The Gold Pocket Watch
From along icy shadowed halls
of the Sant’ Antimo Monastery, resident monks and students were converging
towards the chapel, for it was Lauds, which marked the beginning of each day.
The reluctant boys moved grudgingly in the pre-dawn darkness, in little submissive
groups, like mute sheep headed toward the shearing pen. The mutinous among the young
students wished that Christ had not risen this early from the tomb, the reason
given for this daily pre-dawn practice that incorporated prayer and hymns into
an interminably long day. Inadequately clad
beneath rough woolen robes, the boys were shivering, their ice-cold hands clinging
to Latin texts they dared not lose. Originally orphaned or abandoned, and now malnourished
and impoverished, the young students felt the weight of injustice, and the yet
unbroken boys rebelled in small insignificant ways. A peep beneath woolen hoods
would reveal knots of uncombed hair, dirt behind the ears, and grimy underwear
best not described. A few older students,
having taken vows of obedience walked briskly and had neat tonsured haircuts. These students would become priests and abbots.
A few would become cruel teachers, whom the headstrong boys with the unruly
hair despised. Some of the brown robes were too long and frayed at the hem;
some were too short, exposing bony ankles and sandaled feet to the drafts that
whistled through the hallways. Some boys
were so skeletal their braided belts wound twice around their waists and it looked
as if the weight of the robes would drag them to the ground.
As the boys passed through the thick
exterior doors into the enclosed garden cloister, they were met with a biting wind
and wooly heads were retracted further into their cowls. They resembled turtles
as they moved slowly along the cobbled pathways toward the chapel. In the middle of the cloister was an enormous
statue dedicated to the source of their suffering. Carved in cold marbled stone,
St. Benedict stood in the middle of the dead winter garden indifferent to the
weather and the reluctant boys who faced never-ending hours of mandatory church
services and Latin drill. Each day had only
two breaks, one genuine break after the noon
meal, a second sham one during the evening meal when they were forced to listen
without speaking while a monk read from a holy text. To communicate they resorted to sign
language. A circle made with the thumbs
and forefingers of both hands meant “Please pass the bread.” There were other
signs invented by the wayward boys that would deserve serious punishment if
they were ever deciphered. The untonsured boys were watched closely by the
monks and older novices, who had leave to cuff miscreants who made faces or
began kicking under the table. Habitual
offenders were hauled by the nape of the neck to Brother Scoldini, whose well
worn leather strop raised welts across backs, buttocks, and legs.
The cloister was filled this morning with
monks crossing the paths that surrounded the central statue of St. Benedict. Several elderly monks moved as slowly as the
reluctant boys, their bowed bodies the result of obeying edicts of their patron
saint, who espoused hard labor and strict obedience to Benedictine rules. It seemed this morning St. Benedict had
settled his approving eyes on Brother Alito, whose old and twisted body
resembled the twisted grapevines he tended in the Sant’ Antimo vineyard. Brother Alito had lost count some time ago of
the interminable years he had spent among the grapes. It seemed St. Benedict even approved of the
hacking consumptive cough Brother Alito had developed, which he tried to suppress
as he passed under the visage of the giant statue, a touching testament to his fealty.
Young Albert Alberti was among the last to
cross the cloister. He had been a ward
of Sant’ Antimo from the age of three when his family had a run of hard luck:
two sisters carried away by pellagra, vineyards untended when the serfs were
freed, and his father, Count Alberti, accused of being a disciple of Mazzinni,
the leader of a secret assembly attempting to unify Italy into one state. Albert was always the most reluctant boy, the
least submissive boy, and almost always the last boy to cross the cloister on
his way to the chapel. He cringed under
the scrutiny of St. Benedict, whose countenance toward Albert was always one of
scowling disapproval.
It appeared St. Benedict would never forgive
that Sabbath afternoon when he and a few other boisterous boys had played out
the David and Goliath story using St. Benedict as Goliath. Albert was chosen to champion the rowdy boys,
and using small round stones and his woven belt for a sling succeeded in
chipping a sizable piece of stone out of St. Benedict’s left temple and nicked
his ear so badly it now resembled a cauliflower. Unfortunately for Albert, the rousing cheers
from the boys reached the refectory where Brother Scoldini was drinking Sant’
Antimo’s celebrated wine with Brother Benini.
