São Bento (L2.12)

Lavinia was still feeling more than a little anxious about her decision to leave academe as she had known it and to embark on another search for the right direction. She instinctively went to Santa Escolástica in San Martiño Pinario, to meditate on the matter. Or to have a conversation, despite the holy woman’s usual silence. It was a comfort just to sit nearby. Or to come near and see how poorly painted the altar beneath her was, at floor level.

Lavinia might have first come to the saint through the poem by Rosalía de Castro that bore her name, but by now she had developed her own relationship with the holy woman. It had taken a few weeks, but Lavinia couldn’t help feeling drawn by the name - Escolástica, Scholastica - about whom she knew nothing. Now she had a better idea, although it seemed little had been published about her life and so little was to be learned. 

A woman with a promising name but with no evidence to bear it out. A silence around her, focused mostly on her support of her brother, founder of the Benedictine order.

Lavinia stood up, knees stiff after nearly and hour of watching Saint Scholastica, who was apparently unperturbed by the cherubim flitting about her and heavy gray clouds resembling rippled icing on cupcakes. 

The researcher needed guidance, not entirely of a scholarly nature, and knew she had to see Pilar the Librarian. She wanted to confess her attraction for the unremarkable figure in San Martiño, odd as that sounded, because she was not Catholic nor religious. It was her name.

Unremarkable and unworshipped, Santa Escolástica. Yet there, somewhere, in the background. On the edge of something.

Pilar was glad to see Lavinia and asked if she had done any more with the Quintana dos Mortos research. She had helped locate some materials on the broad square that lies between the Porta Santa or Holy Door façade of the cathedral, and the also imposing wall of San Paio. Lavinia explained that she had done some work, but was still piecing together some connections that would, hopefully, put it in a broader context. That might lead to some answers. The quintana, the square that had belonged to the dead, was more than an empty space that had given up its bones and shrouds, its ancient diseased.

Then the former academic mentioned two other women from the States, Shanna and Vi. 

“They had to do a lot of what we call soul-searching too, just like I did. It looks like they’re doing a better job of finding what they’re looking for.”

Shanna and Vi had also come looking for answers to questions in their lives and possibly a place to put down roots. They had all met for the first time in Galicia. Lavinia did not bring up the fact that the two women had decided to create a business to internationalize Galician literature. She knew Pilar the Librarian was well aware of their business venture.

The break in the conversation was unusual, but Pilar was not offended. She smiled and asked, in her own non sequitur:

“I recall you made a trip to Coimbra. What ever came out of that? Did you find what you were looking for?”

Lavinia thought Pilar already knew, so was puzzled by the question. She hadn’t told anyone she had gone there. She was also confused because she knew Pilar herself had gone to the Portuguese city with its numerous monuments, the year before. She must have been looking for documents. She might have wanted to inquire about a purchase, expecting a refusal. Or she might have requested a digital copy.

Lavinia didn’t have long to feel that puzzled, because the librarian had another question:

“Have you thought about the São Bento connection to your research?”

“Umm, you’re not being clear…” replied Lavinia.

She knew of the station in Porto. Everybody knew about the station. It was a UNESCO heritage site. Quaint, with its large blue and white ceramic tiles. Many buildings had the tiles - they were a trademark of Portugal - but these were unique because of their size. The train station would resist being modernized for years to come.

“Sorry about that vague question. It’s a bit tangled, hard to know where to start. I was referring to Escolástica as Saint Benedict’s twin sister. Benedict who is also Benedicto, Benedetto, Bieito, Bento…

Lavinia: 

“But why did you make the leap to Porto or my Coimbra trip?”

She was truly curious. It didn’t seem related to Lavinia’s concern for going to see the statue of Scholastica in San Martiño so often. She hadn’t been brought up to do that, had never learned how.

Pilar continued: 

“Well, you know the order in San Paio, which faces the Quintana, its wall forming the eastern side of the square, right?” Maybe now things will be tied together, make sense. Lavinia hoped so.

