cybertour I’d learned that many monks make concessions to economic necessity, producing and sel ing baked goods, cheese, chocolate, wine, veggies, or items of piety. Some host visitors seeking spiritual rejuvenation.
These boys didn’t appear to be of that mind-set. I saw no welcoming shingle. No gift shop. Not a single parked car.
I pul ed to the front of the building. No one appeared to greet or chal enge me.
My time on the Web had also taught me that the monks of Sainte-Marie-des-Neiges rise at 4A.M. , observe multiple rounds of prayer, then labor from eight until noon. I’d planned my visit to coincide with the morning work period.
In February that didn’t involve apples or corn. Other than sparrows and ground squirrels, there wasn’t a sign of life.
I got out and softly clicked the car door shut. Something about the place demanded quiet. An orange door to the right of the round tower looked like my best bet. I was walking in that direction when a monk rounded the far end of the spire wing. He wore a brown hooded cape, socks, and sandals.
The monk didn’t stop when he saw me, but continued more slowly in my direction, as though giving himself time to consider the encounter.
He halted three yards from me. He’d been injured at some point. The left side of his face looked slack, his left eyelid drooped, and a white line diagonaled that cheek.
The monk looked at me but didn’t speak. He had hair mowed to his scalp, sharpness to his chin, and a face gaunt as a musculoskeletal diagram.
“I’m Dr. Temperance Brennan,” I said. “I’m here to speak with Sylvain Morissonneau.”
Nothing.
“It’s a matter of some urgency.”
More nothing.
I flashed my LSJML identity card.
The monk glanced at the ID but held his ground.
I’d anticipated a cool reception. Reaching into my shoulder bag, I withdrew a sealed envelope containing a photocopy of Kessler’s print, stepped forward, and held it out.
“Please give this to Father Morissonneau. I’m certain he’l see me.”
A scarecrow hand snaked from the robe, snatched the envelope, then signaled that I should fol ow.
The monk led me through the orange door, across a smal vestibule, and down a lavishly paneled hal . The air smel ed like Monday mornings in the parochial schools of my youth. A mélange of wet wool, disinfectant, and wood polish.
Entering a library, my host gestured that I should sit. A flattened palm indicated that I should stay.
When the monk had gone I surveyed my surroundings.
The library looked like a set transported from a Harry Potter movie. Dark paneling, leaded-glass cabinets, rol ing ladders going up to third-story shelves.
Enough wood had been used to deforest British Columbia.
I counted eight long tables and twelve card catalogs with tiny brass handles on the drawers. Not a computer in sight.
I didn’t hear the second monk enter. He was just there.
“Dr. Brennan?”
I stood.
This monk was wearing a white cassock and a brown overgarment made up of rectangular front and back panels. No cape.
“I am Father Sylvain Morissonneau, abbot of this community.”
“I’m sorry to come unannounced.” I held out my hand.
Morissonneau smiled but kept his hands tucked. He looked older, but better-fed than the first monk.
“You are with the police?”
“The medical-legal lab in Montreal.”
“Please.” Morissonneau made a hand gesture identical to that of his col eague. “Fol ow me.” English, with a heavy québécois accent.
Morissonneau led me back down the main corridor, across a large open space, then into a long, narrow hal . After passing a dozen closed doors, we entered what appeared to be an office.
Morissonneau closed the door, and gestured again.
I sat.
Compared with the library, this room was spartan. White wal s. Gray tile floor. Plain oak desk. Standard metal file cabinets. The only adornments were a crucifix behind the desk, and a painting above one row of cabinets.
These boys didn’t appear to be of that mind-set. I saw no welcoming shingle. No gift shop. Not a single parked car.
I pul ed to the front of the building. No one appeared to greet or chal enge me.
My time on the Web had also taught me that the monks of Sainte-Marie-des-Neiges rise at 4A.M. , observe multiple rounds of prayer, then labor from eight until noon. I’d planned my visit to coincide with the morning work period.
In February that didn’t involve apples or corn. Other than sparrows and ground squirrels, there wasn’t a sign of life.
I got out and softly clicked the car door shut. Something about the place demanded quiet. An orange door to the right of the round tower looked like my best bet. I was walking in that direction when a monk rounded the far end of the spire wing. He wore a brown hooded cape, socks, and sandals.
The monk didn’t stop when he saw me, but continued more slowly in my direction, as though giving himself time to consider the encounter.
He halted three yards from me. He’d been injured at some point. The left side of his face looked slack, his left eyelid drooped, and a white line diagonaled that cheek.
The monk looked at me but didn’t speak. He had hair mowed to his scalp, sharpness to his chin, and a face gaunt as a musculoskeletal diagram.
“I’m Dr. Temperance Brennan,” I said. “I’m here to speak with Sylvain Morissonneau.”
Nothing.
“It’s a matter of some urgency.”
More nothing.
I flashed my LSJML identity card.
The monk glanced at the ID but held his ground.
I’d anticipated a cool reception. Reaching into my shoulder bag, I withdrew a sealed envelope containing a photocopy of Kessler’s print, stepped forward, and held it out.
“Please give this to Father Morissonneau. I’m certain he’l see me.”
A scarecrow hand snaked from the robe, snatched the envelope, then signaled that I should fol ow.
The monk led me through the orange door, across a smal vestibule, and down a lavishly paneled hal . The air smel ed like Monday mornings in the parochial schools of my youth. A mélange of wet wool, disinfectant, and wood polish.
Entering a library, my host gestured that I should sit. A flattened palm indicated that I should stay.
When the monk had gone I surveyed my surroundings.
The library looked like a set transported from a Harry Potter movie. Dark paneling, leaded-glass cabinets, rol ing ladders going up to third-story shelves.
Enough wood had been used to deforest British Columbia.
I counted eight long tables and twelve card catalogs with tiny brass handles on the drawers. Not a computer in sight.
I didn’t hear the second monk enter. He was just there.
“Dr. Brennan?”
I stood.
This monk was wearing a white cassock and a brown overgarment made up of rectangular front and back panels. No cape.
“I am Father Sylvain Morissonneau, abbot of this community.”
“I’m sorry to come unannounced.” I held out my hand.
Morissonneau smiled but kept his hands tucked. He looked older, but better-fed than the first monk.
“You are with the police?”
“The medical-legal lab in Montreal.”
“Please.” Morissonneau made a hand gesture identical to that of his col eague. “Fol ow me.” English, with a heavy québécois accent.
Morissonneau led me back down the main corridor, across a large open space, then into a long, narrow hal . After passing a dozen closed doors, we entered what appeared to be an office.
Morissonneau closed the door, and gestured again.
I sat.
Compared with the library, this room was spartan. White wal s. Gray tile floor. Plain oak desk. Standard metal file cabinets. The only adornments were a crucifix behind the desk, and a painting above one row of cabinets.
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