Chapter 77 Chapter 76

Shortly after we got back to America, we wrote something else, too: a text to Helen's mother, saying hello to Aunt Eva.Helen didn't dare to say much in her letter to her mother, only telling her that Rosie died, but always remembered her and loved her.Helen sealed the envelope with a look of despair. "When I can whisper to her one day," she said, "I will tell her everything." I intend with all my heart to live happily ever after.Shortly after our marriage, I mentioned to Helen that I wanted to have children.At first she shook her head, gently touching the scar on her neck.I know what she means.I pointed out, however, that her wounds were small and that she was healthy and strong.As time went on, she gradually considered herself fully recovered.As we walked down the street, I saw her looking longingly at the stroller.

"You were born in a hospital overlooking the Hudson River. We named you after Helen's mother. Helen seemed smitten with you. That, is what I want to tell you most. She quit when she was pregnant." Work. One day, I came home at four o'clock with a few small boxes of Chinese food and some flowers for you to see. There is no one in the living room, you are sleeping, and Helen is leaning over your crib. Your expression is very quiet, But Helen's face was full of tears. The second week, she cried again, silent, flipping through a book by Rosie, which he signed for me when we started working together. The book was spread out on her lap. On the page, Rossi's photograph of an altar in Crete."

"Where's the baby?" I said. She slowly raised her head and stared at me, as if she didn't know what year and month it was, "She's sleeping." Strange, I resisted not going to the bedroom to see you, "Honey, what's the matter?" She shook her head and said nothing.I finally went in to see you, you just woke up on the bed, showed a cute smile, turned over, propped up and looked at me. Soon, Helen was silent almost every morning, and cried for no reason every night.She wouldn't tell me, so I took out some money and bought a plane ticket to France in early spring.

Although Helen has been learning about France and speaks excellent French on campus, she has never been to France.She looked cheerfully at Montmartre, with her usual mocking smile, and commented that the Sacred Heart was much uglier than she had imagined.At only nine months, you're already an amazing traveler.Helen tells you that this is just the beginning. I think the trip has brightened her up a lot.I loved seeing her sprawled on the bed in our hotel room in Perpignan, flipping through the History of French Architecture I bought in Paris.She told me the monastery was founded in the first millennium A.D., but she knew I had read the entire introduction.It is the oldest Romanesque building in Europe.

"Almost as old as St. George," I teased, but upon hearing that, she closed the book, her face darkened, and she lay there intently watching you play beside her. Helen insisted that we walk to the abbey like pilgrims.Helen wraps you in a corduroy swaddle and hangs it over her chest.I said to Helen that we should ask the farmer to give us a lift, but she said nothing.Her mood turned bad again this morning, and tears welled up in her eyes from time to time. I was anxious and frustrated.I can only hug you tenderly while climbing the slope. At that time, St. Matthew was much more alive than it is now, we saw, there were patches of white sand on the far side of the mountain, and it took me a while to realize that it was a waterfall.We sat for a while on a bench not far from the cliff, and Helen looked happy again, and she looked happy, and I was happy too.As sad as she may seem at times, the trip was worth it.

Finally, our guide, the young monk, said that we had seen everything except the basement.So we went down with him. The crypt is off the cloister, a dank cave, an early Romanesque arch, supported by square columns, and a darkly colored sarcophagus, all of which are interesting architectural touches.The monastery already had this sarcophagus when it was first built.According to our guide, this is the resting place of the first dean.An elderly monk sat beside the sarcophagus, lost in thought.He looked up, kindly bewildered, as we entered, and bowed to us as he sat in his chair. "We've had a tradition for hundreds of years that one of us sits with the abbot," explained the guide, "usually an elderly monk who holds the honor for life."

"That's unusual," I said. Maybe it was the damp cold in the basement that made you uncomfortable, and you whimpered and struggled against Helen's chest.Seeing that Helen was tired, I proposed to carry you up to get some fresh air.I walked out of that cold cave, breathed a sigh of relief, and hugged you to see the spring on the corridor. I thought Helen would follow me out right away, but she was still wandering underground.Finally she came up, but her expression changed drastically, and I became vigilant all of a sudden.She looked alive—yes, I hadn't seen her so alive in months—but at the same time pale and wide-eyed, focused on something I couldn't see.

