guide. “Por favor, habla ingles?”
“ Lo siento, hermana, no,” he said, shaking his head. He turned, then pointed across the spacious expanse of the sanctuary to a black-robed monk stacking blue service books.
“Excuse me, brother,” she said, upon approaching him. “I am told you speak English.”
The monk straightened, turned, and smiled when he saw her. “I have a little. How can I help you?”
“I am looking for the grave of a former priest by the name of Giambattista Beccaria,” Wilhelmina replied, and went on to explain how she had been directed to the abbey to find it. She watched a thoughtful frown form and deepen on the priest’s smooth-shaven face.
“I am sorry, sister,” he replied at length. “I have never heard that name. Are you certain he is buried here?”
“That is what I have been given to understand. He was a former astronomer here-at least, that is what I was told.”
“Ah! Then you must go to Brother Lazarus. He is astronomer now. If anyone knows about this, he will.”
Wilhelmina thanked him for his help and asked where she might find this brother. The monk, who had resumed stacking books, shrugged. “At the observatory, where else?”
She hurried off and, after asking directions, found a signboard painted with a map of the extensive abbey grounds. The observatory was clearly marked. According to the sign it was at the top of one of the peaks soaring above the abbey; all she had to do was climb the winding path leading to the summit. This she did and discovered a small tower with a bulbous top perched on a pinnacle of stone. An iron rail enclosed a circular walkway around the base of the building, and a simple handrail of knotted rope assisted the ascent up a steep flight of narrow stairs leading to the door.
There appeared to be no one around, but as she started up the stairs she heard the sound of someone humming-low and rhythmically, if not exactly melodically. Mina could not see who was making this sound, but as she mounted to the top step and started around the base of the tower she found a monk in the black robes of the Benedictines down on his knees, surrounded by gardening tools-a small hand trowel, a rake, a pruning knife, an assortment of clay pots, and a sheaf of cuttings. The gardener was clutching a double handful of dirt and humming tunelessly while he worked. As she watched, he placed the dirt in a clay pot and pressed it firmly around a geranium cutting. A canvas bag of soil stood open beside him.
Wilhelmina cleared her throat. “Excuse me, please,” she said, announcing her presence. “Hello?”
The priest gave such a start that Wilhelmina was ashamed of startling him. “Oh, I am sorry,” she apologised. “I did not mean to frighten you.”
The gardener’s hand described a strange gesture around his head, and he whipped something out of sight in a fold of his robe. Then, steadying himself, he rose and turned to meet his visitor. “Que?” he said, rubbing dirt from his hands. “Buenos dias, hermana.”
“Sorry, no habla espanol,” she replied. Then, out of force of habit, she said, “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”
“Ja, tu ich.” His smile widened. A small man, with short snowwhite hair and quick, dark eyes. His face was nicely browned by the sun, his hands made strong by the long hours he spent gardening. In all, he reminded Wilhelmina of one of the Seven Dwarfs. “Guten Morgen, Schwester,” he said in a rich, almost operatic baritone-the voice of a much larger man.
“Good morning, brother,” she answered in the sturdy German of Old Prague, then offered him a little bow she had seen the other nuns make when addressing a priest of the order. “I am looking for the one they call Brother Lazarus.”
“Then God smiles upon you, sister.” He bent to brush dirt from the knees of his robe. He straightened again, the top of his head coming only to Mina’s shoulder. “You have found him.”
“ You are Brother Lazarus?” she asked, unable to keep the note of incredulity out of her voice. “The astronomer?”
He laughed, and Wilhelmina’s face went red with embarrassment. “Why?” he asked. “Is that difficult to believe?”
“Oh, I am sorry,” Mina said quickly. “I took you for a gardener,” she explained, indicating the assembled tools and pots.
He looked where she was pointing. “Yes, well”-he gave a little shrug-“such is a good grounding for stargazing.” He reached out a thickly muscled hand and placed it gently on her sleeve. “An astronomer can only practise his craft at night. What is he to do with the rest of his time?”
“Forgive me, brother. I meant no disrespect.”
He swatted away the apology with an impatient flick of his hand. “Now that you have found Brother Lazarus, what do you want with him?”
“I am searching for the burial place of one of your colleagues, a monk of this order. I have been told that he was once the astronomer here and that his grave is nearby. Can you tell me where it is?”
“Perhaps, yes,” he replied, turning to resume his work. “If you will tell me his name, I can tell you if he is buried at the abbey.”
“His name is Fra Giambattista.”
At the name, the monk stopped, straightened, and went very still. “Fra Giambattista Beccaria?” he asked without turning around.
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“I am sorry, sister,” he said, stooping once more to his tools. “Your search has come to nothing. His grave, if it exists, is not here-not at this abbey.” He made a show of beginning to work again. “Good day to you. And Godspeed.”
Wilhelmina pursed her lips, alarmed at the swift change in the man’s demeanour. The mere mention of the name had brought about an abrupt and disagreeable transformation-the same as if he had slammed a door in her face.
“Good day,” she said quietly. “I am sorry to have bothered you.” She took a step backward, but as she prepared to take her leave, a force of will rose up inside her-a determination to hold her ground, come what may. At the very least, she owed it to herself: she had come this far and it would be a rotten shame to go away empty- handed.
In a moment, the monk, still on his knees, peered back over his shoulder at her. “You’re still here.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“I think,” she began, feeling her way into it, “that I am waiting for a better explanation than the one I have just heard.”
“Then you must resign yourself to waiting a very long time,” he declared. “There is no other explanation.”
“I beg to disagree. I think there is,” she said, and even as she spoke the answer came to her.
“Oh, you do,” he snapped, his voice taking on a brusque and officious tone. “Since you know, you have no need to ask me.” When she hesitated, he added, “Nothing else to say? Then I will ask you kindly to remove yourself.”
“There is no grave,” Wilhelmina ventured, “because… ” She drew herself up and, casting all caution to the wind, said, “Because you are Giambattista Beccaria.”
CHAPTER 10
'You are him, aren’t you,” Wilhelmina maintained, growing more certain by the moment. “You are Fra Giambattista.”
“Do not be absurd, young lady,” he scoffed. “What a ridiculous notion!” He gave a choked little half laugh. “Utter nonsense.”
Wilhelmina said nothing. His protest sounded contrived, and that fine, mellifluous voice had become pinched
