The Peacock 27

 "The problems with father Griffin continued for another seven years.  I tried to talk to the rector about him, but he simply shrugged it off.  it turns out that they were both gay, like a lot of high Anglicans, and were more interested in protecting each other than cleaning out corruption.  And I understand, because they both come from an era when it simply wasn't safe to be an out gay man in Christian ministry.  By the same token, they also used this protection as a convenient cover for letting them get away with all kinds of excesses.  And it turned out that a lot of young guys who had visited the church simply didn't want to come back, because they were quite sick of being slobbered over by Griffin.  He was pretty disgraceful.  But this was also during a time when there was a strong push in the Anglican Church for legitimizing gay unions, and in the case of marriage, even if I struggled about it at first, I came to accept it as something wise and necessary.  But others seemed to use this as an excuse for proceeding with such licentious behaviour as would certainly not be accepted between Christian heterosexual men and women, and for the same reason, neither was sexual license to be accepted between Christian gay men...or women.  But they were painting everything in broad strokes of black and white, so if I were to call some dude in the choir on sexually objectifying a young man in the congregation, he'd simply freeze me out of his social circle then warn everyone in the parish that I was a dangerous homophobe, and everyone would cluster round him to defend and protect him from my pernicious gay-bashing."

Carol says, "What do you mean, Aaron, by sexual licentiousness and objectifying?"

"I'm simply taking a feminist reading on the way gay men, or men in general, tend to conduct their sexuality.  Promiscuity is pretty rampant among gay men, and a lot of them simply have no concept of monogamy, not even if they are Christians in the church, and this is problematic, since this is not acceptable behaviour in men towards women, neither should it be acceptable between men.

Carol asks, querulously, "But isn't our sexuality a gift?"  

"And that, my dear, I am not going to dignify with a reply."

The Peacock 26

 Aaron continues, "It really began to hit the fan when a friend of mine told me about a little chat he had with the good father in a gay bar.  There is a little bit of history here.  My friend and I had come to know each other some five years earlier when he was stalking me one evening between bars.  I am sure you would like a little further explanation here, and well, you have been warned that this is going to be a tangled tale.  But anyway, I was back then very involved in a Christian ministry of presence in the gay bars and on the streets with people downtown.  I ended up taking this person into my home on three different occasions, while he was trying to cope with his alcoholism.  We became very close friends during that time, and only friends.  One of the requirements of this kind of ministry is to avoid getting into sexual or romantic entanglements.  But we were still very close.   It also turned out that Father Griffin was a frequent presence in some of those establishments, but his reasons for being there appeared to be rather, shall we say, different from mine.  Even in the church he seemed pretty open about his preference for good looking young males.  But then he had the colossal gall to take my friend aside, proposition him, and in the same breath warn him to stay away from me.  This coming from a priest ministering in the church that I was a member of.  

"On the following Sunday, following mass, I invited Father Griffin to have lunch with me.  I wanted to see if we could become, if not allies, at least not enemies.

It didn't go well.  From the get-go he was hostile, combative, defensive and...hateful.  He refused to consider any suggestion that we might find some way of working together and told me that as far as his whoring around preying on young men was concerned, that he would do whatever the hell he wanted, then started yelling at me about how much he disliked me.  Then he left.  But the worst was yet to come..."

The Peacock 24 and 25

 It was May when Father Griffin was meeting me in the Vancouver International airport.  A long drive awaited us and I was barely holding it together. I had taken a night flight from Zurich and  hardly slept while onboard.  It was noon when I arrived so we still had a good portion of the day.  We stopped in east Vancouver, on Commercial Drive for lunch, then proceeded to the 401.  Father Griffin seemed unusually taciturn, and I was so tired that I really felt under little obligation to make conversation with him.  Then he opened up and began to talk about you, Aaron."

"The dickens you say," Aaron says, smiling with more than just a touch of irony.

"Perhaps you wouldn't mind taking the floor from here, Mr. Zacharias?"

"Nothing would give me more pleasure!  Where would you like me to start?"

"Well, you did know my father."

"Oh yes, Gerry. We actually met in two places.  First at my father's in Robert's Creek.  I was going through quite a difficult time then myself.  I had become unemployed and homeless and was staying part time with my dad in Robert's Creek, and maybe three or four days of the week with various friends in Vancouver.  Yes, your father, Carl. A very interesting man, I should say."

"What do you remember of him?" asks Melissa.

He was a friend of my dad's through AA, or, Alcoholics Anonymous.  They both fell off the wagon at around the same time, four years earlier, and had become occasional drinking buddies.   I wouldn't say they were close friends.  But your dad had a girlfriend in Robert's Creek, and he was up visiting her.  She was also a good friend of my dad's, so he was a frequent visitor.  I remember a very intense man, usually quiet and held in until he had a few then watch him go!  He invited me to return with him to stay here at the house for a few days.  He seemed to be leaving alcohol alone during the time so it was actually pretty tolerable.  And then I met Father Griffin.  And not for the first time....

The Peacock 25

"How long have you known Father Griffin?" Carol is asking Aaron. 

 I really wish he would get that creepy smile off his face.  He seems, on the whole, 

like a really lovely person, but I guess we all have our dark side.

"Would you like me to", and here his smile intensifies, almost a bit sinister,  "Tell you.. everything?"

"Well, I am sure you would only love to, but..."

"Just the facts, Ma'am?"

"Alright then", Carol says with humorous exasperation. "Tell us everything."

"Are you all sure, now?  This is going to be a long and tangled tale..."

"But not boring", Carl interjects.

"So, Brother Carl, you are giving me carte blanche?"    

"Full menu, dude.  Just don't forget the twenty percent tip."

"I thought it was fifteen."

"And you, my friend, I know to be outlandishly generous."

"Father Griffin and I first met at St. James, the High Anglican church in Vancouver's

 notorious Downtown Eastside.  It would have been around 1990, or thirty years ago.  

Let's just say that we didn't much like each other.  I guess I owe you folks  a little bit 

of background.  You see, I was part of an intentional Christian community, back in the day,

and we were heavily involved in street ministry, as well as reaching out to people in the

queer community, sex workers of all genders, street punks, trans people, you name it.

We were also involved in palliative and pastoral care for people dying from AIDS, which back in the 

day was a death sentence."

"Were you providing a ministry with the church?" asks Carol.

"Yes and no. We didn't actually have formal approval or blessing from the church, but we did 

enjoy within a couple of parishes a lot of silent support, but also some not very silent 

opposition.  My first contact with Father Griffin occurred during one of the Tuesday evening masses.

He was celebrating, and since he was new to us, we all agreed to introduce ourselves after the service.

So, my two companions in community, and I, all went to the vestry where we smiled and 

introduced ourselves, and Father Griffin only responded with the most artfully restrained 

hostility.  Oh but there's more, and it gets a lot worse, and a lot more interesting..."

The Peacock 23

  Father Griffin, for a while, was the sole occupant of this house.  And he could only come here  a couple of days a week", says Carl. We kept in close touch, and then,the following summer, he came to visit us in Switzerland.   I had already graduated and was an apprentice writer for a sports magazine.  Our life in Switzerland had long taken on a rather delicious kind of rhythm, but I was already getting restless.  Plus, I had a girlfriend, and we were already talking about marriage, even though I was just twenty-four.  There appeared to be something different about Father Griffin.  He seemed quieter, more contemplative, and also somewhat haunted.  Or nervous about something.  I asked him about the house and, as we had suspected he was having to sink a lot of money, even more than expected, into repairs and maintenance.  That was when we decided to step in and take over the expenses from there.  Father Griffin then asked me to seriously consider moving over here to join him.  In fact, he was being downright imperative about it.  I could only turn him down.  Katrina, my girl, had become my second priority.  My first priority of course was my career as a writer.  I asked him to give me six months to think about it, but only in order to shut him up for a while.  Which was when Mom chimed in, suggesting that I might put the will of God ahead of my personal ambitions.   Not appreciating that kind of spiritual blackmail, especially coming from my own mother, I opted to move out on my own for a while.  

