The Triforium Page 2

  She looked as if she was at a cotillion in a magnificent golden dress, the neo-Gothic grande dame of the ball. Her stone gown was formed from perpendicular vertical runs of yellow limestone, ending in spires illuminated by floodlights. Flying buttresses connected these spires. Circumscribing the upper heights of the ancient monastery was a large rose window, spoked with a stone tracery that held the window’s stained glass in place. The whole structure was an ornate layering of stone in a honeycomb of medieval styles. Below, well below the rose window, were three doors, each with a succession of intricately carved arches covered with a multitude of saints.

  The largest door at Westminster Abbey was the center door. As Butterfield approached, he worried that someone may have locked it up for the night. Maybe the Reverend was so busy he had forgotten he had an appointment with Wallace, or, he still fretted, maybe his whole trip to the Abbey was just an elaborate joke. Butterfield looked about for a doorbell, wondering how one would announce oneself to such a large and historically significant piece of architecture. Then Wallace remembered what Mr. Bradshaw told him to do, and he opened the door. Even then, he expected to be challenged. There had to be Abbey security on the other side. Wallace had his invitation in hand, and was ready to wave it about, but there was no one there. First he peered into the empty expanse, then, cautiously, he entered like a mouse creeping out of his hole.

  It was as he had remembered it from his first school outing. The vaulted ceilings rose high above, adorned with gilded stone floral designs. Huge crystal chandeliers were suspended below. The walls of the Abbey were thick with monuments and statues commemorating the lives of famous and occasionally not-so-famous Britons. Illuminated directly in front of him was another rose window much like the one over the great north door. That was the south transept. To its left was Poets’ Corner and that was the direction Butterfield was supposed to head. Still looking about for somebody he would have to explain himself to, he found nobody. Butterfield hurried himself past the quire and sacrarium. Mr. Bradshaw had told him to look for a small inconspicuous door below the bust of Ben Johnson with a small white sign labeled in red, “No Public Admittance.” But it wasn’t as easy as that had sounded. Poets’ Corner was a large area crowded with marble busts.

  As he walked about looking for the door, old memories started coming back. When he was a child he found the whole place to be a little creepy. The Abbey had a musty smell back then, and it still did. But it would, wouldn’t it? Thousands of dead people filled its cellars, vaults, and tombs, bodies, and ashes were stuffed everywhere. Some were even discreetly concealed beneath the paving. This thought forced Butterfield to look down at his feet. He gulped. He was standing on the grave of Lewis Caroll. Next to Caroll was Henry James and nearby were Rudyard Kipling and Charles Dickens. Butterfield recalled that Chaucer was buried somewhere about here. He turned around, hoping he hadn’t stepped on Chaucer. To his relief he hadn’t. He had just walked across a memorial plaque for some guy named Thomas Sterns Eliot before realizing that it was T. S. Eliot. The paving read

  THOMAS

  STEARNS

  ELLIOT

  OM

  Born 26 September 1888

  Died 4 January 1965

  “the communication of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living”

  Wallace felt a slight chill when he read that, not because the words were exceptionally disturbing, but because, for the first time, he began to sense the quivering mass above his head, and to feel its playfully malevolent intent. Fortunately, at this moment Butterfield saw the bust of Johnson and made a beeline for the door below it.

  Chapter Three

  The Office in the Triforium

  Beyond the door, Butterfield was presented with a dimly lit circular stair that wound its way up inside a stone turret. As he proceeded up, he could see no more than a few steps at a time. He was in the habit of counting steps and could not restrain himself from doing this even when stressed, particularly when stressed. Butterfield grabbed hold of a waist-high iron railing and guided himself up. A millennium of footfalls had scooped out the stone making deep depressions in the treads. Wallace had to be careful where he planted his feet. He didn’t look up until step twenty-three placed him on a landing that had two stairways branching off from it.