“Yes. They’re Benedictine nuns who entered San Paio in 1499, I believe.”

“There’s a book out, As desterradas. Do you know it? It’s a play.” Pilar asked.

The librarian still seemed to be tugging on several threads, weaving themes together, as her questions continued. It had begun to feel like a quiz to Lavinia, who answered:

“No, but I’ve heard of it. About nuns being forced out of their convent, isn’t it? The author is Carmen Varela, I think.” 

To which Pilar responded:

“Yes, and you really must read it. How about Fauces feroces by Emma Pedreira? What a title: Voracious. It’s a novel, fairly recent.”

“I’ve read part of it, but would need to start over.”

“Anyway, you might recall the protagonist is Sor Benedetta. She’s famous for having broken rules of chastity, with another nun. Her writings have not attracted a lot of attention.”

This still didn’t seem like an organized conversation, but Pilar was continuing:

“The reason the station is called São Bento is because it is built on the site of the convent of that order that once existed there. It was from the early sixteenth century. It was occupied by Benedictine nuns, dedicated to Sao Bento, but in the 1830s there were people, including one Joaquín António de Aguiar, who wanted the religious orders gone. It took until 1892 or so for the remaining nun to die.”

Lavinia didn’t like the story. How must the nun have felt, knowing the city fathers were breathing down her neck, waiting for her to stop breathing? She liked even less hearing Pilar’s description of what happened afterward: the convent had quickly been demolished; somebody had split up the valuable items, sending them to different sites. Why the need to erase this history? Of course the more than twenty thousand blue and white tiles help distract visitors. She herself had been impressed by the station’s beauty, never going beyond that to think of how it had come to be constructed.

Pilar was continuing her commentary, still in a haphazard manner, or so it seemed: 

“Take Saint Anthony of Padua now…” was her next tack. Her companion was thoroughly disoriented, even though she suspected something was behind the assortment of questions.

“What are you talking about now? An Italian saint?”

“I’m trying to say… I mean, he wasn’t Italian. He was actually Portuguese, but not many realize it because of how he was known later on. He wasn’t from Padua; he was from Lisbon. Anyway, he is one of the saints mentioned as having the capacity for bilocation. That’s why I brought him up.

Lavinia shuddered. She was becoming drawn to the idea as a result of her research. Being able to be in two places at once. However, she hadn’t expected this thread to come up. Entangled, indeed. Nobody had heard her talk about the phenomenon of being in two places at once. She had said nothing, afraid of being laughed at.

Pilar said then:

“And he brought São Bento to Portugal. That was my point. Without Saint Anthony, who knows when São Bento, Saint Benedict, would have arrived in the country?” 

Except this attribution might or might not have been accurate, Lavinia was certain. She also wasn’t overly interested in male ecclesiastical history. It all, they all, sounded the same. Lavinia was more focused on the station, which she still remembered vividly: 

“Everyone always stands and stares at the tiles.”

She knew. She had been there twice. She too had been drawn into the shiny walls, relatively recent, deftly designed by the best tile-maker in the country, reflecting the history of a nation that had always, at least since 1640, known who it was. Jorge Colaço had created a work of art, more impressive because it was set in a modest train station and would force that station to resist the modernization that occurred in every other station. The value of art. Of telling stories.

Of remembering.

Pilar agreed the times were impressive and said they depicted scenes from Portuguese history. If Lavinia were interested, she could recommend an article or two on the tiles’ maker and their content.

Lavinia hadn’t known about the actual scenes, so entranced had she been by the fresh, shiny surfaces framed in gray stone.

Pilar noted there were images of power, victory. Of Portuguese men over men who were from lands further south. Of royal marriages. Struggle and rank. Pride.

