Angelology (15 page)

As Evangeline walked through the first floor, she saw that it had filled with sisters at work, a great mass of black-and-white habits shuffling along under the weak light of bulbs encased in metal sconces as they performed their daily chores. Sisters swarmed the hallways, opening broom closets, brandishing mops and rags and bottles of cleaning agents as they set about the evening chores. The sisters tied aprons at their waists and rolled up their dolman sleeves and snapped on latex gloves. They shook the dust from drapery and opened windows to dissuade the perennial mildew and moss of their damp, cool climate from taking hold. The women prided themselves on their ability to carry out a great deal of the convent’s labor themselves. The cheerfulness of their evening chore groups somehow disguised the fact that they were scrubbing and waxing and dusting, and instead it created the illusion that they were contributing to some marvelous project, one of much larger significance than their small individual tasks. Indeed, it was true: Each floor washed, each banister finial polished became an offering and a tribute to the greater good.

Evangeline followed the narrow steps from the Adoration Chapel up to the fourth floor. Celestine’s chamber was one of the largest cells in the convent. It was a corner bedroom with a private bathroom containing a large shower equipped with a folding plastic platform chair. Evangeline often wondered whether Celestine’s confinement freed her from the burden of daily participation in community activities, offering her a pleasant reprieve from duties, or if isolation made Celestine’s life in the convent a prison. Such immobility struck Evangeline as horribly restrictive.

She knocked on the door, giving three hesitant raps.

“Yes?” Celestine said, her voice weak. Celestine was born in France—despite half a century in the United States, her accent was pronounced.

Evangeline stepped into Celestine’s room, closing the door behind herself.

“Who is there?”

“It’s me.” She spoke quietly, afraid to disturb Celestine. “Evangeline. From the library.”

Celestine was nestled into her wheelchair near the window, a crocheted blanket in her lap. She no longer wore a veil, and her hair had been cut short, framing her face with a shock of white. On the far side of the room, a humidifier spewed steam into the air. In another corner the hot coils of a space heater warmed the room like a sauna. Celestine appeared to be cold, despite the blanket. The bed was made up with a similar crocheted throw, typical of the blankets made for the Elder Sisters by the younger ones. Celestine narrowed her eyes, trying to account for Evangeline’s presence. “You have more books for me, do you?”

“No,” Evangeline said, taking a seat next to Celestine’s wheelchair, where a stack of books sat on a mahogany end table, a magnifying glass atop the pile. “It looks like you’ve got plenty to read.”

“Yes, yes,” Celestine said, looking out the window, “there is always more to read.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Sister, but I was hoping to ask you a question.” Evangeline pulled the letter from Mrs. Rockefeller to Mother Innocenta out of her pocket and flattened it upon her knee.

Celestine folded her long white fingers together upon her lap, a gold FSPA signet ring glinting on her ring finger, and stared blankly at Evangeline with a cool, assessing gaze. It was possible that Sister Celestine could not remember what she had eaten for lunch, let alone events that had occurred many decades before.

Evangeline cleared her throat. “I was working in the archives this morning and found a letter that mentions your name. I don’t really know where to file it—I was wondering if you would help me to understand what it is about, so that I can put it in its proper place.”

“Proper place?” Celestine asked, doubtful. “I don’t know if I can be much help at putting anything in its proper place these days. What does the letter say?”

Evangeline gave the page to Sister Celestine, who turned the thin paper over in her hands.

“The glass,” she said, fluttering her fingers toward the table.

Evangeline placed the magnifying glass in her hands, watching Celestine’s face intently as the lens moved over the lines, transforming the solid paper into a sheet of watery light. It was clear by her expression that she was struggling with her thoughts, although Evangeline could not say if the words on the page had caused the confusion. After a moment Celestine laid the magnifying glass in her lap, and Evangeline understood at once: Celestine recognized the letter.

“It is very old,” Celestine said at last, creasing the paper and resting her blue-veined hand over it. “Written by a woman named Abigail Rockefeller.”

“Yes,” Evangeline said. “I read the signature.”

“I am surprised you found this in the archives,” she said. “I thought they had taken everything away.”

“I was hoping,” Evangeline ventured, “that you might shed some light on its meaning.”

