hand. Mrs. Kelly directed me to a dark-varnished staircase to the second floor. Just as the first step creaked under the weightof my foot, Sister Marguerite Dunne charged through the rectory door and pointed her finger upward. Mrs. Kelly nodded and we went up together.
“Moonlighting, are you, Mr. Collins? Not enough skullduggery to pay the bills?” Sister Dunne clearly found my situation amusing.
“Actually this is my real job, Sister. The work I do by day is just something to tide me over when there’s a lull in the pizza business, like weekdays nine to five. With the pizza job I provide a useful service, and I meet a nicer class of people.”
We walked to the end of an east-west corridor, which intersected with a hallway running north. The priest’s was the last room on the right before the turn. The door was ajar and I pushed it open. He was flaked out across an armchair, dressed in a thin white T-shirt tucked into a pair of faded denim shorts, and his feet were bare. His eyes were closed and he was conducting the music coming from the stereo. A woman with a glorious voice was singing
misericordia
something, and the melody was splendid enough to be Mozart. Father Burke heard the door but didn’t open his eyes. He waved a hand at me to be quiet.
“Her voice is like cream. Do you suppose she’d move in with me, Montague? If I spruced this place up a bit? Let her choose the curtains? Kiri Te Kanawa and Brennan Burke, together at last. All he asks of her is that she sing to him every night. She desires more of him, of course. But Brennan, his vows intact, merely plants a chaste kiss on her —”
I cleared my throat. “Uh, Father Burke...” I tried to impart a warning in my tone.
He reluctantly opened his eyes, which fell, not on me, but on Sister Dunne, and his eyelids flew open like sprung window shades. Until that instant, I could not have imagined such a look on his face, normally so composed. Surprise, embarrassment, and a complete inability to formulate an appropriate response. A rare experience for him, I expected.
“Marguerite!” he croaked, bolting from his chair and reaching out to snap off the stereo.
The nun’s habitual air of restrained amusement had blossomed into undisguised triumph. “Well, Brennan! If I’d known you were sittinghere in your underclothes, communing with a woman in New Zealand, I would not have intruded.” She smiled in joyful malice.
“I’m not in my underclothes!” Burke protested.
“Good thing she wasn’t singing the ‘Habanera’ from
Carmen.
We don’t know whether the vows would have remained intact in that case. Well, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to drop this off. I’ll get your comments later, if you’re still interested in ‘Christology in the Patristic Age: Development and Synthesis.’ Oh, and Brennan, the pizza man is here. The least you can do is come out of yourself and give him a tip. And do eat up.” She looked him up and down. “You look as if you’re losing weight. Must be love.” She smiled widely at me and clacked out of the room, her day complete.
“Shit!” Burke exclaimed, hands running through his hair.
“I have to admit, Brennan, that little scene did a hell of a lot to brighten up my day.”
“Glad I could be of service,” he replied with something of his usual tartness. “What’s on the pizza?”
“The works.”
“Good. I have a couple of very nice Italian wines a friend brought over for me. Unless you’d prefer whiskey.”
“Wine would be perfect,” I told him.
“We’ll open the Barolo and let it breathe for a bit; it’s been bottled up for ten years. Let’s start swigging the Chianti with our pizza.” He went to a cupboard and brought out the bottles and a corkscrew. His room was filled with books, ancient and new, musical scores, albums and compact discs, on the shelves and on the floor. But his bed was made up tight as a drum, and his clothes could be seen through the open door of his wardrobe, all
“Moonlighting, are you, Mr. Collins? Not enough skullduggery to pay the bills?” Sister Dunne clearly found my situation amusing.
“Actually this is my real job, Sister. The work I do by day is just something to tide me over when there’s a lull in the pizza business, like weekdays nine to five. With the pizza job I provide a useful service, and I meet a nicer class of people.”
We walked to the end of an east-west corridor, which intersected with a hallway running north. The priest’s was the last room on the right before the turn. The door was ajar and I pushed it open. He was flaked out across an armchair, dressed in a thin white T-shirt tucked into a pair of faded denim shorts, and his feet were bare. His eyes were closed and he was conducting the music coming from the stereo. A woman with a glorious voice was singing
misericordia
something, and the melody was splendid enough to be Mozart. Father Burke heard the door but didn’t open his eyes. He waved a hand at me to be quiet.
“Her voice is like cream. Do you suppose she’d move in with me, Montague? If I spruced this place up a bit? Let her choose the curtains? Kiri Te Kanawa and Brennan Burke, together at last. All he asks of her is that she sing to him every night. She desires more of him, of course. But Brennan, his vows intact, merely plants a chaste kiss on her —”
I cleared my throat. “Uh, Father Burke...” I tried to impart a warning in my tone.
He reluctantly opened his eyes, which fell, not on me, but on Sister Dunne, and his eyelids flew open like sprung window shades. Until that instant, I could not have imagined such a look on his face, normally so composed. Surprise, embarrassment, and a complete inability to formulate an appropriate response. A rare experience for him, I expected.
“Marguerite!” he croaked, bolting from his chair and reaching out to snap off the stereo.
The nun’s habitual air of restrained amusement had blossomed into undisguised triumph. “Well, Brennan! If I’d known you were sittinghere in your underclothes, communing with a woman in New Zealand, I would not have intruded.” She smiled in joyful malice.
“I’m not in my underclothes!” Burke protested.
“Good thing she wasn’t singing the ‘Habanera’ from
Carmen.
We don’t know whether the vows would have remained intact in that case. Well, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to drop this off. I’ll get your comments later, if you’re still interested in ‘Christology in the Patristic Age: Development and Synthesis.’ Oh, and Brennan, the pizza man is here. The least you can do is come out of yourself and give him a tip. And do eat up.” She looked him up and down. “You look as if you’re losing weight. Must be love.” She smiled widely at me and clacked out of the room, her day complete.
“Shit!” Burke exclaimed, hands running through his hair.
“I have to admit, Brennan, that little scene did a hell of a lot to brighten up my day.”
“Glad I could be of service,” he replied with something of his usual tartness. “What’s on the pizza?”
“The works.”
“Good. I have a couple of very nice Italian wines a friend brought over for me. Unless you’d prefer whiskey.”
“Wine would be perfect,” I told him.
“We’ll open the Barolo and let it breathe for a bit; it’s been bottled up for ten years. Let’s start swigging the Chianti with our pizza.” He went to a cupboard and brought out the bottles and a corkscrew. His room was filled with books, ancient and new, musical scores, albums and compact discs, on the shelves and on the floor. But his bed was made up tight as a drum, and his clothes could be seen through the open door of his wardrobe, all
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