I waited, but God remained silent.
In that moment of deep despair my master leant in my direction a little and whispered, ‘A pair of organs.’
‘Organs.’ I was shaken out of my misery for a moment.
‘The instrument, boy, the instrument,’ he said jerking his head towards a massive structure of pipes to our right and behind us. I had not noticed, but a young monk had been
playing it, accompanying the service.
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘but I only see one, master.’
‘Don’t be a goose, Christian, they are called a pair because they reproduce the operation of the lungs.’
‘It is very large indeed,’ I whispered back.
‘Large!’ he replied amused, for this afforded him the opportunity of instructing me further. ‘I have heard of such an instrument at Winchester cathedral so majestic in size that it has no less than four hundred pipes! Indeed its keys are so large that the organists are forced to strike them with fists protected only by padded gloves!’
I smiled despite my anxieties, because it is characteristic of the young that although they suffer a great deal it is only for the shortest time, unlike the old, who for a long time do not feel their passions so intensely. And so it was that my master, being the cause of my misery, was also albeit unknowingly its alleviator.
After the benedicamus Domino, we answered ‘Deo gratias’, and the brothers filed out in silence. We remained seated and, once alone, my master drew my attention to the master of music.
The brother stood by the altar, going through some musical element of the liturgy with a young acolyte, both engrossed in their duty.
‘Yes,’ I answered, remembering the spectres that I had seen when he gave his discourse the night Ezekiel had died, and so for this reason I eyed him suspiciously.
‘Mashallah . . . he is a genius,’ Andre said, and I wondered if he intended this to be complimentary, for not unlike his outward demeanour whose characteristics were often contradictory, he would sometimes say one thing, where he meant its exact opposite.
‘He is a musical genius. Come . . .’ He stood, tugging at my arm, and as we walked to the altar, at that moment, the young acolyte began to sing.
What a voice it was! It was as if all the choirs of heaven had been embodied in one individual. I stood transfixed. My master also paused to listen as the boy sang in a voice whose liquid perfection was almost intoxicating to the ear.
The master of music had his back to us, his arms outstretched, swaying gently to the waves, the flow of currents created by the holiest of human instruments.
The young man was singing the first responsory of Advent Sunday.
‘Beholding from afar, lo, I see the coming power of God, and a cloud covering the whole earth. Go to meet him, saying: ‘Tell us if you are the one who will rule over the people of Israel.’’
To which the older man responded. ‘All you men of earth and sons of men, both rich and poor . . .’
Without turning, as though expecting us, and, in anticipation of our approach, the master of music then said, ‘Dulcis cantilena divini cultus, quae corda fidelium mitigat ac laetificat.’ With this he turned to greet us, fixing my master with his energetic blue eyes filled almost to the brim with tears. He was slight and tall, with fine features though his nose was more prominent than classically acceptable. His every movement seemed strangely fluid, in harmony with some inner music.
‘Jubilate Deo, omnis terra servite Domino in laetitia,’ my master replied, quoting eloquently from the great book.
‘Amen,’ the brother concluded.
There was a pause in which we further listened to the sweet voice, and then my master added, ‘The sound of singing does indeed make one glad . . . as you have said, even during such difficult times.’
‘Especially during such difficult times, preceptor,’ he said with a shy smile. ‘It is truly a blessing and a miracle that man imbibed with the spirit, can so humbly express it.’ He interrupted the singer, commenting on the inflection of a note with firm and yet kind authority, then waved the boy on and once again turned his attention to us.
‘You are the master of music?’ my master asked.
‘Yes. I am brother Sacar, and this,’ he gave his singing pupil a truly loving look, ‘is my finest student, though he be my only one. I have been humbled by the grace of our abbot, who has entrusted me with the music for our convent. I must tell you though that my predecessor was the most learned, and indeed inspired, master of music. If I know anything it has come from those venerated lips,’ his voice trembled a little.
‘I ask because I mean to express my admiration for your work,’ Andre said, ‘your music seems far more beautiful than any I have heard.’