Chapter 140: The Pious Lando
The carriage stopped in front of the most bustling street in Dongmen Market. As Weiss disembarked, he glanced around—he didn’t see the second carriage, but the watchers had surely already blended into the teeming crowd.
Lando stood on the street. If he hadn’t known he had traveled through time, he would have thought he was standing in a postmodern art installation.
Modern and medieval, East and West, all mixed together in this bustling marketplace. Bauhaus-style red brick buildings, Western-style but Chinese-built pseudo-classical structures, all-wood categorized trash bins, and black-clad police officers on the street wearing conical hats, leggings, and carrying batons… It was all a strange mixture.
Lando resisted the urge to whistle. Father Lu Ruohua led their group to the Merchant’s Guild Restaurant and into an elegantly appointed private room—it reminded Lando of the private rooms in luxurious Chinese restaurants in Chinatown.
“This is the best hotel in town,” Father Lu Ruohua said, calmly accepting a hot towel from a young girl and wiping his face and hands. A faint scent of jasmine filled the room.
Then, a young girl in a light blue, belted dress and a white apron brought in fragrant drinks in delicate porcelain cups—Chinese tea.
Father Lu Ruohua expertly picked up the teacup, used the lid to push aside the tea leaves, and took a careful sip.
“Come, please have some.”
Friar Cecilio made the sign of the cross. “I would like a glass of cold water.”
John Dermot, however, looked curiously at the tea leaves in the cup. He took a careful sip, frowned, and then seemed to be savoring something.
“On a summer day like this, a cup of hot tea will cool both your body and mind,” Lu Ruohua said, enthusiastically trying to convert his colleagues to the habit of tea drinking.
Father Jin Lige frowned. In his view, this priest seemed a bit too fond of worldly pleasures. A missionary should be content with the simplest water and bread—a little red wine would be the greatest blessing. And now he was indulging in strange foreign beverages.
Father Jin Lige was opposed to all strange foreign drinks, whether it was the Spaniards’ chocolate, the Arabs’ coffee, or the Chinese’s tea. In his eyes, they were all temptations of the devil.
Lunch, or rather, this late lunch, was a feast for this group who had been subsisting on the special diet of the quarantine camp. Weiss found the long pre-meal prayer before the warm whole-wheat bread almost unbearable.
The chowder, made with sea clams, shrimp, various fish, and seaweed, was delicious—it reminded him of the “bouillabaisse” he had eaten in France. The large fish fillets were perfectly pan-fried and served with fresh tomato sauce, earning praise from the diners. Since it was not a fast day, a large platter of sausages was also served. They had been fried in some unknown oil and were fragrant when brought to the table.
Weiss took a bite and almost spat it out. God only knew what animal’s offal and bones this stuff was made of, ground up and mixed with starch and spices. To mask the strange taste, a generous amount of spices had been added. The taste was simply not fit for human consumption. But the missionaries were eating it with gusto. He had no choice but to put down his knife and fork, push his plate aside, and claim that temperance in eating was a Christian virtue.
The drink on the table was a wine made from some kind of fruit. It was very sweet, and when served with ice, it was smooth and cool. The priests drank a good deal of it, not only because the wine was mellow, but also because they needed it to wash away the fear of the past few days.
Everyone was very satisfied with the lunch, including Shrek. As a servant, he could not dine with his masters, but outside the private room, he devoured four or five “fish fillet burgers” and, with a contented smile, followed his master on the road to the monastery.
Abbot Wu and Father Bai of the Lingao Monastery personally greeted them at the church gate. Behind them were the local friars. Their dark faces showed a piety that greatly pleased Jin Lige.
The warmth of the Australian church made Father Jin Lige, who had been thoroughly frightened in the quarantine camp, feel flattered. As he stepped into the church, he was filled with surprise and admiration. From the glass globes supported by cast-iron brackets on the walls, bright flames illuminated the small nave with a brilliant light. Even the Florence Cathedral, lit with countless candles on Corpus Christi, could not be so bright.
