Read Online Counternarratives by John Keene - Free Book Online Page B

there? He felt heavy in the
head, as if he had downed a potion, though he had not eaten or drunk anything, save
two cups of coconut water to refresh himself, since arriving at the port. Yet he did
not feel even the slightest pang of hunger.
    On the desk he saw a small clay bowl, a pitcher of similar material
(filled, his nose confirmed, with plain water), a second, smaller fired pitcher
(filled with agua de coco), a tin cup, and a rag. He was sure when he had looked at
the table just seconds ago these were not there, and this led him to pinch his hand
to ensure he was not still wandering about in a dream. The flesh stung between his
fingertips. He drank a bit of the coconut water, relieved and washed himself,
dressed, reviewed his menagerie to make sure everything was where it was supposed to
be, and it was. He gathered his papers then left his room to meet the men over whose
lives he had been entrusted with spiritual and earthly command.
    As he stepped into the hall, one of his brethren, Dom Gaspar, a short,
skinny, sallow man, of the type that abound in the hinterlands, approached him, and
embraced him, offering greetings and inviting him out into the cloister, open to the
sky as was the tradition, where the other members of the House, having finished
morning prayers, were already assembled and seated. Dom Gaspar said that he had
hoped to bring the new provost to morning prayers, which took place at 4, and then
provide a tour, but D’Azevedo had been so soundly asleep he did not dare wake
him.
    Following Dom Gaspar, D’Azevedo tried but could not get a sense of the
geometry of the house; from outside, the night before, it had not appeared to be
even half as large as the building in Olinda, yet they proceeded down a long hall,
without hard angles or corners, and far longer than he would have imagined, until
they finally reached a large wood door, which he saw faced what appeared to be the
monastery’s front hall and main door.
    â€œThis leads to the cloister?” D’Azevedo, trying to get his bearings,
asked the brother who, he realized, was only a year or two older than him.
    â€œWhy of course, my Lord, Padre Joaquim,” Dom Gaspar responded, in tones
that sounded as if they were meant as much to reassure himself as D’Azevedo. He
clasped D’Azevedo’s ample sleeve, and led him outside.
    It was summer, and morning, so the sunlight at first blinded D’Azevedo.
Squinting, he saw standing side by side the two other members of the House. Dom
Gaspar guided him to them, and made introductions. Here stood the chalky-faced
Barbosa Pires, his beard a coal apron suspended from his lower lip, a richer black
than his thinning tonsure. He had, D’Azevedo noted to himself, a humped back, and a
severe stutter. Beside him towered Padre Pero, a robust man of middle age, deeply
tanned, his mouth framed by full voluptuous lips that drew the eyes to them, a
laborer in build, worldly in the manner of someone who had been reared near
Portugal’s European capital. Dom Gaspar, the hospitaller, expressed the gratitude of
his fellow monks for D’Azevedo’s presence, but said that they had not known when to
expect him. Padre Pero, to whom you had written a letter announcing the decision,
said he had never received it: Padre Barbosa Pires, in his torturous manner,
seconded his elder.
    Resuming his comments about the monastery, Dom Gaspar could see that
D’Azevedo was growing unsteady on his feet, and with a gesture summoned a stool,
which a tiny man, dark as the soil they stood on, his florid eyes fluttering,
brought out with dispatch. They continued on in this manner, Dom Gaspar
speaking—Padre Pero very rarely interjecting a thought, Padre Barbosa Pires mostly
nodding or staring, with a gaze so intense it could polish marbles, at
D’Azevedo—detailing a few of the House’s particulars: its schedule, its routines,
its finances, its properties and holdings, its relationship