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  Slowly he tuned the instrument and began to pluck a dainty repicco from the baroque instrument. He played it several times slowly in different keys and then began a more impassioned punteado, unaware of a figure watching and listening from an adjacent window on the far side of the courtyard. His fingers danced over the strings, first slowly then faster, and then with an urgency that transformed the passacaglia into a heartfelt plea.

  Adrienne read the entreaty with her eyes and ears through the glass of the small vestibule window. She had been informed by the Prioress that a young friar had arrived at the entry gate with a musical instrument and several baskets of food. As she put away an obscure volume brought to the convent early that morning by an itinerant bookseller, she wondered with some agitation why a guitar would be brought to her by a monk. Would he ask her to play it for him? Or worse, ask her to repair it?

  But now, as she watched him play rapturously and with abandonment she had never witnessed before, a small shudder quivered at the nape of her neck at the thought of making speech with him. It was the first time in nearly twelve years that she had a desire to speak. Watching him lost in his music was an entirely new and unsettling experience. She herself had often been lost in a melody as she brought a new instrument to life, but never before had she watched someone else do the same and with the entirety of his body. As she continued to watch captivated by the performance, she strained to keep herself from blurting out, knowing that as soon as he realized she was watching he would stop playing, and this she wanted to avoid. Like a child watching a fearsome lion in a mesmerizing circus, her enthralled and beating heart prayed that the show would never end.

  The young friar now felt eyes watching him closely. His early years as a street musician prior to entering the monastery gave him a sense of an audience’s mood, and he could instantly identify an individual in the crowd who connected to his passion or felt his pain. They did not have to speak or express their appreciation. It made his music resonate more fully, as if another instrument had joined in. And right then, he could not see her, but he felt an undeniable connection to a presence somewhere in the proximity of the courtyard. He could almost feel the beating of her heart in time with his own, and the timbre of the song taking on a wider and more complex vibration than he had ever experienced.

  But he could feel restraint as well, as if tears were being held back, or an invisible hand held over a mouth to keep in a cry of intense joy. Somehow he knew that this was no ordinary bond. Without that restraint, he thought to himself, the linkage between them would surely be overwhelming. He pressed himself to continue playing on, desperately tempted though he was to look up and around to see who held him in thrall. And then, as quickly as it was formed, the connection was lost. He stopped his playing and ran to a dark window, but no one was there. He ran to another window and still no one. Whoever had been watching him was now gone. Desperation gripped him. Slowly he laid aside his guitar and dropped to his knees in prayer.

  “Dear Heavenly Father,” he prayed in silence, “in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost do not forsake your lost lamb, for I know I have strayed many a time in my lowly existence. My human mind and body are weak, but my spirit is pure. Please help me find the right path. If my destiny awaits me here, please assist me to find the way that the Lord has designed for me. Let me not stray from that path. Amen.”

  He crossed himself, kissed the rosary beads around his lean waist and rose slowly to find Sister Teresa waiting for him in the doorway from which he had come, her plump hands crossed on her chest with her crucifix nestled between them. He followed her through the door and across the long hallway to the staircase leading up to the dining hall. When they arrived, the nuns were all seated at their tables, some of them silently praying to themselves and others silently communicating with the nun opposite them. One seat opposite Sister Wilhelmina remained empty.

  The friar seated himself carefully there as he was motioned to do by Sister Wilhelmina, who bowed her head and waited for him to bend his head before she began her prayer out loud. Tomàs started, his green eyes flashing as he glanced quickly around the table looking for the one he knew he would recognize without hesitation. But she was not there. He bowed his head deeply with silent disappointment as the sisters began to recite the Lord’s Prayer without a sound. As Sister Wilhelmina’s prayer reverberated throughout the dining hall, each heard in their own inner spirits the collective voices of the room. Then a bell sounded and an almost audible unified “Amen” reverberated across the rafters of the hall. After dinner was finished and as the plates were cleared from the table, Tomàs plucked up the courage to ask Sister Wilhelmina whether he could be introduced to the nun who fashioned the musical instruments by hand.

