Music

I do advise to listen to the excellent Clamavi de Profundis group who takes religious music to another plane of existence. The lamentations will probably put you in the mood for this chapter.

They rose in the air, deep voices with such mystical intent that she shivered. Perhaps it was the cold weather, wetness seeping in her bones.

Truth be told, she shouldn’t even be here. But it felt good. Good to leave her workload behind, and expectation larger than life. How was she going to survive this blasted semester? She had no idea. Classes and assignments were piling up without any light at the end of a tunnel. The autumn break was going to be filled with work, work, and work again. If only it held purpose … like those voices that surrounded her. But try as she might, none of it seemed to make sense. Frances was lost.

The young woman sighed; she was fed up.

— “This is a mighty sigh for one so young.”

Frances turned to greet father Tristan; she would recognise his voice anywhere. Deep, soothing hues, even tone, solace and concern mingled in intent. There was something surreal about him and his presence, just like the laments that echoed in between the strong pillars of the little church.

Frances smiled.

— “Good afternoon, Father Tristan”

The priest returned her smile, albeit his was just a quirk of his lips. And just as he gestured to her side, asking silent permission to sit, a beautiful voice rose in the church. A woman’s voice, so high and pure that it nearly called tears to her eyes. How could a mere human being sound like an angel?

They both sat in silence for a while, and she was grateful that father Tristan didn’t feel the need to pry. He was just there, a sturdy companion to guide her thoughts in his beloved church. Only when the song ended did she turn to him. His eyes bore holes into her, and a slight frown creased his eyebrows.

— “You look tired, Frances.”

— “Not the best way to compliment a lady,” she retorted.

A slight smirk lifted the corner of his mouth, hidden in his chestnut beard.

— “It is not my habit to compliment ladies, Frances. But forgive me if I offended you.”

— “You didn’t,” she smiled. “I was just pulling your leg.”

His eyes twinkled in the greyish light of late autumn.

— “I know”

His easy retort caused her to pause. Yes, he knew, didn’t he? And she marvelled that a priest she met every second or third week could see her so well when her parents and friends failed at seeing how she withered. He was such a good listener, and she felt compelled to let him know of her errand.

— “I came to rest my mind,” she eventually said.

Father Tristan returned his intense gaze to the confines of his church, releasing the pressure upon her.

— “Church is a great place to soothe and clear one’s spirit.”

Frances nodded.

— “Are you not fed up with listening to my grievances? Perhaps I should get a psychologist.”

His eyebrows rose high upon his forehead; never before had someone so blatantly stated it … yet, she had, once more, nailed it sharply. Something flickered behind his eyes, a bout of uncertainty before he answered:

— “On the contrary, Frances. People seek God and solace when they step in church. Some want to be left in peace, and some are curious. Any guidance I may provide is my pleasure”

Frances’ eyes narrowed; she knew she was being petty, but she sure as hell needed to get to the bottom of this.

— “Your duty, you mean?”

— “There is not much difference for me.”

Frances scrunched her nose, wondering altogether if she should go. The realisation that, maybe, she was using this man didn’t sit well with her. If he only attended to her because of his calling… Her ego rebuked at that. Didn’t he like their conversations as well?

But father Tristan didn’t come down from the last shower; at once, he knew how to steer her away from her pride.

— “Your trust means a lot to me, especially given your background.”

The young woman nibbled on her lower lip nervously. When did it get so cold, in this blasted church? Wrapping her long stole – a present from her boyfriend – around herself, she mulled over the thought. Until her eyes returned to father Tristan under cover of her lashes.

— “So you don’t speak to me because you have to?”

He summoned a genuine smile, one that reached his eyes and made them cringe at the corner.

— “No, Frances. I am as curious as you are. You are pushing me into places I had forgotten existed. It makes me a better priest.”

— “Good”

She deflated on the bench then, her posture sagging in relief. Why did it matter so much, in the end? Perhaps because she considered him a friend, now, rather than a casual acquaintance?

— “Good?” he pried, leaning sideways to watch her.

She met his gaze head on, so brutally that the priest slightly recoiled.

— “Yes, because I sure didn’t want to leave. And your choice of music really appeals to my heart.”

Father Tristan’s eyes lifted to the sky, probably to the speakers hidden in an alcove.

— “Ah. Them. Yes.”

A wistful expression passed upon his features, soon schooled in his usual mask. Such a contemplative soul!

— “They sing with devotion… Do you enjoy religious music, Frances?”

The young woman scrunched her mouth aside, wondering what to answer that. Yes, sometimes. But not only. The truth was that she was no musician, but lived with music of all kinds.

— “I like everything beautiful, and polyphonic ensembles even more. As long as it comes from the heart and keeps harmony,”

Father Tristan nodded imperceptibly, his face blank as something seemed to dance in his mind.

