearing the Holy Spirit, and not the unholy one. But we older monks—we’re
not supposed to need supervision.”

Bartholomew sat in stony silence.

“I’ve seen Mother Michaela,” Anselm concluded, “and we feel you need an extended personal retreat. In Bermuda. Immediately.”

Bermuda! He might as well have said Devil’s Island. The prospect had as much appeal as being condemned to the old French penal
colony.

Faith Abbey had a small work in Bermuda, where they were stewards of a 47-acre reserve known as the Harris Trust. The director
was a retired priest in his 80s, Father Francis, who had once served as head of the abbey’s clergy. He was assisted by four
sisters from the abbey’s convent. Sometimes members of the abbey went down there for R&R. Occasionally they went—or were sent—to
reconnect with God. They would stay for anywhere from a few days to a few weeks—or longer.

Bartholomew grimaced. “I feel like I’m being punished, sent into exile. Why don’t you just give me a leper’s bell, so I can
warn people I’m spiritually unclean!”

Anselm’s lips tightened, but his voice remained calm. “How you choose to regard this is up to you.”

The younger monk tried a different tack. “Look, Anselm,” he pleaded, “I don’t need to do this. I’ll admit my prayer life has
not been what it should be. But I can change! I can do something about it, right here. I don’t need to go down there.”

When he saw that the Senior Brother was not about to compromise, he asked, “How long will I have to stay?”

“God will let you know when you’re supposed to come home.”

“Oh, come on! At least give me a ball park estimate.”

Anselm shook his head. “If I did, you’d have a finite end in mind and might be tempted to stonewall the whole thing. Just
serve your hard time and come home.”

Bartholomew did not answer. That was exactly what he had been thinking.

“Nothing would be accomplished,” Anselm sighed. “Nothing would have changed.”

The two monks looked at each other, and finally the Senior Brother softened. “Bart, you’re not being ordered to do this. But
we think it’s right, the next step for you, and we’re strongly urging you to consider it.”

“How long do I have, to make up my mind?”

“We need your decision tomorrow.”

Bartholomew stood up. “I’ll think about it.”

He did not say “I’ll pray about it,” because in truth, the last entry in his journal was at Christmas. Two years ago.

3
  
  
tu
to tango

In a waterfront bistro in the French Riviera port of Cap d’Antibes, a blond, crew-cut young man leaned close to the dark-haired
woman next to him. “Let’s get out of here,” he murmured. “This place is too crowded.”

The woman, in a tight navy-and-white striped bateau shirt and white Capri pants, raised her eyebrows. “I thought you were
with your friends.”

“That’s the problem.” He scowled and glanced at the small table surrounded by five large men drinking Heinekens. All were
in white polo shirts and white ducks, even white Topsiders. And they all had white Helly-Hansen sailing parkas like the one
on the back of his bar stool. One of them, seeing him looking in their direction, gave him a thumbs-up. “Any place with that
bunch in it is too crowded.”

She shrugged and followed as he left the bar and headed for the door, his crewmates bellowing derisive encouragement behind
them.

Outside, she took his arm. “I know a place,
plus intime
. Very quiet.”

He let her lead him away from the quay, through an
alley, up some steps, into a smaller café. It was more intimate. No Americans. No sailors of any nationality. Just locals.
The clientele spoke in low tones, concentrating on their Pernod, Dubonnet, Aquavit. The air was redolent with the pungent
aroma of Gauloises cigarettes.

All the tables were taken, so they sat at the bar.

The young man—not much more than a boy, really—wrinkled his nose. “Guess no one here pays much attention to the Surgeon General’s
report.”

The woman, seeing he was waiting for a response, realized he must have made a joke. She smiled. “Go back to telling me about
yourself,” she said, ordering two double Pernods. “How did you become a sailor?”

He held up a forefinger. First, he had to finish telling her how his tennis team had won the Ivy League championship the year
before. “The Yalie I played was ranked twenty-seventh in the country.” He paused to let that sink in, pleased that she seemed
impressed with the defining moment of his life. “I earned my ‘P’
that
day!” he exclaimed, and she laughed, assuming he’d made another joke.

She caught the patron’s eye and circled her finger over their empty glasses. Which were soon refilled.

“And how did you earn this?” she asked, pointing to the name
Laventura
embroidered on his polo shirt, as well as on the front and right shoulder of his parka.

“That’s my yacht. Actually, it belongs to friends of my parents. When they were visiting at the family compound in Key Biscayne—that’s
in Florida—I’d admired their boat. She’s the most beautiful schooner I’ve ever seen.”

The woman sipped the yellow liquid in her glass without comment, then turned away so he would not see her yawn. When she turned
back, her eyes were once again bright and attentive.

“Anyway,” he was saying, “as they left, they told me, ‘You must sail with us sometime.’ I knew they were just being polite,
but—I was graduating in the spring and didn’t want to settle down right away. So I wrote them and reminded them of their offer.”

“And the sailing? You already knew how?”

“Well, nothing more than Lasers. But the guys showed me the ropes.”

