Monastic Sign Language
27 April 2009, 4:13 p.m.
49° 2' 31.72" N, 8° 29' 19.16" E
Bertha’s still talking to her mother on her cell phone—she’s listening mostly—as we barrel down the autobahn. In the mirror, I can see her nodding her head. Then she closes her phone and makes an announcement to the car.
“Listen you guys!” she says. “I told that bitch Matilda that we are still back in Speyer where the Pope wants us to be. So don’t go talking to any spies now, okay? We want this trip to Canossa to be a surprise, a big surprise, got that? So remember you guys, we are still in Speyer.”
Bruno and Lambert nod their heads, kinda thoughtfully, like middle managers agreeing with their boss. I think about raising the question, just as a point of clarification, of just how that cover story is supposed to work… you know, out here….
On the road.
But then I realize everybody in the minivan is looking at me. Impatiently.
“Got it!” I say. “No talking to spies. Top-secret! And we are still in Speyer,” I mutter to myself, “where the Pope wants us to be.”
Bertha seems satisfied. She curls up in the wayback seat, next to Conrad in his kindersitz, and goes to sleep.
The minivan gets really quiet. Except for the roar of the autobahn.
Lambert opens the black book on his lap, looks down at it, and closes his eyes.
I drive on for a while. We pass an autobahn rasthof—it looks like a rest stop of some kind.
Then Bruno climbs forward and whispers in my ear—
“Time for sign language!”
“What?” I say.
“Monastic sign language. I’ll teach you. Perfect for nap time in the modern vehicle.”
“Aren’t you a mendicant?” I say. “One of those monks with no home?”
“So?” he says.
“But you’re not part of a monastery... are you?”
“Who better to reveal the secrets of the cenobites?”
Then, from his perch in the middle seat, he begins to demonstrate, in gleeful parody, the silent solemn discipline of the Benedictines. Does he think I’m paying attention? In the rear-view mirror, I can only see fragments of each move... and besides....
I’m driving!
When Bruno sees that I’m not taking my eyes off the road long enough to learn the gestures, he laughs and leans forward.
“I’ll tell you,” he says, “the truth of the matter—monastic sign language shouldn’t be called a language at all!”
Now there’s a thud, sudden and emphatic. Lambert has just slammed shut the black book on his lap. Has he been awake the whole time?
“It’s not like the sign languages of the deaf,” says Bruno. “Those are real languages. They’re vigorous, grammatical, complete. But this monastic lexicon—it’s got no grammar, no prepositions, no logic words: no that, no whom, no because, no why. The verbs don’t even have tenses!”
“And who needs tenses?” says Lambert. “Our sign language dwells in a tenseless present, for all times are as one to the mind of God.”
“Oh gimme a break,” says Bruno. “You’re just elevating the primitive to the philosophical.”
“A true monk,” says Lambert, “seeks to approach the divine through limitation, not excess, whether of pleasure or of language.”
“So poverty is a virtue?” says Bruno. “In a language? You have got to be kidding! Come on, tell the guy—how many nouns does your sign language have?”
Lambert thinks for a moment, and then, accompanying each word with its gesture, he says:
“Well, there’s... Abbot.... God... altar... church.... And of course, any object that can be indicated by pointing.”
“Pointing?” says Bruno. “That sorta proves my case, doesn’t it? Now tell us—how many verbs?”
Lambert responds with reverent pride.
“In the Abbey of Hersfeld,” he says, “there are four and only four verbs: sit, stand up, confess, and kneel. Any more would be impudence.”
Next episode: Off the Autobahn
(available when published)
For the impatient:
Buy ebook, audiobook on Amazon
Buy paperback on Lulu
Or just wait for the next episode…
Share this post