It was a Tuesday night, a regular evening mass, and there were even fewer people than usual, maybe seven at the most, maybe eight, maybe less, five or six. The stranger walked in late, and you could almost feel winter come in with him. He wore a black coat that fell past his knees, made of material so fine and shiny that it must have cost ten thousand pesos. Under his coat he wore a suit of fine silk perfectly tailored for his body. A gold watch shone on his wrist.
Occasionally, someone walking in the city would stumble inside our doors, tired of alcohol or drugs or a bad relationship. Maybe they hoped to find some sign from God that their life was about to change, and it was obvious that they had never been inside a Catholic church.
Not this rich man. He was a Catholic, all right. He knew when to sit and stand and kneel, and he repeated the prayers without hesitation. Even when Father Flood, who was very old and getting senile, forgot the part about giving each other the sign of peace, the rich man knew it would have been there, and without thinking he shook the hand of the person next to him.
Even though there were millions of people in the city, and hundreds of thousands living in high-rise apartments in Villa Freud, if there was someone new at a weeknight mass, I noticed right away.
But the newcomer I saw that night was so out of place in the sanctuary that it could have been a Sunday evening, when the church was full, and I would have noticed him.
When it was time for the offering, old Martín carried the basket to the front. He was so old he looked like a walking metaphor for death. When he reached the altar, he made the sign of the cross and turned around. He went from row to row, extending the basket for the offering, very slowly. The regulars dropped their coins inside, and I could hear them clinking.
I leaned over and whispered in Father Flood’s ear.
“There’s three reasons,” I said, continuing our conversation from earlier. “One. I’m insufferably neat. Even a drop of water in the sink bothers me like you wouldn’t believe. Who could live with that?”
“I see,” he said, nodding his head as if he were listening to my confession. Father Flood was in his nineties, and I was in my mid-fifties. I had been helping him with the evening mass for more than twenty years.
Martín finally reached the altar, and he handed me the collection basket. Father Flood prayed over it. When the Eucharist was about to start, I pulled the chalice from the silver box and brought it to him. After the prayers, I was the first one to receive the Body of Christ. I held out my hands, and Father Flood placed the wafer in my palms.
Then we offered the Host to the congregation.
The regulars came up, but the rich man sat during communion. I couldn’t make out his face from where I was, because the light came from behind him. Thus from where I stood, he stood in chiaroscuro, but you could tell he was handsome.
After mass, I took the garment from the shoulders of Father Flood. I took the offering, shook the bag, and heard the coins.
At home, I had a new bottle of Chardonnay, and I was eager to get home and drink it. After mass, after everyone had left, I told Father Flood that wine was the second reason. I drink at least a bottle a day, which most people wouldn’t understand, but I accept that about myself.
Wine is one of life’s pleasures.
Father Flood nodded his head, then he said he wasn’t feeling well. He asked me if I would lock up. He said goodnight and went to leave, but before he was able to reach the doorway, I said, “Father, wait!”
I wanted to tell him the third reason, the one that really mattered, but he had a look of nausea on his face, as if he were very sick. He clearly had nothing invested in our conversation, and maybe he’d even forgotten the question he had asked me.
“Do you need anything at the pharmacy?”
“No, no, I’ll be fine. I just need rest,” he said. “Thank-you. Thank-you.” Then he left.
Inside, the church was silent.
Outside I could hear voices, young people yelling, car horns, the “cartoneros” collecting cardboard from the garbage.
The cartoneros, often entire families, went through the streets all night long looking for cardboard. I could hear the squeaky wheels of their carts passing and them yelling to each other.
I looked around Flood’s office, but I didn’t see any cardboard I could put in front of the church for them.
I sat at Flood’s desk.
There was a lamp and a ledger. I dumped the contents of the collection bag onto the desktop.
Then I saw it.
Among all the regular coins and single bills was a roll of hundred-dollar bills, U.S. dollars. I could smell the fresh paper money. It was a thick roll, and in my mind I saw the stranger standing in the pews, light shining on his shoulders.
I wrote the night’s total into the ledger, a number that would certainly get the accountant’s attention in the morning.
I walked across the room and opened the door to the cabinet. From a drawer I pulled out a wooden box with a tiny lock. I put the key inside the lock and turned it. The box opened. I pushed the money inside and closed the lid. I locked the box and put it back in the drawer.
I turned off the lights.
The only light in the empty nave came from the street, the shadows of the empty pews stretching out on the walls. I walked onto the altar, past the statues. I turned around, looked up at the statue of our Holy Mother. Thanks to the Mother, I said, making the sign of the cross, and I walked down the aisle. I could hear my footsteps. My shadow rose up the walls. I could hear the city, car horns and braking buses, squeaky wheels. When I reached the huge doors, I turned around, faced the altar, and made the sign of the cross again.
I went out and locked the doors of the church. I walked down the church steps onto the sidewalk.
It was a cold night, enough so that the cafés had no tables on the sidewalks. Inside they were full. The women walking home from work had themselves wrapped in coats and scarves. I walked through the streets, past more cafés and newsstands and flower vendors and people waiting for buses or descending into the underground.
I reached my street and stopped to look at the parrilla on the corner. I knew they served good steaks and my favorite Malbec. And I liked the waiter there. He was a professional Buenos Aires waiter, a man in his fifties, always wore a bow tie and vest, and he served with a flourish, the way he opened the wine, twirled the cork in his fingers before setting it in front of you to inspect. He cut the steak with knife and fork, making a beat the way the metal tapped the plate.
And as he did all this, he never said anything to me, but he had a friendly look on his face, and you could tell that he was just as much at peace as I was. We just left each other in peace, no need to feel like we had to say something.
And those moments, when dinner was about to arrive, when he unfolded my napkin, he was like a magician! He would pull the napkin from its folded triangle on the table and flick his wrist, the napkin blurring and twisting like a flag. Then he placed the napkin next to my plate, and the triangle became a flower, the napkin spreading out its white petals.