St. Agatha's Breast

by Van Adler, T. C.

• ISBN13: 9781555837082
• ISBN10: 1555837085
• Edition: 1st
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 2001-11-01
• Publisher: Alyson Pubns

Summary

"A fascinating mixture of good, evil, blood, religion, and the Internet, this first novel is a compelling read." -Library Journal For the monks of San Redempto, a decaying monastery in Rome, the rewards of embezzlement and the indulgence of their carnal appetites are distraction enough to prevent them from noticing that someone has been plundering the monastery of its treasure. But when archivist Brocard Curtis identifies the artist of the one remaining painting as 17th-century master Nicolas Poussin, they find themselves under close and unwelcome scrutiny. Ambitiously offbeat and graphically startling, St. Agatha's Breast is a brilliant mystery of corruption, sexuality, and murder. T.C. Van Adler is very experienced in the worlds of both art and the church. Van Adler is a pseudonym.

Excerpts

Cast of Characters

Community of San Redempto

The Reverend Fathers

Rev. Avertanus Deblaer, Emmeritus Professor of Mystical Theology

Very Rev. Emmanuele Angostini, Prior

Rev. Brocard Curtis, Archivist

Rev. Otger Aarnack

Rev. Berthold (Berrie) Langdon

Rev. Dionysius McGreel

Rev. Pius Poncelet

Rev. Cuthbert Mullins

Rev. Angelus Lennon

The Brothers

Antonio, the Porter

Ephraim, the Launderer

Manolo, the Lay Cook and Economo, brother of Antonio

Others

Professoressa Zinka Pavlic, Art Historian

Professor Charles Mitchum, Art Historian

Madam Camille Blanchierdarie, Directrice of the Biblioteque Francaise

Dr. Hoop Rhutten, Art Historian

Pino, Hustler

Thius Meyer, Researcher

Sister Apollonia Van Barren

Wilfredo Malouf, Art Dealer

Chapter One

    W ith the light focused on the canvas, all he could see were the cracks which lay just beneath the varnish, spreading weblike around the tortured body. The painting was in lamentable condition, like so many old, anonymous canvases scattered on the mildewed walls of Roman monasteries. For longer than anyone could remember it was one of a series of age-blackened martyrs which had hung so high on the wall of the ambulatory that they were never really noticed, distinguished more by their ornate frames and gloomy presence than for their subject matter. Then with the robbery, this one remaining painting took on great importance, as if it might hold the key to this strange event which had brought an unwanted note of chaos into a world of stultifying order.

    In truth, Brocard didn't know what he was supposed to be looking for as he held the light up to the canvas. It seemed part of some ritual without rubrics which he was compelled to perform. With that weighty bravura with which he performed every task, Brother Antonio, the porter, had leaned a ladder to the wall and slowly brought the painting down. In a breath all the monks (except for Father Avertanus who curiously wasn't there) had edged forward, transfixed by the blood-red stain which the painting left behind, surely a sign of life sucked out into the unforgiving walls of San Redempto. Then after placing the canvas on the library table, the brother paced off an arch around it, like a dog marking his territory, so that Brocard alone could get near.

    He was after all their archivist, the one set apart to observe and record, to give sense and order to centuries of the order's droppings so that they might be read as history. A tedious job which required the most tedious of monks, an appellation with which he would only take pride. Since leaving Philadelphia nearly thirty years ago, Brocard (ne Jimmy Curtis, but who would have believed it) had worked assiduously to remove all sugar from his blood, to rub away that enthusiasm-writ-large which betrayed his New World roots. So complete was his success that any hint of a past, not to mention a personality, was lost. Nor could it possibly rear its head in the world he chose to live in: one circumscribed by a routine devoid of all spontaneity. Balance and order and peace at any price--that was what drove him. Yet as he began to examine the canvas placed on the table before him, when he felt the expectant panting of the community and, for the first time he could remember, smelled the strong mustiness of their bodies pressing down on him, he knew that everything was about to change. How, he could not see, but the sure knowledge that things would change shadowed him with dread.

    On closer inspection, the painting was not without interest. Stretched out on a marble slab, commanding the lower third of the canvas, was a young girl, naked except for a strategically draped cloth around her loin. Feet and hands bound, drawn out from her body and held in place by two groups of tormentor voyeurs. He knew enough about classical painting technique to understand the attention which had been given to her skin, the layering of translucent velaturas so the flesh seemed alive. Where her breasts should have risen were two gaping cavities. Above her loomed a pagan priest hallowed in white billowing robes. With his left hand he pressed down her arched shoulder while triumphantly waving one of her breasts in a pair of bloodied pliers. The other breast, it seemed to Brocard as he made a fervent search for it, was lost forever in the chiaroscuro. What struck him as most odd, as he made his inspection in full view of his community, was the way in which the girl's head was turned towards his, drawing him alone into her world. Eyes made blank with the darkness of time, head raised slightly, her lips parted as if to sigh some secret. One thing that his years in Rome had taught him was that messages shoot across time and call out from seemingly inanimate objects. The fact that he had chosen to wall himself off from such facts until now was rendered irrelevant. What ever could Santa Agatha, for that is surely who the young girl in the painting was, feel compelled to share with him?

