The Cloister

In the twilight, shadows bounce and slide along the courtyard walls. Potted plants hang recklessly from above the terrace that runs the length and breadth of the building. From an upstairs window, a curtain twitches. The dark robe of a priest can be glimpsed, a heavily beaded rosary hanging down the front.

Young men and women exercise in the courtyard below. The monastery has opened its doors to the local community. They stretch and do cartwheels, long limbs fanning the warm, summer air. Beads of sweat glisten on taut skin.

An instant later, a priest runs out of the building into the yard, chasing the one of the cloister’s cats. The gymnasts stop agape, eyes following the spectacle that is part burlesque, part travesty.

A yellow light comes on to the left of the yard. An aging priest shuffles over to the bathroom and appears to forget to close the door. Cat in hand, the running priest goes back into the building, the curtain upstairs twitches once more, the toilet flashes and the yellow light goes out.

The group continues with their repertoire.