She turned to you suddenly, took you, put her arms around you, and kissed your head and cheek. "We have to go back to Paris on Thursday night," I said. "Well," she said calmly, "we can walk down and catch the bus tomorrow if you want to leave early." I woke up at dawn and felt a breeze blowing through the house.It was very quiet in the house, you were lying next to me in a woolen baby blanket, but Helen's bed was empty.I looked around, but there was no sign of her, and finally, I started calling her name, A monk came forward, and I immediately recognized him as the old man who was guarding the coffin in the basement.He looked peaceful and good-natured, the same expression we had seen in the lights last night, with the same slightly bewildered expression. "Madam stopped to talk to me," he said.

"What did she say?" My heart was already pounding, and now it started running nervously. "She asked me who was buried there, and I explained that it was one of our earliest deans, and we were remembering him. She asked again, what achievements did he have, and I said we have a legend"——Here, he glanced at Glancing at the dean, the dean nodded and signaled him to continue—"We have a legend that he lived a life like a saint in his lifetime, but unfortunately he was cursed when he died, so he came out of the coffin to hurt the monks. His body must be purified .After purification, a white rose grew from his heart, signifying that Our Lady had forgiven him."

"That's why someone guards him?" I asked excitedly. The dean shrugged, "That's just our tradition, in memory of him." "Is this the story you told my wife?" "She asked about our history, sir. I see nothing wrong in answering her." "What did she say in response to your answer?" He smiled, "She thanked me with a pleasant voice, and asked my name, and I told her it was Brother Kirill." He put his hands together. It took me a while to understand the meaning of these syllables, because in French the name Chiril is accented on the second syllable, and because of the unfamiliar pronunciation of the word 'brother', it sounds so odd at first. Then, I hold you tight, lest you fall off.

"You said your name was Kirill? Did you? Spell it." The startled monk complied. "Where did the name come from?" I demanded. "Is that your real name? Who are you?" the Dean interrupted. Perhaps the old friar looked alarmed. "That's not his original name," he explained. "We all get a name when we take our oath. There's Freire Michel, this one, here—" "Do you mean," I said, embracing you, "that there was a Brother Kirill before this one, and there was a Brother Kirill before that Brother Kirill?" "Oh, yes," said the Dean, who was baffled by the way I snapped the question. "As we all know, our history has always been that way. We are proud of our history and don't want to change it." "Where did this tradition come from?" I almost shouted. "We don't know that, sir," said the Dean patiently. "It's always been like this here." I walked up to him, nose almost touching his, "I would like you to open the sarcophagus in the basement," I said. He backed away in horror. "What are you talking about? We can't do that." "Come with me, here—" I quickly handed you over to the young monk guide from yesterday, "Please hold my daughter well." We hurried down the steps, and in the cold cave, where Brother Kirill had left two burning candles, I turned to the Abbot, "You don't have to tell anyone about this, but I must see Sarcophagus." I paused for emphasis, "If you don't help me, I'll take legal action against your monastery." He glanced at me—afraid?hatred?mercy? — walked to one end of the sarcophagus without saying a word. Together we removed the heavy lid, just enough to see inside. I hold up a candle, the sarcophagus is empty. With his eyes wide open, the abbot pushed the lid back into place. "Please don't tell the monks about this," he said in a low voice, before turning and exiting the cellar. I followed him, desperately trying to figure out what to do next.Maybe Helen decided we'd go back to Paris first - why, I can't think - maybe even flew home.I felt a roar in my ears, my heart reached my throat, and blood rushed to my mouth. I recalled that these two men were sent to search the monastery walls, orchards, vegetable gardens, dry bushes, and outcrops of rock. They had just returned from the steep side, "Master!" cried one of them, as if he could not speak to me directly, "Master, there is blood on the stone! Down there, down!" At such moments, no one can speak.I ran to the end of the corridor with you in my arms.Feel your petal cheek against my neck.For the first time, tears filled my eyes. The tears were so hot and bitter that I couldn't describe them. I looked over the parapet, and fifteen feet below the jutting rock, there was a splash of scarlet—not much, but clearly visible in the sun.Further down, the abyss opened its mouth wide, the mist rose, eagles hunted, and the cliffs reached the foot of the mountain. I ran for the gate, staggering around the outer wall.Grief was like an unspeakable fire that set me on fire.