Spanish in the monastery. The kids' Spanish was a little different, but not a whole lot. Mass was in Spanish at first, Latin later on.
A lot of what I learned there was languages. We did two at a time: Spanish and Latin for a year, French and English the next year, then Spanish and Latin again the year after. Like that. I had picked up quite a bit of Italian from my father and his friends, English was what we had spoken at my school in the States, and I had gotten a good bit of Spanish just living in Havana before I went to the monastery. So I did not do too badly. I was not anybody's star pupil in languages, but I was not at the bottom of the class in any of them. Or even close to it.
Besides the languages we got a lot of theology, like you would expect, and liturgy, Bible studies, and so forth. I guess all of us thought we would be priests eventually, and maybe the monks did, too, or some did.
We took biology every year. We called it biology, but a whole lot of it was about sex. If we became priests as well as monks we would have to hear confessions. Some of them would be the confessions of other monks, but two or three of our priests went into Havana almost every Friday and Saturday to help out in various parishes, and one of the things they did was hear the confessions of the laity. Not just men, but women too. I used to daydream about having this beautiful woman come into the confessional and say, 'I know it's wrong to lust after a priest, Father, but I can't help myself. It's Father Chris. Every time I see him I want to tear off all my clothes.' One time I told my confessor about those daydreams, but he just laughed. I did not like it, and I like it even less now. I pray that God will strike me down before I ever do that to anyone.
We learned about all the perversions, or at least about all those our teacher knew about, and that was a lot. Some were pretty funny, but some were just horrible. There was a lot about homosexuality, how bad it was, and how we must love the sinner but not the sin. That stuff was one reason I left the monastery. I will get to that soon.
Math was my best subject. We got arithmetic, algebra, trigonometry, and geometry, plain and solid. Most of the kids griped about math, but I loved it. Pretty soon I caught on to what Fr. Luis was doing for tests. He would assign certain problems in the book for homework. The problems he had not assigned would show up on his tests. I got wise and worked all the problems. I got quite a few hundreds on my tests, and hardly ever had a test come back lower than ninety-seven. Fr. Luis used to brag about me when I was not around. Two or three of the other monks told me about it. I can never repay Fr. Luis for teaching me math-geometry and trig, especially. I know he is in Heaven.
Those were the main subjects we took, but Fr. Patrizio had a telescope and used to point out all the stars to us, and tell us about them, and how you could see the Southern Cross once you crossed the equator. He was from Argentina, and he must have been lonely for the stars he grew up with. So we did not actually study astronomy- nobody thought we would have to know it-but I found the stars beautiful and interesting, and I picked up a lot from him.
We took music, too. I like music a lot, but I did not like or even understand the things we studied in music, and I always wanted to play faster than I was supposed to.
After a while the old kids were mostly gone, a few new ones had come, and nobody wore wristwatches anymore. (I noticed that.) Mass was in Latin instead of Spanish, and everybody seemed a little calmer. Fr. Patrizio was dead or gone or something. I missed some of the old kids and some of my old teachers. But basically I liked it better.
One day the Novice Master came into music class to take me to the abbot. I had heard his homilies two or three times, but I am not sure I had ever spoken to him until then. On feast days we were at one end of the table and the abbot was at the other, so we never talked. There were at least two abbots while I was there. Maybe three. I remembered my father saying abbots brought you down, and I was sure I was not going to like him and that it was going to be bad news.
Which in a way it was. I did like him, though, and by the time we were through talking I liked him a lot. By then I knew I had hurt him, too, and felt bad about it.
He was a lot shorter, and pretty old. I remember the lines on his face, and how shy his eyes were. Now I think he must have known right from the start that I was looking to lie to him. (Sometimes I have wondered what he thought about me, this skinny gringo kid who was going to sit there and lie to him. Some other times I have been glad I do not know.)
He said that it was time my novitiate was over, that I had to decide now whether I would take my solemn vows at Easter. He talked a little about his own life outside the monastery. His father had been a cobbler and had taught him the trade. Then he talked a lot about his life as a monk, how he used to mend sandals for the other monks, and all the monastery had meant to him. He talked about God, and devoting your life to Him. He asked a lot of questions about me, too. What the monastery had been like for me, and what my life outside had been like.
By the time he asked for my decision I had already thought it over, though perhaps it was not really thinking but only what kids call thinking. I said that I was not ready yet to take my vows. That I wanted to go home and see my father and have a chance to talk things over with him and with myself.
The abbot sighed, but I do not think he was surprised. He said, 'I comprehend you. Will you promise me something, Crisoforo?' (Everything was in Spanish, but I might as well translate for you because I do not remember the exact words we used anyhow.)
I said it would depend on what the promise was.
'A very small thing, Christopher. To make an old man happy?'
I said I would try. By then I was pretty sure it was going to be about sex, probably to keep away from women.
For a minute or two he sat there studying me. His eyes had probably been sharp once, but they were too kind to be sharp anymore. 'I would like a better promise than that,' he said at last, 'but I shall settle for that one, since I must. I want you to promise that you will never forget us.'
I said, 'Wait, you don't understand. I'll probably come back,' and I talked a lot about that, going on and on and repeating things I had said already. Lying.
Finally he cut me off. He said I was free to go. If I wanted to say good-bye to people I could stay that night.
I said, 'No, Reverend Abbot, I want to go right now,' and after that he called for Brother Ignacio.
Brother Ignacio took me to the gate. He never said a single word to me. Not one. Only when I turned back to wave good-bye, he was crying. There have been times since then when I thought I understood how he felt.
I had taken off my habit and put on the clothes I used to wear back when I went home for the summer, my T-shirt and jeans. They were way too small for me now, but that was all I had. I started walking down the road dressed like that, and carrying my little holiday bag. I should have known right away that something was wrong, but I did not. Not even when the farmer came by in his wagon and gave me a ride.
It was an old wagon pulled by an old horse. I thought there would be cars and trucks whizzing past us, but there was not a one. After a while it came to me that the road ought to have been asphalt. Not a good road, potholes and all that, but asphalt.
It was just dirt. For a while I leaned out of the wagon watching for tire tracks, but the only tracks were from horses, and wagons with wheels like ours-wooden wheels with iron tires.
I started talking to the farmer then. I was supposed to be trying to find out what had happened, but I talked a whole lot more than I listened. I told him a lot about the monastery, trying to make it as real as I could. Because I felt-I do not know why-that it would not be there if I went back. When I had gone out the gate, waved to Brother Ignacio, and walked to the road, I had ended something. I did not know what it was then, but I knew it was over and I could not go back. Not for a long time, and maybe never. Later on the Santa Charita, I prayed to God that He would change His mind and put me back there. But as soon as I had said the amen I knew He would not.
Anyway, the farmer did not talk much, and when he did I did not learn much from it. Camion? Oh, yes. A big wagon with four horses. It goes to Matanzas, you pay to get on. Habana? Yes, a big city. Very big. Many people.
But when we got there, it was not. It was a town, and not a big one either. There was a big stone fort, still being built in places, and some stone churches. Just about everything else was wood, and pretty rough. A few streets were paved with rocks, but most were just dirt. There was garbage in them and horse shit. Lots of both. When we got to the market, I helped the farmer set up and said good-bye.
There were refreshment stands in the market, and the food smelled wonderful. I went off looking for our
