CHAPTER SIX

barrio kennedy

2008

Lucas had no trouble admitting to himself that he lacked Ignacio’s spirit of sacrifice. He was aware that for a priest he enjoyed material comforts too much. He liked to watch old movies until the early-morning hours, which caused him to wake up late some days to say Mass. When it came to dealing with the hierarchy of the church, he avoided contradicting his superiors whenever his position in Kennedy might be jeopardized. Sometimes Lucas thought of himself as cowardly.

He accepted that, by comparison to the magnitude and scope of Ignacio’s projects in Soacha, his accomplishments in Barrio Kennedy were modest. Lucas had never considered himself an envious person but now found he was troubled by Ignacio’s spreading fame in Bogotá. He prayed that his envy would go away, but it didn’t. When he mentioned it during confession, his Father confessor said, “Well, Ignacio’s ambitions are larger than yours. And they have to be: the people of Soacha have much less than the people of Kennedy. If you pray for your envy to dissipate, and it doesn’t, then try to do more for your flock—if you can. Maybe you’ll have to accept that envy is a part of your nature that you’d like to change.”

* * *

Lucas had tried to be a modern priest—friendly, not stern. He wore black jeans, short-sleeved white shirts, and sneakers, except to deliver Mass. His only concession to tradition was to always wear the collar. He had also modernized some of the rituals in his church. Instead of playing solemn religious music during Mass, he introduced singers with guitars, who performed upbeat Christian songs—like the Protestant evangelical churches did. Inspired by the example of Father Jean Baptiste-Marie Vianney, he wrote his sermons in the vernacular and addressed people’s everyday problems. To be a good Christian, he stressed in his homilies, all that was required was to undergo an interior transformation that was reflected outwardly in the ways people treated others and helped the neediest among them.

By the time Lucas had finished his studies at Javeriana University, he had noticed that many Catholics were losing their passion for the church because what they were being taught was so ethereal. Yes, it was true that Jesus was resurrected, and the Virgin Mary gave birth through an immaculate conception—these were fundamental pillars of Christianity he embraced unquestioningly. But he knew that they were also not the main issues regular people grappled with in real life, because they were so abstract that they no longer meant anything to many believers.

Instead of saying to his parishioners, “Love thy brother” (words which made him blush because they sounded hollow to him), he would say things like, “Visit your old relatives who live alone and forgotten—even if you dislike them.”

On some level he remained proud of Ignacio’s accomplishments. His friend began to appear in the press regularly, and there were segments on TV about his most ambitious social projects. Volunteers started arriving in Soacha from far away, and donations poured in from Colombians and others abroad who had learned about what Ignacio was doing. But for the first time in the years they had known each other, he also felt resentful of Ignacio, whose growing celebrity made Lucas feel small. In uncharitable moments toward himself, he thought he was just like the little mice who always scuttled along the base of the walls, never daring to cross a room down the middle for fear of being squashed. So many donations had come in for Ignacio’s projects that Soacha’s parish house was rebuilt and new offices were added; he had a full-time staff of five people.

But Lucas’s love for Ignacio was much greater than his envy. He could understand as a common human weakness that Ignacio’s success had gone a bit to his head. Furthermore, Lucas worried about Ignacio’s health: he was doing the work of a dozen men; Lucas feared that if he kept up this frantic pace he would fall ill from the stress. Ignacio had always been intense, but now he was functioning constantly at full speed.

Lucas began to notice that the more involved Ignacio got in new social projects, the more erratic and volatile he became. His raging outbursts alarmed Lucas. At times, Ignacio acted more like a politician than a man of the cloth. Was it possible, he began to wonder, that Ignacio cared more about people’s physical needs than their spiritual state? He seemed to have lost all patience with the conservative policies of the church’s hierarchy and the corruption of Colombia’s so-called democratic institutions. Ignacio often seemed like an active volcano about to erupt. He talked nonstop about how men in Soacha were being disappeared by the military; Lucas was afraid that finally something had snapped in his friend’s mind and he was in danger of rubbing important people the wrong way. “Ignacio,” he would plead, “I want you to be very careful. If you make certain people your enemies, your life could be in danger.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Ignacio would counter. “Not talk about it? If I can’t mention it to you—to you, for God’s sake!—whom am I going to confide in?”

“Of course you can talk to me about what’s happening, which sounds horrible, but you’re very tense and if you obsess about this situation it’s going to affect your health.”

“How important is my fucking health? My parishioners are dying all around me and I have to pretend I don’t hear or see anything? I’d rather be dead than do that.”