After thoroughly thrashing Albert, a still
furious Brother Scoldini whipped and kicked him in the direction of the Abbot’s
quarters. The Abbott was in his cups and
especially annoyed with Albert, but also with Brother Scoldini, for not
resolving the matter on his own.
“What
is it now?” the drunken Abbott asked without interest.
“Young
Albert has damaged the statue of St. Benedict.”
That
seemed to stir the Abbott from his semi-conscious stupor.
“What?
– the statue is made of marble.”
“He
has managed it somehow.”
As
he walked through the cloister Albert was remembering the rest of the
conversation and his creative and impassioned lie to the Abbot about
merely
chasing the ravens away that were
roosting and shitting on St. Benedict’s head and shoulders.
In a
moment of lost concentration in this recollection, Albert dropped his Latin
primer near the foot of the giant figure. The book fell open, and sheaves of
loose hand writing assignments flew away like birds whose cage had been opened.
Startled, he chased the swirling papers up the walk to where the freezing wind
had plastered them to the brick wall of the refectory and the wrought iron bars
of the garden gate. He paused to look
wistfully through the locked iron gate into the morning darkness to where, in
full daylight, he could see across the wild Val d’Orcia valley to the
beginnings of the Alberti Estate, and often in summer one or more of his three
older brothers: riding horses, tending the vineyards, or hunting with one of
the two falcons their father had trained. This time of morning he could see
only frosty fog rising off the Orcia River
that flowed through the valley and passed the picturesque towns of Montalcino
and Siena on its way to join the Tiber.
By the time he collected his Latin
schoolwork, he was receiving disapproving looks from not only the stone faced St.
Benedict, but Brother Scoldini, who was angrily holding the heavy chapel door
open. As he passed beneath the tunnel formed by Brother Scoldini’s outstretched
arm he was slapped soundly on the back of the head by the monk’s free hand. The
smack caused the unruly boys in the chapel pews to turn their heads and smirk
at Albert, including his slightly older and trouble-making cousin
Felandro. Felandro’s father was a
younger brother to Albert’s father Dominic.
Dominic, as the eldest, had inherited the estate, the largest in the Val
d’Orcia Valley. Albert and Felandro shared the same olive
skin, the same unruly black hair, the same intractable manner, and the same inherent
hate for each other, as deep and entrenched as that between their fathers.
As Albert took his seat he looked past the
altar piece to where a small fresco of St. Francis of Assisi
was painted on the wall. Albert much
preferred the sayings of St. Francis to St. Benedict’s. Benedict said, “Idleness is the enemy of the
soul,” and “The first degree of humility is obedience without delay.” There
were substantial rumors that his early followers tried to poison him.
On the other hand, St. Francis said, “Where there
is charity and wisdom there is neither fear nor ignorance.” It seemed here at
Sant’ Antimo St. Benedict made generous allowance for both fear and ignorance. Albert
would rather be anywhere in the world than sitting on a hard pew beside Brother
Scoldini, preferably in another season outside
the monastery, in fields of lavender or in the bird filled woods in the company
of St. Francis. Albert suspected Brother
Benini, who now stood at the altar leading the litany, had only a rudimentary
knowledge of Latin. Regardless of this
shortcoming, the assembled monks and boys dutifully repeated the psalms read by
the corpulent winebibber with the rosaceous veins in his blue nose. Albert
translated the Latin to Italian in his head but repeated the Latin flawlessly.
“Conculcaverunt
me inimici mei tota die
quoniam multi bellantes adversum me.”
My enemies have trodden on me all the day
long;
For they are many that make war against me.
During this litany Albert refused to
exchange heated glances with Felandro or Brother Scoldini, regarding them as
only puppets in the machinations conducted by the Abbot and the Church,
preferring to stare at the stained glass windows and imagine a better life
somewhere beyond their pictured saints.
