Chapter Text
-1-
I will go to your church.
The bell finishes the fifth strike, and along with the bell’s sound is the warning of the oven. The narrow kitchen is filled with the fragrance of lemon. Curious children gather around the window decorates with blooms. The man inside smiles, hands out baked cookies.
Andoain is making the lemon meringue pie again today. He intentionally reserved a whole afternoon for this complicated dessert, because of a letter he received this morning. In this insular small town, writing letters is the only way to contact the outside world. He hadn’t written letters for a long time, feeling bewildered when he put up the letter paper; he didn’t dare to write any single word and thought it is an offense of the paper. He wrote two drafts and could just copy them, yet he was still nervous for unknown reasons, he read several times after finishing a sentence, did not sure those texts had significance and logic. A short letter cost him two hours in total, he put the brown letter paper into the envelope, stuck the stamp on it, and threw it in the mailbox next to the church, waiting for the postman to take it away, who comes to here twice a week. Three weeks after the letter was sent—this morning—he received the reply. There are only a few sentences in the letter: I will depart on xxx, arrive on the same day evening. I will go to your church. The date mentioned in the letter is today. Originally, he planned to teach some knowledge to the children, now he had to change the plan due to this letter. He felt no upset, yet unspeakable rejoicing. He apologized to the children, and told them there will be an unexpected visitor that he has to welcome. Children felt disappointed, and looked forward to knowing who that visitor will be at the same time. They know Andoain has visitors frequently, most of them are disciples he assisted before, so they come to see Andoain. But seem like disciples will not cause Andoain to come up with such a grand preparation. After all, Andoain values the education. Who that visitor will be? Children couldn’t tell.
I will go to your church. A simple sentence makes him uneasy. Why uneasy? Maybe it’s anxiety because of expectance. He could not be concentrated in morning, and the disciples noticed that. They kept quiet to not disturb him, and some were curious: is their guide getting in trouble? In the afternoon, as the visitor would come soon, he finally could be busy without his rush and deliberation. He started with the lemon pie. There are steps that can be simplified, yet he insisted to finish all the steps by himself, so from making the dough to making pastry, to making the filling, and the last step, broiling the meringue, he spent about four hours. He made the lemon pie many times so that he could remember the recipe well. He watched the dough being rolled flat, folded, refrigerated, rolled flat again, then expanding into a wonderful circle. The filling is lemon jelly. The first time Andoain ate jelly was in Laterano. He did not know there was a food called jelly before; he thought it is ice, then found it is soft and elastic after putting it into his mouth, the fruit taste was nice. In Laterano, he ate so many foods that he hadn’t seen before, can’t tell it’s lucky or not. A layer of lemon curd has to be squeezed on the lemon jelly. Some people felt using the pastry bag and nuzzles is challenging, cannot hold the arm and hand with steadiness, which Andoain found easy, never thought it’s hard. He was naturally able to squeeze the pastry bag with proper strength and watched the filling pushed out from the bag, forming a preconceived pattern. The lemon curd spread out from the center of the pie, a ring and another ring, at last became a spiral shape. He was not born with baking skills, he spent countless hours in the baking kitchen of Laterano to master it, yet he felt a pain every time he practiced, not pierced, but obvious, caused him could not to immerse in sweet with a clear conscience. He turned on the cooking torch, blue fire burned the meringue, which turned caramel-yellow. He looked out of the window: the setting sun was melting in the deep blue sky.
Before the formal dinner, there are still other things that need to be prepared. He carries the plate into the dining hall, which is warm from the hot fireplace. He spreads a tablecloth—a gift from a disciple—which has a figure sewed by herself. Andoain does not know how long it took to finish such a huge tablecloth, only knows she definitely worked hard. So that he’s reluctant to use the cloth, except for entertaining the guests. He puts the plate on the table, lights up the candle, orange flames sway along his movement. The stillness makes him uneasy, he turns up the record player, randomly selects a record of piano music, which is another present from a disciple when he was in Leithanien. The disciple knew he loves Leithanien music so bought it for him. Andoain abandoned lots of his belongings, some in Laterano, some in Rocamarea, no difference, both happened in sudden; after all, he never knew how long he would leave when he was packaging. Thanks to presents from disciples, those are silent appreciation. Every time he moved to a new place, he would put the presents on shelves, the strange place then become less remote. He enters the kitchen again, carries a tea set, puts it next to the lemon pie which being added one extra lemon this time. He zested the lemon peel into the crust. The fragrance becomes stronger after the baking, able to be sensed far away from the kitchen. These lemons were grown by himself. A disciple gave him a pot of lemon before they left Leithanien, with small white flowers on its branches. He took care of flowers and plants before, but only wild ones, they have vital energy and don’t3 need too much care after the seeds were sown. He consulted another disciple, caring for the lemon carefully. He finally gained two lovely lemons after a year, plump shape, bright color. Disciples appreciated the two lemons together, unwilling to put them down.