Lucas didn’t want to upset Ignacio further. As calmly as he could, he said, “Ignacio, you’re the most important person in my life. If anything happened to you, it would be very hard for me to go on.”

“Fine,” Ignacio replied. “I won’t talk anymore about the people being disappeared. I know how squeamish you are.”

“You can call me a coward if you like. I admit I’m one when it comes to preserving my life. I—”

“I, I, I . . . You sound like a broken record,” Ignacio interrupted. “I won’t fucking mention any of this to you again. Okay? Okay? Are you happy now?”

* * *

For years, Lucas had been aware that Ignacio drank more than he did. Every few weeks or so, Ignacio would go on binges that lasted a couple of days. When Lucas mentioned his concern about how his drinking seemed to have escalated, Ignacio barked, “I have to let off steam somehow.” Lucas began to wonder if Ignacio was taking drugs. When he came for dinner on Friday nights, he was often tipsy before they finished their meal. In fact, Ignacio frequently seemed more interested in the wine than the food. When Lucas gave him disapproving looks, Ignacio would snap, “What? Wine is nutritious; it’s full of vitamins and good for the blood.” But one night he finally conceded, “Lucas, if I don’t get smashed every night, I can’t sleep. And I need to sleep at least a few hours so I can function the next day.”

When he stayed over they slept in the same bed, but eventually they stopped having sex. Lucas missed the old intimacy. When he brought up the subject, Ignacio replied, “If you miss sex with me, why don’t you find somebody else to satisfy your needs?”

His words hurt Lucas deeply. Though Lucas had sexual needs like any other healthy priest his age, years before he had decided he would be monogamous, even if Ignacio went to bed with other men. Lucas considered himself old-fashioned. He couldn’t have sex with a man unless he loved him, and the only man he had ever loved, and still loved, was Ignacio. He didn’t want to lose Ignacio; so if Ignacio wanted to be promiscuous, Lucas accepted that was the price he would have to pay.

Lucas decided to start joining Ignacio when he went to the gay bars in Chapinero. Lucas was less anxious if he was with him, and if Ignacio got too drunk, Lucas could drive him back home. Most Friday nights around eleven, Lucas would drive the two of them from Kennedy to the bar district. They dressed almost exactly the same, the way most gay couples did: jeans, sneakers, and black leather jackets.

The first time they went into a bar together, Lucas was surprised to discover that the bouncers at Pollitos knew Ignacio and treated him with deference. Once they went inside the dark, smoky space, where the music and the people were loud, Lucas discovered that the bartenders and waiters treated Ignacio as a regular. A handful of the most attractive young men who patronized the bar greeted him with, “Good evening, Father Ignacio,” or, “Nice to see you, Father.” Lucas was shocked that Ignacio had become so public about being gay; he was sure this would bring nothing but trouble.

A few young men brazenly came over and asked Ignacio to buy them a drink. It was obvious to Lucas that this was not the first time this had happened. The way his friend gulped down drink after drink made Lucas uncomfortable. When Ignacio spotted an attractive young man looking in his direction, he’d send him a drink. All the young men accepted the drinks he sent them, and a few came over to thank him and keep him company. Some flirted with Lucas. Though he sometimes found them attractive, Lucas had made up his mind that he would not take anyone home. In the early 2000s, AIDS was rampant in gay circles in Colombia, but most Colombians refused to wear condoms; many still thought AIDS was a “gringo disease.”

Every night, when he said his last prayers of the day, Lucas prayed that Ignacio would be careful. He was certain that many of the young men in the bars Ignacio patronized had the virus, even if they still looked healthy and attractive.

And yet, as much as Lucas disliked the scene, it was unthinkable to leave Ignacio alone in that world. More and more often, by the end of the night Ignacio was completely drunk. Lucas would drive him home and stay overnight to make sure Ignacio did not decide to go back out again. It saddened him that Ignacio did not seem to find any joy in these escapades. There was something depressing in these nights out.

Lucas knew Ignacio was being self-destructive in other ways as well. Around that time there was a scandal reported in the media about Father Juan, a young gay priest they had run into at the bars. Father Juan had taken a hustler home to share with his lover and woke up to find himself on his bed in a pool of blood, having been stabbed many times. His lover, lying next to him, had also been stabbed multiple times and was dead. Father Juan had managed to call the police before he passed out again. The burglars had stripped the parish house of valuables and had stolen gold candelabras, silver vases, and crosses from the church.