A group of lovely children in black and white uniforms, with crucifixes hanging on their chests, were singing hymns of praise to the Lord before the altar. The melody, accompanied by violins and a harpsichichord, flowed like a river through the church. Father Jin Lige was deeply moved and amazed. The music praising the Lord was so harmonious and soul-stirring, yet there was no orchestra, no musician to be seen in the church. He recalled Father Lu Ruohua’s descriptions of the Australians’ various magical technologies: they could fit all the musical instruments into a box made of metal and wood, and from it, produce complex and magnificent music. Then, the sound of a pipe organ joined in, its solemn roar filling the entire church. The organ sound grew louder and deeper, becoming a rumbling thunder that drowned out all other sounds. Then, it suddenly transformed into a celestial melody, like the high-pitched song of a young girl, floating high under the dome, before finally returning to a deep roar and thunder, and then silence. The thunderous roar left a lingering echo under the dome. Father Jin Lige stood with his mouth half-open, shaken by the solemn sacred music.
At that moment, a clear, high-pitched female voice began to sing an a cappella hymn—Judy Collins’ “Amazing Grace.” The choir children joined in with their childish voices, the clear, slow rhythm rising from the depths of the church, ascending toward the dome. The priests couldn’t help but make the sign of the cross.
In the midst of this solemn, soul-touching music, he saw a group of devout believers prostrating themselves on the ground. The one at the very front was so moved that he even kissed the feet of Jesus on the crucifix, the gaslight casting his elongated shadow on the ground. Jin Lige realized that the man was none other than his attendant, Weiss Lando.
Father Jin Lige couldn’t help but praise the miracle of the Lord’s coming once again. The sacred voice of the Lord had clearly expelled the devil that had possessed the man, turning this half-mad soldier back into a submissive servant of the Holy Father. Weiss Lando, having heard the voice of the Heavenly Father again, was clearly very moved. He requested to confess his deep sins in this church.
This sudden request surprised everyone. The Jesuit priests, however, were very excited. Nothing brought more joy than a fallen man returning to the embrace of the Church.
Father Bai Duolu reluctantly entered Abbot Wu Shimang’s private confessional. As a conscientious young priest, he was very unwilling to play the role of an informer. He knew that a microphone was installed in this closed confessional. The tape in the recorder was collected daily by a special person and taken to the political security agency’s listening room.
A cough, then a loud blowing of the nose. Father Bai knew that the strange man was now sitting on the other side.
“My child, what do you have to confess to the Lord…”
“I need to see your President Wen,” the white man on the other side suddenly said in broken Cantonese, interspersed with a few English words. “Your situation is not good. The pirate leader in Guangdong, Liu, is preparing to join forces with the Dutch fleet from the East Indies to destroy your fleet, then attack the port and sack Lingao.”
If the purgatory of Lingao was the cell of the quarantine camp, then Father Jin Lige would surely consider the Lingao Monastery to be heaven. As for where the hell of Lingao was, the priest didn’t even want to think about it. But he had also heard that the Australians had set up a prison in Lingao called the “Labor Reform Camp,” and those who were fortunate enough to return from there had little interest in the priests’ vague sermons about hell.
The Lingao church, however, had a keen interest in this hell. The priests often went there to preach to the unfortunate prisoners. Father Lu Ruohua also went frequently.
The Lingao church seemed to have a special interest in saving secular “sinners.” Father Jin Lige soon discovered this.
Now, Father Jin Lige sat at a spacious, well-lit desk—Father Lu Ruohua had generously given him his own quarters in the monastery. He didn’t need to feel guilty about it—a two-story building belonging to the mission was under construction. The Lingao Monastery was constantly expanding its buildings to accommodate its growing community.
From every angle, the Lingao Monastery was thriving. After celebrating Mass and giving a sermon on his first Sunday, Jin Lige fully felt the prosperity of the local church. He couldn’t help but feel a sincere joy at being able to come to such a place to expand the Lord’s flock.
An elderly nun came respectfully into the study. Her dark, wrinkled face was full of respect as she carefully cleared the dishes from the table in front of him. The priest had just enjoyed a delicious fruit sorbet and iced kvass, which were especially delightful in the sweltering Lingao afternoon.
He suddenly felt a little ashamed of his indulgence in fine food, a feeling that was particularly strong when he thought of his attendant.
The fervor that emanated from Weiss Lando, this soldier of unknown origin, was enough to dumbfound even a man as worldly and learned as Father Jin Lige. Perhaps believing that the long confession before the Australian priest was not enough to cleanse his sins, Weiss resolutely stayed in the Dongmen Church to live a life of asceticism. He cut his hair short, wore a coarse cloth shirt, and subsisted on a few rice cakes and plain water each day. He was even unwilling to live in a room, choosing instead to live in the church’s bell tower.