In his monastic veil he seemed to be a black walking mountain. He was serious and used to sleep on a pallet. He didn’t like this-worldly noises and ran away from crowds. He adored pantomime.

…Once I opened my palm and asked him to tell my future. He took my hand and drew to his lips. His look was mysterious and elegiac: ‘I am not a prophet,’ he whispered.

His baritone echoed in the silence of the church. He was profoundly religious and erotic.