The Priest's Madonna (36 page)

Claude visits when he can. Michelle is gone—she moved back to Carcassonne with Pichon and his new wife after the war. Pichon came through all right, minus one arm. Joseph we lost on the battlefield.

I kept up a correspondence with Madame for a time, but stopped a few years before Bérenger’s death. I wrote once more to inform her of his passing, hoping she might respond. But the letter was returned unopened, with a note declaring the address to be invalid. That night, I dreamt of her, lithe and ethereal, skimming through a dark and sinuous tunnel, her feet hovering just above the ground.

I have, finally, I believe, forgiven the Church its trespasses. Its offerings are too rich—its stories of sacrifice and renewal, its profound and transformative prayers, its rituals that lend meaning to mundanity—to reject out of hand. But I insist, still, on praying to
my
God, the God I have come to know through the world, through his glorious creation, the God I can apprehend through the sensors of my heart, God the Father, yes, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost, but God also of rock and wrist, water and throat, of the bloody pulsing heart and the exalted desire that we know as love.

I visit Bérenger’s grave nightly, to kneel and talk with him. The
feux follets
follow me there. They bob beside me like restless children, but they know I am intent on my purpose and not inclined to be distracted or dismayed by their presence. They do not venture beyond the graveyard gate. The graveyard is not their domain, for the air there is hushed and heavy with the slow activity of decay. It is the home of darkness and earth and does not countenance their frivolous mischief. It is peaceful there at night, sheltered from the winds by the church. How different a place it seems to me now than it did those many years ago, when Bérenger and I came there together in the black nights, armed with shovel and lantern. We were like the
feux follets
ourselves then, our spirits restless and flitting from hope to desire to disappointment; only we were not so wise, for we did not stop at the gate, but continued on into forbidden territory, turning earth that should have remained undisturbed.

I loved you,
I tell him as I pick the light green weed shoots by his gravestone.
I loved you as well as I knew how. But it was not enough, was it?

It was, Marie, he answers. It was everything.

It was not God.

My choices were my own, Marie. It was my life. I am responsible.

What is it like?
I ask.
Where are you now? And how do you exist? In what state? Where is God? Do you see him?
I bombard him with questions, and I can almost see him shake his head in amusement, but he gives no answer. It is just as well, for I know I won’t be satisfied with a mere description. He knows, too, I expect. I try to imagine him as he might be, beyond death, in heaven: his face a beacon, his body insubstantial, a shifting specter clothed in white light. I pray that he is with the God he so loved in life, the God he doubted and betrayed, the God whose capacity for forgiveness he failed to comprehend.

What a choice you made,
I say.
To be a priest.

Be quiet, he says. What did I know?

You should have been an architect. In Paris. The gorgeous structures you would have built.

I would not have met you, then, Marie.

Better yet, for you.

Not so, he assures me. Not at all.

Have you forgiven yourself? Has enough time passed?

I am no longer myself, he answers. I am forgiven.

Who are you, then?
I ask.
Will I recognize you?

But he does not need to answer, for I know what he will say.

Pride of place goes to James McPherson, my professor at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, who introduced me to the notion of a bloodline descended from Jesus and Mary Magdalene and loaned me the book
Holy Blood, Holy Grail
(1983) by Michael Baigent, Richard Leigh, and Henry Lincoln. Someone should write a novel about this, he said.

My agent, Stéphanie Abou, gave me unfailing support, advice, translation help, and friendship throughout the research, writing, and publication of this book. I could not have done any of it without her. I was lucky enough to work with two wonderful editors. Jennifer Hershey read the book again and again with a keen eye for both structure and language, bringing the book along much further than I would have been able to do on my own. Aimee Taub’s fresh eyes caught many lingering flaws, and her enthusiasm helped usher the book through to publication. Other indispensable readers at every level of the process were LeeAnn McCoy, Sarah Marx McGill, Allen Gee, Jennifer Whit-ten, Megan Pillow Davis, Sara Bellini, Judy and Bill Davis, Kathy Hassinger, Rich Hassinger (who also answered lots of prying questions about what it was like to grow up Catholic pre-Vatican II), Nate Lesser, Chani Bloom, Emily Laugesen, and Adam Davis, who wins the prize for reading the most drafts when it was not his job to do so.

