Free The Sixth Lamentation by William Brodrick

knows
why No one was listening.

 
    Chapter Eight
     
    Vespers was not for
another half hour so Anselm had gone for a secret roll-up. He strolled along
the bluebell path and took a narrow track through the woods leading to a
stretch of sand by the water’s edge. Then he saw him through the laden branches
and paused. Anselm guessed he was in his late fifties. He was a very small man
with the smallest feet Anselm had ever seen. Whoever the stranger was, he kept
perfectly still, like a sculptured memorial, silently looking over the lake.
    ‘I
suspect you and I are asking ourselves a similar question,’ said the stranger
without averting his gaze. His voice was disturbingly deep, like wet churning
gravel; at once musical and melancholy
    Anselm
stepped out of the shade. The stranger continued:
    ‘You
wonder why I am here. Just as I wonder why he is over there.’
    Across
the lake, just visible through the surrounding trees, shone the red tiling of
the Old Foundry roof, where Schwermann had been accommodated.
    ‘May I
ask who you are, and what you are doing here?’ said Anselm hesitantly, walking
slowly to the stranger’s side.
    The man
peered solemnly at Anselm through heavily framed glasses, his eyes enlarged and
penetrating, and said, ‘I’ve come to look upon the father of my grief.’
    Anselm
followed his gaze, confusion giving way to the first flutterings of fear.
    ‘Don’t
worry,’ said the stranger dispassionately, ‘I’m not mad. But I do have a
penchant for’ the telling phrase.’ He smiled paternally ‘My name is Salomon
Lachaise.’
    Anselm
took in the loose cardigan and galoshes, the profound relaxation in
circumstances that should have produced embarrassment — he was, after all, a
trespasser within the enclosure. Salomon Lachaise was like a man in his own
drawing room, receiving a guest on a matter of grave importance. Speaking as
much to himself as to Anselm, he said, ‘Have you any idea how painful it is for
me to stand here’ — he gestured uncertainly across the water — ‘knowing who
sleeps over there?’
    Anselm
felt the slow flush of humiliation. Salomon Lachaise smiled sadly, drawing pipe
and tobacco from his cardigan pocket. He began the endless ritual of packing
with his thumb, drawing air and trailing match after match over the bowl. ‘I’m
sorry. It’s an old rabbinic trick,’ he said through a swirl of smoke. ‘Posing
the question to a man who cannot answer without discovering his own shame.
Jesus did it quite a lot.’
    Anselm
was dumbstruck. Not expecting an answer, his interlocutor said, ‘It’s time for
me to go. What’s your name?’
    ‘Father
Anselm, but—’
    ‘Saint
Anselm of Canterbury? Now there’s an interesting fellow A man in search of God.
But not that fond of …’
    At that
moment they heard twigs cracking underfoot and three figures emerged through
the trees, one in front, two behind. Anselm took in the calm, concentrated
glance of the police officer in his Marks & Spencer casuals, one hand inches
away from a concealed weapon, but Salomon Lachaise stared beyond, through the
branches, to a shape moving through the shadows. A voice spoke lightly to a
young man with his hands sunk deep in his pockets. Max, the grandson. He’d come
every week since his grandfather had taken up residence in the Old Foundry.
    Anselm
shivered in the sun, alarmed by a sudden, dark prescience. A meeting of ways
lay ahead: one of those rare instances where the past coagulates into the
present.
    Schwermann
pushed aside some brambles with a stick and stepped into the open, looking up
as if in a dream. His eyes rested lightly on Salomon Lachaise and then moved on
to Anselm with a courteous nod. He smiled briefly, as if to a friend, saying, ‘I
haven’t thanked you for your advice, Father.’
    Anselm
sickened.
    ‘Sanctuary
is not what I expected and more than I could have hoped for.’
    They
had not met since that unfortunate exchange at the back of the church. Anselm
studied him