He gave me a piggyback ride instead, then put me in a cart, taught me how to drive a horse-drawn vehicle. He was happy when I began to master the language, and he never took seriously the striving for architecture. You need your eyes to be sharp to work in the scriptorium, which was smoked by candles, ground on the letters, getting blunt around the corners of the parchment. So, he mixed up carrots with garlic to make the eyes of a book copyist tenacious; and we ate, so that we could look through into the depth of the text.
Then I got stronger, stiffened, took not a feather, but compasses, took a brick, took a jedding ax, controlled the substance, and I had to wait until my father took a breath when we occasionally went to bring some water together, and he had less and less strength. Jorge fainted and fell on the flagstones.
The rag on the floor turned out to be a dead man and these blockheads were scared to miss the service.
* * *
What did I know about Jorge? He arrived to our land from Burgos. However, there was nothing Spanish in him, but his name. When he was a little boy, it was roughest for him to tolerate hunger in the family he couldnt even fall asleep because of it. Jorge was once black-haired, and then I remembered him being grey.
The body was put in the church for a day so that everyone could say goodbye. Later, we would be able to find his final resting place in the cemetery marked by planted yew trees. From ancient times, high trees had been indicated the burial place, even if the sanctuary was destroyed nearby. The height has always been visual and noble. It strives up into the sky following the gesture of the father.
Jorge was going to the grave in his black cassock, taking away the secret of my origin for good. Skinny Jorge of Burgos, the blind man, the Abbot, my beloved father, rugged abbot, iron discipline, empty stomach, the gerent of the brethren and the thunderbolt of the community, a vine grower, Jorge, bony hand, Jorge, glassy eyes our eternal head was going away into the grave pit, and we had nothing left but to pray for his soul.
All the angels and wizards, kind and evil, lit candles in remembrance of Jorge, while I could hardly stand on my feet during this nightmarish farewell ceremony, and then kept crawling, sprawling vertically along the damp wall, and climbed up, and eventually crawled up to Eds cell, where I was crying all night into his straw hair, felted, wet, covering his tense brain, which was sleepless, trying to figure out variants of his own rising to the rank.
If I had come across an overexcited Miguel in scriptorium, I would not have run away to Graben, but would cheat time, and Jorge would be alive again. But time could not be deceived. It was continuous like space. It belonged merely to God, hence you could just experience it.
* * *
I buried my father there was nowhere to grow up further.
The prior called me for a conversation, not otherwise than making amends for a magic ritual that once was disrupted. Having crossed myself and taken a deep breath, I came into his cell.
When I become an abbot, Edward began, as if this was already settled, the first thing I would do is take your tonsure.
But then Ill have to leave the monastery
Thats why Im in such a hurry, the Prior quickly looked out into the corridor, making sure that no one could hear us. Just for you not to get rotten in these walls like me.
My earless patron had arranged everything as always, so that fate put me in the right direction. Everything had solved itself out, and wandering around the labyrinth of a pious life, I was again pushed out, spat out, thrown away into the maddening world of human ambitions and sins, squeezing compasses and a set square in my hands.
Hey, Anselm! the prior called me when I was already at the door. Take it!
He threw me a leather bag, stuffed with gold coins. Catching and hiding it in my chest, I asked,
What is it?
Greetings from Jorge.
* * *
Straight after the morning prayer, at dawn, I asked the gatekeeper to let me out from the monastery.
Back to Graben? How much can you run over there?
Not anymore Im going to the Town. They say, there is a shop of masons and sculptors
For good?
I just nodded in response.
Are you not even saying goodbye to your brothers?
I didnt even say goodbye to Jorge, I could hardly manage to hold the tears.
The lad was astonished.
Are you really going to build houses and castles?
If they allow me, I checked the money inconspicuously, finding the purse at my waist.
Godspeed, Anselm. Godspeed! the gatekeeper shouted, closing the gate of the Abbey behind me.
I ran downstairs. One, two, three, lets run down the hill!
* * *
I asked the girl from the market to get me some clothes that layman was used to wearing. While I was hiding away in the poultry house of her parents, she purchased what decent young men were used to wearing who didnt commit themselves to God, loosening the purse strings of my assets.
Clothing for Anselm
The chemise was sewn from flax. It was a shirt hanging on my lean body, with a wide neckline and a rear vent making it easier to move. Then, there was a cotte, a tunic that was knee-length or lower. It was made of fine woollen cloth and coloured red. The cotte covered my legs to the ankles. Above all, it I was supposed to wear a surcoat, a long robe without sleeves, which was my favorite bright blue color to make a growing contrast to the cotte. I put on comfortable and soft, embroidered leather shoes with pointed toes instead of worn sandals. Finally, the image of a townsman was complete with a light cap with ties at the sides.
I had to throw off the monastic vestments and leave it on the floor as a closed chapter, the last era, be past the point. I felt embarrassed in front of the girl.
Turn away, please.
What for? she was amused with my request.
Because I cant
The girl came closer, and, passing her hand around my neck, grabbed the hood.
Can anyone ban you now? Your old moron, the Abbot went into the pot, you dont take a back seat for anyone.
My ears started dinging.
What? What did you call Jorge?
My heart was thumping quietly inside my head. Suddenly, I wanted to kill the bitch. To grab and strangle, while no one was around. How dare was she to say such things?!? Was the whole world full of such people of low moral, no honour, and no conscience? And how could I resist them all? Trying not to come in contact without need?
The same action had to be repeated twice during the day. Breaking free from the hugs of an ungodly saleswoman, I left the house and silently left her yard. I left Graben in silence.
The Lord saved me from temptation. I was so happy not just to kiss her pink face. I was so happy not to belong to her.
They were probably already going to an evening prayer service at the top. Gods grace! I hated this senseless gathering of people being lost!
I was so happy not to sing with them voluntarily. I was so happy not to be with them anymore, and I was so happy not to upset the father with such decisions. Their sorrowful chorus sounded false, put-one and empty, but absolutely canonical part of the service. My lonely mourning for Jorge was ongoing by foot along the dusty road to the Big Town. How many judges, foresters, prévôts and road rangers would I have to drag through your last gift?