The three lemons he used are the last catches of this year. Andoain picks up some lemon leaves, plans to do another dish. He places the clean fowlbeast in the plate, stuffs it with the leaves, pushes it into the steamer after sprinkling it with species. Steaming is a method he learned from a Yan disciple, which can preserve the original taste and moisture in the ingredients, making the meat tender enough. Andoain prefers a light taste, he’s never a fan of heavy seasoning, steamed dish is right up his appetite.
The fowlbeast steams for about 15 minutes to reach the best flavor. Andoain cuts it into slices, places the meat on the plate, and just in time, there’s a knock on the door. He recalls that sentence, I will go to your church. He opens a door, an angel with pink hair is smiling at him.
“Andoain.”
“Lemuen.”
Andoain steps to the right to save space for her. She steps in, shows another smile after seeing the food on the table, “You worked so hard for the food, what if I cannot arrive here on time?”
“There always will be a solution. My disciples like my food,” he hints at her to have a seat, “And, you are here, aren’t you?”
“Laterano allowed me to come out and of course I will seize this chance.”
She totters to the seat with stiff leg movement. Andoain does not know how she is recovering; the last time he saw her she was unable to stand. Lemuen sits down, watches Andoain through the candle’s light. “I am curious that why you decided to come to this country.”
“Me?” he thinks for a while and says, “Here’s quiet enough.”
She nods, “It is.”
It is quiet, with no catastrophe, no fight, even no quarrels, all citizens seem patient and gentle, like time enjoys this place thus slows its steps, or like an elusive wonderland, only be found by minorities.
“Here, try the food and see if it’s tasty.”
Lemuen forks up a piece of fowlbeast meat, the gravy runs down along the fork. She puts the meat in her mouth, very tender, and very light, she can taste only salt and lemon leaves. She feels a faint scent of alcohol, she asks, “There’s alcohol in here?”
“Yes, for seasoning.”
“That’s good. I like it.”
“Nice. You took a long journey, help yourself.”
“Then I will enjoy it.”
Andoain sits drinking tea, he doesn’t eat too much, only a small piece of meat and a slice of bread. The fowlbeast he bought was an immature one, right enough for two people who have a normal appetite. He has no enthusiasm for food, however, he even doubts that he had a mild anorexia before, right before he left Rocamarea and arrived at Laterano. There were several months that he could hardly eat anything, and had no intense sense of hunger, felt like any bite of food was an increasing burden on his body, taking in food only made him vomit. Perhaps it was related to the disaster in Rocamarea, after the ocean disaster, all the foods were contaminated, with a fetid smell. Then he only ate one meal per day in extremely unbalanced nutrition combinations, finished his sloppy meal by eating coarse rations. A twenty-year-old man was as heavy as a teenage girl, and finally passed out once after exhaustion. The bishop gave him a nutrient infusion and saved only fresh food for him. Andoain was self-condemned because of this accident, yet his anorexia remained the same. His stomach was cramped due to hunger; nevertheless, he still couldn’t eat anything. Later, sweets in Laterano comforted his anorexia; he was not reluctant to the sweetness of sweets, sweetness captured his taste buds, persuaded his heart. From sweets, he could easily eat the standard quantity of a meal, still less than others though. The girls in his team loved delicacies; every time they went out for a meal, the girls shared the food in happiness, and he had nopassion. He thought his anorexia might relate to his mental health, the destruction of Rocamarea made him hurt, sweetness brought joy, shielded his pain for now.
Lemuen found his low interest in food early. What is weird is that he loves making dishes and desserts. She asked for a reason, he said this is a way for him to communicate with his surroundings. “If you want to know a place, you go and learn the local food,” he once said. It is true. The very first thing he did after arrived in this town was going to local markets, observing the fruits and vegetables. There are lots of farmers in this country; they raised animals in their pastures and grew vegetables, drove burdenbeasts carried the carts to the market for selling products every early morning. Andoain likes to go to the market, farmers like him as well, it is not common to see a pastor who buys food in person.
Andoain can tell Lemuen is hungry, as she eats up the fowlbeast quickly, and starts to deal with the lemon pie. She ate lemon pie made by Andoain so many times, so she teases, “You are still patient with making lemon pie, even after all these times?” He smiles and asks, “And won’t you get sick of it?” “No. I won’t,” she’s being frank, she has always liked lemon meringue pie. The crust is crispy, the filling is soft, melting in her mouth. She senses the lemon taste is stronger than before, maybe he adds an extra lemon.