  “Unfortunately,” Sister Wilhelmina replied, “Sister Adrienne took ill just before supper and has retired to her room. I’m afraid she wouldn’t be well enough to show you her instruments.” The nun gestured for the friar to pick up his supper plates. This he did and followed her to the kitchen. When they returned the nun continued, “Sister Teresa tells me you play the guitar incredibly well. ‘Like a true performer’ were her exact words. Where did you learn to play?”

  “Oh, she exalts me,” he replied modestly. “I am but the Lord’s humble servant. My father was a self-taught musician and poet from Seville who traveled Europe far and wide as a performer. His playing was compared once to his compatriot Fernando Sor, but he was not a conformist by any measure, and his flame did not shine as brightly as that celebrated composer. My father was more like a street performer — a troubadour. He composed the most beautiful ballads and that won him the favor of many a fair maiden from Seville to Paris to Amsterdam. Until the day he met my mother, a rising young opera singer in Vienna. She convinced him to leave his traveling days behind. But my mother’s family was most unhappy with the liaison and so they ran away to be married, leaving behind her promising career to live happily, but with a meager existence, in the San Salvatore mountains near Lugano. They raised goats and produced the finest chèvre in the region. My mother sang to them marvelously to achieve the exquisite goat’s milk. Unfortunately, the Lord decided to take both of my parents from me when I was eight — the influenza I believe.” Both nun and friar crossed themselves reverently.

  “So, what brought you to France, and Reillanne in particular?” The nun enquired.

  “I was taken in and raised by the Jesuits in Lugano, you see. I spent fourteen years there before I took the vows of monkhood myself. My father had taught me to play the guitar and mandolin, and I basically mastered any instrument I could lay my hands on. But it was during my years training for the priesthood that I grew to understand the divine power of music and spirit of our ancestors which can live on in a beloved instrument. This guitar is the one thing my parents left me when they passed on. In its case my father had left me a few sheets of his hand-written lyrics and music, and that was all. Those are my only worldly possessions.”

  The nun smiled beatifically and urged the friar to continue. “When I was twenty-three, I left the monastery and traveled to Paris, then Prague, then further north as far as Oslo, Bergen and Stockholm. I performed like my father all over Europe, as a troubadour and a man of God. Most often I made my concerts outside of churches and cathedrals. The donations fed me and kept brothers at my table. The town folks at the Viking kyrka in Bergen were receptive and particularly generous. Without my guitar, I would be just another monk in sandals. With it, I am who I am. Fra Tomàs, Il Musicista de San Francesco d’Assisi.”

  Sister Wilhelmina smiled. “It has served you and Father Francis well.”

  “Yes. I believe it was my destiny to bring music to the world, whether I was a brother or not. The legacy of the troubadours continues with me. I shall never let it die … until of course, I do.”

  “So, you came to Chartreuse Notre-Dame to perform for us silent Sisters?”

  “No, I came to
discover the secret of your instrument-making. I have heard about the exquisite instruments made by one of your own, which I hear are kept locked behind glass cases in the homes of the wealthiest men in this countryside. Such a shame it is that such fine instruments will never be played for the pleasure of an adoring crowd. I have also heard that each instrument seems to have a voice of its own, even when no one is playing them. Is this true?”

  “That surely could not be true, Frère.” Sister Wilhelmina replied. “Do you believe such a thing could be possible?”

  “Anything is possible when instruments are created — or played, for a matter of fact — with the essence of our spirits in them. I have known an instrument to play along, when another nearby is being played. The specific combination of forces and resonance of one imbues the other with a singular vibrational kinship, manifest in sound, like a ghost ship seen only on certain nights and in certain weather conditions. It is eerie and a phenomenon to behold!”

  “Like the spirit of the Holy Madonna when she makes herself appear in a stone, on a hillside, or even on a milk-bottle. It is truly a phenomenon to behold.”