I found me a nice little apartment in downtown Zurich.  Then two things happened.  First, Katrina was posted in another country as a volunteer in community development in, of all places, New Guinea.  But she would be stationed in Australia.  She wasn't gone less than two months when she emailed me telling that she wanted to break off our relationship.  Apparently she had met someone else, and it was actually the guy she was seeing in university just a little before she met me.   Then the magazine I was writing for folded, if you'll pardon the pun, and before I knew it I was living again with Mom in our little Christian community.  And no she wasn't above offering me a couple of token I told you so's, being my mother of course.  A month later, I was boarding a plane to Vancouver...

The Peacock 22

 "What to do with this house became for our family a chronic and consuming obsession.  Mom was in no hurry to leave Switzerland or Holland.  But we didn't feel it would be time yet to sell the place.  And neither Melissa or I really felt like going back there, obviously.  Then Father Griffin came forward.  He asked if he could see the house.  We gave him a set of keys. He was already set to sell the house that he had shared with his partner, the rich banker dude, so we offered for him to stay in the house for as long as he needed.   Of course, it had been unoccupied for four years and would likely need extensive repairs as well as general upkeep and maintenance.   We were still relatively well off, but were unsure about the financial strain of continuing to keep the house going.  The family fortune had been dwindling somewhat, though Mom had managed to maintain some sound investments.  But she was also getting rather uncomfortable with having so much-I said we were still well off-when so many around us were struggling to get by.  

"Father Griffin did find the house to be in disgraceful conditions. Having done well with house equity on selling his place he offered to sink some money into the house.  He wanted to turn the house into a retreat centre as well as a site for an intentional Christian community.  He just wasn't sure how it was going to happen.  Neither were we."  

For the first time, I have something to say, "You have made this place a lovely retreat centre."

"We are also a community", Carl says.

"But I imagine this place would be an awful lot of work for you and your sister."

"We get lots of help", Melissa says.

I have not seen anyone in this place yet, apart from the occupants of this room.  "Do you bus in foreign workers, or what?"

"They are already here, the brothers and sisters of our community", she says flatly.

"Where are they now?"

"You will meet some of them during dinner."

The Peacock 21

 This has been a long session in the reception room.  Not boring, but so much information to digest.  We had not expected any of this.  Or I hadn't.  Father Griffin certainly didn't warn me about any of this.  Like Carol, I find this all very troubling, confusing, almost offensive.  I never would have imagined.  But that had also been almost twenty years ago, and people do change, or there is always the promise that we could change.  Father Griffin himself took me under his wing when I told him that I was caring for the dying.  He himself has had a lot of pastoral experience with the moribund.  I have never known anyone so kind and receptive.  And perceptive.  Very unusual for an Anglican priest.  And so very different from the Father Griffin I first met when I was just seventeen.

Carl continues, "This community began in the sixties.  It was at it's very beginning multi-denominational.  But my mother's church had a particular defining influence.  Mom is a Syriac Catholic, but from a very obscure sect that has remained virtually unchanged since it was founded by St. Thomas.  I mean St. Thomas the Apostle, who walked with Jesus.  They were a very inclusive order, and somehow were simultaneously in communion with the Roman and the Eastern Orthodox communions, and this also gave them permission to share the sacraments with all faithful people, even protestants.  This is not a particularly austere, nor strict, nor ascetic group.  But they live simply, in a spirit of prayer and hospitality to all strangers.  In this community there seems always a palpable presence of holiness, joy and love.  Just being there, for  Melissa and me had itself a healing effect.

"As we sat with the three directors and with Robert, very little was said before he broke down in tears, and to us he confessed.  Everything.  His sexual relationship with the banker, and how they were for a while both enjoying the services of rent boys like me, until Robert entered seminary and began to distance himself.  But not entirely.  He still had the house, and sometimes his partner, who lived there full time.  Also, the conversion of Robert did not extend to his boyfriend, and he simply treated him like an embarrassing uncle.  What he didn't want was exposure and scandal.  This is very problematic with Anglicans, among many other church people.   In their private lives they have license to do whatever the hell they want, as long as nobody finds out.  But in this community, transparency was always the feature of the day.  No one ever coerced it, but by entering that kind of atmosphere, suddenly one wants to be a better person, and find themselves yearning for beauty, for love, to give love, one comes to this place yearning for the Absolute...

The Peacock 20

 "So, you will understand what a surprise it was re-encountering in Switzerland Father none other than Robert Griffin.  We had just finished dinner and were now doing the washing up.  Then, we caught him just on the way out.  "Robert", I called.  With a smug, irritating little smile, he turned around and said, "You may call me Father Griffin''.    To which I replied, "You are hardly someone I would want to call Father, Robert.  Shall we have a chat outside?  I really don't think so, he said, then suddenly I was on his left and Melissa on his right. We each grabbed him by an arm and frog-marched him outside.  "Here is the deal, Robert", I said to him.  He replied, "I am not making any deals".  

"Oh, I said, "But Robert, have we got a deal for you.  And you are going to listen.  First of all, you do know who we are, I am sure, especially, my sister, Melissa?"  By this time we had released him and he was willingly walking up the road with us.  I told him all about my journalism assignment.  I had already drafted it out.  I spared not one single detail except the most salacious and one other little thing.  I had not yet written in any names.  And if he were inclined to agree to our terms, I would hand in my paper, full anonymity guaranteed.  To our surprise, he agreed. The next day, together we met with the directors of the community.  He confessed everything.  And tearfully begged our forgiveness for so callously shoving us off after his boyfriend had sexually exploited me.  And we also admitted everything.  About our father's suicide, his disappearance, and the money I stole.  For some reason they were going to let that go.

"Now you might be wondering how we managed to bring Robert, or Father Griffin, down without a fight.  But first I need to explain a little about the conditions and living arrangements in our little community..."

The Peacock 19

"Father Griffin still did not know who I was.  He had met only Melissa.  But I also knew Father Griffin.  When the banker dude and I got back from shopping, she took me aside and told me all about their conversation.  He was still in the house, talking to the banking dude.  Rather, he was chewing him out.  I still remember his diatribe word for word.  'What was the idea of bringing those kids in here, anyway.  Why didn't you turn them over to the authorities?  They were clearly lost and missing and in bad need of adult supervision.'  The banker dude answered, exasperated, that the boy, being me, was an adult, being eighteen and that Melissa was my sister.  He also called Father Griffin by his, shall we say, Christian name, Robert. But Father Griffin would have none of it.  'And how long have you had them here?  Four weeks at least, according to what the girl told me.  What are you doing with the boy?  Buying sex off him?  Don't lie to me, you little bastard.'  At this point, the banker dude was muttering something, but clearly father Griffin, or Robert, had the upper hand.  I had disappeared upstairs, but I could still see them clearly because I was staring down through the bannister..  For some reason, I didn't want this guy, Robert Griffin, to see me.  I still don't know why I felt the need to hide.  But then something really unusual happened.  The banker dude loudly and clearly enunciated that no he was not buying sex off of me.  Then Melissa completely lost it.  She screamed, "You fucking liar!"  How dare you tell lies!  You´ve been buying sex off my brother since we got here, and he's been doing it to keep me alive!  And then I heard her crying. Both men lowered their voices, I think to help calm her, but also to begin negotiations.  I had already been planning our escape, since the banker dude was all set to rent out my little sister to one of his filthy friends.  I had already lifted around five hundred dollars from his wallet.  We were getting set to leave, as soon as possible.  I heard the door slam.  They had both gone out.  Melissa came upstairs. They had given her a thousand dollars, silence money, and the price of our freedom.  Father Griffin did not want a scandal.  So the deal was, he gave Melissa the contact information for the Dutch consulate.  As soon as we knew no one was around, we packed our things, and left..."

The Peacock 18

 "Well", Carol says, "What did you find out about Father Griffin?  I hope you all realize what a shock this is for me.  He was nothing but support and kindness, ever since I started to confide in him about my struggles while my mother was dying.  I have never met a priest like Father Griffin.  How...how does this square with all the things you are telling us right now?  This is worse than scandalous.  I am just so saddened and horrified hearing those things.  How could they possibly be true?"  

