Gabriel's Rapture Reynard, Sylvain (literature books to read TXT) 📖

“Doing what?” Gabriel asked, eying the gray-haired man curiously.

“We’ll be staying with the Franciscans. My wife, who is a nurse, and I will be working in a medical clinic. My son is going to be helping the homeless.”

Gabriel frowned. “You’re doing this as volunteers?”

“Yes. We wanted to do this as a family.” The man paused and looked at Gabriel intently.

“Would you consider coming with us? The Franciscans can always use more help.”

“No,” said Gabriel, stabbing a piece of beef determinedly. “I’m not Catholic.”

“Neither are we. We’re Lutherans.”

Gabriel gazed at the doctor with interest. His knowledge of Lutherans was limited almost exclusively to the writings of Garrison Keillor. (Not that he was willing to admit it.)

The doctor smiled. “We wanted to lend a hand to a good work. I wanted to encourage my son to think beyond beach vacations and video games.”

“Thank you for the invitation, but I must decline.” Gabriel was firm in his response, and so the doctor changed the subject.

Later that evening, Gabriel stared out the window of his simple hotel room, thinking as he always did about Julia.

She wouldn’t have said no. She would have gone.

As ever, he was reminded of the divide between her generosity and his selfishness. A divide that, even after spending so many months with her, was yet to be breached.

* * *

Two weeks later, Gabriel stood in front of the monument to Dante in Santa Croce. He’d joined the Lutherans in their trip to Florence and become one of the Franciscans’ most troublesome volunteers. He served meals to the poor but was horrified by the quality of food on offer, so he wrote a check to hire a caterer to make the meals. He went with the other volunteers as they gave toiletries and clean clothing to homeless people, but he was so troubled by the lack of cleanliness of the men and women that he wrote a check to construct washrooms and shower facilities for the homeless at the Franciscan mission.

In short, by the time Gabriel had seen every aspect of the Franciscans’ work with the poor, he’d endeavored to change everything and agreed to finance the changes himself. Then he paid a few visits to some wealthy Florentine families, who he knew through his academic life, asking them to support the Franciscans as they helped the poor of Florence. Their donations would ensure a steady stream of revenue for years to come.

As he stood in front of the Dante memorial, he was struck by a sudden kinship with his favorite poet. Dante had been exiled from Florence. Even though the city eventually forgave him and allowed a memorial to be placed in his honor in the Basilica, he was buried in Ravenna. In a strange twist of fate, Gabriel now knew what it was like to be exiled from his job, his city, and his home, for Julianne’s arms would always be his home. Even though he was forced into exile.

The memorials around him reminded him of his own mortality. If he was lucky, he’d have a long life, but many people such as Grace had their lives cut short. He could be hit by a car, or contract cancer, or have a heart attack. Suddenly, his time on earth seemed very short and very precious.

Since he’d left Assisi, he’d tried to assuage his guilt and loneliness by doing good works. Volunteering with the Franciscans was certainly a step in that direction. But what about making amends with Paulina? It was far too late to make his peace with Grace, or Maia, or his biological mother and father.

What about Julianne?

Gabriel stared at the figure of a despairing woman who leaned on what looked like Dante’s casket. He’d accepted his exile, but that didn’t mean he’d refrained from writing letter after letter to her, letters that were never sent.

* * *

Cemeteries had a stillness all their own. Even cemeteries located in busy urban centers possessed this stillness—an unearthly quiet that clings to the air.

Walking through the cemetery, Gabriel couldn’t pretend that he was strolling in a park. The sparse trees that peppered the landscape were not teeming with singing birds. The grass, though green and very well kept, was not alive with squirrels or the occasional urban rabbit, playing with his brothers or looking for food.

He saw the stone angels in the distance, their twin forms standing like tall sentries among the other monuments. They were made of marble, not granite, their skin white and pale and perfect. The angels faced away from him, their wings spread wide. It was easier for him to stand behind the monument. He couldn’t see the name etched in stone. He could stay there forever, a few feet away, and never approach. But that would be cowardly.

He inhaled deeply, his sapphire eyes shut tightly, as he said a silent prayer. Then he walked a half circuit around the monument, stopping in front of the marker.

He removed a pristine handkerchief from his trouser pocket. An onlooker might have guessed that he had need of it for sweat or tears, but he didn’t. He leaned forward and with a gentle hand swept the white linen over the black stone. The dirt came away easily. He would need to tend the rose bushes that had begun to encroach upon the letters. He made a mental note to hire a gardener.

He placed flowers in front of the stone, his mouth moving as if he were whispering. But he wasn’t. The grave, of course, was empty.

A tear or two clouded his vision, followed by their brothers, and soon his face was wet with their rain. He didn’t bother to wipe them away as he lifted his face to gaze upon the angels, the souls of silent, marble compassion.

He asked for forgiveness. He expressed his guilt, a guilt he knew would ache for the rest of his life. He didn’t ask for his burden to be removed, for it seemed to him to be part of the