A Greater Music. Bae Suah

how many times his mother had been married, he picked a train magazine up off the sofa and tossed it swiftly over the side, snapping “thirty-three times.” In the photographs of her first wedding, Agnes had been like a budding flower, swelling with fresh, ripe fullness. She no longer resembled the girl who, at thirteen, had posed for her First Communion photograph with a shy, wavering smile. Similarly, the image of Agnes at her first wedding, in a dress and thick-framed glasses, held no premonition as to what the future would hold—of the alcoholic who can’t get to sleep unless she’s had a drink at the local pub; of being constantly unemployed and with no hope of this changing, searching for neighborhoods where the rent is cheap; of the loneliness of the matchmaking party at the singles’ club every weekend, desperate to find a man worth living with.

      The night had grown late when Joachim and I got up to leave. We walked to the church, which may well have displayed surpassing architectural beauty, but as there was no source of light anywhere in the immediate vicinity I wasn’t able to confirm this. Before we went in, Joachim asked if I had any money to put in the collection plate. Some loose change, I told him, but he said that wouldn’t do; with it being Christmas, it had be a note of some kind. He opened his wallet and pulled out his last five-euro bill. The notice board listed the organ music that was to be used during the service. The church was packed with people, most of them elderly, although there were also plenty of families with children, including one young couple carrying a tiny baby in a small wicker basket. The organist had already started playing, the notes echoing loudly throughout the vaulted, stone-ceilinged space. At the entrance to the church was a model reproduction of the Bethlehem manger, fronted by countless glowing candles that made the scene bright and warm. In between the organ pieces were hymns for the congregation to sing, though I wouldn’t have called it singing because they all seemed to be mumbling the words. As soon as Joachim entered the church and slid into the back pew he closed his eyes and rested his chin on his chest; he didn’t answer when I spoke to him, and I guessed he must have fallen asleep. His blue backpack slid off and came to rest under the seat, between his legs. Someone behind me handed me a songbook, so I turned and thanked them. After the last notes from the organ had faded away, a man—presumably the priest—spoke into the microphone; I couldn’t tell what he was saying over the screeching feedback. As soon as the congregation resumed their singing, Joachim’s eyes snapped open. So he hadn’t been asleep after all. And he hadn’t been crying. Whatever he’d been doing, he’d been perfectly alert and listening to everything.

      “Let’s head off now, we’ve seen enough.” He picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder.

      “You want to leave right now, while everyone’s singing?”

      “Yes, right now.”

      Entirely indifferent to the stares he was eliciting, Joachim stood up and headed quickly toward the exit. Emerging into the freezing night air, he opened his wallet with a triumphant flourish and drew out the same five-euro bill again. “I got to see the service, and I didn’t even have to put this in the plate! If we’d waited until that song was over they would have sent the plate around and there’d have been no getting out of it then. That’s what that guy up there said, with the microphone.”