Carl replies, "Yes, I know this is all going to be hard and difficult news for you, Carol.  But please, if I can give you a little bit of background, no, please hear me out."

Melissa has just taken off her ball cap, and suddenly it is clear that she is rather a good looking woman, with her long chestnut hair, and dark, I would say, smouldering eyes.  She is really quite beautiful.  She playfully tries to fit her cap on the cat's head, and the cat, annoyed, squirms out from under it, then proceeds to wash himself.

"First, let me assure everyone here, that I have Father Griffin´s complete blessing for telling you these things.  We have already consulted about this.  In fact, we have spoken several times, and we have arrived at this agreement that we have to be as transparent as possible if we are to be of any value at all to any of you as God's instruments.  This is going to mean becoming privy to our own dark side and our unsavory past.  There is so much that remains hidden and garbage-bagged in the church, and this is where we get our well-earned reputation as hypocrites.  This is not a business model, nor a corporation.  We are simply people interacting together in a way that we hope is going to be redemptive, for all of us, but before this experience can be redemptive, we first have to make ourselves vulnerable.  I know, Carol, not very British, and unfortunately I am but a vulgar Dutchman, but please, do bear with us, please."

Jesús has been seated quietly and intensely focussed throughout.  I cannot see his tattoo from the side where I am sitting.  I suddenly want to look at the peacock feather tattooed on his neck.  This could be turning into an obsession.  I want to ask him what he thinks of everything so far, but this is Carl's time to speak. I will try to ask him before dinner, if I can get him to stop long enough to speak a few words to me...

Special: interview with Mrs. Claus

Gentle Reader, first read 

http://aaronbenjaminzacharias.blogspot.com/2018/12/waking-dead-10.html

then read

http://aaronbenjaminzacharias.blogspot.com/2019/12/its-all-performance-art-59.html

Now read:

The first thing I really notice are her tattooed eyebrows, arched like two inverted commas hovering on top of her face.  It is almost as hard to determine her age, as to how many facelifts she´s had, and this one seems to be rapidly unravelling.  The old gal otherwise seems remarkably fit for a novegenarian, whippet thin, and still strong and erect.  Her thin straight hair is dyed a kind of henna red, and she has tied it severely behind her ears.  She is sipping something tall and cold, perhaps iced tea?  Just a moment ago she was spoon feeding Santa chocolate ice cream in the shade of a mango tea in the garden of the nursing home where he is still living in Costa Rica. Now she has left him alone to give me a few minutes of her time. Here is the edited condensed version of our interview.  Mrs. Claus in her own words.

"Well, first of  all, you can dispense with that Mrs. Claus nonsense.  This gal ain´t nobody´s Missus.  You can call me Stella.  The old man and I never tied the knot, and to be honest, I don't think he ever properly married not one of the ladies he has ever taken a fancy to.  But PR you know.  Optics, anyone?  This is an international icon, you know.  Even more popular than the baby you know who.  And how many parents would let their kids sit on the knee of a horny old goat who can't resist putting his hands up a ladies' skirt?  But that was years ago.  Now that he's old and barmy he's kind of turned into an innocent baby himself.  He's really turned into quite a sweetie, you know.  Especially since that girl in the blue robe came over last Christmas with her baby and put the kid on his lap.  Santa has never been the same.  And he still hasn't stopped smiling, even one year later.

"We first met, believe it or not, at a Christmas party.  No, I can't remember what year it was but it was years before you were born.  Well, I was a bit of a party gal, back in those days, and I was wearing this positively naughty little black cocktail dress, with a tight skirt and slit on the side that went up to the stratosphere.  Well, the band was playing (it was always live music back in the day), and I was sitting on Santa's knee, and Santa was saying ho-ho-ho, and the band struck up Santa Baby, so that's what I sang to him. "Santa baby, hurry down the chimney tonight."  Everyone would agree that I sang it way better than that black Eartha Kit chick, who was also at the party, but she stole the song from me and went and made it famous, but I don't care.  I got to be Santa's gal.  

"We never lived in the North Pole, by the way.  Just the elves were there with the reindeer.  But I was obliged to pay a courtesy visit every year, help boost their moral.  They needed it.  Not just that they worked hard, but the old goat paid them peanuts and practically worked them to death.  No wonder he lost them.  They unionized, then most of them went to work as extras on the set for Peter Jackson when he filmed Lord of the Rings in New Zealand.  The few that remained got really difficult.  They suddenly all declared themselves as gender nonconforming and if you didn't refer to them individually as they or them there would be hell to pay.  

So we lived most of the time in Miami.  incognito of course, and Santa lost a lot of weight, and joined a gym and actually got himself quite a bod'.  and of course, he was very generous paying for all my, er, upgrades.  But then we moved to Costa Rica where we bought out the timeshare we had here, and he just, you know, sort of let himself go.  I can't really add a lot more to this.  We never had kids, naturally, and since all the children of the world already love Santa why raise any of our own.  So for me it was either stay on the pill or get surgery.  I don't think I'll ever forgive him.  I always wanted a couple of kids of my own, and standing by while other people's brats get to sit on Santa's knee, just didn't cut it.  

"Otherwise, it hasn't been a bad life.  It's been better than a lot of the possible alternatives, and back in those days a gal just didn't have a lot of options for herself, so, yes, Santa has given me a decent, if not very glamorous life.  Hey look, it's the chick in the blue robe, she's back this year, and she has her baby with her.  But that must be her second kid, because the other one would be walking by now.  Or not?  Hey, wait a minute."

Mrs. Claus carries her iced tea to the mango shade where she pulls up a chair for the girl with the baby, and sits there chatting with her quietly while Santa looks on, smiling and staring happily into space.  The young mother invites her to hold her child, and Mrs. Clause, or Stella, breaks into a rapt smile, cradling the holy child in her arms, then singing what sounds like a lullaby.

The Peacock 17

 "In the community in Switzerland we often all ate together, in the community chalet", says Carl, picking up the thread again.  "It was Father Griffin's second day with us. I remember a beautiful day in early June and the summer sun was so intense.  Melissa and I, following dessert, asked him if he would come for a walk with us."

Melissa says, "I should mention here that Father Griffin already knew who I was.  The first time we saw each other in Switzerland, oh, the look on his face, like maybe I would have to call the paramedics.  You see, when I met him the first time, he didn't go so far as to say what he was doing there in that house, but I figured it out pretty fast.  It was his house.  He owned it, and lived there part time.  The banker dude was his boyfriend.   And was actually purchasing sex from my big brother. You could only imagine how I must have felt about all that.  But I also was wise enough, even at thirteen, to understand that Carl was doing this for me, and I still absolutely trusted him, and you know, I still absolutely trust you Carl", she said, turning to her brother, who grins in response.

Aaron suddenly asks, "What is it, exactly, that Father Griffin  said to you, Melissa?"

Carl replies, "Really, Aaron, if there's anyone in this room who would know all the details, wouldn't you be that person?  After all, brother, you are the mastermind behind all this''.  Carl is grinning.  And so is Aaron.

Aaron lets out a loud and abrupt laugh.  "Only following orders, dude, I have only been following orders!"

Melissa, also laughing, says, "That's enough you guys, we don't want to make our other guests nervous.  They might think this is a conspiracy, you know."

Carol says abruptly, "Well, I should certainly like to know what is going on here."  She is not smiling, she is rather indignant.

"My, what a tangled web we weave,," Aaron says giggling.

"Do you mean to tell us that this retreat is all some kind of tasteless joke?", Carol says, her voice rising a little.

Carl interjects, "I mean to say that everything will be told in time.  Please be patient with us, this is going to be a long and tangled tale..."

The Peacock 16

 It is  not at all lost on me that Melissa hasn't yet said a single word, even though she is the subject of her brother's discourse.  But I have heard hardly a single word from her since she drove me here yesterday.  She appears almost comatose, not having moved from her place on the sofa next to the cat, except to prepare and deliver snacks on the trolley.  From time to time she pets the cat, but mostly remains seated, her head down, face obscured by hair and ball cap.  Of course we are a captive, and spellbound audience.  I have never heard this kind of open and public confession, and from a purported retreat director and quasi-monastic like Carl, this seems totally inappropriate  But he is about to continue, drawing a fresh breath, mustering courage, for surely this must be very difficult for him.  