Lemon is not a welcomed ingredient in Laterano; a huge amount of sugar will be added to lemon-flavored desserts to cover the sourness. Andoain likes to preserve the lemon’s taste, he cannot fully accept sweetness. He suited Laterano fast, and figured out he could not suit Laterano fast. He was like a person who starved for too long, gobbled the food after he had any, when the intense hunger was relieved a little, he started to realize that no matter whether the food or its seasoning did not meet his appetite. They can make him full, only physically. A well-adjusted traveler still misses the food of home, at least Andoain does, and it makes him sad, even if the food at Rocamarea was so modest.
“What’s the difference between food in here and in Laterano?” Lemuen finishes the meal, cleaning her lips with napkins.
“Well, they cook in a more simple way, not a fan of sophistication. They like adding herbs.”
Andoain stands up and walks toward the window, which is placed with a long flowerpot, planting various herbs. Andoain touches those leaves and says, “I used this herb in the fowlbeast, this one is for spaghetti, this is for soup…”
Lemuen listens, remembers how he taught her to make desserts years ago, he used to carry a booklet with him, recording the desserts he learned in Iberia, which were pretty much different from desserts in Laterano. The handwriting was immature, one could tell it was written when he was a child. She asks, “Do you still keep the booklet for the recipes?”
He stares at her with surprise and replies, “Yes, it was used up a long time ago, but I keep it with me,” and he says in a gentle voice, “I never thought that you would remember.”
“Sure I do.”
“What about a cup of chocolate? There’s fresh-made cinnamon powder.”
“That sounds nice.”
Lemuen follows him into the kitchen, looks at the setting of it. It is not a big kitchen, maybe due to too much of appliances. Seems like Andoain tried to decorate the kitchen like a log cabin, the floor is wooden, the furniture is also wooden, he even chose a wooden pattern dishwasher, and other decorations are all plants. The only modern object in the kitchen is that double-door refrigerator. Lemuen can tell it is full of food without opening it; when they still took dessert class at school, his fridge was always full. The island shelf occupies a large area, placing tea sets and recipes; open the drawer, plates are organized according to color and shape, at least dozens of plates. Lemuen asks with confusion, “Do you serve meals for disciples frequently?”
Andoain answers, “Every Friday night is a fixed time for dining together, other time I will make snacks for them.”
“You can handle these by yourself?”
“There are ardent disciples who are willing to help me. We have about five people to cook meals every time.”
Andoain pours the warm milk into cocoa powder and stirs up, he puts sugar a lot, Lemuen likes it sweet. Then he dusts the cinnamon, adds some marshmallows, gives the cup to Lemuen. She takes it, blows it to cool down, and takes a sip.
“Thank you,” she exclaims, “hot chocolate is still needed for winter.”
Andoain pours himself another cup of tea, steeped too long, with too much bitterness. He watches Lemuen blows and drinks the chocolate. It’s been four years after the Summit Meeting, she recovers faster than he thought, her wings and halo glow softly. She can walk and can run, if necessary. Since she was hurt, she was in a coma, she woke, and she made a recovery, he visited her plenty of times, and condemned himself plenty of times. They kept a long silence, which was as heavy as night yet sometimes made him feel relieved, in the hospital; somehow, language only increases annoyance. He takes a sip of tea, scattered memory spreads out with the tea on his tongue tip, then transmits to his brain, reflecting a bitter signal. I will go to your church, he recalls this sentence, and says, “Your arrival is still unexpected to me.” He is surprised that she would come out from Laterano, surprised that she’s willing to visit him, surprised she asked nothing after she arrived, feels like there’s no twelve-year separation between them; rather, they live with each other forever, she made a temporary departure from this town, and she’s back.
Lemuen is chewing the marshmallow, which is baked and crispy. She puts the whole marshmallow into her mouth, waiting for it to melt, then answers, “Are you trying to ask why I’m here?”
“Not really,” he stops, and says, “If you want to tell me, I will listen.”
Lemuen eats another marshmallow, says, “In short, I want to have a trip before returning to Laterano.”
“Do they know?”
“You mean Mostima and Fia? They don’t. If they do, you might see me not.”
Andoain chuckles, “Guess so. Well…Tou didn’t respond to my question, if you want to have a walk, there are lots of options. Why me? Only because you received my letter at a right time?”
“Do I have to give you an answer?”
He stares at her, “No, just curious.”
Lemuen drinks up the rest chocolate, licks her lips and replies, “I will tell you, not today.”
“Sure,” Andoain takes the cup and puts it in the dishwasher, “Do you want to rest? It’s late.”
“Yeah.”
