115. Cover

Julio left the chapel and I remained with the feeling I'd been taught a lesson. Well, I had indeed been kidding him a little. My point was honest, but I didn't tell Julio that I painted the glasses on St. Lucy sometime in the '80's.

When my mother died and left me a small amount of money, the estate lawyer sent a check which naturally fell into the hands of the abbot. Times were good then and instead of his grabbing it for the general welfare of the monks, Sparky told me I could use it as I liked, but of course not in conflict with my vow of poverty.

I was aware the “Night Chapel” had been completely unused for so many years and it seemed such a waste of space. Under the arched attic roof, the small room could with the right treatment be cathedral-like, a quiet place for meditation high up in the Chapter House.  Before plumbing, the “Night Chapel” was where you went to relieve yourself in the middle of the night. The bare room contained nothing but chamber pots set out on the floor under a plain small window used for ventilation. In the morning the full vessels were  lowered by rope to the front porch for emptying, and I always wondered if that had started the rot of the porch's beams. When toilets were installed throughout the monastery in 1923, the Night Chapel was never used again. Possibly because of its history, no plans to convert the room to other uses were ever offered.

“Why not turn it into a real Night Chapel?” I said to Sparky, who had replaced Lord Vader (Brother Jean D'Arc). “It'll be small and for anyone's use at night. They can just walk up from the second floor.”

“Well, they can just walk down to the first floor to the real chapel,” he said. “They have to do that for matins and lauds anyway.”

“I think there's enough money from my mother to buy a pew and a stained glass window.” I said. “I have some carpentry skills and I'll do the work myself.”

“If you want to, Jesse, go ahead,” he said without much enthusiasm. “But why St. Lucy?”

“Because she's on sale,” I said, with perfect monkish logic. Half price, for no apparent reason, although I was not completely truthful.

St. Lucy's outfit … her bustier gown as Harpo calls it … didn't appear all that revealing in the catalog, but the photo was only representative of work done by the painter each time a window was ordered from Bulgaria. The reportedly famed Bozhidar Boyko of a town near Sofia named Bozhurishte may have had a bit more rakia with his lunch on the day he executed our window.

Sparky said it should be easy for anyone to paint the dress higher on the saint's chest but I should have gotten his prior approval on the stained glass, since the window was a permanent addition to “his” monastery.

“Your monastery?” I said, testosterone rising.

“Well, certainly more mine as the Abbot than yours as the local monk pornographer!” he said.

“I think if everyone using the chapel had concentrated on their meditation,” I said, “no one would have noticed her attire.”

“You do, huh?” said Sparky. “A dance hall girl flying around on the wall while you're praying? Look, Jesse, you did a great job on the room and it will prove useful, I'm sure. Just put some more paint on the lady, OK?”

“Sure,” I said. “I'll do that.

So I painted glasses on her.