Nightmare in Burgundy Read Online Free PDF Page A

ninety-four. He ran his index finger slowly down the page.
    “Psalm 101 from the Book of David. This text is often called ‘Prayer in times of misfortune.’ It’s in fact the prayer of an afflicted person who has grown weak and is pouring out a lament before the Lord. The psalm is very well known and is often quoted, too. I am surprised that you didn’t remember it.”
    “I have lapses, Brother Clément. I don’t mind admitting it. And it’s been quite a while since I have immersed myself in the Bible.”
    “Sometimes the psalm is referred to as Psalm 102, especially in the Hebrew Bible, which predates the Greek Bible and the Vulgate by centuries. Let’s look at the New Jerusalem Bible , which most Catholics use today, where it’s Psalm 102.”
    Cooker leaned over the narrow table to get a better look at the opened volumes. He put on his reading glasses and knit his brows.
    “Indeed, my translation is not so bad,” he said without hiding a certain satisfaction.
    “It’s well done. You did not suffer in vain on the school benches. The phrases you copied down in Vougeot correspond to the first verse of the psalm, and the ones from Gilly correspond to the fourth.”
    “That could mean that two are missing. They might be scribbled on some other walls. Who knows? Maybe in another village.”
    “Not necessarily. Maybe they were deliberately omitted.”
    For my days are vanishing like smoke,
my bones burning like an oven;
like grass struckby blight, my heart is withering,
I forget to eat my meals.
From the effort of voicing my groans
my bones stick out through my skin.
    Brother Clement whistled with excitement. “Read the next part. Very interesting.”
    I am like a desert-owl in the wastes,
a screech-owl among ruins,
I keep vigil and moan
like a lone bird on a roof.
All day long my enemies taunt me,
those who once praised me now use me as a curse.
    Leaning over the monk’s shoulder, Cooker read the words in a low voice. His lips were hardly moving, as if he were praying and absorbed in the soothing rhythm of the chant.
    “There you go. This is the passage that intrigues me the most,” the monk said, straightening up with difficulty.
    “This one?” Cooker asked. “Why a desert owl?”
    “I suppose you wouldn’t have those in your native England,” the monk responded with amusement.
    “I would have just translated that as a pelican.” The winemaker shrugged.
    “That would not necessarily have been wrong. In medieval Europe, the pelican was thought to be particularly attentive to her young, to the point of providing her own blood by opening up her breast when no other food was available. Pelican or owl, that doesn’t change the problem.”
    “I don’t know what to make of all this,” Cooker confessed in a vexed tone. “Why would someone be covering walls with verses from a psalm?”
    “Maybe it should be seen as a plea, a way of addressing God or man. I don’t know. This is about someone who surely has serious reasons to complain.”
    “Still, there are other ways to express your feelings.”
    “It seems all our big cities are covered with graffiti,” the monk said between coughs. “Some people see it as a youthful protest, a cry for help, or even a cry of desperation. Some of it is even considered art. These days, people can find very absurd ways to express their discontent.”
    “It’s true that the method, writing with spray paint, makes it seem similar to other vandalism, except the author knows Latin and refers to the Old Testament. You must agree, it is somewhat unusual.”
    “I don’t know what to say, Benjamin. You’d have to study the text in order to decipher the code and uncover the hidden meaning. There must be one. At least I hope there is. In the body of the Psalter you find everything and its opposite: threats, confessions of sin, petitions, vows of chastity, grievances, gratitude—everything.”
    “You’re right. You’d need to deconstruct this psalm in order