"I knew that I couldn't let Father Griffin get away with anything.  I knew him.  But I first had to prepare a watertight plan before I could actually confront him.  Fortunately, I was studying journalism.  And eventually came just the right assignment.  The perfect assignment. We were asked, each of us, to write about a scandal that we had personally witnessed.  It couldn't have been easier.

"Father Griffin was due to return to our community just at that time.  This would be our third year living there.  I was twenty-one and, Melissa," he says, turning to his sister, "you would have been..."

"Sixteen", she says.  And, is she smiling?  And now Melissa is about to speak!

"You don´t mind Carl, if I give your vocal chords a rest for a few minutes?"

"Nothing would please me better, Mel!"

That's the first time I have heard him call her Mel. or anything.

"That was a really interesting time, for both of us", she says.  "We actually first met Father Griffin while we were staying with that rich banker dude, just after Dad had died and disappeared.  I think we were already there a few weeks, but that was when we both decided it was time to leave.  Right away."  She is now stroking the cat, almost relentlessly.

"I was in the den, watching TV when Father Griffin arrived at the house.  Carl was out on a shopping excursion with our host.  I was already used to being alone a lot, so it didn't seem that weird.  But this guy, Father Griffin, truly creeped me out. He simply demanded that I tell him exactly what was going on.  So this guy, I had no idea he was a priest, he was wearing a T shirt and jeans,  picks up the remote, shuts off the TV, then positions himself in the chair opposite, saying "Now could you please tell me who you are, and what you are doing here?" 

Before she continues, she reaches for a cookie, takes a bite, returns it to the plate.  And now it is clear that the best is yet to come...

The Peacock 15

 "When we returned to Amsterdam to my waiting and anxious mother, we told her everything.  Mom, of course, cut short her retreat to meet us at home. .  An investigation was launched about our father, but nothing was found or resolved.  And Mom, instead of scolding me for my awful behaviour, drew me into an incredibly warm embrace.  But there was still going to be a price to pay for my misbehaviour, as well as to facilitate healing for Melissa and I, because we were certainly traumatized.    Arrangements had been already made, and the ecumenical Christian community to which she was connected in Switzerland had already agreed that we would live there with her, full time.  

It was actually idyllic.  We lived nestled in a rural community where people lived together in an assortment of chalets.  They were very kind, generous, well-educated, and very engaged with the community.  We were mentored and loved into recovery by these people.  But it was going to be a long stay.  Plus, I was able to enroll in the local college, where I graduated in journalism.  Melissa later enrolled in artistic design, and now we both are able to work here from home.  

We also first met Father Griffin, who you all know, in Switzerland.  He was a long term guest during our second year there, and soon became a frequent flyer there.  The man held an imposing presence, and was indeed charming and charismatic.  Mom was immediately taken by him, and he presumed to become the father that Melissa and I had lost, indeed the father that we never really had.  And we did grow to truly love him.  But for me there remained a certain reserve towards this priest, who seemed to be the toast of our little community.  No one, except Melissa,  would even guess that I already knew him, nor under which set of circumstances I might have known the man.

The Peacock 14

 Carl draws a deep breath before he continues.  it is clear this is going to be difficult for him.  And we are all ears, fascinated, though we could well be watching an elephant give birth or a deer being swallowed by a python.  The cookies are great, chocolate chip, homemade.   I wonder whether they were made by brother or sister.  Carol and Aaron, are for some reason, exchanging meaningful glances.  Could this be the start of a geriatric flirtation?  But they aren't really that old, or don't seem it.  And I also think that Aaron could be gay, but it's so hard to tell now, and so many guys, even if they say they are straight, are still prone to experimenting with the right dude.  Which also leaves me wondering about Jesús, whom I often catch glancing my way, but it is really hard right now to start a conversation with him.  To be fair, I am not exactly myself a social butterfly, especially since coming out of palliative care work and support.  Father Griffin has been towards me a saint, his awful past notwithstanding, an absolute saint and angel.  Carl is ready to resume speaking...

"Melissa and I must have spent nearly two hours standing on the side of the highway with our thumbs out.  We finally got a lift, and that is when everything began to change.  He would have been a man in his early forties, and seemed very well-off.  I think he was a banking executive.  He was driving a late model Mercedes.  He of course wanted to know what two kids like us were doing wandering the highway during the small hours of the morning.  I simply explained that our dad had gone missing and the phones weren't working and we had to get help.  That was when he offered to put us up in his house for the night, or even for a few days if we needed.  To our surprise, we both accepted.  

He lived in a large house and Melissa and I each had our own bedroom.  The next morning after breakfast, he took me aside to talk a bit with me.  Basically, he offered us both, not only lodgings, but all the pocket money we both needed in exchange for sex with me.  Again I accepted.  I was already no stranger to the sex trade since, for the last couple of years I was hooking on the sly in Amsterdam, partly as a rite of passage, partly from boredom, but also because it seemed like a very interesting way to meet men.  The money was great too, since I was also using a lot of drugs at the time.  I suppose this guy could read me quite well, which is why he asked.

But then he wanted to farm me out to some of his friends, one of whom was expressing interest in my sister.  It was then that I knew it was time to bail.  When our host was away from work, after a month of this, Melissa and I packed our things.  I had also conveniently lifted some cash from his wallet.  We were on the first bus to Vancouver, where we found a hotel, and then went straight to the Dutch consulate office in order to track down our mother, who  was away on a retreat in Switzerland....Within a week, we were on a plane back to the Netherlands...

The Peacock 13

 Melissa returns with a trolley laden with two pots of coffee, cups, saucers, utensils,  apples, oranges and cookies.  I also notice cheese and crackers.  We are all going to be fat blimps by the time our time is finished here.  This is but the break time before Carl resumes his talk, which has been holding all of us spellbound.  Beginning with Carol, one by one we walk over to the trolley for our afternoon plunder.  Carl has left the room but returns quickly, carrying a glass of water.  The big orange cat has not budged from it's place on the sofa, and I imagine that that is his usual resting spot.  His sofa, and his particular cushion on the sofa.  Only Aaron and Jesús are talking to each other, in Spanish.  Aaron cracks what appears to be a joke and Jesús is laughing.  I imagine he would be as witty in Spanish as in English.   Perhaps because he speaks his mother tongue, but Aaron alone seems able to bring our Colombian guest out of himself.  

We are all settled again, each in our place.  Carl resumes his talk.  Carol has closed the window, protesting that it is cold.  I am not going to argue, even if I do like the sweet fresh air blowing in.  She does seem a bit on the bossy side, but I shouldn't be surprised.  She is after all a world famous concert pianist.  

"I was eighteen and Melissa was thirteen when our dad committed suicide.  We had been here with him just two days.  Just after breakfast he left the house.  Melissa saw him, and told me later that he was carrying a hunting rifle with him.   It wasn't long before we heard the gunshot, and at first thought nothing of it, since dad had mentioned that there was a marauding bear in the area.   We were busy playing video games in this very room, and decided not to worry about it.  Dad didn't come back. Being two independent teens, we didn't think twice about getting our own lunch.  We returned to Super Mario. It was getting near dinner.  We went out looking for him.

We discovered his body, lying prone on the ground, way out near the magnolia tree.  His gun was next to him, and half his head had been blown off  Blood everywhere.  We returned back to the house to call the police, but the phones weren't working.  Now we are almost certain that Dad had deliberately disconnected them.  Why, we still haven't figured out, but his behaviour had been particularly odd the last couple of years.  We decided to return to the body.  I don't know why, as if seeing him dead like that once already wasn't already horrible enough.  

But the body was gone.  It had disappeared.  There was of course blood on the ground where he had fallen.   As well as shocked and bereaved and horrified, we were suddenly also in fear of our lives.  Melissa and I agreed,  We would have to leave.  Immediately.   We packed a few things together, clothes and food mostly, and toiletries, then we found our way to the road.  It must have been near midnight when we got to the highway.  I don't know how many hours we were walking.  There were hardly any cars on the highway, but we had little choice in the matter.  We started to hitchhike....

