Free The Sixth Lamentation by William Brodrick Page A

afresh: didn’t evil have a known face, angular and pinched? If so,
this was not it. The eyes, awash with a dull black iris, lacked focus, and the
slow, tired blinking suggested … suggested what? For the life of him Anselm
could not tell whether this was the torpor of old age or the persisting trace
of ruthlessness. He looked no different to the stooped parishioner who waved
the collection plate.
    ‘At
least I can still paint.’ Schwermann lifted his paint box, like the Chancellor
with his budget. ‘These enchanting woods help me to forget. ‘
    At
that, Salomon Lachaise groaned through his teeth and stumbled forward towards
Schwermann, falling on his knees right in front of him. The policeman’s hand
shot inside his jacket. With one great, savage movement, Salomon Lachaise tore
open his shirt from top to bottom, both hands ripping the fabric apart,
exclaiming in a loud voice, ‘I am the son of the Sixth Lamentation.’
    Schwermann
stepped back, appalled, breathing heavily, the features of his face suddenly
alive. ‘Gott … mein Gott … help me!’
    The
policeman swiftly placed himself before Schwermann and ushered him back through
the trees. The grandson, paralysed, fixed wide, flickering eyes upon the man
on his knees —the bowed head, the extended arms — and then, as if abruptly
woken, turned and ran.
    In a
moment they were alone to the sound of feet moving urgently through the woods.
Late afternoon sunlight slipped through pleated branches on to their shoulders.
A light wind idled over the surface of the lake, crumpling the reflections
lying deep in the water. Salomon Lachaise did not move until Anselm lightly
touched his shoulder. With help from the monk he stood up.
    ‘Forgive
me,’ he muttered thickly
    ‘What
on earth for?’
    ‘I don’t
know’ He covered his upper body as one shamed, hunching over the bared skin.
Anselm’s arms were raised foolishly, as though he would start a Mass. He
wanted to do something, anything, to touch with balm this astounding, wounded
man who now, clasping himself, began to stumble along the path through the
woods that Schwermann had taken. Anselm followed like a disciple.
    After
several minutes the stranger abruptly stepped off the track and made through
the trees towards an old breach in the monastery wall, a hole that had never
been repaired. Anselm thought, apprehensively, he knows his route: he’s been
here before. Upon impulse he asked, ‘What brought you here?’
    ‘I’m a
Professor of History at the University of Zurich. A medievalist, but I like to
keep my eye on the modern period.’ He stepped carefully through the fallen
stones towards a car parked on the verge. ‘You see, with one or two notable
exceptions, he sent my family to the ovens.’ He patted pockets in turn,
searching distractedly for keys. ‘I only wanted to see his face but now …
we’ve actually met. Believe it or not …’ He sighed and held out his hand,
letting his shirt fall open. ‘Shalom aleichem, Anselm of Canterbury.’
    The
great bells of Larkwood sang over the trees, summoning Anselm to Vespers. Torn
by the obligation to run and the desire to stay, Anselm said, ‘Can we meet
again?’ He scrambled for a reason: ‘Perhaps we could talk … go for a walk?’
The idea of leisure rang a ridiculous note but Salomon Lachaise replied
quickly, sincerely ‘I would like that very much.’
    He
climbed into his car, still dazed. Winding down the window he said, ‘I’m
staying in the village, at The Grange.’ The engine rumbled into life and the
car pulled away, never quite gathering speed but moving slowly out of sight.
     
    After Vespers the monks
shuffled in procession out of choir and into the cloister. In the shadow of a
pillar stood Father Andrew, waiting for Anselm. With a gesture he led Anselm to
his room. Behind a desk, his chin resting upon the backs of his hands joined in
an arch, the Prior said, troubled:
    ‘I’ve
received a fax. Rome wants someone from the Priory to