angry,
three-foot-high letters. The class became silent, watching him take it in.
Thou shalt not fuck another man's wife was written there.
Thou shalt not commit adultery. Mister Webster fucks
schoolgirls.
Cunt ,
shit and bastard and cocksucker and bollocks and fuck
fuck fuck .
A crudely chalked erect
penis ejaculated into an equally crude mouth. The silence of the class pressed
behind him like a flat wave. It foamed at his back, threatening to swamp him, a
tidal force approaching and retreating from the blackboard obscenities. He
read the words again. Then he picked up the eraser and quietly rubbed out the
words and in their stead he wrote, with a trembling hand, the words Today's
RE. What Do We Mean by the 'Old Testament'?
'Take out
your study books.' he said, struggling to disguise the fracture in his voice.
'Turn to chapter 12.'
In
the Garden of Gethsemane a bead of sweat trickled inside his trouser leg. He
saw a Franciscan monk enter the cave of sand-coloured rock. Tom stroked the
trunk of the olive tree before deciding to follow the monk inside.
The
cave was cool, spacious and airy. The calm interior was half-lit by lamps placed
in alcoves, reflecting an amber glow from the walls. The monk, in brown
Franciscan robe and leather sandals, was sitting on a stool at a desk. He was
writing. There was something reassuringly authentic in the spectacle of his
writing. At least Tom didn't feel he was in a theme park. The monk looked up
and smiled. He was a large-framed man with thinning, dark hair and velvet eyes.
'Excuse me.'
The
monk wasn't writing at all; rather, he was using a ruler to draw lines on a
blank sheet of paper. He ruled a new line before laying down an
expensive-looking ballpoint pen. 'Sorry,' he whispered, looking up. 'My
English . . . not good.'
Tom
had in his hand a piece of paper, and now he wasn't sure whether to show it.
'It's just this. I mean, it's Latin. I wondered if you recognized it.'
The monk took the paper.
‘ De profundis clamavi ,’ Tom said
impatiently. 'Up from the depths.'
‘ De profundis clamavi ,' the monk
cooed encouragingly. He put down the scrap of paper and got down off his stool.
He let an index finger float heavenward as he struggled to remember some
English words. ‘ De profundis , eet ees Psalm, yes, Psalm one- hoondred and tirty .' His eyes
were bright with the little task he'd been set, his voice a soft and reassuring
whisper. Tom thought he was perhaps Spanish. 'Up from ze depths have I cried unto zee, O Lord. My soul wait for ze Lord more zan zey zat watch for ze morning. Eet ees psalm of mercy. Forgiveness.
Redemption, yes.'
Tom
turned to squint out of the cave entrance into the bright light beyond. When he
looked back at the monk, his eyes were moist. The monk saw it, smiled and put a
hand on his shoulder.
This
poor man thinks I'm moved by the beauty of the psalm, thought Tom. He felt ridiculous,
childish. How was the monk to know his eyes were filling up because of his own
personal tragedies? Because of his own betrayals? Because, above all, he
couldn't remember which he'd lost first, his wife or his faith?
He
thanked the man and turned away. He sensed the monk watch him walk from the
mouth of the cave. As he stepped from the cool, the heat of the sun rolled over
him like a lion's breath. He felt unsteady, dizzy. He approached an ancient
olive, taking off his hat and leaning against the tree. Heat ripples distorted
his vision of the garden. White light bleached the foliage. A stab of migraine
made him close his eyes.
If
it's the mere matter of a few words being chalked on a blackboard, Stokes had said, well, that’s happened to most teachers. Anyone offended by it is as sad as those
who take pleasure in chalking it. But Stokes was wrong. It wasn't
the mere matter of the words.
The
problem didn't go away. The writing came back several times. He'd had his
suspicions but no proof. He even began to suspect some of the pupils of
shielding him, of wiping
three-foot-high letters. The class became silent, watching him take it in.
Thou shalt not fuck another man's wife was written there.
Thou shalt not commit adultery. Mister Webster fucks
schoolgirls.
Cunt ,
shit and bastard and cocksucker and bollocks and fuck
fuck fuck .
A crudely chalked erect
penis ejaculated into an equally crude mouth. The silence of the class pressed
behind him like a flat wave. It foamed at his back, threatening to swamp him, a
tidal force approaching and retreating from the blackboard obscenities. He
read the words again. Then he picked up the eraser and quietly rubbed out the
words and in their stead he wrote, with a trembling hand, the words Today's
RE. What Do We Mean by the 'Old Testament'?
'Take out
your study books.' he said, struggling to disguise the fracture in his voice.
'Turn to chapter 12.'
In
the Garden of Gethsemane a bead of sweat trickled inside his trouser leg. He
saw a Franciscan monk enter the cave of sand-coloured rock. Tom stroked the
trunk of the olive tree before deciding to follow the monk inside.
The
cave was cool, spacious and airy. The calm interior was half-lit by lamps placed
in alcoves, reflecting an amber glow from the walls. The monk, in brown
Franciscan robe and leather sandals, was sitting on a stool at a desk. He was
writing. There was something reassuringly authentic in the spectacle of his
writing. At least Tom didn't feel he was in a theme park. The monk looked up
and smiled. He was a large-framed man with thinning, dark hair and velvet eyes.
'Excuse me.'
The
monk wasn't writing at all; rather, he was using a ruler to draw lines on a
blank sheet of paper. He ruled a new line before laying down an
expensive-looking ballpoint pen. 'Sorry,' he whispered, looking up. 'My
English . . . not good.'
Tom
had in his hand a piece of paper, and now he wasn't sure whether to show it.
'It's just this. I mean, it's Latin. I wondered if you recognized it.'
The monk took the paper.
‘ De profundis clamavi ,’ Tom said
impatiently. 'Up from the depths.'
‘ De profundis clamavi ,' the monk
cooed encouragingly. He put down the scrap of paper and got down off his stool.
He let an index finger float heavenward as he struggled to remember some
English words. ‘ De profundis , eet ees Psalm, yes, Psalm one- hoondred and tirty .' His eyes
were bright with the little task he'd been set, his voice a soft and reassuring
whisper. Tom thought he was perhaps Spanish. 'Up from ze depths have I cried unto zee, O Lord. My soul wait for ze Lord more zan zey zat watch for ze morning. Eet ees psalm of mercy. Forgiveness.
Redemption, yes.'
Tom
turned to squint out of the cave entrance into the bright light beyond. When he
looked back at the monk, his eyes were moist. The monk saw it, smiled and put a
hand on his shoulder.
This
poor man thinks I'm moved by the beauty of the psalm, thought Tom. He felt ridiculous,
childish. How was the monk to know his eyes were filling up because of his own
personal tragedies? Because of his own betrayals? Because, above all, he
couldn't remember which he'd lost first, his wife or his faith?
He
thanked the man and turned away. He sensed the monk watch him walk from the
mouth of the cave. As he stepped from the cool, the heat of the sun rolled over
him like a lion's breath. He felt unsteady, dizzy. He approached an ancient
olive, taking off his hat and leaning against the tree. Heat ripples distorted
his vision of the garden. White light bleached the foliage. A stab of migraine
made him close his eyes.
If
it's the mere matter of a few words being chalked on a blackboard, Stokes had said, well, that’s happened to most teachers. Anyone offended by it is as sad as those
who take pleasure in chalking it. But Stokes was wrong. It wasn't
the mere matter of the words.
The
problem didn't go away. The writing came back several times. He'd had his
suspicions but no proof. He even began to suspect some of the pupils of
shielding him, of wiping
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