The Peacock 12

 Carl is sitting forward on the sofa, as though attempting to solve a chess problem or the Rubik's Cube.  Then his face relaxes a little as he leans back a bit. I have opened the window and a soft breeze is cooling the room.

"I would like to thank you all for being here.  This would be for all of us a great step of courage."  He clears his throat before he continues, as though he isn't sure if coming here would be indeed a step of courage.   "First I would like to tell you about the history of this house and our relation to this place.  This house was built over a hundred years ago by my great grandfather.  He had made his fortune in silver mining in Indonesia and wanted a wilderness paradise where he could raise his family, free from the stress and turmoil of the city.  You could say that he pulled out nearly all stops in order to create a carbon copy of an English manor estate.  Not only was his vanity project incongruous to the region, but my grandfather wasn't even English.  He was Dutch.  Eventually, other business interests demanded that he return to the Netherlands, so he resettled in Amsterdam, leasing the mansion to private interests as a hunting lodge.  He planned to return here but then World War I broke out and he was left stranded with his wife, my great grandmother, in Holland.   Just after the war, my grandfather was born.  

"Somehow the family fortune survived the stock market crash of Twenty-Nine  Then, following the Great Depression, came World War II.  The house here had been taken over by a nudist colony, and the family stayed in Amsterdam as we collected handsomely on the rent."  Carol openly giggles at the suggestion that there were once naked adults cavorting in this house.  Aaron appears to be barely stifling a grin.  The rest of us are poker face, except for Carl, who always seems to be perpetually smiling.   "However, the family business needs became all-consuming, so that neither my great grandfather, nor anyone in the family returned there until the following generation. In the meantime there was the war and the Nazi occupation with all its brutality and hardship and violence.  

The family fortune remained somehow intact even through the war.  There have been rumours, nothing really confirmed or authenticated, that my great grandfather might have been involved in arms dealing and negotiations with the Nazis, as well as the allies, and that he was working in cahoots with an underground network in Switzerland.  To this day, no one knows for sure, but we were among the very few in the Netherlands who still had any money to call their own by the time the Allies sent the Germans packing.  

My father was born two years after the war ended.  With so many Dutch immigrating to Canada, my parents had wondered about returning to the family property here.  The house was vacant again, and needed to be lived in.  An esoteric cult had taken over this place following the nudists, many of whom became absorbed into the cult.  And then they were gone.  No one knows what happened to them.  They had left behind all their belongings, all their personal effects. To everyone's surprise, this never hit the news.  But twenty people just suddenly disappeared, vanished."

Melissa gets up to leave.  Jesús is staring fixated at Carl.  He does know how to hold an audience.  The wind is picking up outside.  An azalea on the patio, just in full magenta bloom, begins to wave and undulate in the wind.  

My grandparents tried to settle affairs with the house, and make it liveable again.  The cultists, and likely some of the nudists had not treated this place with very much love.  They decided to live here for a while, but that didn't last either.  My grandfather died from a heart attack and within days, my grandmother simply vanished.  Completely.  Just like the cult members.  The boy who would be my father was at the time in boarding school in Vancouver.  He was quickly returned to the Netherlands, where he lived with an aunt. Other relations somehow got hold of the family fortune, leaving my father virtually bereft.  It was only when he was approaching twenty, with lots of assistance from his aunt, that court action had been taken to give him his share of the family wealth, which included this house and land.

My father went to university, where  he met the woman who would give birth to me.  They were married in 1979.  I was born three years later.  Melissa came along five years later, but it was too late for my parents.  They divorced when I was twelve.  Mom stayed in Holland, then Switzerland, and we stayed there September till June while we went to school.  We spent the summers here in this house with our dad.  First me, then Melissa started joining me when she got a bit older.  Mom was working for a publishing house.  She was also pursuing her religion.  It is still a mystery to us just what Dad was doing here alone in this huge house and property.  He didn't have to work, being independently wealthy, but he never really disclosed anything.  For us, the kids, nothing could have been more ideal, with this fantastic sprawling house to explore and play in when it rained, and the huge grounds and  surrounding forest to explore and wander when it didn't.

"But things weren't entirely well with our dad...."

The Peacock 11

 We are seated in the small reception room, where we had our morning coffee and treats.  We have each claimed a comfy armchair, as though we do not want to sit any closer to anyone than we really have to.  A large orange cat has found its way onto one of the sofas.  I didn't know they had a cat here.  It is enormous, almost as big as a bobcat.   Aaron reaches his hand to the cat as he is sitting closest, and makes a gentle meowing sound.  The cat looks up at him, intently focussing with his amber green eyes, then proceeds to wash himself with his pink tongue.  No one has said anything yet, and we are all waiting for the two siblings, as Aaron seems to enjoy calling them.  

This room has an interesting colour scheme.  The walls are a very soft blue-grey, slightly more blue than grey.  A leaded glass window with diamond panes and rainbow bevelling looks onto the spring garden, and each of the three walls is adorned by an original painting.  I am looking directly at a skyscape of a cloudy sky slightly infused by a sunset, or sunrise.  There is an intensity of red orange near the bottom that gradually becomes diffused then lost into the blue grey mass of the clouds, which could otherwise be part of the colour on the wall.    Behind me A forest scene, rather suggestive of Emily Carr, with an emerald green cedar tree  boasting a massive reddish ochre trunk.   The third painting has a single gigantic red rose flooded with light and tones of soft blue and yellow and white in the background.   There is something very carefully arranged about this room, with the reddish maroon velour upholstery of the furniture contrasting with the blue-grey walls.  And with the choice of paintings.  Only now,for the first time I am noticing the carpet that separates and unites the chairs and sofas.  It is an oriental motif, areas of green, red and and yellow clinging like strange ornate moss to a background of dark blue.  Rather like staring at a large mandala.

Yes, this room is beautifully furnished and decorated, but there is something almost too planned, too deliberate about the arrangement of colours, but also planned to appear random and spontaneous.  This room does feel slightly sinister.  

Carl comes in, followed by Melissa, who sits on the sofa next to the cat.  Carl picks the other sofa.  The cat looks up at Melissa, as though wondering if it would  be worth the effort to climb onto her lap, but Melissa appears to ignore him.  He returns to washing himself.  Carol has just been asking Jesús about his life in Colombia, but now that our hosts are present with us, we are all eyes and ears.

He looks at us all, like an awkward friendly boy. Melissa remains with her eyes focussed on her lap, her face largely hidden by hair and baseball cap.  One could never imagine two siblings so different from each other, yet, not really different at all.

Carl opens, saying "Welcome everybody to our home. This is your home as well..."

The Peacock 10

 This place is as remote as one can get, while still being within a couple of hour's drive to Vancouver.  To be honest, I don't know where I am.  I followed the instructions and found myself in a little town just east of Mission, not far from the famous monastery.  But I was not destined for any monastery.  I didn't even know the name of the little town where I waited for Melissa.  But arrangements had already been made.  There was a garage ready to take my car for the month or longer I would be needing to be here (Carl has already mentioned to me that if I need to stay longer than one month, to not worry about it, that I will be more than welcome.  Melissa pulled up in front of the little diner I was nursing a late afternoon coffee in, then strode quickly inside, looked at me and simply said, "Ready?".  I said, "You would be..." and she curtly replied, "Melissa."  "How did you know it's me?"  She replied that Father Griffin had emailed them my photo.

That was when I realized I had forgotten my name, and she didn't once mention my name throughout the more than two hour drive up to the mansion.  She in fact, didn't mention anything.  I found myself perfectly incapable of making any kind of conversation, polite or otherwise, with her. It was like riding with an extremely taciturn cab or Uber driver.  I think she might be somewhere on the autism spectrum.   And why couldn't I remember my name?  Why can I still not remember my name?

I don't know where I might have got Cosme from.  It was like pulling a rabbit out of my hat.  Cosme.  I have never seen or heard that name before.  But maybe I have heard it in the past, simply can't remember?  I mean, if I am going to so easily forget my own name, then maybe I will have also forgotten almost anything else.