Celestine sighed deeply and turned her eyes, framed by folds of wrinkled skin, away. “This was written before I came to live at St. Rose. I didn’t arrive until early 1944, just a week or so before the great fire. I was weak from the journey, and I didn’t speak a word of English.”

“Do you happen to know why Mrs. Rockefeller would send such a letter to Mother Innocenta?” Evangeline persisted.

Celestine pulled herself up in the wheelchair, straightening the crocheted blanket about her legs. “It was Mrs. Rockefeller who brought me here,” she said, her manner guarded, as if she might give too much away. “It was a Bentley we arrived in, I believe, although I have never known much about cars made outside of France. It was certainly a vehicle befitting Abigail Rockefeller. She was a plump, aged woman in a fur coat, and I could not have been more her opposite. I was young and unspeakably thin. In fact, dressed as I was in my old-fashioned Franciscan habit—the variety they still wore in Portugal, where I had taken my vows before embarking upon my journey—I looked much more like the sisters gathered at the horseshoe driveway in their black overcoats and black scarves. It was Ash Wednesday. I remember because crosses of black ash marked the sisters’ foreheads, blessings from the Mass conducted that morning.

“I will never forget the greeting I received from my fellow sisters. The crowd of nuns whispered to me as I passed by, their voices soft and encompassing as a song.
Welcome
, the sisters of St. Rose Convent whispered.
Welcome
,
welcome, welcome home.”

“The sisters greeted me in a similar way upon my arrival,” Evangeline said, recalling how she had wished for nothing more than that her father would take her back to Brooklyn.

“Yes, I recall,” Celestine said. “You were so very young when you came to us.” She paused, as if comparing Evangeline’s arrival with her own. “Mother Innocenta welcomed me, but then I realized that the two women were acquainted already. And when Mrs. Rockefeller replied, ‘It is lovely to meet you at last,’ I wondered suddenly if the sisters had been welcoming me at all, or if it was Mrs. Rockefeller who had won their attention. I was aware of the sight I presented. I had dark black circles under my eyes, and I was many kilograms underweight. I could not say what had caused more harm—the deprivations in Europe or the journey across the Atlantic.”

Evangeline strained to imagine the spectacle of Celestine’s arrival. It was a struggle to picture her as a young woman. When Celestine had come to St. Rose Convent, she had been younger than Evangeline was at present. “Abigail Rockefeller must have been anxious for your well-being,” Evangeline offered.

“Nonsense,” Celestine replied. “Mrs. Rockefeller pushed me forward for Innocenta’s inspection as if she were a matron presenting her debutante daughter at her first ball. But Innocenta merely propped open the heavy wooden door at a great angle, anchoring it with her weight so that the mass of sisters could return to their work. As they passed, I smelled chores on their habits—wood polish, ammonia, taper wax—but Mrs. Rockefeller didn’t seem to heed this. What did capture her fancy, I recall, was the marble statue of the Archangel Michael, his foot crushing the head of a serpent. She placed a gloved hand upon the statue’s foot and ran a finger delicately across the exact point of pressure that would crack the demon’s skull. I noticed the double strand of creamy pearls nestled in her grizzled neck, buttery orbs glinting in the dim light, objects of beauty that, despite my usual immunity to the material world, caught my attention for a moment and held it. I could not help but note how unfair it was that so many children of God could languish ill and broken in Europe, while those in America adorned themselves with furs and pearls.”

Evangeline stared at Celestine, hoping that she would continue. Not only had this woman known of the relationship between Innocenta and Abigail Rockefeller, she appeared to be at the very center of it. Evangeline wanted to ask her to go on but was afraid that any direct questioning might put Celestine on guard. Finally she said, “You must know quite a lot about what Mrs. Rockefeller wrote to Innocenta.”

“It was my work that brought us to the Rhodopes,” Celestine said, meeting Evangeline’s eyes with a sharpness that unsettled her. “It was my efforts that led us to what we found in the gorge. We were careful to be sure that everything went as planned in the mountains. They didn’t overtake us, which was a great relief to Dr. Seraphina, our leader. It was our greatest worry—to be captured before we made it to the gorge.”

“The gorge?” Evangeline asked, growing confused.