Lavinia thought she should say good-bye before Pilar noticed her confusion. She didn’t want to be the dumb foreigner and wanted to try to follow the leads - she knew that’s what they were - the librarian had offered her, trusting in her ability to sort it all out. She also knew she had to return to the little São Bento station to look more closely at its walls and their reflections. What they reflected according to the ideology of the architect and artist.

Of pride and control.

In the end, Lavinia could not go, for reasons she chose not to explain. She had made all the plans with Shanna and Vi, telling them that one cannot understand Galicia without knowing a little about Portugal. First-hand. There was also the link to Saint Benedict, who was Scholastica’s twin brother, albeit the more famous. The other two women knew how disappointed she was; they could tell from her voice and her eyes, which were a deeper hazel than usual.

Shanna and Vi went to Porto and consulted documents in the university library as well as in the archives of monasteries, convents, and churches. They thought about what other places might provide information that would explain why Pilar the Librarian had seemed to encourage the trip. 

Just to see a train station, even if a UNESCO site? Not likely. They didn’t know Pilar, but didn’t think she’d recommend such an odd reason for an excursion. Something in her relationship with Lavinia must be the motive. However, they had nothing to bring back besides the historical data available in the sources they had located in Porto. Then it occurred to them that they might be looking in the wrong place.

Shanna and Vi spent one entire week during which they went at all hours to look to the station. Then they realized, probably between three and four in the morning, that it might not be an issue of looking. It was easy to look, and often people look but don’t see. That almost sounded biblical to them, so they quickly put it aside.

Quoting the Bible wasn’t going to help them achieve the goal of comprehending the real significance of the station.

Then something happened.

The two women both heard the low, whisper-thin sounds of a woman at the same time. Sometimes the syllables - wispy, fragile, rather like a mist - turned threatening, then reverted to something like self-pity or fervent prayer. 

The sounds weren’t echoes, weren’t reflections off the porcelain, didn’t traverse the tiles and granite from the wall behind them. They fused with the air, but neither Vi nor Shanna managed to capture and specific words. It might have been Latin or Portuguese, but they didn’t know how to speak either language. They knew how to read both and had, during their search for information in Porto.

When they returned, they met with Lavinia. Everything had gone just as anticipated, the reading and obtaining of copies had been accomplished. The site plan for the station’s construction was very conspicuous among the items presented by Shanna and Vi. So was the voice that had permeated the walls or rather the air of São Bento station. 

Lavinia felt she should call Pilar. She was beginning to see further into the connection. She didn’t know how she felt about that.

Pilar came over right away. She had heard from Lavinia what had happened to the pair who had gone to Porto and spent a good deal of time looking for information. She knew that in order to understand the connection to Santiago, to help Lavinia understand why she was feeling what seemed to be odd attractions to a statue or a shadow, the ties to São Bento had to be felt. Not seen, but heard, in a language that might not be distinguishable at first.

Maria da Glória Dias Guimarães was representative of something that all three of the recent arrivals in Galicia were also trying to locate. They were looking to anchor themselves, to see if they could have roots. 

“The last nun, Maria da Glória Dias Guimarães, had defended her right to remain rooted in the convent that had been her home. When she couldn’t defend herself against death, men quickly moved in to demolish a building not yet four centuries old. They built atop it a station so appealing that the history below it simply disappeared. Nobody wanted to consider how hard the nun must have fought to stay alive, even in her infinite solitude, because she believed in the rule of ora et labora, pray and work.”

“Go on, please,” said the other three.

“It’s not about the actual rule, set forth by Benedict, twin brother of Scholastica, is it? Of course not. It’s not about faith, but about faithfulness.”

To which the three women listening to Pilar said:

“And you think the last nun had to have left a record of her life. That there’s a story still to be told by or about her.”

At which point Pilar the Librarian looked knowingly at Lavinia and said in a soft voice:

“Maybe the Graystockings have more work to do.”

*****

Editor’s Note:

To readers who don’t know who the Graystockings are, please refer to the list of stories on Reedsy, particularly the one titled, naturally, “The Graystockings.”