Which Brother Hilarius had reentered, saying, “I’m no attorney, but if we aren’t in arrears in our rent they can’t throw us out, can they?”
“Not until the lease is up,” Brother Clemence said, and looked around the table hopefully, saying, “Does anybody know when that is?”
“I can’t find it,” Brother Oliver said. He gestured helplessly toward our filing cabinet in the darkest corner, a cabinet I myself knew to be every bit as neat and organized as our attic and those grapevines out there. “I spent hours last night looking for it.”
“Well, let’s work it out,” Brother Clemence said. Turning to Brother Hilarius he said, “You told us it was a ninety-nine-year lease. Starting when?”
“It was signed with Colton Van deWitt in April of 1777,” Brother Hilarius told him, and through his normal stolid manner the pride of the historian briefly peeked.
Sounding startled, Brother Oliver said, “Then it expired a hundred years ago!”
“Ninety-nine,” Brother Clemence said, and something in his voice sounded ominous. “The lease would have been up in 1876, and would have been renewed as of then.”
“With the Flatterys,” Brother Dexter said.
“And would have run out again this year,” Brother Clemence said. “In April.”
No one had anything to add. We sat there in a growing silence, looking around at one another’s pale faces as we absorbed what was happening. Our monastery. Our home.
Brother Clemence at last broke the silence, if not the mood, by saying to Brother Oliver, “Well, I see now why you wanted a meeting.” He glanced around at the rest of us, and I thought a slight puzzlement clouded his expression when his eyes met mine.
Brother Oliver must have seen that, too, because he said, “Brother Benedict was the first one to know about this. I wanted to keep this meeting small, just those who had to know or already knew. I don’t want to tell the other Brothers just yet. I don’t want to alarm them until we know for certain there’s no possible solution.”
Brother Dexter turned to Brother Clemence, asking, “Who owns the building? The Flatterys own the land, but who owns the monastery?”
“The owner of the land,” Brother Clemence said heavily, “owns any improvements thereon. So the Flatterys own the building.”
“Not any more,” Brother Oliver said. “I called Dan Flattery today. It was very difficult to get through to him, but when I finally did he told me he’d sold the land to this fellow Dwarfmann.”
Brother Clemence said, “Then Dwarfmann owns our monastery.”
“Dwarfmann owns our monastery,” echoed Brother Hilarius. He said it with a kind of morose awe.
Brother Clemence said, “I’d like to see that lease, see the exact wording.”
“I just can’t find it,” Brother Oliver said. “I know I’ve seen it in the past, but last night and today I searched and searched, and it has just disappeared.”
“Then, with your permission, Brother Oliver,” said Brother Clemence, “I should like to Travel downtown to the County Clerk’s office. There’ll be a copy recorded there.”
“Certainly,” Brother Oliver said. “You could do that tomorrow. Brother Dexter will arrange subway fare for you. How much is the fare now, do you know, Brother Dexter?”
“I’ll find out in the morning,” Brother Dexter said. “I could also call this man Dwarfmann and sound him out. He might be interested in selling the land back to us.”
Now I had a contribution of my own to make, though not a very cheery one. “I doubt that,” I said. “Even if Dwarfmann was willing to sell, this is prime midtown office-space property here and I’m afraid the cost would be far more than we could afford. We must have at least a hundred feet of sidewalk frontage.”
Brother Dexter looked grim. “You’re probably right, Brother Benedict,” he said, “but we might as well find out the worst.”
“And I,” Brother Hilarius said, “will look through every scrap of history we have, to see if I can find anything at all that might be helpful.”
“I knew I could count on you all,” Brother Oliver said. “With you at work, and with the Lord’s help, we might yet save our monastery.”
I said, “And I? Is there anything I can do, Brother Oliver?”
“Yes, there is,” he said.
Startled, I said, “There is? What?”
“You,” he told me, “can write to that architecture woman at the New York Times.”
December 10, 1975
Miss Ada Louise Huxtable
The New York Times
229 West 43rd St.
New York, NY 10036
Dear Miss Huxtable:
I am writing to you in reference to the column of yours that you wrote in the Arts and Leisure section of the Sunday New York Times last Sunday, December 7th, 1975, to tell you that I am a monk in the monastery about which you wrote in that column, and to ask you if there is anything
December 10, 1975
Miss Ada Louise Huxtable
The New York Times
229 West 43rd St.
New York, NY 10036
Dear Miss Huxtable:
I am a monk. I am a resident in the unique Crispinite Monastery. You say that we are going to be torn down. We wonder if
December 10, 1975
Miss Ada Louise Huxtable
The New York Times
229 West
December 10, 1975
Miss Ada Louise Huxtable
The New York Times
229 West 43rd St.
New York, NY 10036
Dear Miss Huxtable:
I am a monk in
December 10, 1975
Miss Ada Louise Huxtable
The New York Times
229 West 43rd St.
New York, NY 10036
Dear Miss Huxtable:
I am a monk in the Crispinite Monastery on Park Avenue. We did not know we were going to be torn down until we read about it in your column. Is there anything you can suggest that would help us from being torn down? If you
December 10, 1975
Miss Ada Louise Huxtable
The New York Times
229 West 43rd St.
New York, NY 10036
Dear Miss Huxtable:
I am a monk in the Crispinite Monastery on Park Avenue. We did not know our monastery was going to be torn down until we read about it in your column. Is there anything you can suggest that would help us to keep our monastery, which is also our home?
We feel urgent about this because we just found out our ninety-nine-year lease is up.
Yours in Christ,
Brother Benedict, C.O.N.M.
Our monastery:
Wednesday’s meeting was grimmer than Tuesday’s. Outside the leaded windows, a gray December rain was raining. One of the other Brothers — I couldn’t tell which, because his cowl was up against the rain — puttered at our grapes. Within, I was still twitching and exhausted from my hours at the community typewriter, and none of the others had anything pleasant to report.
Brother Clemence spoke first. “There’s no record of the lease with the County Clerk,” he told us. “I swear to you that when I expressed surprise at that, an ancient clerk there snapped at me, ‘Don’t you know there was a war on?’ Meaning the Revolution. Most of New York City was held by the British under martial law throughout the Revolution, and many deeds and leases and other legal papers just didn’t get properly recorded. A transfer of property would eventually have found its way into the records, but a simple rental doesn’t create as many legal necessities.”