We took a dirt road that wound it's way up through the mountains, at times a steep and bumpy ride.  We passed a couple of farms, then, there was only forest, and the road.  This has to be the longest car ride I have ever taken, or so it feels, anyway.  Now, I have completely lost my bearings,.  And this place is so extraordinary.  It suggests an English manor house on what  must be several hectares of a beautifully landscaped property with gardens and lawns and meadows, all surrounded completely by dense impenetrable forest.  Where I am seated now, in front of the magnolia tree, the forest is virgin, primeval, all massive trunks of douglas fir, sitka spruce, hemlock and cedar with ferns and salmonberry and salal and hanging moss, and it is so beautiful, cool and holy out here in this place.  

This is rather an interesting novel by the way, in the meandering and tediously detailed style of this woman's writing.  Doris Lessing.  Strange, I have never heard of her.  but  I still can't remember my real name or if even I ever had a name. The novel so far is about a young woman from South Africa, or thereabouts, white with British roots, who is now in London just after the war, and her adventures there.  She seems also to be trying to intentionally forget who she was.  for example, this little passage:

Between ‘Matty’ and such sad buffoons, the difference was one of degree. Somewhere early in her childhood, on that farm on the highveld, ‘Matty’ had been created by her as an act of survival. But why? In order to prevent herself from being-what? She could not remember. But during the last few years before leaving ‘home’ (now not where she was, England, previously ‘home’, of a sort, but that town she had left), ‘Matty’ had not existed, there had not been a need for her. Martha had forgotten ‘Matty’, and it was painful to give her house-room again. But here she was, just as if she had not been in abeyance for years, ready at the touch of a button to chatter, exclaim, behave with attractive outrageousness, behave’ like a foolish but lovable puppy. In this house. With Jimmy and Iris. (Not with Stella down the river, not at all.) Here. Why? For some days now Martha had been shut inside this person, it was ‘Martha’ who intruded, walked into ‘Matty’, not the other way about. Why? She was also, today, shut inside clothes that dressed, she felt, someone neither Martha, nor ‘Matty’. 

It is probably time to head back to the house, since it must be almost two, and Carl wants to have with everyone a talk.  I have craned my neck in every which direction, and still there is no sign of the peacock... 

    

The Peacock 4-9

The first thing I hear is the strident cry of a peacock.  It is 9:55.  In five minutes coffee is served.  I haven't mentioned the peacock to anyone yet.  I want it to be, for a little while anyway, my own little secret.   After the coffee break I'm going to see if I can find it again. It is hard to get moving again.  I feel as though I woke into a viscous fog. I would really prefer to stay in bed, but according to Brother Carl, we are all strongly encouraged to fellowship together, even if we don't feel like it.  Or, the way he said it, especially when we don't feel like seeing other people.  Because we don't have our usual tech toys to distract, amuse and entertain us, they are taking special measures to see that we don't get too isolated, too absorbed in our own private little miseries.  That is what Carl said anyway.  He is not the most tactful person I have met, by the way.  I think he might be German.

Coffee is served in a small side room.  It is cozy, with a couple of sofas and three comfy chairs, all vintage and overstuffed and incredibly comfy.  Aaron is on one of the couches with Jesús and they are chatting in Spanish, a language with which Aaron appears to have considerable facility.  Carol is in one comfy chair and there is Brother Carl in the other and they are engaged, of course, in English.

To my surprise,  Brother Carl is dressed only in a tight white muscle shirt and bluejeans.  He is startlingly handsome.  Of course our hosts don't appear to wear a habit or uniform, nor do they seem to have a dress code.  Carl would be nearing forty, muscular and lean, and Nordic god gorgeous.  His very short blond hair barely frames a deftly proportioned high cheekboned face.  His eyes are light blue, full of light, and often his eyes appear to be laughing.  

"Good morning,Cosme", he announces cheerily,  "Do help yourself to coffee. There are also cinnamon rolls and cookies, if you're still hungry this soon after breakfast."

At the sideboard I help myself to coffee, poured from a shining metal pot.  The cinnamon rolls are seductively fragrant, dripping sensuously with cream cheese icing. I am not hungry, but I still dump one onto a plate anyway.  I don't want to be very near anyone, so I occupy the very centre of one of the two empty sofas...

It turns out that Carol is a concert pianist.  I have been eavesdropping on her conversation with Brother Carl. They have a baby grand in the reception room and he has just invited her to perform for us sometime this week.  I recall her now.  I saw her in concert once, ten years ago, when I was staying in London.  She performed at the Royal Albert. She was fantastic, especially her interpretation of some of the works of Brahms and Rachmaninov.  I only remember the long black cocktail dress she wore and her flawless performance.  Yes, she is actually very famous.  And here she is now, sharing this retreat in this remote palatial mansion, with us, with me.  

Aaron and Jesús are still chatting in Spanish.  I am feeling quite alone, and I am not okay about it.  This has always been the case with me.  I will find myself yearning to get away from others, to go off to the woods or the beach all by myself where I don't have to be bothered about anyone else's noise or troubles, but only to feel suddenly and incurably lonely.  Aaron and Jesús appear to have taken a real shine for each other.  It turns out that Jesús does struggle a bit with his English so it is going to be a relief for him to have someone to speak Spanish with.  But Aaron seems like a particularly warm and caring sort of person.  I am feeling of course left out.  

As Brother Carl gets up off his chair, Carol turns her attention to the two other guests and they begin to engage with her in English.  Brother Carl approaches me and plants himself right next to me on the sofa, leaving only a few inches between us.  This feels strangely but not unwelcomely close for me, and even if he is extremely handsome, I find him strangely comfortable to sit with.

"How are you enjoying your room, Cosme?"  he asks with the wellbred courtesy of a Prussian high bourgeois.  

"I like it very much, thanks.  I love the view."

"That used to be my bedroom.  When I was a kid"

"You mean to say you grew up in this house?"

"Partly.  During the winters we lived with our mother in Holland.  The summers we spent here."

So, he isn't German after all, but Dutch.

"We?"

"Melissa and I.  Oh, I don't suppose she mentioned we are siblings."  It was Melissa who drove me here from the village.  She hasn't been around since.

So this is your family home?"

"It is in a sense.  Our father operated the place as a retreat centre, and we promised to help carry it on for him."

"Your father is..."

"He died some time ago."

"I am so sorry to hear that."

"Thank you." He is quiet as he cradles his cup of black coffee in both hands.

"You also take your coffee black, Brother Carl."

"Oh, please, just call me Carl.  We don't really stand on formality in this place."

"Well, you are not exactly attired like a monk."  I am trying to deadpan this as carefully as possible.  I don't want him to think I'm trying to flirt with him.

"Yes", he says, half spreading his muscular arms.  I do  apologize for my informal attire.  You see, I was just about to go work in the garden. Would you care to join me, just after we clean up the dishes here?" I reluctantly agree, my hopes dashed of having solitary time in the garden while flushing out the peacock.

Together, Carl and I start clearing away the dishes and left over snacks.  I can feel the soft brown eyes of Jesús following me very carefully as I follow the guest master into the kitchen.  I have to uster all my forces to avoid looking back at the young Colombian....

I remember the long black cocktail dress she wore and her flawless performance.  Yes, she is actually very famous.  And here she is now, sharing this retreat in this remote palatial mansion, with us, with me.  

Aaron and Jesús are still chatting in Spanish.  I am feeling quite alone, and I am not okay about it.  This has always been the case with mne.  I will find myself yearning to get away from others, to go off to the woods or the beach all by myself where I don't have to be bothered about anyone else's noise or troubles, but only to feel suddenly and incurably lonely  Aaron and Jesús appear to have taken a real shine for each other.  It turns out that Jesús does struggle a bit with his English so it is going to be a relief for him to have someone to speak Spanish with.  But Aaron seems like a particularly warm and caring sort of person.  .  I am feeling of course left out.  

As Brother Carl gets up off his chair, Carol turns her attention to the two other guests and they begin to engage with her in English.  Brother Carl approaches me and plants himself right next to me on the sofa, leaving only a few inches between us.  This feels strangely but not unwelcomely close for me, and even if he is extremely handsome, I find him strangely comfortable to sit with.