Andoain lives in a cabin next to the church. Several steps from the gate of the living room is the garden of the church; the door in the kitchen reaches the garden of the cabin, Andoain grows plants in both gardens. The cabin has two levels, and the bedrooms are upstairs. Andoain cleaned up the other bedroom a while ago, and since then, he had a covert thought: this bedroom will be kept for another person. Thus, even though there’s no resident in this bedroom, he cleans it every other day, and buys new furniture and supplies, making the room cozy enough. When the visitor he waits for comes, the one can settle down directly. And indeed, she likes this bedroom; the bed is covered with patchwork sheets and quilt, a wooden desk faces the window, a walk-in closet stands next to the door; the other side of the room is still vacant, she can buy some things at her will.
“It’s nice. Your house looks like only exists in the fairytale.”
“I hope you will enjoy your one-month stay.”
“Sure I will.”
Andoain smiles, steps out of her room, and goes back downstairs, leaving Lemuen to have private time for resting. He enters the kitchen, cleans up the plates. Today is quiet, not a single sound comes from the church; usually, disciples gather in the church around this time, waiting for Andoain to answer their questions; and for today, Andoain hoped he could stay with Lemuen alone, so he pushed off all unnecessary affairs. He has stayed alone with her many times; in the hospital, didn’t he visit her when no one is in her ward? A further recall, when they both worked for Pontifica Cohors, didn’t they always eat dinner, write reports, and celebrate a successful mission together? Staying alone contains a peculiar mystery, without any disturbance, they have a space for communication and understanding, even though they keep silent in a tacit agreement.
Upstairs, Lemuen begins to wash. Andoain prepares a walk-in bathtub for her, avoiding possible falls. After a whole day of vehicle riding, the leg muscle is a bit swollen. Lemuen turns on the shower head, lets the warm water washes through the skin, and massages limbs and joints. It had been so long since she had a long trip. The time of running for missions was more than ten years ago. She sat in the rumbling vehicle, felt unbearable from the engine noise. After a simple shower, she wears the clean pajama, decides to arrange her belongings. She didn’t bring too much with her, except for clothes, only some meaningful objects. She puts the book in the drawer of the desk, the dust in the closet is already cleaned up, she hangs the clothes in it. And she sits on the bed, opens her diary, which was finished a long time ago. All the logs were written when she was in Pontifica Cohors, the happiness and the ties between her and her friends were recorded. But after all these years, she can only touch the words, barely remembering the feeling.
They said no farewell after the Summit Meeting, like all these years, they haven’t tried to contact each other. Lemuen did not know where Andoain had gone, no more than moving around though. She received his letter a week ago, after reading it, she decided to come to his church. She didn’t expect that Andoain would write to her, they lost liaison for ages.
Lemuen,
Greetings. It’s been a while. How are you? Today, this letter is for sharing my recent experiences. I arrived at a new church, locates in a quiet city. No catastrophes, no conflicts, nowhere I’ve been before having it been so quiet. I think I will stay here for a long; recently, my body seems to realize the approaching of senescence. I haven’t decided to choose here as a permanent residence yet, but if I lose my energy one day, here will be my home. I invite you to come to my church—we have a garden here, also a dessert kitchen, you probably want to experience the peaceful life here. You can decide whether and when to depart. I look forward to your reply.
Sincerely,
Andoain
No updates, no idle chatter, only a sincere invitation. He even didn’t bring out any compelling reason, like he believes Lemuen will know why he invites her. A note was attached to the letter, clearly written with the address of the church, in a city she never heard of before. She checked the calendar after she received the letter; did Andoain know that she had a long vacation recently? Adding her annual vacation and unused leave requests, Lemuen can make a one-month vacation. She submitted the application, received her vacation successfully. Neither Fiammetta nor Mostima was in Laterano, no need to worry about an excuse for them—wait until they figured it out. Lemuen arranged the vehicle, and wrote a reply, telling Andoain, I will go to your church. A sentence in his letter invoked her thought: My body seems to realize the approaching of senescence. Is Andoain old already? Maybe. He’s a few years older than her, just a few years, but long enough for a gap. She hasn’t thought too much about senescence, yet when she read his words, she realized that the self who holding the gun and running around was long gone; her injury happened twelve years ago. After the training, her muscle was able to obey the brain’s order, yet it’s hard to recover the tenacity and flexibility that it used to have. And did his wish finally weaken along with his feeble body? Lemuen doesn’t think he’s really aging; he’s just over forty, but the anorexia in his youths and fatigue in trips may both contribute to his debility. Now it’s early winter, the cold rains fall often, his wish struggles weakly in the wind. Lemuen can’t help to doubt: Does he seek silence to fulfill his vision, or is it an escape? When he stands in the quiet church, did he hear a soothing calm, or a subdued reluctance? I will go to your church. I will go and see you. There may be irises in the garden, like the Ecclesia Requietum in my dream.