    As much to break her stare as to continue the charade of expertise, he asked the brother to help him turn the canvas over, intent on inspecting the back. As a stench of mildew filled the air, he dramatically swept a handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his nose. He then leaned forward to inspect the crossbar more closely, and there under the cobwebs and grime, faint but clearly legible, was the marking which began his search in earnest: Nicolas Poussin, 1629 .

Chapter Two

    I mmediately on confirming the archivist's find, those damnable words which only one man could have written, Emmanuele, the prior, felt the pain gathering behind his eyes. Normally his headaches simply appeared for no reason whatsoever. This time, the stress was identifiable. He had, of course, known of the possible attribution of the series of paintings since that Dutchman Hoop had studied them nearly a decade ago. Should he now feign ignorance? And if he owned up to it, would accusations fly that it was his responsibility to let the general curia know? Or at the very least to remove them from a public corridor? Should he have allowed art historians free reign of the monastery to muddle over them, rather than silence Hoop with that gift of a drawing as he had? Now that the possible value of the paintings was generally known, would his leadership be called into question? Would suspicion be cast on him? He had absolutely no idea how he was going to proceed. But being the introvert he was, the dark solitude of his cell was the only remedy for indecision, the only refuge from the coming pain.

    He locked the door behind him and drew the drapes, leaving the faint light of his screen saver to hold back total darkness. Cell --a silly term, he often thought, for this neat and orderly suite of rooms. Everything in its place, from the book-lined walls to the latest computer hardware, from the tightly made cot and well-scrubbed sink to the end table with yet another posthumous Calvino book. He had neither mirrors nor television (there was after all a mirror in the communal lavatory and a television in the recreation room), but he did have E-mail and it was to that he turned his attention.

    Searching his address file, he quickly located the institute in Nijmegen, then the private address of the interim director. For an indeterminate period of time he sat transfixed before the screen, catatonic on the outside alone. Then the following message came tumbling out:

    Caro Otger,

    How long it has been since you've returned to Rome. Do not forget that this is your community. The monastery seems empty without your expansive presence. We are grateful for the blessing of that visually stunning student you sent our way last year, Thius, I believe his name was, even though he had a predictable northern coldness about him. As you can imagine, many of the brethren, myself not included, found that quality even more captivating. They're so very desperate, poor souls.

    I have a practical question. You may remember that nine or ten years ago, you sent down a young art historian from your province. Hoop Rhutten, I believe his name was. As I remember, in his youth he had studied a bit with Blunt at the Courtauld and was fired up by things Baroque. He spent several months with us, a rather flirtatious time as I recall despite his unfortunate face, during which he tore apart our archives with youthful zeal. His project was to catalogue all of our images, mainly the endless liasses of works on paper. Some quite good period pieces as I recall, some possible Dughets and imitation Carraccis, but most absolutely forgetable. Like so much in this pile of a building.

    My problem is simply stated. We have had a little robbery. Six of those seven dreary martyr paintings which hung high above the portraits of the prior generals in the ambulatory--you may not even remember them if your visual memory is as weak as it always was--were removed from their frames last night. By whom and for what reason, we would do well never to know. For this reason I have asked that dullard Brocard to investigate the matter. He is, after all, "archivist" and the one the community would expect would. But his thoroughness, like everything else about him, is colored by such a lack of imagination that this whole matter is bound to fade away as rapidly as it began. We don't need disturbances here and must guard against outside eyes disrupting our contemplative gaze, n'est-ce pas?

    So, I want to divert our little man's attention, lead him to the archives which your friend Hoop started to catalogue but ultimately left in a royal mess. There are enough cut-de-sacs there to keep Brocard in the labyrinth until he tires. My concern is that Hoop is unreachable so that our archivist never has to widen his search. I know he left the order many years ago. Will the last address we have for him dead-end? Can you make sure it does? You are a dear. Your willing servant,

E.

    He clicked the mouse on Send and felt relief. Damage control done. Now all that remained was to call a community meeting, to encourage Brocard, and to wait for the confusion to set in. His headache too was begining to subside and in celebration of that fact, and the good work he had just done, he decided he could face the day once more. He opened the drapes and then went to push back the shutters. However, without warning, the tramontana had started. The incessant dry wind pressed down from the mountains and made some mad. Emmanuele, on the other hand, was not about to fall under its sway. Going over to the medicine cabinet he sprayed himself generously with his favorite fragrance: Escape.