— “Then you might enjoy the concert in the Toul Cathedral next month.”

Frances perked up at this.

— “A concert?”

Her enthusiasm seemed to amuse the older man; little did he know that she so seldomly attended live performances because she didn’t find much to her taste. There was much ugliness in this world, musically wise, enough to shun the radio. Money didn’t make good music; talent and dedication did.

— “Yes. An ensemble called Clamavi, I love their music. You have probably heard some extracts here.”

— “Is it on week days?”

The very practical considerations of a student…

— “Mmm. Friday the 21st, if I am not mistaken.”

Friday was good news; she would be able to spend the week end resting and working on her assignments. The perspective of attending something different than her dull routine of work – canteen – work, home seemed to light a little beacon of hope deep within herself. The chance for a respite and spiritual awakening. Frances nodded merrily.

— “Then I’ll think I’ll be there. Will you?”

— “Yes, with colleagues of nearby parishes”

Noting that father Tristan wouldn’t be available to share this moment with her didn’t dampen her mood much. She quelled the disappointment with enthusiasm.

— “Good. Thanks for letting me know.”

The priest slightly bowed his head like a knight of old.

— “Anytime,” he said, his gaze firmly set upon her face. “Music soothes the soul, especially when it is under pressure.”

She should have remarked how his sentences could be made in a book of quotes; they were so pretty. But surprise won this round instead.

— “How do you know?” she asked, head cocked aside in curiosity.

His tongue darted over his upper lip; a nervous tic she’d seen a few times. So, the mighty father Tristan wasn’t impervious after all. Somehow, it warmed her heart to know that he was just another human being. His eyes left her, returning to the safe haven of Marie’s statue as he sold his reasoning.

— “I’ve heard enough to guess your workload is too heavy for anyone’s shoulders.”

Frances shrugged.

— “You know how engineering schools are…”

His blank face caused her to chuckle.

— “Or not… It’s pretty hectic, I think only Asian universities beat us. We don’t have as many suicides, but I knew a guy that threw himself out of a window in CPGE.”

It took him a second too long to hide his appalled expression. Frances frowned; was her scale or normalcy too twisted to care, or was it father Tristan’s sense of morals that caused her to doubt?

— “This is pretty dreadful,” he said, his voice calm. “Did your parents agree to that?”

— “They pushed me that way. My brother made it, so they thought I would as well. But his school was much more lax. Neither of us were expecting this much nonsense”

Frances’s words seemed to puzzle the man into silence for a moment, and his gaze lifted to the main transept where greyish light graced the coloured windows. What was he looking for, up there?

— “Where will it lead you?” he eventually said.

A huff shook Frances’ frame.

— “You know what? This is THE question of the year. I thought I knew why I was there, but I’m not so sure anymore. Especially after I walked in here.”

Tristan’s attention was back to her now, curious and anxious. She could read it at the corner of his mouth, how his jaw slightly ticked. Or was he angry?

— “Does the church unsettle you?”

The young woman shook her head.

— “No… It just gives perspective. The hope that something different exists. That kindness and heart mean more than intelligence.”

— “But surely your skills will open many doors.”

There was the smooth and levelled voice again, the voice of reason, pushing her to embrace engineering’s school? Something rang wrong in her mind, and she frowned in wonder.

— “Playing devil’s advocate?”

Father Tristan only smirked at her choice of words, and she marvelled that he wasn’t yelling at her, bloody heretic, for calling him a devil’s associate. For a priest, he certainly was open-minded … or he knew she was only trying to rile him up, and decided not to take the bait. He certainly was a worthy opponent.

— “Humour me”

Why … why the choice of such a difficult path? The truth of it was rather plain; she wanted to escape unemployment, and liked geology. And since her brain was powerful, this had been the best track to get a well-paid job. But now … now that she saw what it really felt like to be an engineer, now that she was diving into the shark’s den, the mood didn’t seem to suit her so much.

— “It will. But what if those are doors I don’t want to walk into?”

Father Tristan’s amber eyes softened; he understood what she meant easily.

— “I get your point”

What about him? Which path had he taken to become a priest? Would she ever dare asking that very personal question?

— “Are you happy with your job, father Tristan?”

His face seemed to morph into something … indescribable. Something happy, and awed, and sad at the same time.

— “It’s more than a job to me,” he softly said, like a confidence. “It is my calling, and I wake up every day knowing how important my presence is to the parishioners and to the continuation of our faith.”

— “It must be nice,” she whispered.

And there was truth in her tone, not mockery. She saw his hand lift, and fall upon his knee once more.

— “You’ll find your place in the world, Frances. I am sure of it.”

The young woman blinked, taking in the resolve set upon his sharp features. How could a man trust in her more than she trusted in herself? It was improbable, yes, but she wasn’t about to shed his trust away. For the moment, she would latch on it like a woman lost at sea.