  Mr. Bradshaw had cautioned him to take the stairway to his right; in fact he had told Butterfield that getting to the office would be a series of consecutive right turns. Wallace turned to his right and picked up the count. There was some kind of hammering on metal coming from up above and the stairway was growing warmer. At tread forty-four he could see the source of the heat and the noise. A large steam pipe painted red and stenciled in white with the words Do Not Touch had been retrofitted through the building’s masonry. He resumed his ascent, sweating and puffing from both the temperature and his deplorable level of fitness. At tread eighty-seven his counting gaze noted that he was about to step onto a wooden floor. He looked up and yelped!

  A dozen or so draped, shadowy figures stood before him, backlit by the city lights streaming in through a large monochromatic daisy-shaped window set in an arching Reuleaux triangle of stone. Though he was not fully aware of it, whatever was lurking above Butterfield’s head was now moving up and down his spine with glee. There was sufficient light for Wallace to realize that it was just old statuary, the likenesses of discarded saints and notables who were no longer saintly or notable enough to be put on public display. The presence within him wished that Butterfield hadn’t gotten a grip on himself. However, it consoled itself with the knowledge that it would do a better job of scaring Wallace by replaying this scene in his head once he had fallen asleep. This was something it did with great regularity. Only last night, in fact, it had created the illusion of a tentacled rhinoceros giving Wallace a proctologic examination with a Gregorian chant thrown in for extra measure — hysterical — absurdly funny. Dreams like this so aggravated Wallace’s unconsciousness that his brain would reject the presence like a bad transplant, allowing it to escape the incessant chatter in Wallace’s brain.

  There were a few abandoned and battered gargoyles on the floor, which Wallace stepped over as he threaded his way around stacks of wooden boxes labeled Royal Wedding, State Funeral, and Coronation. He picked his way through these obstacles to get closer to the window. He had never seen Parliament from this perspective. The window, his schooling had taught him, was made from panes of wavy medieval glass. They were created by ancient glass blowers who had first blown spheres of glass, then flattened them, spun them into circular shapes, and cut them into sections. This glass distorted light, bent it, and softened it. Through this window he could see Parliament’s Central Tower. It was so close. Floodlights gave it a tawny yellow glow. Big Ben chimed out a few bars from Handel’s Messiah and then rung the hour. It was ten o’clock and Butterfield was late.

  Wallace Butterfield turned to his right and headed across the thick planked unfinished flooring. He then took the next right-hand turn offered to him. At last he saw what he had been looking for. There stood a rustic medieval door with weathered bronze strap hinges. He knocked. The door opened. There was a man of average height but sturdily built. He had a great barrel chest and was dark-skinned, very dark-skinned. He wore a clerical collar.

  “You must be Mr. Butterfield,” he boomed with a sense of self-assured camaraderie.

  Wallace was surprised. He had expected the Reverend Poda-Pirudi to be an Italian or maybe an Italian-American. He hoped he didn’t show his disappointment. He felt out of sorts, off balance — this wasn’t because Reverend Poda-Pirudi wasn’t an Italian-American. No, it was because the being within Butterfield had gone into a total state of panic. The sight of Reverend Poda-Pirudi had filled it with dread. His eyes … they had no soul! There were no luminescent blue eyes peering back — just flesh — and, worst of all, that flesh could see it! The creature that lived within Butter
field ran, ran down deep inside him, curled up in a fetal position, tucking itself together as tight as it could squeeze. If there had been a door there, the Reverend and Wallace would have both heard it slam. There it hid where it was born in the pit of Butterfield’s stomach.

  “Welcome to England’s attic. Well the whole Abbey is the nation’s attic, but this spot most particularly is the attic, for the nation’s history, I mean. Over three thousand notable people buried here you know, seventeen of them monarchs,” Reverend Poda-Pirudi laughed. “Come in, come and sit down please.”

  The Reverend motioned to an elegant red satin couch below another large window. But this one looked into the Abbey. Butterfield was happy to oblige him. He felt very obliging, even light-hearted.

  “Can I get you something? Spring water, a cordial?”

  Butterfield shook his head.

  “Well, please, you are our guest. I can send Bradshaw to the commissary and he can get you anything you need,” he said, motioning with his head in the direction of an open office door to indicate that was where Mr. Bradshaw was lodged. Then the Reverend sat himself down at his desk.