"How are you enjoying your room, Cosme?"  he asks with the wellbred courtesy of a Prussian high bourgeois.  

"I like it very much, thanks.  I love the view."

"That used to be my bedroom.  When I was a kid"

"You mean to say you grew up in this house?"

"Partly.  During the winters we lived with our mother in Holland.  The summers we spent here."

So, he isn't German after all, but Dutch.

"We?"

"Melissa and I.  Oh, I don't suppose she mentioned we are siblings."  It was Melissa who drove me here from the village.  She hasn't been around since.

So this is your family home?"

"It is in a sense.  Our father operated the place as a retreat centre, and we promised to help carry it on for him."

"Your father is..."

"He died some time ago."

"I am so sorry to hear that."

"Thank you." He is quiet as he cradles his cup of black coffee in both hands.

"You also take your coffee black, Brother Carl."

"Oh, please, just call me Carl.  We don't really stand on formality in this place."

"Well, you are not exactly attired like a monk."  I am trying to deadpan this as carefully as possible.  I don't want him to think I'm trying to flirt with him.

"Yes", he says, half spreading his muscular arms.  I do  apologize for my informal attire.  You see, I was just about to go work in the garden. Would you care to join me, just after we clean up the dishes here?" I reluctantly agree, my hopes dashed of having solitary time in the garden while flushing out the peacock.

Together, Carl and I start clearing away the dishes and leftover snacks.  I can feel the soft brown eyes of Jesús following me very carefully as I follow the guest master into the kitchen.  I have to muster all my forces to avoid looking back at the young Colombian....

Carl and I are cutting a new trail through the bush. He says he wants visitors to have freer run of the place and this extra trail should help. There isn't much left to do.  In fact, we expect to be finished today.  There are only a couple of metres left.  Carl cuts and slashes slowly, carefully, methodically. a gentle sweat makes his muscled arms gleam in the sunlight. I try to emulate his movements, with not a lot of success.  He clearly is used to this kind of work. I´m not reaIly, and  have always lived in apartments in or near the urban core. I'm already afraid I might just be getting underfoot.  But I want to help if I can, and helping out is really my own idea.  He almost tried to discourage me when I offered, but I insisted.  And now my sore arms, thighs and aching flabby stomach muscles are already reminding me.  Besides, I really want to have something constructive to do while I'm here.  For some reason, while I'm here, I really want to work with my hands, with my whole body.  I want to ache and sweat like any working guy. I want to feel completely and fully alive while I am in this place, on this retreat among these compelling and eccentric strangers.

I see the magnolia tree just ahead, and of course I am looking for the  peacock.  

"Do you get a lot of birds here?" I ask.

"Well, all the ones you can hear singing every morning, anyway."  He has right now while he's working a slightly lazy, matter of fact way of speaking, though still sounding like a well-bred private schoolboy talking in a light Dutch accent.  

"Anything unusual?"

"Nothing exotic. We get a lot of jays, woodpeckers, robins, thrushes, sparrows and stuff.  There's grouse, crows, quite a few ravens.  Just a couple of days ago, just before everyone arrived, Melissa and I saw seven eagles soaring over the house."  He swings the machete a couple more times before we come out to the clearing. The southern magnolia is almost right in front of us. 

"Do you reckon that's symbolic of anything?"

"Could be.  You are the first batch of guests we've had here in a couple of years."

"So it's about us?"

He stands up straight.  "All bets are off.  Let's go back to the house for something cold.  Lunch soon."  

It looks like we are going to be spending a lot of our time eating while we're here.  Not that I'm complaining.  The food is great here, what they've been feeding us so far, anyway.  We have so far done breakfast and morning coffee.  Now it is lunchtime.  We are in the breakfast room, and we are all seated in our usual chairs, or what appears to be our usual places.  

Two plates loaded with grilled cheese sandwiches help fill the table, along with a big bowl of salad and a plate of sliced bananas, mangos and pineapple.  With a bowl of vanilla yogurt nearby.  Someone, perhaps Melissa, has adorned the table with a crystal vase full of brilliant red tulips, likely picked from one of the many gardens here.  Well, they are Dutch, our hosts, I suppose....

"These sandwiches are just lovely" purrs Carol as she helps herself to another one."

I agree.  "They are good.  What kind of cheese did they use?"

"Asiago", Aaron says. 

"What class of cheese is that?" Jesús wants to know

"It's Italian." say I, "But are you sure it's Asiago?"

"That's what Melissa told me, " says Aaron.  "I helped her make lunch."

"Working for your board?" quips  Carol drily.

"I volunteered to help out," Aaron says with a little smile.

"Me too", say I.  "I just helped Carl clear some bush way in the back"

"You mean, BROTHER Carl?" corrects Carol primly.

"We don't stand on ceremony here", announces Carl from the kitchen.  He comes into the breakfast room, bearing a plate laden with chocolate cake. that he places next to the tulips. He has changed into a dark blue button down shirt, and looks somehow smaller, diminished.  

"Well...Carl..." says Carol roundly, in perfect BBC English. "The food here is simply heavenly!"  There is in her green eyes a bit of a mischievous light.  Could she be flirting?

I cannot stop looking at the peacock feather tattooed on Jesús' neck. I don't like tattoos.  But this one is extraordinary.

"Jesús", I say, "Please tell me about your tattoo, the peacock feather.  It's beautiful."

He smiles shyly, and appears to be blushing a little.  "Thank you.  Thank you, that is very kind."  He looks at me with warmth, then looks down at the half-eaten sandwich on his plate.

"Is there a story there?"

"Pardon?"

I remember that English is not his first language. "What inspired you to get it?"

"Oh.  I have always loved peacocks. They are so beautiful."

Aaron interjects, "By the way, do you want to know the Spanish word for peacock?"  He is smiling like a little imp.  "Pavo real. Literally it means royal turkey."

"That is funny", I say, smiling but not laughing.

"Quite," agrees Carol. "Quite."

We have all converged into the kitchen to help Melissa with cleanup.  She is perhaps a bit younger than her brother. She is short and slender with long, light chestnut hair and a brown ball cap that partially obscures her face.  She was wearing the ball cap yesterday when she came to meet me in the village.  She is dressed in skinny jeans and a light green T shirt, which I imagine to be her uniform.  She doesn't talk very much, unlike her brother.  She moves with a deft nimble grace and quickness as she receives from each of us our soiled dishes, rinsing them and putting them in the dishwasher.  She moves and flits like a small bird searching the underbrush for its dinner. I so far haven't seen her smile.

We have been asked to convene at two, in the small reception room again, but I really want some time by myself.  I did not come here with the idea of being very social, but they appear to have some kind of agenda for us here.  I don't even know anything really about this place.  Just that Father Griffin seemed to know them well and think very highly of them.  He appeared to have known Carl some ten or fifteen years ago when he was living in Vancouver.  I assume he was attending the church at that time. I only began attending St James again four years ago, and soon after was working at their hospice for the dying.  It isn't really their hospice, but they do play a role in its operations, and the founder of the hospice also founded the precursor of the local social services agency that also used to employ me.  

I have chosen a book to begin reading.  The Four Gated City, by Doris Lessing.  I've never heard of her, and it is a fat book, some six hundred pages.  How can I read that whole tome, much less any of the other two books here in just one month, especially when I'm expected to socialize with three other strangers as well as our hosts!

I decide to try the new path that Carl and I, mostly Carl, finished before lunch today.  It has a raw, clean look to it.  There are ferns everywhere and foxgloves are already beginning to bloom. A strange hush fills the air, as though all the birds are taking an afternoon siesta.  Here is the clearing, flanked by salmonberry bushes.  The fruit won't begin to appear for another couple of weeks, but the flowers still gleam everywhere like magenta stars.  There is a small granite bench here, with a splendid view of the magnolia.  There is no peacock in sight.  I am still afraid to ask anyone about the peacock.  The bench is cold and hard to my backside, but strangely comforting. I hear a raven croak sonorously overhead.  Then a robin begins to chirp and sing. i might be a little more comfortable in a sweater, but here I can sit in the full sun.  I open the book and begin to read....

