He is scarcely older than the pubescent boys of the academy, but with none of their crude jokes and wild horseplay. Instead his willowy frame cradles the instrument as a mother with her child, downy hair covering his face as he concentrates. “Hail Mary, full of grace,” he recites. “The Lord is with thee.” His choir, although inexperienced, obediently responds. “Blessed are thou amongst women,” they mumble in unison, their uncertain voices becoming one.

To me he is the picture of feminine grace, and whenever I see him, a curious, caustic, heated pressure of masculinity arises in me — a sensation that I have never felt when delivering water to the choir girls, or attending to the praying mothers at the chapel. The musician is pliable. His fingers are twigs, and his skin is paper. With the smallest gust of wind, or with a sharp twist of the arm, it seems like he will break. “Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners,” he sings, eyes moistened with tears. I realize I have to protect him.

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