The Peacock, 1-3

It is one of those perfect spring mornings of early May. Everything is green, fragrant, cool and full of life, colour and birdsong. It is like one of those many false summers that tease and torment us in May and April. Warm temperatures, soft breezes, sunny skies, and in one or two days, it is all taken away again, a rug pulled out under our feet, as the temperatures fall again, it is pouring rain and we are back to wearing sweaters and winter coats again. I wasn't sure at first about coming here. I’m still not sure. Fater Giffin, always at his most persuasive best, strikes again. I have been really needing to get away. Now I know why. I have been needing to get away. Ten years of caring for the dying has left me, shall we say, feeling a little bit tired. I don't like the word burnout, even if that is what the Father Griffin is calling it. But I was getting a bit emotional. And tired. Never being able to get quite enough sleep. Always waking up in the middle of the night, then lying awake till morning. And then coming into work grumpy, testy, nervy. Snapping at Laura my supervisor for no reason at all. God, how could she be so patient with me. The church is being amazingly generous. They have fully paid for my stay here for an entire month. Thanks to Father Griffin and his magic wand. 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. Like the country estate of a wealthy English baron. But we are not in England. This will be my first full day. The guest master whom I have not met in person, 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 roadside diner 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. Alice in Wonderland. Curiouser and curiouser. 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. This seems almost a month early for a southern magnolia. 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 woman who drove me here, Melissa, 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 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 seems to be 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. And I have no idea just where this name has coe from. 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 smile flickers on his face. We are all quiet, as though awaiting a 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...