  It was a massive hand-carved desk, topped with a large pink slab of polished marble. It was an exquisite piece of furniture. In fact, the whole office décor was stunning. It was done all in burnished wood tones: linenfold old oak paneling with richly carved Tudor wooden traceries bordering the hammer beam ceiling. It had a parquet floor of branching ebony and white oak. A huge mahogany bookcase stood at one end of the room, filled with gilt-edged books. The Reverend’s desk sat on a deep red oriental rug. Two brass lamps with maroon shades gave off a warm rosy light. The room flowed together seamlessly. Nothing was out of place. Nothing was out of place on the Reverend’s desk either, papers neatly stacked, his pen left at a precise perpendicular angle.

  “Melanesian Brotherhood, Archdiocese of Melanesia,” the Reverend said, as though he was just answering a question.

  “Excuse me?” Butterfield was trying to come to terms with where he was and he hadn’t a clue what Melanesia had to do with anything.

  Seeing his confusion, the Reverend clarified his point.

  “Most people are surprised to see me. A man from the South Pacific here in the Abbey and in charge of our illustrious Westminster Abbey Foundation.” He grinned. “Well, Mr. Butterfield, let me tell you a little about myself, for I think I know something about you, and we should be acquainted before we discuss our business. First of all you don’t know my first name. It is Jae. Please call me Jae. I’m only Reverend Poda-Pirudi at weddings and funerals and such. Okay? And may I have the privilege of calling you Wallace?”

  Butterfield nodded but the Reverend gave him no time to respond.

  “I am from the Solomon Islands. You’ve heard of them?” The Reverend’s voice was deep, but his words would modulate up to a high falsetto at the end of a thought, as if the ending were a punch line to a joke.

  “The Solomon Islands are off of Fiji?” Wallace guessed, knowing he’d be wrong.

  “No, they are off of Papua New Guinea and Australia. But no matter, I’m from the Island of New Georgia, specifically the Marovo Lagoon. The world’s largest lagoon you know, full of beautiful coral reefs and fishes, tropical birds, huge trees, and lizards the size of large dogs. A marvelous place. A very nice place and a very spiritual place. Everybody spends Saturday getting ready for Sunday. But that is enough of that. When I became old enough I joined the Anglican Melanesian Brotherhood. Later I won a scholarship to the University of the South Pacific in Public Administration. Then I was so fortunate to be asked to attend Saint Stephen’s House in Oxford where I trained for the ministry.

  “And now here I am before you ready to discuss the future of this marvelous old Abbey. I confess that I have no skills in architecture, but that’s why you are here: a member of The Royal Institute of British Architects with a master’s degree in architecture from the University of Manchester. I need a vision, Wallace. “

  “Vision … excuse me what kind of vision? I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t. And don’t get nervous, I’m not asking you to have the Virgin Mary appear before me. I want your vision for our own central tower.”

  “A central tower… Do you mean like Parliament’s? I’m not sure…”

  “Of course you are not. I haven’t brought you up to speed yet. Relax, let me finish. Westminster Abbey lacks a tower. I know you might say that it’s just an abbey but come, come, Wallace, this Abbey is the Church of England. It needs to proclaim that. It’s not a new idea. Abbot Islip tried to get one built during the Reign of Henry VIII, but there was no money. Henry was a very high-maintenance king — pageants, jousts, fine food clothes, and palaces — that sort of thing. Well during the reign of Charles II, Christopher Wren tried to do something with the crumbling west front, but botched the job with those two pygmy towers of his. “

  “Sir, I mean Reverend.” Butterfield was flabbergasted. This was madness to consider an obscure grocer’s architect to present such an important idea. “I’m not Christopher Wren!”

  “And I’m glad to hear it. Look Wallace I’m not asking you to build me a tower. I’m asking you to submit your idea for a tower on paper. If Christopher Wren could make a mistake on the real edifice of Westminster Abbey, why shouldn’t you be allowed the same latitude to make a mistake but on paper? After all I’m just looking for some ideas to present before the Abbey Foundation. To get them thinking about finishing the Abbey, the way it was meant to be finished.

