The architect - Anna Efimenko

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my father – there was nowhere to grow up further.

      The prior called me for a conversation, not otherwise than making amends for a magic ritual that once was disrupted. Having crossed myself and taken a deep breath, I came into his cell.

      “When I become an abbot,” Edward began, as if this was already settled, “the first thing I would do is take your tonsure.”

      “But then I’ll have to leave the monastery…”

      “That’s why I’m in such a hurry,” the Prior quickly looked out into the corridor, making sure that no one could hear us. “Just for you not to get rotten in these walls like me.”

      My earless patron had arranged everything as always, so that fate put me in the right direction. Everything had solved itself out, and wandering around the labyrinth of a pious life, I was again pushed out, spat out, thrown away into the maddening world of human ambitions and sins, squeezing compasses and a set square in my hands.

      “Hey, Anselm!” the prior called me when I was already at the door. “Take it!”

      He threw me a leather bag, stuffed with gold coins. Catching and hiding it in my chest, I asked,

      “What is it?”

      “Greetings from Jorge.”

                                             * * *

      Straight after the morning prayer, at dawn, I asked the gatekeeper to let me out from the monastery.

      “Back to Graben? How much can you run over there?”

      “Not anymore I’m going to the Town. They say, there is a shop of masons and sculptors…”

      “For good?”

      I just nodded in response.

      “Are you not even saying goodbye to your brothers?”

      “I didn’t even say goodbye to Jorge,” I could hardly manage to hold the tears.

      The lad was astonished.

      “Are you really going to build houses and castles?”

      “If they allow me,” I checked the money inconspicuously, finding the purse at my waist.

      “Godspeed, Anselm. Godspeed!” the gatekeeper shouted, closing the gate of the Abbey behind me.

      I ran downstairs. One, two, three, let’s run down the hill!

                                             * * *

      I asked the girl from the market to get me some clothes that layman was used to wearing. While I was hiding away in the poultry house of her parents, she purchased what decent young men were used to wearing who didn’t commit themselves to God, loosening the purse strings of my “assets”.

      Clothing for Anselm

      The chemise was sewn from flax. It was a shirt hanging on my lean body, with a wide neckline and a rear vent making it easier to move. Then, there was a cotte, a tunic that was knee-length or lower. It was made of fine woollen cloth and coloured red. The cotte covered my legs to the ankles. Above all, it I was supposed to wear a surcoat, a long robe without sleeves, which was my favorite bright blue color to make a growing contrast to the cotte. I put on comfortable and soft, embroidered leather shoes with pointed toes instead of worn sandals. Finally, the image of a townsman was complete with a light cap with ties at the sides.

      I had to throw off the monastic vestments and leave it on the floor as a closed chapter, the last era, be past the point. I felt embarrassed in front of the girl.

      “Turn away, please.”

      “What for?” she was amused with my request.

      “Because I can’t…”

      The girl came closer, and, passing her hand around my neck, grabbed the hood.

      “Can anyone ban you now? Your old moron, the Abbot went into the pot, you don’t take a back seat for anyone.”

      My ears started dinging.

      “What?… What did you call Jorge?”

      My heart was thumping quietly inside my head. Suddenly, I wanted to kill the bitch. To grab and strangle, while no one was around. How dare was she to say such things?!? Was the whole world full of such people of low moral, no honour, and no conscience? And how could I resist them all? Trying not to come in contact without need?

      The same action had to be repeated twice during the day. Breaking free from the hugs of an ungodly saleswoman, I left the house and silently left her yard. I left Graben in silence.

      The Lord saved me from temptation. I was so happy not just to kiss her pink face. I was so happy not to belong to her.

      They were probably already going to an evening prayer service at the top. God’s grace! I hated this senseless gathering of people being lost!

      I was so happy not to sing with them voluntarily. I was so happy not to be with them anymore, and I was so happy not to upset the father with such decisions. Their sorrowful chorus sounded false, put-one and empty, but absolutely canonical part of the service. My lonely mourning for Jorge was ongoing by foot along the dusty road to the Big Town. How many judges, foresters, prévôts and road rangers would I have to drag through your last gift?

      Who did you leave me with, Jorge, why didn’t you wait? The worst thing that could be done was tiling the roof early in the morning when my father was leaving us. No, we had to pray, think about the highest justice, help the cellarer with farming, but just not to be involved in our own affairs! Nothing would ever come out, it wasn’t on time; I was in a hurry to get out of here, away from Graben, from the Abbey, from myself. Don’t be so judgy, Father. “What did you get dirty with?” Mortar, Jorge pronounced the word as “motor.” “Your ‘motor’ is always all over the place, even on your underwear. Shame on you.”

      The evening enveiled the valley. I was moving to the Town. And where did Jorge go?

      Oh, I didn’t want to know that.

      The oaks settled their wide leaves, bragging, hissing in the wind along the oak woods – ssssss, ssstoyp! They say “stop”, “fear”, “strange”, “wasp”. It would bite right away. And everything was spinning, spinning, spinning, a great late afternoon on the wheel of the year. Jorge was in the garden, on monastic garden beds. A horrible burnt house, do you remember? You always speed up, passing it, when you climb a mountain, into a forest, to a spring. Don’t pull the reins so hard, Anselmo. Eat well, Anselmo. Harness. Take it to the altar. Put benches. Run to the cellar, you stupid fool. Well, quickly, well, whom I speak to. Stop, strange fear, wasp caught your hair! Wave goodbye to me. Farewell on the high window.

      The trees asked, “Where are you going, strange boy?”

      And I answered,

      “I need,

      I really need to,

      Truly, I really need

      to go.”

      Chapter 5.

      Bread

      The gardens were grabbing me with their meager arms begging, ladies grabbed at me in heavy dresses with their speedy hands, zealous raving girls with rouged in the cheeks, licking their lips. Noblemen hired me to build strong castles, to the criteria of their smarting vanity; creaking doors of dark confession boxes being slammed grabbed me, and the empty eye-sockets of graves being dug invited me – but I continued to look up but not down.

      The Town had always been corrupt.

      Enclosed

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