“Tota
die verba mea execrabantur adversum
Me
omnia consilia eorum in malum”
All the day long they detested my words: all
their
Thoughts were against me unto evil.
“Inhabitabunt
et abscondent ipsi calcaneum
Meum
obvservabunt sicut sustinuerunt animam
Meam”
They will dwell and hide themselves: they
will
watch
my heel. As they have waited for my
soul.
Despite
Brother Benito’s drunken countenance, he had chosen a prophetic psalm to
welcome this day with. As the boys filed out of the pew in front of him Felandro
received a whack from Brother Scoldini for stretching his neck repeatedly
during the service in order to stare vindictively at Albert. Caught up in his daydreaming
of being delivered to a better place and a better time Albert had missed this
infraction. Whatever the cause, it pleased him to see Felandro punished.
During Latin drills Albert also missed the
above normal sniggering and whispering when Brother Scoldini would lapse into
one of his pensive walks to the window to check the worsening weather. This
kind of unremitting winter weather affected teachers and students alike. Albert
was one of the better students and Latin came easily, so he would conduct his
own wool gathering sessions to coincide with those of Brother Scoldini’s. These moments were his alone, and he would speculate
on why he had been cruelly orphaned here at Sant’ Antimo within sight of his
home. It was only at Sunday Mass that
Albert sometimes saw his family, usually his mother and two middle brothers,
sitting near the front of the cathedral.
He was not allowed to visit, but would linger behind the other boys
after the last hymn in hopes his mother would have a change of heart. Only at
the Feast of Saint Nicholas was Albert allowed an agonizingly short visit to
his family across the valley. These visits were often as silent as the evening
meals at the monastery. Accusing and
guilty looks were exchanged, and it was never clear to Albert why he was the
sacrificial lamb.
At the end of the Latin drills, the boys
were led to the chapter house where a senior monk began to read the rules of
Sant’ Antimo. After chapter rules were read they would be expected to discuss
spiritual matters as well as monastery business. There was always enough time allotted for
everyone to examine their own conduct and one another’s.
The
reading was interrupted when Father Anselmo came into the chapter house looking
solemn and apologetic. He asked if any
of the monks or boys had found or seen a gold pocket watch on their way to the
chapel that morning. There was a great
deal of whispering among the boys since none were allowed to have personal
items. The monks were also speaking in
undertones, having pledged their lives to St. Benedict and the virtues of
poverty. It seemed the only lawful owner of a gold pocket watch was the Abbot,
who was sometimes given property in exchange for housing and educating boys
from wealthy families.
In
the midst of questions and growing suspicions about one another, the Abbot’s
attending monk entered the chapter house and asked if he might speak to Brother
Scoldini and Felandro privately. The
Abbot was seldom seen, preferring to sequester himself as he grew fat. It was well known he had great difficulty
lifting himself from a chair. Persistent
rumor spread that to curry favor with the Pope the Abbot would pick young boys
to be castrated and sent to Rome to
sing soprano in the Sistine Chapel Choir. As the chapter rules were being read,
Albert wondered, somewhat hopefully, whether Felandro, who had a good singing
voice, had been selected by the Abbot.
Near the end of the Chapter House Rules, Brother
Scoldini and Felandro returned looking self-satisfied, and it was now Albert
who was beckoned by the Abbot’s attending monk.
He was led out the same side door his merciless Latin teacher and spiteful
cousin had just entered. He gathered the
hood of his robe in his free hand as they headed directly into the sharp wind and
driving sleet toward the Abbot’s splendid quarters. There was little relief
from the cold that gusted up beneath his robe.
As they were climbing the steps to the Abbot’s private lodgings, the
cathedral tower rang out the hour of noon,
and Albert’s stomach twisted at the thought of the other boys seated at long
wooden tables in the refectory, passing warm loaves of bread and grabbing thick
wedges of cheese from the platter. The noon meal was the only time they were allowed
to talk openly and even given a little leeway to gossip about their classmates
and minders. He suspected correctly that
the conversation was leaning in his and his cousin’s direction, with various
theories on why they had been plucked from the chapter house by the Abbot’s
attending monk.
