order that had a monastery in the north of the province where they raised a lot of bananas and made particularly potent varieties of banana beer and banana liqueur. Brother Gustaf, Antonio figured, must be in his eighties and, like so many of the community, he had come here as a young man during the colony and never left.
Brother Mike devised a plan. He went to his confrère who managed the kitchens, a sort of dietitian who decided what would be on the menu and when. He suggested the community would be most blessed to partake of a bit of the splendid local banana beverages so meticulously blended by their Jesuit brothers.
As was often the case with all things involving spirits, the debate was short lived as each saw things through the same lens: more drink made the Abbey joyous, and joy was good.
Accordingly, Brother Mike made arrangements for a day trip to the north of the province to procure banana spirits; and of course, to encounter Brother Gustaf. Most of the 80-km trip involved relatively well-maintained paved roads that wove between the hills, crossing several wide, papyrus-filled wetlands on stout concrete bridges built by the Chinese. However, the last 15 km was on a typical bush road—a washboard and rutted laterite passage that was rarely maintained. The Jesuits, as others before and after them, had chosen a beautiful hilltop for their Abbey. They had planted eucalyptus as a palisade, with coffee plantations, banana stands, and vegetable gardens spiraling down the hill in a most ornate fashion.
Brother Mike found Brother Gustaf waiting for him in a small gazebo sheltered away in the eucalyptus where the aroma of these fragrant trees filled the air, along with the whispering of their leaves. Brother Gustaf was a bit hunchbacked with slightly milky eyes, but seemed in generally good form for a man of his age who had spent a lifetime in the service of our Lord in Central Africa.
Without providing much in terms of background, Brother Mike posed his questions as he expansively anointed Brother Gustaf with the oils of ancestry—referring to him as the living legacy of their community, a treasure, and a font of knowledge.
Brother Mike only explained that his Father Abbot had asked him to be of assistance to Doctor van Hoot, who Brother Gustaf most certainly knew. To be able to fulfill the Abbot’s wishes to the fullest, Brother Mike needed to know the history of the good Doctor and, if relevant, any relationship with the Abbot or the Abbey.
Brother Gustaf assumed a relaxed pose to where it seemed he was almost dozing, his eyes mostly closed, with his breathing deep and regular. Brother Mike could practically visualize Gustaf digging deep into his memories. After a brief interlude, he stiffened a bit and began, “You may recall that in 1940 there was a fascist party in Flanders, the Vlaams Nationaal Verbond (the Flemish National Union), that wanted an independent Flanders. With the German occupation of World War II, this party ultimately metamorphosed into the Duits-Vlaamse Arbeidsgemeenschap (the German Flemish Work Community) under the pennants of anti-communism and anti-clericalism, but also with the aim of integrating Flanders into Hitler’s Reich. There were a number of young Flemish men who fought with Hitler in the Waffen-SS. Among these SS soldiers was a young schoolteacher from Gistel, outside Oostende. He was a mild-mannered man with two younger brothers, and although he was considered as compassionate by many, he was a fervent Flemish nationalist. His SS duties transformed this young man from the docile teacher into the efficient and ruthless killing machine and in due time, he was held responsible for the deaths of dozens of Belgians in the Resistance. Although he survived the war unscathed, he was brutally killed by vengeful Belgians after the Armistice. His disdain for the Church led to his burial in an unmarked grave somewhere west of Bruges. At the time of his death, his own parents had died but his two younger brothers and their young families had to go into hiding. Their older brother had been a truly diabolical person, scaring many families in both Flanders and Wallonia, and they feared retribution for his acts spilling over onto themselves and their families.
“The two brothers with their families ultimately changed their names and migrated to Congo. One family became the van Hoots and the other the de Graffs. The van Hoots stayed in what was Leopoldville at that time, becoming relatively well-to-do operators of a construction company. They were able to send their son to medical school in Belgium, from where he graduated and assumed the role of Team Leader here with us. The de Graffs moved to Costermansstad (later named Bukavu) on the shores of Lake Kivu, where they became successful coffee farmers. Their son went to seminary in Leopoldville (later Kinshasa) from where he became a member of the clergy across the border in Cyangugu. From there, he came here to join your order, ultimately becoming Abbot. Thus, the Abbot is the older cousin of the Doctor. Both are still hiding from the terrible souvenirs of their SS Uncle.”
Brother Mike had learned what he had come to learn. He thanked Brother Gustaf, complementing him on his splendid memory. He then finished his assignment by purchasing two firkins of banana beer and one of the liqueur before regaining his pickup and heading south. The road was not heavily traveled, with more bicycles and cows than cars and trucks, so he had time to consider what he had learned. The facts would seem to speak for themselves. This was no indirect way to burrow into Brother Mike’s affairs. Hopefully these were still buried under the layers of bureaucracy where he had safely interred them. This was the Abbot’s way to try and really help a cousin in need, while maintaining the secrecy of their familial relationship, both for its past and present implications. The War had been a long time ago and it was uncertain if there were still wounds here so far from Europe that could be reopened. But, the good Doctor’s role as Team Leader could be misconstrued if someone chose to document close ties to the Abbey. While there was officially the separation of Church and State in the government, the Church still had a powerful and often politicized voice. The President was a devout Catholic, his own sister a member of a convent not far from here. If international assistance programs were portrayed as being driven by religious priorities, this could have a negative impact on all fronts. Obviously, the Abbot felt it was in his interests and undoubtedly those of the Abbey, to not publicize the fact that one of the prominent physicians of the area was part of his family. Hence, Brother Mike’s commission had been an act of caring and empathy, nothing more ominous.
❦❦❦
Brother Mike was hoping there would be no more special commissions from the Abbot or from any other source and, thus far his wishes seemed to be coming true. He had entered into a period of calm routine where he was able to get to his spot on the pond bank at least twice a week. He took care of all his diverse responsibilities and still made it to the Crane on Saturday and to Philip’s for cards on Wednesday.
The tranquility of this period included an extended stretch of complete celibacy, without any even fleeting friendships. This fact aside, Brother Mike continued to be preoccupied by his relationship with Philip and Angela. This seemed to be evolving into a special relationship by his standards and his general rule of thumb was to avoid sticky serious relationships with everyone. There were unavoidable, and often positive, relationships with members of his monastic community as well as relationships with those from the community at large, but experience had taught him to avoid serious personal relationships. He lived in a world of the transitory. People—expat experts, monks, sisters, all sorts—came and went. This was not the land of his birth, although he felt it to be his home. When he died, he would be buried in the Abbey’s cemetery, but many of his confrères chose to be buried back in Europe. When people got sick, went on vacation, or had a family crisis, they left. Today’s friend was gone tomorrow. This was just one of the transactional costs for the course of life he had chosen and it was, and had always been, his choice. But real friendships, true friendships, required one give a little bit of one’s heart, and he did not have enough to give to all those to whom he could, or maybe should have over the years. It was, he knew, a coping mechanism, but perhaps—just perhaps—it kept him sane. Alas, these were thoughts best relegated to the pond bank, so he tended to lock them in a small room in his brain and only bring them out after he had baited his hook and could let his mind fly. Still, there was an uneasiness when he thought of Philip and Angela.
5
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