  “Yes, exactly,” Tomàs replied. Both friar and nun stopped to reflect on the comparison of holy phenomena.

  “Praise be the glory of God,” declared the Prioress.

  “Praise be the glory of God,” replied Tomàs. “Amen.”

  “Amen,” she echoed. “Frère, I can offer you lodging for the night in the hermitage that houses our converse Carthusian brothers. I must let you know, however, that the Carthusian way may be quite regimented to those not initiated. Our day begins at one am with a prayer to Our Lady, then at one-fifteen, we hasten to the church for our night vigils. Through them we express our watchful expectation for the Savior and for a dawn of resurrection to rise over the darkness of the world.”

  “Amen.”

  “Amen. I do not expect you to be there for the night vigils, but at eight-fifteen the Brothers join us for the Celebration of the Eucharist. Together we chant the convent’s liturgy — our own rendition of Gregorian chant — the sisters join in silent prayer of course.”

  “Thank you, yes, Holy Sister. You are providing a ‘room at the inn’ for this humble servant of God, and I thank you.”

  “You are welcome, Frère. When it is time to gather to sing the Terce, Sext, and None in the chapel, the bells will ring accordingly to announce each office. Please feel free to join us during any or all of our solemnities. Let us now walk to the monastery.”

  The Prioress rose and Tomàs followed. She was an imposing woman of substantial height and moral rectitude, which was reflected on her exceptionally high-bridged nose and regal, thinly arched eyebrows. Below them her stern but compassionate gray-blue eyes emitted a clearly pious and virtuous probity. When she walked her gait was floatingly smooth and did not undulate, as if beneath her gray habit she was supported by an army of angels lifting her up a few inches from the earth. Her gray habit was correspondingly smooth and without a crease, except where the folds of her gown were meant to lie starched into a perfect pleat. Her crucifix, suspended from a delicate gold chain about her neck, provided the only accoutrement to such faultless tailoring. When they stepped out into the open night air, Tomàs took a deep silent breath and followed his pious and immaculate hostess, keeping two small paces behind her as she glided effortlessly through the spare but manicured garden.

  “Hopefully in the morning, after Sister Adrienne renews her vows … ” the nun announced as she led him to the front terrace of the hermitage.

  “She is renewing her vows?” he asked, somehow surprised.

  “Yes. And for that, I am sure she will be improved enough in the morning, and will join us. Tomorrow we hold our colloquium where we engage in deep discussions and exchanges on how we can incorporate the Scriptures into our daily lives. This may be a perfect time for you and Sister Adrienne to exchange views on how your God-given gifts protect and nourish in your hearts the fire of Divine Love — the Love that unites us all as the members of the same body.”

  “Amen. That would be a most enlightening discussion, Sister,” he replied, as they entered the monastery. The monk observed that this stone hermitage like the convent had the appearance of a more open and welcoming structure than he was accustomed to at the Franciscan monastery. “You are certainly far from a silent order.”

  “No, we are not. We are the voice and heart of the Church, which through us presents to the Father in Jesus our humble request for pardon, as well as our praise, supplication, and adoration. The Sisters have the freedom to choose among the diverse forms of liturgical prayer — silent or not. Choosing a life of solitude does not mean deserting the human family. Union with God, if authentic, does not shut us on ourselves; rather it opens our spirit and expands our heart to embrace the entire world and the mystery of Christ’s redemption — it is written in the Carthusian Statutes.” Tomàs had let his mind wander while she expostulated on the Carthusian way of life and the human family. It found its way back once again like a wayward foot-soldier to the garrison of the elusive Adrienne and her small troop of sacred musical instruments.

  “You know,” the nun began, reading his thoughts, “I too have often felt it was a pity not to share Sister Adrienne’s beautiful instruments with the public. Unbeknownst to her, I offered several of them a year ago for funds to make repairs to our convent, and quickly a competition formed to acquire them. As soon as Sister Adrienne heard of this, however, she asked me to lock them away in the storeroom and refused to make another. You have my permission to convince her to offer them to the world. Perhaps she will begin with you?”