The Abbot was waiting for him, seated in a
tapestry covered chair behind a desk covered with an array of spectacular food
dishes. There was a small silver platter with two roasted pigeons, and a leg of
mutton on a larger platter with a nicely browned skin dripping with gravy.
There was a layered pudding dessert, sprinkled with chopped pistachios, laid on
a small china saucer. Albert could smell and almost taste the chocolate
pudding, nuts, and honey oozing from the dish. There were no dishes like this
served at his parents’ estate, not even at the Feast of St. Nicholas. Albert’s nervous dry mouth gave way to the
appetizing odors. He wiped the
involuntary drool from the side of his mouth with the sleeve of his frock.
While reaching for a flute of brandy, the
Abbot looked directly at Albert and said,
“You were seen picking up a gold watch in St.
Benedict’s Garden this morning.”
Albert stared at the rings on the Abbot’s
fat fingers and the jewel encrusted cross that hung about his neck from a gold
chain.
“Me, Your
Eminence?” Albert had never learned
or cared how to address the Abbot. Reverend Father, Father Abbot, Most Reverend,
the possibilities were endless. Your Eminence seemed to suit him.
“Yes, you,
Albert. You, whose father is seldom seen
at Mass, and you who seem to cause so much trouble for Brother Scoldini.”
Albert wondered why he should be held
accountable for his father’s absence from mass, but addressed the more serious
accusation.
“I swear your Most Eminence, it was not I.
I swear by the Virgin Mary.”
“Don’t damn yourself by false swearing,
Albert. You were seen picking up the watch near the statue of St. Benedict by
not one witness, but two.”
Bewildered, Albert reached in his mind for
an answer to this dilemma, but finding none he asked, “Who sir? Who saw me?”
“I am not here to be questioned by you, Albert. You’re impertinence has no bounds.”
Albert remembered it was Brother Scoldini who
saw him chase the loosed assignments to the garden gate.
“Your
Most Eminent Sir, I only picked up my Latin writing exercises that were
blown to the garden gate. Brother Scoldini
saw me. Albert tried to maintain equanimity in the
face of this false accusation
The Abbot dabbed his mouth with a monogrammed
linen scarf and turned sideways in his chair. Albert followed his gaze to the
window and saw the Abbot had a clear view of St. Benedict’s Garden, including
the garden gate. From this second story
window he could also see over the gate across the valley, to the beginnings of
the Alberti vineyards. The Abbott
appeared to be looking wistfully in that direction.
Albert was thinking fast, as he had when he
was accused rightly about the stoning of St. Benedict. His false story about shooing the ravens away
from the statue had been plausible enough to lessen his punishment. A little misdirection here might help.
“Perhaps it was my cousin, Your Eminence Sir that was seen picking
up the watch. We are often mistaken for brothers.”
The Abbot’s bloodshot eyes settled on Albert
with a look of disdain, as if he were merely a pawn of no consequence.
“Do not bear false witness, Albert; your
cousin has been exonerated.”
“You
may search me, Sir Abbot. I have no pockets, only this Latin primer and
these sheaves of paper.” Albert held out
the Latin book to the Abbot in both supplication and argument.
Having taken
enough time in this little chess game of his, the Abbott turned once
again to the window overlooking the
cloister. He raised his unfluted hand in
dismissal.
“Take the boy. Remove him from my sight.”
“It’s God’s truth, ‘Your Highness,’ I am innocent.
It’s God’s truth.”
He was led back to the refectory where the
emptied trays of bread and cheese had been stacked and returned to the
scullery. The boys were talking
excitedly but grew quiet when Albert entered the room. Brother Scoldini and Ferlando were sitting cheek
to jowl on the far bench as if they were old friends. Taratino, the truly orphaned and unruly boy
from Siena, whose hair had been
replaced with wire bristles, was the first to question Albert.
“Did you steal the Abbot’s gold pocket
watch?”
