Veritas

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The great room is all a-glitter, with the bronze of its furnishings and spiral decorations, and its glowing candles.

Abbot Melani keeps me waiting. It’s the first time, in over thirty years.

Until today, whenever I arrived at our appointments I had always found him already waiting, tapping his foot impatiently. But now it is my turn to gaze continually towards the severe monumental doorway by which I entered over half an hour ago. Defying the freezing, snow-laden wind that sweeps in and sets the doors creaking on their hinges, I vainly strain my ears and eyes for the first signs of the Abbot’s arrival: the drumming hooves of the four-horse carriage; the first glimpse, in the torchlight, of the horses’ plumed heads as they draw the ceremonial black carriage to the foot of the entrance staircase, where four old footmen, huddled in their snow-dusted greatcoats, are waiting for their even older master, ready to open the carriage door and help him, one last time, to descend.

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