  “Perhaps … ” he replied, now lost in thought. He remembered the deep connection he felt earlier this day in the apple courtyard. He was certain now that it was she. Adrienne, whom he had not yet met, but whom he knew better than anyone he had ever known. He knew precisely how she would appear and the exact intensity of her gaze. He knew how she would hold a lute, run a bow against viola strings, and pluck a melody from a guitar. He now understood her reticence, understood her need to raise and maintain her guard, lest, like the ghost guitar, she make a sound against her will.

  •

  Adrienne stood at the upright gates of the convent for the last time. She looked up to the matching pair of brass archangels in bas relief on the heralded banners arching over each hinged wrought iron gate wing. Their simple flowing gowns and woven hair were frozen in breezy heaviness while their lips pursed eternally in silent remonstrance. A small bundle was tucked under the young woman’s arm and the guitar that had been the cause of her unholy trespass was clutched in one hand.

  As she swung open the heavy gate and stepped through, the dull ache in her heart intensified. The cold dampness of the early morning gripped her like frozen snow applied to a fresh wound, the ensuing numbness brought slim relief but the deep underlying pain continued to throb. She hesitated momentarily under the watchful eyes of the archangels and remembered his face close to hers, his half-opened eyes deeply patterned with an emerald brilliance the color of the forest.

  “Speak to me,” he said softly. He held her gaze for a long tender moment, and then his lips found hers in a kiss that she felt was full of sadness. “Please tell me something that will free me from the remorse of what I have just done.”

  But she could not speak. No words formed in her mind and nothing but a small mute cry came to her lips. She could only turn away and free herself desolately from his arms, the weight of her broken vow of chastity now a heavy yoke on a lumbering beast of burden. They sat in a frozen silence for an eternity, the stillness of the stone tower as austere and foreboding as the cavern of an ancient Roman cathedral and less forgiving. A thousand thoughts but no absolution came to her. “Come away with me,” he ached to tell her, but those words he knew would place her in a unmitigated quandary, and him in the worst possible light for forcing
her to choose between his selfishness and God.

  When she had fatefully met him in the exterior convent gardens softly strumming his guitar just before midnight, it was without design that she had taken his hand and waited with him silently there until all the sisters had retreated to the chapel for the night vigil. Then, as they wound their way in darkness up the winding stone stairs to the apex of the tower with only a slim stub of candle in a wrought-iron holder balanced in her free hand, she knew that he would delight in the treasures they would find there. The instruments were lined up meticulously against the rounded tower walls on individual wooden plinths in chronological order of their construction. This is no storeroom, Tomàs thought to himself. This is a sacred temple.

  He stood before a yellow-ochre pear-shaped lute with curved cedar top and ran his finger along the intricately carved rose of braided intertwining vines. Beside it a colascione rested against the stone, its diminutive reddish-orange cherry-wood face beaming like a child’s. Its tiny abalone shell tuning keys reflected their subtle iridescence in the dim candlelight. Tomàs hesitated to remove an instrument from its pedestal, but Adrienne placed the candle down on a table not far from the entrance of the room and selected a small guitar which she held out to him. He looked at the golden sunburst radiating from the circular rosette sound-hole in its finely crafted body and saw that it was nearly a replica of the guitar his father had bequeathed to him but somehow more refined, and he was nearly overcome with excitement at the prospect of making music with this excruciatingly exquisite instrument.

  He took it from her, his hand curving over hers as he grasped the neck of the baroque guitar and drew both of them to him. Adrienne dropped her eyes to the stone floor in a moment of reticence, removing her hand from beneath his pleasingly warm and easy grip. She turned and walked as solemnly as she could to the opposite window where the moonlight seeped seductively through in a shadowy silver stream, illuminating a dark red mahogany mandolin shaped in a circular wave, its double strings gleaming. Stopping before it she carefully released the instrument from the small linked chain that held it securely against the wall.