was ending and it was a good time to end the friendship before it got out of hand.
2
The monastery had a wide variety of quarters. In addition to the monks’ cells in the Abbey, there were dormitories for the orphans and live-in students, wards for the health center, and nearly an entire village for those helpers who worked in the various branches of the monastery. All of these structures required general maintenance and repairs, and the purchase (or import) and stocking of these materials was among the slew of responsibilities assumed by Brother Mike. Accordingly, he would often go to the big market in the provincial capital in search of hardware and building supplies.
The core of the market was the food section. Fresh fruits and vegetables were sold in almost a piazza arrangement at the center, which was surrounded by a neat, shoulder-high brick wall and shaded by translucent fiberglass roofing sheets. Other items were arranged in concentric circles around this hub. Butchered meat and fish were on one side, with live animals further out on the periphery. Clothing, new and used, was on another side while miscellaneous household necessities such as soap, toothpaste, and pots and pans formed the first echelon as one entered. Slightly separated from this spiral of open-air merchandise were several parallel rows of small, enclosed shops, generally made of an ad hoc mixture of wood and galvanized roofing sheets. These shops sold fine fabrics, tableware, pharmaceuticals, and hardware along with building supplies, with the latter vendors often recognized by the stacks of sacks of cement adorning their entrance as though they were military bunkers.
Brother Mike was perusing one such cluttered shop when he found his aisle blocked by someone scooping nails out of a metal bin on the floor; only the person’s derriere was visible in the filtered lighting of the emporium. He was taken as much by the shapeliness of the form as its evident musculature under the loose khaki trousers. This was obviously part of a hard-working person. A person who, when he turned, was not a he but a she.
She was short, coming to Brother Mike’s chin and Brother Mike was not a giant among men, at least in terms of physical stature. She had a round, happy face with braided hair falling about both sides, adorning a crooked, mischievous smile, and a glowing mahogany complexion.
It would be an exaggeration to say Brother Mike was smitten. Brother Mike did not get smitten. But he did have his curiosity aroused. While he wore no collar or other sign of his religious affiliation, most recognized the monks when they were out and about. With this recognition came a degree of deference, especially among women who often bowed slightly and seemed to evaporate into the shadows. This woman, very much to the contrary, was right in his face in the confined space, and apparently very content to be so poised.
Brother Mike was taken a bit aback, and mumbled something about it being unusual to find a woman buying nails in a hardware shop.
Rather than accepting the brief pleasantry as simply the offhanded salutation it was intended to be, the woman replied, “And I suppose you feel a woman’s place is in the home?”
Somewhat astounded by such a reaction, and even provocation from a woman in public, Brother Mike mustered his most expansive communication skills, replying, “Oh no Madame, I would never dare relegate you to the foyer whose dimness would hide your radiance.”
He had imagined his effusiveness would have engendered a modest grin that would announce the end of the encounter. However, to his even greater surprise, she intoned, “Now, who would you be to relegate me anywhere?”
He was looking for brass hinges and not heated debate. He thought peaceful thoughts, then, in an effort to disengage, he replied, “Indeed Madame, my humble apologies. We are in a brave new world without borders, and I hope you secure the necessary supplies for your project—wishing you the greatest success with its prompt completion.”
Surely that was adequate to stifle any further exchanges and allow Brother Mike to continue his search for the obviously elusive brass hinges. Alas, the lady rose as if on her tippy toes, locked eyes with him and expounded, “Maybe your world is limitless, but mine is very real and very cramped; especially right now. Good day to you sir.”
Well, at least an ending was accomplished and Brother Mike moved down the aisle where he found his hinges on a dust-covered bottom shelf.
❦❦❦
The monastery had a rather typical, for a monastery, schedule. The first prayers of the day, Vigils, were held at 6:00 a.m. These were followed by Lauds Prayers at 7:15 a.m. There was midday prayer at 12:30 p.m., followed by a large midday meal and gathering at 1:00 p.m. In the evening, Vespers were held at 6:00 p.m. and Compline at 8:00 p.m. For some, the day was totally absorbed in prayer, adding a mass at mid-morning and afternoon prayer at teatime. But for many, given the multitude of activities at the monastery, the daylight hours were a time of working in God’s name. Thus, the entire community was required to attend Vigils, Lauds, Vespers, and Compline; other services attended as time and responsibilities permitted.
Brother Mike followed the schedule, using all his self-discipline. While this imposed restrictions on budgeting his own time, he was only glad that, unlike at some monasteries, Vigils did not take place at 4:00 a.m. He made all efforts to organize his activities so as to be present for the morning and evening prayers, while also trying to be a regular at the midday gathering where internal politics were discussed and decided.
However, on Saturday he was consistently absent from the Abbey at midday. He had developed the habit of passing by the Crane Hotel in the early afternoon after doing his regular shopping. This hotel, dating back to before World War II, had been operated by the same Belgian family for decades. The current owner-operator and his son had a large table permanently reserved for them in one secluded corner of the veranda. This was called Petit Bruxelles. Members of the local Belgian community would congregate here to play cards, drink Stella beer, and on special occasions, eat imported European mussels. Older members of the group had been around since before Independence, while younger newcomers generally worked for bilateral or multinational development agencies, although some were local Belgian businessmen or farmers. On nearly any night there was a full table of Europeans adorned by empty beer bottles and coagulating mayonnaise near mostly eaten frites.
However, whatever happened the night before, Saturday morning was the time for all hands on deck. This was the period for national community labor. Everyone in fit condition was expected to undertake some activity for the benefit of the state: sweeping a street, cleaning a gutter, planting a tree, or clearing a field of weeds. Although, to Brother Mike’s great satisfaction, religious communities were exempt from these wearisome duties—the principle being they were thus engaged full-time—nearly all who could stand did turn out, expat and local resident alike. After these purported arduous Saturday morning humanitarian duties, the duty after the duty was to fall upon the city’s drinkeries and replace lost bodily fluids. To this end, the veranda of the Crane was a wild and wooly place on Saturday afternoons and Brother Mike liked nothing more than observing the spectacles clandestinely from Petit Bruxelles.
Brother Mike was not a typical denizen of Petit Bruxelles. Unlike many of his countrymen, his tastes ran more to local than imported brews, when he was forced to forego his much-loved Courvoisier. Moreover, he put little value in reminiscing about a homeland of which he was so happy to be rid. In a sort of abstract way, he was, however, fascinated by the nostalgia-laced discussions of those seated around the table and equally enthralled by the drunken outspokenness, even lewdness, that could emerge from any point on the veranda as the levels of inebriation and free-spiritedness mounted.
These public displays of depraved lack of self-control were usually even more riveting than the continuous lamenting by old Europeans of times of yore—bemoaning that, in their view, today all was headed to rack and ruin due to the new order of things—in short, due to decolonization. These open