The Peacock, 1-3

 

The Peacock

It is one of those perfect spring mornings of early May.  Everything is green, fragrant,

 cool and full of life, colour and birdsong.  I wasn't sure at first about coming here.  Now I know why. 

 I have been needing to get away.  

Working for two years caring for the dying has left me a little bit tired.  

I don't like the word burnout, even if that is 

what the priest is calling it.  But I was getting a bit emotional.  The church is

 being amazingly generous.  

They have fully paid for my stay here for an entire month. 

 This retreat house is actually a mansion out 

in the country in the high hills,, and the grounds are immaculate. 

 I have never in my life stayed in such

 a beautifully landscaped place, in such a lovely room inside such a beautiful house.   

It is rather like a palace.  

This will be my first full day.  The guest master has offered me full run of the place, 

and this is very pleasing to me, 

since I have always wanted to have free rein for exploring a huge sprawling mansion.

it was raining yesterday when I arrived in the evening. 

 I parked my car in the village nearby, where I waited

 in a café for my ride.  For some reason they do not want 

people bringing their vehicles here.  But I have also

 lost my bearings.  Not being behind the steering wheel, 

I cannot really say that I know where I am now.  

I feel truly lost in this place, but for some reason I feel okay with this.  

Breakfast is in ten minutes.  First a very short walk in the garden. 

 This path leads through banks 

of multicoloured tulips.  I see ahead of me what looks like a magnolia tree.  

It is a southern magnolia, with broad leathery dark green leaves.  

The first flower is beginning

 to unfurl, a sensuous luscious creamy-white marvel. 

 And there is something stirring in the tree. 

I approach, and the morning light is streaming onto something

 that is green, gleaming, then blue, 

and now I am looking at a magnificent peacock perched in the magnolia tree.. 

 

The Peacock 2

There are four of us sharing the rectangular oak table in the breakfast room. 

 The room is flooded

 with early sunlight.  The walls are covered with  elegant crimson wallpaper 

and there is an oil painting 

of white and yellow chrysanthemums adorning the perpendicular wall.  

We are three men and one woman.

  She is perhaps sixty, with dyed coppery red hair and large rings 

adorning all her fingers. 

 She is neither fat nor thin, perhaps verging a little bit towards the

 Rubenesque, but appears reasonably 

well-preserved.  She is wearing a burgundy cardigan sweater.  

Her face seems calm, roundish, with gentle 

hazel green eyes.  Apart from a gentle smear of coral lipstick 

adorning her mouth, she doesn't appear

 to be wearing makeup.  As for the two men. i know one of them.  

I remember him from the church.  A strange and beguiling figure of not a little notoriety.

He is older, near the same age as the woman, 

balding but handsome.  He is the only one really attempting

 to make conversation, and is telling us 

about his recent visit to Costa Rica.  He does sound interesting, 

though there is absolutely nothing 

about him that seems to want to attract attention.  

But this person is singularly attractive.  He smiles a lot. 

The other man is younger than me, still in his thirties.   

His dark hair already has a few streaks of gray. 

 It is very straight and lank, just a little bit long and combed carefully behind his ears.  

I have just noticed his eyes, beautiful, brown and doe like.  His nose is rather long and his

 complexion tending towards dark.  perhaps Mexican or Italian?  

Who can tell with people these days?  

I can only guess how they might be perceiving me.  

I am facing the open French doors giving way to the

 sumptuous garden.

The woman introduces herself as Carol, and 

while buttering a triangle of multigrain toast she asks me,

 her voice and diction clearly middle class British,

 "And tell me, please, what is your profession, again?"

It is a sumptuous and elegant breakfast.  There is a handmade pottery

 bowl full of soft boiled eggs, 

and plates of fine porcelain laden with croissants, all kinds of fresh fruit, 

cheeses. and small dishes of

various jams, butter, peanut butter and other nut butters.  

 Orange juice and coffee, of course.  And

 there are us four.  Neither the guest master nor anyone else involved 

in the running of this house is present. 

 The young woman who drove me to the retreat house 

mentioned that we would be on our own a lot,  

though every day in the afternoon if we wanted we could talk to 

one of the staff, if staff they should be called.  

The guestmaster, Brother Carl, showed me a small bell on the table in 

the reception area near the front door. 

 He said that between two and four, I had only to ring the bell, and he or 

someone would be present to talk to me. 

We are not allowed to have our phones with us. 

 We were told to check them in upon arriving. 

 For this reason we are each expected to find creative 

and constructive ways of filling our time, since there is 

no television or radio either.  This place is run by an obscure religious order.

 I don't even know their name. 

The young man with the dark complexion is cracking open an 

egg.after placing it in a delicate crystal egg cup. 

It suddenly occurs to me that I don't know his name.

  Carol, and Aaron, the two elders, introduced themselves 

at the onset.

i was going to respond by saying, my name is.. and suddenly I couldn't remember my name. 

 So, on the spot, I invented a name.  Here I will be known as Cosme.  

The young man, who is seated across from me, as though reading my thoughts, says 

to me in particular, though I trust the others are included, "My name is Jesús."

"Un nombre español",  says Aaron smiling, or a Spanish name.

"Sí.  Nombre español", he says.  And now it occurs to me that 

from the little he has already said

 in English that he does have an accent.

"Would you be Mexican?", Carol chimes.

"i am from Colombia."  He glances up at me, shyly,

 and a small, but profound smile flickers on his face. 

 We are all quiet, as though awaiting a musical concert or

 recital to begin. Jesús smiles again, but is still 

looking just at me, and says, "the food here is very good."

"The food here is awfully good", Carol agrees.

We pass the rest of breakfast in silence.  Then I notice, on the left

side of Jesús´neck, a tattoo.  

It is a peacock feather.

I have a nice room.  The walls are a soft blue and shaded by the 

angles of the ceiling that slopes in many

 directions.   It is in the top floor, the attic, or garret.  This would have

 been the servants' quarters up here, 

where the rooms are a bit small and there are many stairs to climb.

  But the view from here! I can see a 

good part of the garden.  This must be an enormous estate. 

 I see the gardens and landscaped areas

 give way to trees fresh in the green of early May, 

and soon it all melds into a forest climbing the slope of

 the mountains that surround this valley. 

 My single bed is tucked in a corner against the wall. 

 A white cotton bedspread covers it, and it gleams 

there in the dark corner like the freshly crucified

 body of Jesus covered in the shroud.  

  There is a crucifix adorning the wall just above one of the two

 perpendicular windows.  My room is on the corner of the roof, 

and I have two dormer windows, 

each appearing like the inside of a large box.

  Facing the far window is a writing desk with a padded chair.

  Next to the nearer window, just across from the bed, 

is a very old, well stuffed armchair, of a richly 

textured burgundy velour,with deftly carved wood trim on top of the armrests.

It was Father Griffin who had the idea of putting me here for a month. 

He never told me the name of this place,

 or even if it has a name.  I want to send him a text to

 tell him about the wonderful breakfast. 

 And now I remember that I surrendered my phone.

  I couldn't even take any pictures of the wonderful spread. 

 I can't even write him an email, since we are forbidden all

 internet connection here.  Cruel and inhuman punishment, 

methinks!

Father Griffin has loaned me some books so I can occupy my time reading.

  But I can't remember when I 

last even read a book.  I have three books with me that the good priest has loaned me:

 Lilith and Phantastes,

 by George Macdonald, Till We have Faces, by CS Lewis;

 and the Four-Gated City, by Doris Lessing.  

They are spread out on top of the desk, like a display in a bookstore.  

He also provided me with a

 blank notebook and a pen, for keeping a journal, and a sketchbook with coloured pencils. 

 I've always enjoyed doing art.

The bed seems to beckon me, and a nap after breakfast seems a perfect way to pass some

 of this long morning.   Slipping off my shoes, I lie down on the bed.  Breakfast was unnecessarily early,

 at seven this morning.  A delicious weariness is already overtaking

 me and I am going to sleep very well in this little room on the roof...