“The ropes?”

“Nautical expression. They showed me how everything worked.”

“Oh,” she smiled. “You like them? The guys?”

He nodded. “I’m sort of their mascot. But we’re leaving for Bermuda tomorrow, and the new boy,” he thumbed his chest, “is
the only one who’s going to score tonight. Tennis term,” he added hastily, glancing at his watch. “Listen, um—”

“Antoinette,” she reminded him. “Toni.”

“Listen, Toni, you’re about the most attractive thing I’ve seen ashore, anywhere in the Med. And—”

“I like you, too, Kevin,” she responded, tapping his chin with a forefinger and showing him she could remember his name. “You
remind me of my younger brother.” She giggled. “My much younger brother.”

Then, so he would not be hurt, she leaned close and beamed at him. Actually she leaned into him, so he would know there were
only two layers of clothing between them. Two thin layers.

It had the desired effect. “Listen,” said the boy thickly, “—Toni, I really want to
coucher avec vous
.”

“
Toi
,” she corrected him.

“Huh?”

“When you say what you just said, to someone close
to you, it’s
tu
, not
vous
. You would say
vous
if you were speaking to
une femme de nuit
.”

“Sorry!” he stammered, chagrinned that he might have just ruined his chances.

“It’s okay,” she said, smiling and tossing her head, “I want to, too. Just let me go in there a moment,” she nodded toward
the W.C. “Then we’ll leave.”

“Don’t be long,” he whispered.

In a little while, she returned. “Let me leave first,” she murmured to him. “Take your time, finish your drink, pay
l’addition
. Then leave.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want them to see us leaving together. I live here.”

He nodded. In a moment she said good night, and he nodded, feigning dismay.

Ten minutes later he emerged and spotted her waiting in a white Renault two-door down the street. Strolling past it, he glanced
around and, seeing no one, slipped into the passenger seat.

“Your place or mine?” he asked huskily.

She frowned, and then smiled; he was making another joke. “I’ll take you up on the
corniche
,” she said warmly. “A place I know.
Très intime
. Very romantic.”

Putting the car in gear, she took the long winding road up the side promontory overlooking the sea. There were no headlights,
in either direction. They would have the
corniche
to themselves.

Abruptly she swung the wheel left, turning into what seemed to be a dense growth of brush. But there was a track through it,
and she eased her way along, branches scraping both sides of her car.

All at once they were out in the open, on a little bluff, barely big enough for the car.

In front of them the vast Mediterranean stretched away under the light of a nearly full moon. It was calm; on the black mirror
of the inlet, the moon seemed to draw a line straight to them.

“You were right,” he said, exhaling, “this
is
romantic.”

She nestled into him. “And no one even knows it’s here.”

After putting the car in reverse and carefully setting the emergency brake, she turned off the engine. In the silence, they
could hear wavelets splashing against the base of the rocky cliff, a hundred meters below.

“Look,” she whispered, nodding to their left. A mile away, a dozen yachts were moored off the Cap. Silhouetted in the moonlight,
they were of all sizes and descriptions. One, larger than the rest, had three masts.

“
Laventura
,” the boy murmured, pointing her out.

“
Magnifique!
”

“So are you,” he gasped, taking her in his arms.

He never felt the blow from the weighted sap strike him just behind the left ear.

“What took you so long?” the woman demanded of the dark form outside the car. “He practically had my clothes off!”

She reached over and extracted the wallet from the unconscious boy’s hip pocket. Removing the money, she started going through
the credit cards.

“Put it back,” said the man outside.

“
What?
”

“Put it all back.”

“But there’s more than four hundred dollars here! And virgin credit cards—a platinum Visa, a gold Amex! I thought this is
what—”

“I have something else in mind,” the man said calmly. “Now—
put it back
.”

Startled at the sharp edge in his tone, she did as instructed, then looked up at him, trying to make out his face in the darkness.
“Hector, you’re not going to go—
strange
on me again, are you?”

When he did not answer, she prattled on with forced cheerfulness. “You were right; he turned out
exactly
as you anticipated. In fact, as he was telling me about himself, I almost lost it. It was as if he was following your script.”
She laughed, hoping he would laugh with her.

He didn’t.

He opened the door, reached in back and retrieved the boy’s sailing parka, dropping it on the ground. Then he pulled off the
boy’s white polo shirt and dropped it, too. After that, he removed the boy’s boating shoes, adding them to the pile.

“Why are you doing that?” she asked. “You’ll never be able to wear or sell—” her voice trailed off, as he came around to her
side of the car.

“Take off your sandals.”

“What? Why?”

“Take them off,” he commanded, icy steel in his voice.

Scared now, she did it. “Hector, please! What are you doing?”

“Now the shirt. Take it off.”

“No, please! I don’t like this!” She started to cry.

“Do it, or I’ll take it off for you.”

Whimpering, she removed her shirt and dropped it beside
the car. “What is this all about?” she begged, her body trembling.

“You and the American were making love,” he explained, matter-of-factly. “In your ardor, one of you knocked the gearshift
into neutral.”