The Bunkbed

By B. I. Godson

In those days Brother Jean-Baptiste had no doubts about God. There on the top bunk, the balls of his feet pressed through the ironwork, his shoulders against the headboard, he would spend the early moments of a day curled up with Him. Before troubling memories were remembered, before aches and pains would flare up, before worries flooded back. Before, outside his window, dawn would drip from the horizon like butter and drown the furrowed vineyards in molten gold. Before the cocks crowed, and before la cloche des matines called him and the other seminarians in from their dormitories for morning mass.

But his peace had been disturbed. The rector had moved a newcomer, Brother Sebastian, to the bottom bunk. He was younger than Jean-Baptiste, ruddy and plump, and mottled with eczema. He displayed an arsenal of childish habits which quickly ostracised him from the more sophisticated seminarians. He had no taste for discussing matters ecumenical or debating Aquinas. When called upon in lectures, he did not answer in Latin, but in a dithering spell of “umms” and “ahhs”. And, as Jean-Baptiste discovered, he prayed aloud.

Despite the intrusion, Jean-Baptiste did not despise Sebastian publicly or privately; instead, he knew God had sent Sebastian to him for a reason. It was no secret Brother Sebastian was having doubts, about the vocation, about the faith, about God. Jean-Baptiste chalked these up to more childish foibles; he was well past these doubts himself. The last one he ever had, as he recalled, was the day his mother died, and the world seemed insurmountably cruel. It was only with the help of his parish priest that those doubts subsided. God had sent Sebastian to him for the same reason. So, in those precious morning moments, he pretended to snore, letting Sebastian believe he was still asleep, free to pray aloud without fear of eavesdropping.

“Dear God,” Sebastian whimpered, kneeling on the floor, elbows on his bed and his hands clutched together, “the doubts are back. Gnawing at me. Gutting me hollow, inside out. I only wish you could show me that you exist. That you are up there.”

Between his snores Jean-Baptiste felt the desperation in the room. He thought most seminarians would be well past the “show me a sign” phase. God, you have sent this man to me, he thought, and I will do my best to strengthen his faith. 

“If you truly are there, let me know.” Sebastian hesitated. “At dinner serve us soupe aux poireaux like my mother used to make. I will know then.”

And so, after morning mass, Jean-Baptiste strolled beneath the cloistered terraces of the seminary and around the back to the servants’ entrance. He found Old Father Antoine Gauvine alone, dicing vegetables in the kitchen.

“I need a favour, Father,” said Jean-Baptiste.

“You’re not allowed back here; run along, you’ll be late for the deacon’s lecture.” Each syllable sliced by the rhythmic shuddering of the knife chops.

“It’s Brother Sebastian’s birthday today. He is homesick. It would mean a lot if you would cook his favourite: Soupe aux poireaux.” Jean-Baptiste scanned the monk’s jowls for any sign his pleas were working. “Or I fear he might abandon the cloth.”

“The menu is set in stone.” His eyes were steadfast on the blade in front of him.

“You must, Father, please.” Jean-Baptiste slipped his hands beneath his black Benedictine robes, pulling out coins from his purse and fanning them between his thumb and forefinger. “For two livres?”

“I cannot be bribed, Caiaphas.” The knife snapped silent. His eyes moved from the mutilated parsnips to Jean-Baptiste. “But make it four and I’ll know the Lord wills it.”

Jean-Baptiste took the rest of his money from his purse and slapped it into the hands of Old Father Antoine Gauvine.

That night in the dining hall, the servants brought out bowls of steaming soup and fresh bread. Jean-Baptiste looked down the trunk of the table to where Sebastian sat, a thin but proud smile carved onto his lips as he slurped up his answered prayer.

The next morning, Jean-Baptiste pretended to snore again, heaving in and out, his mucus rumbling in his sinuses.

“Dear God,” Sebastian had taken his position below. “I knew it. I knew you were there. I’ve always known it. But why has it taken you my whole life to break your silence? Was it just a coincidence? I just need more proof. You must know I owe twelve livres to the publican in town. My allowance won’t cover it. If you’re truly there, God, and you are truly just, send me the means to pay off my debts and I will serve you.”

That day Jean-Baptiste did not attend a single class. Instead, he went door to door around the village with a wicker basket, asking for donations to repair a stained-glass window in the seminary. “Our poor Virgin is missing her halo!” he would sob on doorsteps or over shop counters. His performance quickly earned him enough. Even the publican to whom Sebastian was indebted donated a large tithing that in and of itself could pay off half the credit. When, in the dusky evening, he returned to his bedchamber, he sat at his desk and counted. He slipped the exact amount into an envelope and placed it under Sebastian’s pillow and then, pocketing only four livres to reimburse the prior day’s expenses, he hid the rest under his. I’ll slip it into a collection basket at the next chance I get, he thought as he buried himself beneath his blanket.

When Sebastian returned, galumphing in and flopping on his bed, it was not long until his hands, wandering for warmth beneath his pillow, found the rigidity of the envelope.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, look what I've found, Brother Jean-Baptiste!”

“What is it?” he asked, leering over from above.

“Money! Enough to pay off my debts in town! Did you see who delivered it?”

“No, I’ve been asleep, I haven’t heard a thing.”

“You’re a deep sleeper, Brother Jean-Baptiste.” He smiled, made the sign of the cross, genuflected, and began reciting:

“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.”

Jean-Baptiste joined in: “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.” And they said the Lord’s Prayer, over and over, until they were muttering it in their sleep. 

The following morning, Jean-Baptiste awoke first as usual. Soon after, he heard Sebastian’s waking, rustling his sheets beneath, and then the rusting bedframe squealing with inertia as he got up. Jean-Baptiste began his thunderous snores:

Hhhhuuuurrrkk... hhhkkk... hhhrroooo...

“Dear God,”

Hhhhuuuuuuuuuurrrkk... hhhrroooooooooooooo...

“I suppose you are really up there listening.”

Hhhhuuuurrrkk... hhhrroo...

“But how can I know it’s truly you? Why won’t these doubts leave?”

Hhhhhhhuuuuuuuuuuchukkkkkkk… Hroo… 

“Just one final test and I will know you are truly who you say you are. And I will sacrifice my life for you, I will serve you as a man of the cloth.” 

Hhhhhhhuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuukkkkkkk… Hroooooo…

“Brother Jean-Baptiste, who sleeps above me, please smite him dead. I cannot bear his snoring anymore.”