The Cloisters(17)
“We long to explain the world around us,” I said. “To make sense of the unknown.” Or, at least, I knew I did. The impulse, on some level, universal.
“Have you ever considered,” said Patrick, looking up, his finger on the page, “that maybe there is something about these practices, though difficult for us to believe now, that might have some”—he met my gaze—“truth?”
“What do you mean? That by studying the position of planets, we might be able to predict the best day to”—I searched for the strangest thing I remembered reading in an astrological manuscript—“treat gout?”
Patrick nodded, the shadow of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
“I don’t think so,” I said, considering the question. The idea that humans might be able to tell the future by watching planets migrate across the night sky had captured the imaginations of scholars and mystics for centuries. But to my mind, it was impossible to believe in astrology. I had seen firsthand how unforgiving, how random fate could be. It was something, I was sure, we could never fully know. Nevertheless, I didn’t want to disappoint him, to reveal myself as too much of a cynic, so I added, “Of course, people still believe in astrology today.”
“We have a tendency to discount things we don’t understand,” said Patrick. “To dismiss them out of hand as antiquated or unscientific. But if you take one thing away from your time here, I want it to be that you gave these belief systems their full due. You don’t have to believe in divination for it to have been true for an aristocrat in the fourteenth century.” He put the book down. “Even, for it to be true again.”
By the time I returned to the library, the paper, with my pile of wax drippings, was gone. I checked the trash, but it was nowhere to be found; Patrick and I were the only two to have arrived.
* * *
“Looking for Leo?” said Rachel, taking a drag on her cigarette. The heat of the morning had given way to a cloudy afternoon, rain threatened on the other side of the river, and we were taking advantage of the cooler air by sitting at the edge of the Bonnefont Cloister, Rachel holding her hand over the ramparts so no one would notice her smoking.
“Not really,” I said, although it was a lie. I’d been looking for him all day, even going so far as to linger in the kitchen, the gardens, around the staff bathrooms, hoping he might walk by.
“You’re a terrible liar,” said Rachel, watching my profile as she stubbed out her cigarette. “On Monday he usually works in the garden shed, not out in the cloisters. Not that you care.”
She took in the scene: visitors reverently wandering the brick paths of the garden, their hands clasped behind their backs. I imagined it might have been the same five hundred years earlier.
“Thank god the heat broke,” she said. Not that Rachel looked touched by the heat or the humidity.
“I came in early,” I said. “I couldn’t stand it. But when I got to the library this morning, there were wax drippings on the tables. Or at least I thought it was wax. What do you think could have caused that?”
Rachel looked out over the ramparts, toward the river. “I don’t know,” she said.
“Do you think someone would light candles in the library?”
“Maybe there was a donor function over the weekend. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve found in the library—even the galleries—after one of those.”
It seemed plausible. And it wasn’t like there was much communication between the Events department and Curatorial at the museum. “It was just strange. Why would anyone bring candles into a room full of rare books?”
“Monks used to do it all the time,” said Rachel, getting to her feet.
The day moved quickly after that, but despite the bruised sky, the city never received anything but humidity and stillness. I was sad to leave the library at six, its cool stony confines having quickly become more familiar than my studio; the beauty of my daytime surroundings somehow made the reality of my nights all the worse.
As I walked through the galleries and under the lofty vaults of the hallways on my way to the shuttle, my mind drifted to the heat. I hadn’t been prepared for it, for the wetness. And I began to wonder if I had enough money for a new window unit; there was a hardware store two blocks from my apartment. But as I started to do the math of cool air against the realities of my budget, I realized the margins were so slim, I needed to be sure. I moved to open the calculator on my phone, only to realize I had left it on the chair in the library. It was a quick walk back, but on my way around the Bonnefont Cloister, I saw the two of them—Rachel and Leo—standing by the arch that led to the garden shed, deep in conversation. Rachel leaned against the wall, her arms pinned behind her back, Leo’s hand positioned above her head.
Without thinking, I paused behind one of the columns and watched from across the garden. I could hear her laughter as she shook out a cigarette, lit it, and held it out to him. He didn’t take it from her, but slowly lifted her hand to his mouth, where he took a drag. Annoyed, Rachel wrested her hand free and slid off the wall, leaving Leo alone.
I took the opportunity to duck into the library, unseen. It took me a few minutes to locate my phone, difficult as it was to focus through the mix of jealousy and desire that made my palms ache. Phone in hand, I went to lean my weight against the wooden doors of the library when I heard Patrick’s voice coming from the other side.