“Our planning was meticulous,” Celestine continued. “We had the most modern equipment and cameras that allowed us to document our discoveries. We took care to protect the cameras and the film. The findings were all in order. Wrapped in cloth and cotton. Very secure, indeed.” Celestine stared out the window as if measuring the rise of the river.

“I’m not sure I understand,” Evangeline said, hoping to prod Celestine to explain. “What cavern? What findings?”

Sister Celestine met Evangeline’s eyes once more. “We drove through the Rhodopes, entering through Greece. It was the only way during the war. The Americans and British had begun their bombing campaigns to the west, in Sofia. The damage was growing each week, and we knew it was possible that the gorge could be hit, although not likely, of course—it was one cave in thousands. Still, we pushed everything into motion. It all happened very quickly once the funding from Abigail Rockefeller was secure. All of the angelologists were summoned to continue their efforts.”

“Angelologists,” Evangeline said, turning the phrase over. Although it was a familiar word, she did not dare admit this to Celestine.

If Celestine detected a change in Evangeline, she did not let on. “Our enemies did not attack us at the Devil’s Throat, but they tracked our return to Paris.” Celestine’s voice grew animated, and she turned to Evangeline, her eyes wide. “They began to hunt us immediately. They put their networks of spies to work and captured my beloved teacher. I could not stay in France. It was too dangerous to remain in Europe. I had to come to America, although I had no desire at all to do so. I was given the responsibility of bringing the object to safety—our discovery was left to my care, you see, and there was nothing I could do but flee. I still feel that I betrayed our resistance by leaving, but I had no choice. It was my assignment. While others were dying, I took a boat to New York City. Everything had been prepared.”

Evangeline struggled to mask her reaction to these bizarre details of Celestine’s history, but the more she heard, the more difficult it was to remain silent. “Mrs. Rockefeller assisted you in this?” she asked.

“She arranged for my passage out of the inferno that Europe had become.” This was the first direct answer she had given to Evangeline. “I was smuggled to Portugal. The others were not so lucky—I knew even as I departed that the ones left behind were doomed. Once they found us, the horrid devils killed us. That was their way—vicious, evil, inhuman creatures! They would not rest until we were exterminated. To this day we are hunted.”

Evangeline stared at Celestine, aghast. She did not know much about the Second World War or how it pertained to Celestine’s fears, but she worried that such agitation might bring her harm. “Please, Sister, everything is fine. I assure you that you’re safe now.”

“Safe?” Celestine’s eyes were frozen in fear. “One is never safe.
Jamais.
”

“Tell me,” Evangeline said, her voice steady to mask her growing distress. “What danger do you speak of?”

Celestine’s voice was little more than a whisper as she said,
“‘A cette époque-là, il y avait des géants sur la terre, et aussi après que les fils de Dieu se furent unis aux filles des hommes et qu’elles leur eurent donné des enfants. Ce sont ces héros si fameux d’autrefois.’”

Evangeline understood French: indeed, it was her mother’s native tongue, and her mother had spoken to her exclusively in French. But she had not heard the language spoken in more than fifteen years.

Celestine’s voice was sharp, rapid, vehement as she repeated the words in English. “‘There were giants in the earth in those days, and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown.’”

In English the passage was familiar to Evangeline, its placement in the Bible clear in her mind. “It is from Genesis,” she said, relieved that she understood at least a fraction of what Sister Celestine was saying. “I know the passage. It occurs just before the Flood.”

“Pardon?” Celestine looked at Evangeline as if she had never seen her before.

“The passage you quoted from Genesis,” Evangeline said. “I know it well.”

“No,” Celestine said, her gaze suddenly full of animosity. “You do not understand.”

Evangeline placed her hand on Celestine’s, to calm her, but it was too late—Celestine had worked herself into a fury. She whispered, “In the beginning, human and divine relations were in symmetry. There was order in the cosmos. The legions of angels were filed in strict regiments; man and woman—God’s most adored, made in his own image—lived in bliss, free from pain. Suffering did not exist; death did not exist; time did not exist. There was no reason for such elements. The universe was perfectly static, and pure in its refusal to move forward. But the angels could not rest in such a state. They grew jealous of man. The dark angels tempted humanity out of pride, but also to cause God pain. And so the angels fell as man fell.”