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caught with an underage hooker or had checked into a clinic for cocaine addiction so chronic that his nose cartilage had entirely rotted away, all would have been forgiven; the press would have adored him. In our age, self-indulgence and self-destruction, rather than self-sacrifice, are the foundations for new heroic myths.
    Instead, John Heineman had passed years in monastic seclusion and in fact had spent months at a time in hermitage, first elsewhere and then here in his deep retreat, speaking not a word to anyone. His meditations were of a different character from those of other monks, though not necessarily less reverent.
    I crossed the shadowy strand surrounding the ordered furniture. The floor was stone. Under the chairs lay a wine-colored carpet.
    The tinted bulbs and the umber-fabric lampshades produced light the color of caramelized honey.
    Brother John was a tall, rangy, broad-shouldered man. His hands—at that moment resting on the arms of the chair—were large, with thick-boned wrists.
    Although a long countenance would have been more in harmony with his lanky physique, his face was round. The lamplight directed the crisp and pointed shadow of his strong nose toward his left ear, as if his face were a sundial, his nose the gnomon, and his ear the mark for nine o’clock.
    Assuming that the second lighted lamp was meant to direct me, I sat in the chair opposite him.
    His eyes were violet and hooded, and his gaze was as steady as the aim of a battle-hardened sharpshooter.
    Considering that he might be engaged in meditation and averse to interruption, I said nothing.
    The monks of St. Bartholomew’s are encouraged to cultivate silence at all times, except during scheduled social periods.
    The silence during the day is called the Lesser Silence, which begins after breakfast and lasts until the evening recreation period following dinner. During Lesser Silence, the brothers will speak to one another only as the work of the monastery requires.
    The silence after Compline—the night prayer—is called the Greater Silence. At St. Bartholomew’s, it lasts through breakfast.
    I did not want to encourage Brother John to speak with me. He knew that I would not have visited at this hour without good reason; but it would be his decision to break silence or not.
    While I waited, I surveyed the room.
    Because the light here was always low and restricted to the center of the chamber, I’d never had a clear look at the continuous wall that wrapped this round space. A dark luster implied a polished surface, and I suspected that it might be glass beyond which pooled a mysterious blackness.
    As we were underground, no mountain landscape waited to be revealed. Contiguous panels of thick curved glass, nine feet high, suggested instead an aquarium.
    If we were surrounded by an aquarium, however, whatever lived in it had never revealed itself in my presence. No pale shape ever glided past. No gape-mouthed denizen with a blinkless stare had swum close to the farther side of the aquarium wall to peer at me from its airless world.
    An imposing figure in any circumstances, Brother John made me think now of Captain Nemo on the bridge of the
Nautilus
, which was an unfortunate comparison. Nemo was a powerful man and a genius, but he didn’t have both oars in the water.
    Brother John is as sane as I am. Make of that what you wish.
    After another minute of silence, he apparently came to the end of the line of thought that he had been reluctant to interrupt. His violet eyes refocused from some far landscape to me, and in a deep rough voice, he said, “Have a cookie.”

CHAPTER 6
    I N THE ROUND ROOM, IN THE CARAMEL LIGHT, beside each armchair stood a small table. On the table beside my chair, a red plate held three chocolate-chip cookies.
    Brother John bakes them himself. They’re wonderful.
    I picked up a cookie. It was warm.
    From the time I had unlocked the bronze door with my universal key until I entered this room, not even two