The monk
"I will not serve that which I no longer believe in, be it called my home, my country, or my church; I will attempt to express myself in some form of life or art with the greatest possible freedom and fullness, using for my defense the only weapons I am allowed to use: silence, exile, and cunning."
“A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man” - James Joyce ____________________________________________________
Who said that words like ugly duckling, faggot, or sick don’t hurt, don’t break, don’t bleed, and don’t paralyze as much as, or even more than, a physical blow?
For Bennedict, everything was routine. A painful routine that seemed never to change. Classes at the boarding school were torture. Not because he didn’t like to learn. Bennedict especially enjoyed literature, philosophy, and art classes. They had the power to transport him to another world. A world far removed from the malicious stares of his classmates and their mocking laughter.
There had never been any physical aggression, until that moment. But often, the derogatory words—dirty, effeminate, damned—hurt more than any blow. And so Bennedict lived in his own personal hell until a couple of words, involuntarily reached his ears during recess: Brother Leopold... And accompanying those words, there were two eyes that, for a brief but unforgettable second, gazed at him from far.
Bennedict sensed it... With the arrival of this new Professor, nothing would ever be the same again...
Bennedict couldn’t sleep that night. But his sleeplessness wasn’t due to that deep, powerful, enigmatic, mesmerizing gaze; nor to that face, a mixture of angel and demon, nor to the stifled sighs that the strange Professor’s appearance elicited from some of the other professors.
His sleeplessness stemmed from a phrase he’d overheard from the group that constantly bullied him:
“...we’ll have to be careful with the new monk... he’s got a bad record... They say he will be expell from his abady for excessive anger... Can you guys imagine that? A violent monk!!??”
Bennedict repeated those words in his mind, as if they were a mantra echoed throughout the night. That gang of bullies was numerous, but they only picked on the weak. That involuntary display of fear was a shot of hope for Bennedict, who, without knowing how or when, would try to be closer this new monk even if this monk didn’t know it...
Bennedict followed Brother Leopold all day, always from the shadows. The boarding school was enormous, a complex of 12th-century buildings, a mix of Baroque and Neoclassical styles, which held more secret places than known ones for the students. Except for Bennedict, who, forced to flee his bullies, had unwittingly discovered hundreds of potential hiding places: small, unfamiliar rooms, corridors with camouflaged exits, and hidden statues that would open passages in the limestone walls if touched in specific spots. And using this mental map of hidden places, Bennedict managed to follow the new Professor, for hours.
And that night he couldn’t sleep either, because an accidental face-to-face encounter would keep him awake until dawn.
The second night, he fell asleep, exhausted, in a tumultuous and disordered sleep: he was walking down a corridor of the old building. He didn't recognize the place, but strangely, he was certain that those dark, cracked brick walls were part of the boarding school.
Small cells, with their heavy wrought-iron doors, lined both sides; all dark, all silent.
But the last cell, on the left, allowed a faint, crimson light to peek through the half-open door.
In his dream, Benedict, seeing that glimmer, quickened his pace, feeling his body ignite with a strange emotion.
He knew that the monk he had been secretly following for the past few days was waiting for him inside.
Just a couple more steps, and finally what he had been fantasizing about for endless hours would become reality: he would lick his bare skin until he was satiated, bite those forbidden lips until perhaps they bled, slide his eager hand down, as he had been almost obsessively desiring, and with movements he had never before performed on others but had performed on himself countless times, he would drive him mad with pleasure.
And while in his dream that fantasy began to unfold, in the solitary room where he slept, young Benedict slid his hand to his groin and imitated the same desperate movements from his dream. Lost in a frenzy that seemed to burn him, he didn't stop until his entire bed was soaked with the remnants of that wet dream that would repeat itself countless nights in a row.
“Faggot! Where have you been? We’ve been looking for you for hours. If you don’t come here, we’ll come looking for you...”
That unpleasant voice echoed down the long hallway. Bennedict quickened his pace to a secret hiding place behind a marble statue. He bit his lip, realizing that the threat had reached Brother Leopold’s ears, who was just leaving the classroom with some students. The group scoured the hallway, forcing open locked doors, and after exchanging a few words, decided to search elsewhere.
Bennedict sighed in relief as he watched them walk away. But then strong hands pushed him back, and a deep but gentle voice whispered in his ear:
“Don’t come out yet, wait until they’re gone...”
Bennedict lost track of time. He couldn’t tell if it had been just a few seconds or a couple of whole hours, with Brother Leopold’s hand over his mouth. And just as Brother Leopold had appeared, he disappeared. Leaving young Bennedict in a strange ecstasy, still hidden in the corner, feeling Professor’s warm breath on his face and those tiger-like, challenging eyes on his own.
And when Bennedict remembered all that, he was sure he would never be able to sleep again. Bennedict spent the entire next day, between classes, following the new monk.
It was a pity that Professor Leopold’s classes were only for an exclusive group of select students... ”Theurgy,” “Nostradamus and his prophecies,” and “Luciferianism in art”... He read the names of the courses several times, thinking that the lack of sleep was making him see impossible words. From the age of nine, he was a student at that Catholic boarding school.
But when he looked up from his registration forms and saw the abbot in charge in the distance, he thought he understood everything. Brother Clement, as the new headmaster was called, had a reputation as a reformer among his friends and as a heretic among his enemies.
Bennedict ended the day exhausted. He had tried to bump into Brother Leopold in some hallway, without success, while he had also tried to avoid the gang that bullied him, with very little success...
He collapsed onto his bed, knowing he had to throw away his uniform. It had been ruined after they had spilled the entire bowl of dinner sauce on it just as the teachers were distracted separating two students who were fighting violently at the other end of the dining hall.
And just before falling into a deep sleep, Bennedict recalled Brother Leopold’s deep, mesmerizing gaze and promised himself that he wouldn’t let another day go by without those tiger-striped eyes looking at him again...
The next day passed very quickly. The sun was already setting when Bennedict had to accept that he would never see those mesmerizing eyes again.
He only caught glimpses of Brother Leopold from afar, three or four times. And only once the new Professor seemed to look in his direction. But then Bennedict felt a sudden wave of shame, and instead of greeting him—which he had planned since the night before—he bolted in the opposite direction, disappearing down the first hallway he found.
But he was so unlucky that the gang spotted him and gave chase. Several hallways later, and a couple of ascents and descents up and down dimly lit staircases, Bennedict managed to lose them... and lose himself as well.
Exhausted and panicked, once he was sure they weren’t following him anymore, he collapsed, hiding in an old, disused bathroom on the third floor. And he began to cry silently. But suddenly he heard, very close to him:
“Breathe... They’re gone ...”
Bennedict lifted his head and, to his disbelief, found himself staring into those mesmerizing eyes he’d been daydreaming about.
It took him a couple of seconds to calm his breathing, and only then did he notice that Brother Leopold’s torso was bare, his dark habit dress rolled up in his hand.
Bennedict couldn’t tear his gaze away from monk’s chest as he struggled to his feet. That broad chest and those muscular arms seemed to drive him mad, for he stumbled and, lost, collapsed back into the corner.
Then he felt Professor’s strong hands grip his and his warm breath close to his face.
They stared at each other for long seconds. And Bennedict felt it hard to breathe. He couldn’t think of anything but those eyes, so he lowered his gaze to Brother Leopold’s chest, trying to break the spell.
And that’s when he saw it: a strange and enigmatic phrase tattooed on monk’s chest:
-NON SERVIAM-