  “Besides,” the Reverend said encouragingly, “I’ve been shopping at your le Mareschal’s Supermarket. And I might say it was quite a treat. I was struck by the architecture. The chrome. The glass. The refraction of natural light. A grocery store that would soar if given the chance. A heavenly structure that ties man and God together in a supermarket. This is why I sought you out Wallace. From your work I could tell that you are a spiritual man. Are you a member of the Church of England?”

  “Ahhh, no. As a boy I did attend a Methodist Church in South Croydon,” Butterfield sheepishly confessed.

  Reverend Poda-Pirudi laughed. “Well, we will work on that, as well as your plans, together. Look, York Minster, Salisbury, Norwich, Canterbury, and Lincoln cathedrals all have commanding towers or spires that proclaim ‘here is the place for worship. Here we interconnect God and the heavens with man on earth.’ Man has always tried to touch the face of God by reaching for the heavens,” he rhapsodized. “The Mayans and the Egyptians had their pyramids, the Babylonians their ziggurats, the Incas, Machu Picchu, and what do we have here where the greatest movers and shakers in British history are buried? What does London’s skyline proclaim? Europe’s largest Ferris wheel, a gargantuan sybaritic amusement park attraction for a pampered and hedonistic populace, and the Gherkin, that obnoxious 180-meter tall skyscraper fashioned into the shape of a pickle. I think it makes a suitable home for our lords of industry whose greed has gotten us into this pickle of debased values and moral decay. Well, what a pickle they’ve gotten us into … hah! Sorry,” the Reverend chuckled, “I’m a serial punster. I’ll control myself — promise.”

  He then went quiet hoping that Butterfield might have something to say on the topic.

  But he didn’t.

  The Reverend began to feel embarrassed about allowing the conversation to lapse, “Don’t you think we need something big in our skyline for our churchgoers?”

  “Well there’s the dome of Saint Paul’s. As I recall it’s much higher than any of the cathedral towers in England. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Saint Paul’s dome?” the Reverend said dismissively. “No, no, that was a premonition of Christopher Wren of things to come. Looks like the U.S. Capitol dome doesn’t it? That speaks volumes about modern Britain. Saint Paul’s is Wren getting things wrong again. You know he’s not buried here? “

  Butter
field shook his head. He had no idea where Christopher Wren was buried. Never thought of looking it up.

  The Reverend laughed self-consciously. “Forgive me. No more haranguing Wren or the worshippers of the Gherkin tonight. I’m sure that you with your architectural sensitivities understand my passion. I don’t want to put you on the spot, but do you have any initial ideas, Mr. Butterfield? Any of your creative muses whispering to you? Come, come, share them with me.”

  Butterfield knew he had to say something. “Perhaps we should keep things light?”

  The Reverend clapped his hands encouragingly. “We are here for the light. Yes, yes, light versus darkness. Go on?”

  “No, I mean, I’m a bit concerned about the foundation and the weight-bearing capacity of such an old structure. I can’t see how you could integrate a tower or steeple unless you used glass and maybe chromed steel. Something like the pyramid I. M. Pei designed to be placed in front of the Louvre. It’s sort of comparable in history and grandeur with the Abbey.”

  Reverend Poda-Pirudi’s face went temporarily blank but recovered instantly. He breathed in and then explained. “I have all the soil boring data and those strain and stress structural thingies from our engineers. The project has their green light. No need to stifle your imagination with concerns about whether the old Abbey can carry the weight of your imagination. What I need from you is a vision! Something I can present to the Abbey Foundation. If I can convince them, we should commence work within a year or two.

  Wallace hesitated. “But, don’t you think the Royals might get upset if we tamper with such a venerated historic building?”

  “Oh, my goodness no. It’s a royal peculiar you know? It falls directly under the Queen and not under a bishop. The Royals want this. The old Abbey has had many a facelift over time and has had all sorts of indignities committed against it throughout its existence. This will be a major improvement. Consider, if you will, how Henry VIII slighted it. Stripped it of all its gold and treasure. There were golden pillars around Edward the Confessor’s altar with a feretory of saintly relics of solid gold and covered in jewels. They were all melted down and the jewels picked out. He grabbed hold of anything he could lay his hands on that had any value. Henry the VIII is not buried here, you know.