During my trip to France, Anne Petit-Lagrange was not only a kind and welcoming host, she was tour guide, research assistant, and translator, arranging interviews for me and coming along so I could understand what my inter viewees were saying. She cooked delicious meals, introduced me to the gorgeous countryside, and treated me not just as a guest in her B&B, but as a friend. Antoine Captier and Claire Corbu were also generous with their information and time, agreeing to meet with Anne and me at the last minute in their home and serving us cookies and tea. René Pech shared his knowledge of the local history of Couiza. Philippe Laurent was kind enough to invite me into his cozy forest shack as I was hiking by and to tolerate my abysmal French as we chatted about Rennes-le-Château. The staff at the Atelier Empreinte in Rennes-le-Château run a fine bookshop and helped me find many a book.

My office became an annex of the Michigan State University library during the writing of this book, and I am grateful to the staff there for enabling my periodic plundering of their collection. Bob Anderson, religious scholar and provocative preacher, gave me a video of a colleague’s presentation on Mary Magdalene. Rabbi Larry Milder answered my questions knowledgeably and with a sense of humor. I have mentioned my primary research sources in the Author’s Note; I’ll thank those authors here once more for lending their expansive and steady shoulders for me to stand on.

Finally, I want to thank my husband, Adam, and my daughter, Hannah, for their constant love and support throughout the writing of this book and always.

Bérenger Saunière was parish priest in the small village of Rennes-le-Château, where he lived from 1885 until his death in 1917. During the course of his restoration of the village church, he became mysteriously wealthy, eventually building a villa, tower, and promenade, as well as a garden and grounds adjacent to the villa, all of which can still be seen today. His longtime servant, companion, and, as it was rumored, lover, was Marie Dénarnaud, who was known in the village as the priest’s Madonna.

There have been numerous theories about where and how Saunière found his wealth, ranging from plausible to sensational. They include, among others, the discovery of treasure—deriving from numerous sources, from the gold mines in the area to the lost treasure of Jerusalem—the illegal solicitation of Masses, and blackmail of the Catholic Church.

This last theory was put forth in a book called
Holy Blood, Holy Grail
by Michael Baigent, Richard Leigh, and Henry Lincoln, first published in the 1980s but newly popular in the States thanks to the success of Dan Brown’s
The Da Vinci Code,
which relies on it as a source. I first learned the story of Rennes-le-Château and Bérenger Saunière from
Holy Blood, Holy Grail.
The book poses the theory that the Holy Grail was not a cup, as Western culture has so long imagined it to be, but was instead a secret bloodline, passed down through the centuries and originating in the child of Jesus and Mary Magdalene.
Holy Blood, Holy Grail,
while unreliable as a historical source, tells a wildly compelling story, one that promises to inspire countless future creative projects. I’ve retold some of the stories from that book, including the legend of Dagobert II, his marriage to the Visigothic princess, and the escape of his heir, Sigebert IV. Let me emphasize the word
legend.
The account of King Childéric’s tomb also came from that book, though the discovery of that tomb has been well documented elsewhere.

I have also relied heavily on
L’Héritage de l’Abbé Saunière,
by Antoine Captier and Claire Corbu, and am grateful to them for their thoughtful and well-documented work. I’ve drawn on their thorough descriptions of the Villa Bethania and the rest of Saunière’s estate. The anonymous letter Bérenger receives (p. 161) is my translation from the French of an actual letter that they have in their collection, as is the passage Marie reads from the old church register (p. 197), which mentions the “tomb of the Lords.” I was lucky enough to meet with Antoine Captier and Claire Corbu in their home in Carcassonne—they are delightful and generous people.