From that point Albert was overwhelmed with
questions and sly looks from the boys.
“Did the Abbot drop his watch in the
Garden?”
“Where have you hidden the watch?”
“What else have you stolen from the Abbot?”
The questions brought up more questions, and
all these unanswered questions and unjust accusations confused Albert
greatly. Albert was relieved when they
were led to Latin drills by Brother Scoldini, who not once called on him or
looked him in the eye during the afternoon classes.
The following week Albert was surrounded
each noon by questioning boys. Not one believed his lame and unexciting
story about the dropped primer and the sheaves of paper flying away like loosed
birds.
He doggedly stuck to his story and grew
angry at not being believed for telling the truth. He was furious at Brother Scoldini and
Ferlando for implicating him as a thief.
His quarters had been thoroughly searched at his request, and still the
unruly boys winked and gave him sly looks. The chapter house rules sessions
became unbearable. It seemed every
session was designed to excoriate his sins.
He was scolded by the monks and held in awe by the unruly boys, who
berated him nonetheless, delighted to have a scapegoat who drew attention away
from themselves. Now when he crossed
through the Garden, which at one time offered sanctuary to Albert on a Sunday
afternoon, he would pass behind the statue of St. Benedict, not only to avoid
his scowl, but to register his protest against all things espoused by the
saint. He hoped each time he snubbed St.
Benedict the Abbot witnessed it from his window.
Condemned as a liar he began to spin small
tales at the noon table. The unruly boys were skeptical but
captivated. The tales became larger.
“The Abbot really does have boys castrated
to gain favor with the Pope. What do you
think happened to Pascal last year, the one with the high voice?”
“He was sent to his Uncle in Montalcino,” a
boy answered.
“That’s what they told you – I have proof he
is now in Rome.”
Albert found he was quite good at making up
tales off the cuff.
“How do you know this, Albert?”
“There is a secret stairway to the Abbot’s
quarters.”
There were so many variations of the stories that it was inevitable
Albert would eventually stumble on some semblance of the truth.
“The watch belongs to me. It was given to
the Abbot by my father for safe-keeping, to be given to me when I leave Sant’Antimo. The Abbot is the thief and the liar.”
By the time Albert fell on this truth, none
of the unruly boys believed him. His
father had in fact given a gold watch to the Order of St.
Benedict seven years ago in exchange for the education of his youngest son. For
all those seven years the Abbot had stared out his window across St. Benedict’s
Garden to the vineyards beyond the Orcia
River and envied the estate of
Count Alberti, and the treasures he imagined were housed there in the small
castle. Disbelieving tales of hardship,
he constructed elaborate plots in his covetous mind to extort the imagined
riches from Albert’s family. In the
past, the family had accumulated land and wealth banking for the Vatican,
and that money, the Abbot conjectured, should revert to the church. Who was he,
if not the church?
That day when he saw young Albert linger in
the Garden he was finally spurred to move his first two pawns into action. It was not difficult to convince Brother
Scoldini and Ferlando to corroborate what the Abbot told them he had seen with
his own eyes through the window. He
would soon make his next move and inform Albert’s parents of their son’s
perfidy and extort additional indulgences from the family to save young
Albert’s soul from perdition.
As the Abbot’s scheme proceeded, Albert’s
tales became more complicated and less subtle in their accusations of the Abbot. Brother Scoldini carried these accusations to
His Eminence, who was alarmed when he
realized one of the stories was near to the truth. He instructed Brother Scoldini to give Albert
scullery duty during the noon hour in
order to isolate him from the other boys and monks.
Towards the end of the winter Albert’s
determination to absolve himself began to weaken and was replaced slowly and
resolutely with the resolve to find the imagined stairway to the Abbot’s
quarters and actually steal the gold pocket watch if it existed.
Why
not, he told himself. He was already
damned to the eternal fires of hell for lying.
There was never going to be redemption here at Sant’ Antimo. The path forward seemed clear.
He
had already been imagined and condemned as a thief, so now he would commit his
second cardinal sin.
