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COPYRIGHT 2001 Fairleigh Dickinson University
Maureen came in today to talk about some property the order has been forced to sell on the other side of the city. Afterwards when I was helping her on with her coat I told her I liked her. I didn't carry it off very well--the words came out too easily--but she was good about it. She gave me a peck on the cheek and said, `Yes, we've known each other a long time.' I know I said it partly out of guilt because I have never really liked her. She has a righteous, domineering streak that has always left me cold. But mostly it had to do with trying to kick-start myself out of this depression or whatever it is I've been going through since Chusok, the annual Thanksgiving holiday they have here.
That was a month ago. Some of the nuns had come over for lunch. There was roast beef and potatoes made specially as well as kimchi and the usual side dishes for anyone who wanted. Seven of our men were there and Maureen had brought over four of her crowd--two of the older ones along with the young Australian nun who works in the hospital and a novice; I guessed she was from the Philippines. It wasn't bad, being able to talk in English, female company and so on, but I think most of us hated it. Chusok is not a good time for us. Everyone migrates to their hometown for the festivities and we are left by ourselves to face the fact that no matter how long we've been here we never fit in.
There were the usual tensions at the table between the old and the young, the Irish and the non-Irish (more than half of us are Irish), and the same old harping on about the local clergy and how they are always messing things up. Nothing very strange or startling, although there were a couple of interesting moments. In the middle of the meal the new Australian nun put down her knife and fork and said, `My God, everyone in this country is so paranoid! It's as if they've never seen a foreigner before!' There was a pause and I could see Maureen dabbing her mouth with her serviette getting ready for battle. But she's lost some of her fire these past few years and she ended up giving a tame little speech about all the foreign invasions they've suffered and how outsiders like us can never understand how deep the wounds run.
`I see,' the Australian nun said when Maureen had finished; `so in order to understand these people we have to suffer. Maybe that explains why so many of our crowd go and get themselves so screwed up over here.'
The younger people and some of the older ones laughed and then old Freddie Whitmore at the end of the table gave a little cough and said, `Speak for yourself' and everything went quiet. My thoughts were still with what the young nun had said about people getting screwed up and in the silence that followed Whitmore's comment I heard myself say, `Like Christopher Goode.' A couple of people turned to me, including the Filipino novice at my side, but just then Mrs. Oh came in with the trifle and we all became distracted and soon the mood returned to normal.
Later over coffee, one of the younger ones tried to get a conversation going on what makes a good missionary and there were the usual lofty ideas about justice and compassion and siding with the oppressed. I would normally have chipped in a word or two, but I was starting to feel exhausted by all these people and I excused myself. I'm okay with close friends and not too bad with strangers. It's the people in between who really sap my energy.
As I said, after the dessert arrived, things went back to normal, more or less, although there was one slightly unusual moment. On my way out of the refectory I heard a gentle, barely audible voice say, `I think we often don't see who the oppressed really are.' It was the Filipino novice, speaking for the first time since the meal began. Somewhere inside me her words set off an echo, but by then I was outside in the comforting darkness of the hallway, my mind already lightened by the anticipation of an afternoon of Sibelius.
Once inside my office, I went straight to the window. The dark green leaves of the persimmon tree at the bottom of the courtyard had never looked more waxy and luscious and the sky was at its autumn best, high and blue. It has always puzzled me why, even after thirty years, these things still haven't lost their novelty, though often I suspect that my stubborn attraction to the foreign and exotic springs from nothing more than some arrested adolescent longing to be different. But none of that mattered now. I had a brand new CD in the machine and I had just managed to sneak away from a houseful of visitors. And then there was a soft knocking sound and the young Filipino nun was standing in the doorway.
If I look across from my desk now I can still see her, her smooth olive skin, the way one half of her face is hidden in shadow.
`Can I talk to you?'
`Come in. Of course.'
She steps into the room and waits close to the doorway. I point to the chair beside my desk. She hesitates and then starts walking across the room. I feel her presence very strongly. She is beautiful and graceful, but she has brought a tension into the room with her. In her demeanor there is something both preoccupied and cautious, as though she were listening out for some tiny sound. After sitting down she looks into my face with an unusual directness, not saying anything, almost as if she expects me to break bad news.
`I'm Tom Callow. Sorry I didn't get a chance to introduce myself earlier. I'm the bursar here.'
`My name is Ruby Fajardo. Here I am called Teresa. I come...
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