I have made ample use of several of the Rennes-le-Château websites (of which there are many), two of the most useful being [http://priory-of-sion.com] priory-of-sion.com and [http://www.renneslechateau.com] www.renneslechateau.com. The latter website includes some wonderful drawings by Paul Saussez of the church’s interior and the hypothetical shape of the crypt beneath. Saussez’s research also helped me to imagine the role that the mysterious Austrian visitor may have played in the story. For innumerable questions on Catholic doctrine and practice at the turn of the century, I turned to [http://www.NewAdvent.com] www.NewAdvent.com. Malcolm Barber (
The Cathars
) deserves praise for his excellent research on the Cathars. I have referred to many sources on French history and culture, one of the more valuable being
La Vie Quotidienne des Paysans du Languedoc au XIXe Siècle
by Daniel Fabre and Jacques Lacroix.

I tried to be true to the basic facts of the story, while admittedly taking a few liberties. The presbytery, for example, was not restored by the villagers but by workers that Saunière hired, and it was not completed until 1897, when the Dénarnauds actually moved in. As far as I know, there is no proof that Rennes-le-Château ever harbored Cathars. While there may have been a flask hidden in an old baluster, the anecdotal evidence says it was found not by Marie, but by the bell ringer at the time. The Dénarnauds’ hat shop and the fire that destroyed it are inventions, as are all of the characters in the village, including Madame Laporte. Marie did have a foster sister and a younger brother, but I have changed the names of her relatives to emphasize the complete invention of their characters on my part. And, of course, I do not pretend to represent the characters of Bérenger and Marie as they were in reality: they are also my creations.

In writing the sections of this book that tell Miryam of Magdala’s story, I have drawn on the Hebrew Bible and the gospels, as well as on recent historical research into the life of Jesus. My sources include works by Susan Haskins, John Dominic Crossan, Paula Fredriksen, and Elaine Pagels, as well as James Carroll’s impressive and soulful book,
Constantine’s Sword,
and Willis Barnstone’s translation of the gospels and commentary,
The New Covenant.
I must credit Fredriksen for her incisive reasoning in
Jesus of Nazareth: King of the Jews
and her compelling thesis that Jesus was killed as a way to halt the burgeoning rebellion in Jerusalem. I also made use of the website from the PBS
Frontline
program, “From Jesus to Christ” ( [http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/shows/religion] www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/shows/religion).

I’ve made some unconventional choices. I have been primarily concerned with faithfully representing the ancient Jewish world in which Jesus was entrenched. Thus I’ve used the Hebrew names, where possible (Yeshua and Miryam for Jesus and Mary; please see the glossary for a translation of unfamiliar names). One of the best sources I found for details on daily life in ancient Israel was
Daily Life in Palestine at the Time of Jesus
by Henri Daniel-Rops.

The traditional image of Mary Magdalene as a penitent prostitute was made Church doctrine at the end of the sixth century, when Pope Gregory the Great declared that three women mentioned in the New Testament gospels—the women from whom Jesus cast out seven devils, identified as Mary Magdalene; Mary of Bethany, the sister of Martha and Lazarus; and the woman known as the “sinner” who anoints Jesus’ feet as he dines at Simon the Pharisee’s table—were one. This conflated Mary Magdalene has been passed down in the Western Catholic tradition—she, as three in one, is celebrated on her feast day, July 22. Alternatively, the Eastern Orthodox Church honors each of the three women separately, on different feast days. Representations of the Magdalene in art, literature, and folklore perpetuate the notion of her as the “beautiful penitent,” the woman who gave up her sinful ways to follow Christ, and who is redeemed for her past through her devotion to him.
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But the gospels provide no evidence that she was a prostitute or even a great sinner. The synoptic gospels—Matthew, Mark, and Luke—agree on four facts: Miryam of Magdala was a follower of Jesus, was present at his crucifix-ion, witnessed the resurrection, and was the first to be charged with spreading the Christian message. John states that not only did she witness the resurrection, but that she was
the
witness, the only person who saw the risen Christ and spoke with him.

Gnosticism—a collection of eclectic ancient sects that promulgated the belief in salvation through
gnosis,
or secret knowledge—considered Mary Magdalene to be even more important than she appears in traditional Christian teachings. Gnostic writings dating from the first and second centuries refer to her as a disciple of Christ, “the woman who knew the All,” and the chief link between Jesus and the rest of the apostles. The Gospel of Philip names her as Jesus’ companion, or
koinon?s
in the Greek, a word that is more accurately translated as partner or consort, which connoted physical as well as spiritual togetherness.
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