The Condition of Muzak Read Online Free PDF Page B

his left, the second part of Messiaen’s
Turangalîla Symphony
. He pressed his head against his collar and cut off The Beatles, looking enquiringly back at the Mother Superior. “A record?”
    “Oh, no!” The Mother Superior was amused. Behind her the soft little novice giggled.
    They reached the main building and climbed steps into quiet passages, arriving at last at the second floor and the Mother Superior’s office which looked out onto the garden. It seemed to Jerry, surreptitiously sniffing the air, that the infirmary was nearby. At her desk the Mother Superior lowered herself into her high-backed Windsor chair, signing for Jerry to sit in the chair’s twin facing her. “It is a very great pleasure to see you again, Father Jeremiah. You are looking well.”
    “And you, too, Sister Eugenia. Congratulations on your appointment…”
    “I pray that I will fulfil…”
    “… there can be no question…”
    “You are kind. It seems such a short time since you took confession at Harrogate. How greatly our lives have changed! Your own responsibilities…”
    He dismissed them. “I’m very grateful for what you’ve been able to do.”
    “The poor child. I was glad to help. She’s perfectly safe here and will be until—?”
    “Eventually, of course, it will be possible for her to leave.”
    “How is Father—?”
    “We no longer communicate, I fear. But I hear he is in good health. In France.”
    “He has similar duties to your own, then? There were rumours of dissolution…”
    “Nobody’s perfect.”
    She was full of sympathy. It was almost as if she restrained herself from reaching across the desk and touching his hand. “The burden…” she murmured.
    “It’s born of joy.”
    Her eyes shone. “You have a vocation.”
    “I’m due for one. I hope so.”
    “Oh, you have!” Her smooth features were radiant. “You’re an inspiration to us all.”
    He accepted this with modest dignity.
    She reached into a desk drawer and produced a ledger. “I regret the formality.” She found the appropriate page and offered him the book. He removed a large Mont Blanc fountain pen from his inside breast pocket and signed his name and title in full, giving his usual tasteless flourish to the initials S. and J. She looked with pleasure upon the signature for a moment before putting the book away. She took some keys from the desk. “These are such dangerous times. You risk so much in coming.”
    “I gain much.” Once again he heard the sound of music. This time they were playing Schoenberg’s
Pierrot Lunaire
.
    “You’re too kind.”
    They left the office, passed the infirmary, descended three flights of steps. Jerry realised, by the artificial lighting, that they were under ground. This passage, with its stout doors at regular intervals on both sides, all painted the same olive green, was much colder. The Mother Superior stopped at the end of the passage, the last door. She unlocked it. “I’ll leave you with her. She needs your help. I am so glad…”
    “Thank you.”
    “When shall I…?”
    “In two hours.”
    “Very well.” Another admiring, insinuating smile and she had departed. Jerry pushed the door open.
    His sister Catherine looked up from her iron-frame bed. A little daylight entered the cell from a small window near the roof, a single exquisite ray, but she had been reading with the help of an electric lamp, its 40-watt bulb shielded by a shade of green glass. She looked much better than when he had last seen her. Her hair was pure blonde again and her skin was rosy. She was wearing her shift and she automatically reached for her white habit, hanging over the chair beside the bed, before she grinned and dropped her hand. She spread her arms wide. He closed the door and bolted it. He stood over her, grinning down, all his lost innocence momentarily restored.
    “You don’t half look sinister,” she said. “What are you playing at today?”
    “I’m the tortured priest, aren’t I?”