—Father: dissolve me my sins.
Father Ludmilo didn’t bother to correct him. If he were going to correct him, he said later, he would have to correct the man rather than the sentence. For his visitor muddled up his mixture of languages as he stumbled through his prayers:
—Our boss who art in Heaven, your daily bread, braised be God.
He was an outlaw, one could see it in his appearance. He displayed himself in the holy house of God, full of arrogance and disrespect. The priest studied the confessor as he spoke. And he noticed the machete strapped to the young bandit’s boot.
But the sinner wasn’t alone. At the entrance, one could see, against the sunlight, the silhouette of another fugitive. This other man’s skin seemed lighter, and his frizzy hair was more that of a mulato. Father Ludmilo couldn’t make out his face.
In contrast, the pronounced features of the man kneeling in front of him were distinctive. What he said, however, was certainly not:
—God is pretty, Father, because we can’t see Him. Even I refuse to go to Heaven so as not to suffer disappointment. He uttered and then re-uttered the most disparate depravities. And on he went with his impious declarations:
—The problem with God, with all due respect, is that He sleeps snuggled up to the Devil’s backside.
When all was said and done, what exactly did that ragamuffin, that bootlegger want? The priest didn’t seem particularly interested. He yawned, tired. All you could say about that man is that he was a lover of disorder, a perpetrator of butcheries and massacres. His was an empty heart, not even his name had ever known a moment of warmth or affection.
—Before, the Church made me scared, Father. It was a place that seemed to make you ill immediately.
—Ill?
—Yes, people go in and their legs go weak straightaway. They even fall to their knees.
Ludmilo only pretended to pay attention. Nowadays, the only thing you need to do to pretend to be a priest is to know how to listen. In the end, the brigand was coming there to ask for undeserved forgiveness, even if he had to utter threats in order to get what he wanted.
—Father: it’s not entry to Heaven I want, no. I want a change of hell.
For he could no longer stay in this earthly hell, alongside creatures of the wild, a dread-end existence. For he no longer knew what he was: was he a man outside the law, or a law outside the man?
—I was even promised an ammunisty, or ministree, or amitree, or whatever you call it. I was promised one, Father. All I had to do was to give myself up with my weapon.
The priest remained silent, his mouth expressionless, the epitome of a non-practising cleric, part-time servant of God.
—Are you listening to me, Father?
He signalled that he was, he was merely meditating, an unhappy cogitator in an exchange of secrets with God. He explained that the connection to Paradise was poor, because of the interference of gunfire from the war. The lad should continue with his confession, without omitting a single detail.
And so the bandit set off on his long list of crimes, a blood-sodden deluge. Not even the priest could imagine the extent to which evil could be so creative. For example, how it’s possible to pestle an entire family to death: the old father battered with the stick, the mother forced to grind her own baby down and after all that, the mother raped to death. When the confession was over, the priest sat there, head bowed, as if he were dozing, indifferent.
—Father?
Ludmilo raised his head slowly: a tear glistened on his face. When he spoke, his voice had risen a few tones.
—I can’t forgive you, you filthy son of a bitch.
At first, the reprobate was shocked. Then more insults rained down on him, the priest had lost all control. When he’d got over his surprise, the bandit took offence. He got up, and peered through the peephole as if to make sure that it was the priest speaking. Then he pushed the hatch of the confession box until its hinges snapped.
—What did you call me? Repeat it!
And grabbing the priest by the collar of his soutane, he lifted him off his feet. All of a sudden there was the glint of a machete in the air.
—You’re going to forgive me, or I’ll turn you into cutlets.
The priest stammered something in Latin. The bandit, his mouth jammed against the priest’s face, asked:
—What did you say?
—I spoke Latin, the language of the angels.
—Speak another language, all the angels are white, I don’t want to share a language with them.
—Put the Father down or I’ll shoot you!
The voice came from the entrance; the other bandit had taken aim and was speaking. The Black man ceased his threats and put the cleric down. They stood there, looking at each other, in utter confusion. The visitor turned on his heel and walked slowly away, his rhythm falling in with the echo of his own footsteps. Suddenly, the priest called him:
—Come here, my son. I have something to say to you.
The bandit turned back, his hand on his belt. His gaze had regained its original arrogance, and he was once again the master of other people’s fears.
—What is it, Father?
—It’s just that we don’t have enough food to distribute here at the mission. We could do with a few sacks of maize. Do you think you could get us something?
The robber was puzzled. Then he let out a guffaw: yes, sir, I can. Then he went over to the priest so that no one could hear what he said:
—Just wait till the next truck passes by. One of the ones carrying gift aid.
And off he went, along with his companion. The priest smiled, and turning his eyes heavenwards, said:
—Forgive me, Father.
The sacristan, who had heard the conversation, went over to the priest. He looked at him quizzingly. How could he associate himself with such folk, order a crime from a thief? Ludmilo didn’t bother to explain, and instead made for the sacristy. The sacristan, weeping, clung to his gown.
—Father, answer! How can you order stuff that’s been stolen from the people?
Ludmilo stopped and turned to face the boy. He seemed to want to answer, but maintained his silence. The priest pressed on again, passing the altar without dropping to his knees in devotion.
The sacristan wandered off, astonished, hemorrhaging the saddest thoughts. How could the priest have asked for the favour of stolen goods, fruits of the most heinous of crimes? No doubt some of the things he had used in the church likewise originated in such skulduggery. He spent the next few days ruminating: he needed to speak to Ludmilo, to ask him to be honest about his dishonesty.
But the priest avoided him. One afternoon, the sacristan was getting ready to say his prayers when the same bandit walked into the sacristy. He was on his own, and stinking. The boy shuddered with powerless hatred. The priest walked over to the visitor, and they greeted each other. The bandit gave him a sack.
—Here are the things. See? I didn’t forget!
The priest thanked him and mumbled a few words. The sacristan couldn’t hear what he was saying. For sure, the priest was overindulging in this unbelievable complicity with the forces of Evil. The killer then decided to withdraw. He wanted to take advantage of the paths being deserted, for he hadn’t met a soul on the way there. The priest advised him to pay his respects at the altar before he went. The other man consented, his machete scraping along the floor with metallic stridency. Ludmilo walked towards the heavy entrance doors and opened them wide.
There was an earth-shattering roar. Voices and cries were unleashed in a split second. Outside, a huge crowd demanded that the miscreant should face justice. The sacristan crossed himself, faint with fear. The bandit squirmed with terror. He ran to the priest and begged him for protection. If left in the hands of the people, his life would be extinguished like a candle being snuffed out. The priest put his hands on the ruffian’s shoulders.
—Come with me, don’t be afraid. I won’t let them harm you!
And crossing the threshold, leading the miscreant by the arm, the priest raised his arm in order to calm the crowd’s fury. Silence fell. Ludmilo’s words rang out as if to discourage their frenzy:
—Brothers, remember the teachings of Christ, our redeemer!
And advancing ever further into the human shell, he continued to remind them of the lesson of Jesus, and his example of noble justice. Then, all of a sudden, he pushed the criminal into the middle of the multitude while at the same time pronouncing his summary sentence:
—Burn him!
The furious crowd threw itself upon the condemned man, beating, kicking, spitting, and splattering on him. The priest went back into the church and closed the door behind him.