Lucas and Ignacio talked about this incident, and Lucas wondered if that was the reason Ignacio had begun to have sex exclusively with a hustler named Rafael. Ignacio would go to Pollitos and wait until Rafael had drunk and drugged and danced and socialized with his friends, then Rafael would leave with him. Lucas didn’t trust Rafael’s driving any more than he trusted Ignacio’s. By the time they left in the early hours, both Ignacio and Rafael were completely drunk.

Late one Friday night, on the drive back home, Rafael brought out a pipe and he and Ignacio smoked something that produced a foul chemical smell.

“What is that?” Lucas asked.

“It’s meth,” Rafael said. “You should try it, Father. It’s the best.”

* * *

Several days later Lucas drove over to Soacha in the afternoon to have a talk with Ignacio. It was sunny out, so Lucas suggested they sit outside for coffee in the little garden behind the parish house. In a shaded patch, Ignacio had planted some sweet cicely seeds a friend had brought him from Germany. The bushes were crowned with white flowers that produced an inebriating fragrance like that of powdered anise; the piquant aroma cleared Lucas’s head.

After they were served coffee, Lucas said, “You look like you’ve lost weight, Ignacio. Are you okay?” Ignacio had always been on the thin side, but now his face sometimes looked gaunt. Though Lucas knew the answer, he asked, “Are you still smoking crystal meth? You know,” he added hesitatingly, “I’ve done some research and I found there are discreet rehabs where people go to get off drugs.”

Ignacio hit the table with his fist, almost knocking over the cups of coffee. “I work very hard. What’s wrong with having a little harmless fun? What about all those drunken priests we know? Why is it okay to be a drunk, but not to have a little fun with drugs?”

“Methamphetamine is not harmless,” Lucas said. “I’ve seen what it does to people in Kennedy.”

Ignacio leaped from his chair and started pacing the yard. “It’s dangerous if you abuse it; I don’t abuse it!” he yelled. “I just do it a little with Rafael, on weekends. Where’s the harm in that? You’re becoming a holier-

than-thou bore.” He kicked a rosebush and petals scattered to the ground.

With the palms of his hands, Lucas motioned to Ignacio to lower his voice. He hadn’t seen him so upset in a long time. Ignacio returned to his chair. When the sun emerged from behind a patch of clouds, Lucas noticed in the bright light that Ignacio’s upper lip was puckered, his cheeks were sunken, and his face had a greenish tint. Lucas didn’t want to upset him further, but this was his chance finally to discuss Rafael. “I don’t like him,” he said flatly. “He’s not a good influence on you. Please try to put some distance between the two of you.”

Ignacio sat very still. His shoulders drooped, making him look smaller than he was. His eyes were closed; when he opened them slowly, thick tears ran down his cheeks. “I’m in love with Rafael,” he whispered, trembling. “I can’t help it. Asking me to stop seeing him is like asking me to stop breathing—my heart would die.” He took a deep breath, his lips quivered. “So he likes drugs and I have to pay him for sex. How’s that different from all those other boys in the bars? Lucas, what else could Rafael have become in a place like Bogotá? I know you’ve already made up your mind and see no redeeming qualities in him. But where’s your Christian compassion? You know,” he continued, his voice rising again, “it’s easy to have compassion for the old and children and animals. What about the ones who are not pitiful, do not look vulnerable, or are adorably cute? Once, I asked Rafael why he lived the way he did. You want to know what he said?” Ignacio gave Lucas an accusatory look that made him feel like a bad person for having raised the question. “He told me that his father was a criminal—an assassin-for-hire, in fact—and that growing up Rafael thought that was the only option open to him. To Rafael his father was a glamorous man, somebody to admire; he always had money and drugs and all the pretty women he wanted, and people respected him for that.”

Ignacio’s words made Lucas angry; he felt he was listening to a stranger he didn’t like. It upset Lucas to be eaten by jealousy, a feeling that he had always tried to keep in check because he thought it was one of his ugliest character defects. Even so, he was too wounded to feel sympathy for Rafael. He failed to see anything appealing about the man—except his good looks. He didn’t care that Ignacio and he didn’t have sex with each other anymore, but he had always assumed blindly that he would be the only man Ignacio would ever love. Lucas knew that no matter what happened between them, he could never love another man. He was feeling so confused he didn’t trust himself. He got up from his chair.

“I have to go back to Kennedy,” he said. Before he left the garden, he added, “I hope at least you’re having safe sex with him. I would be surprised if he didn’t have AIDS.”

Ignacio got up from his chair too and came very close to Lucas. “So what if I have fallen in love with an unworthy, cruel, angry, unfeeling, selfish boy deadened by drugs and disrespectful of human life?” Spit flew out of his mouth as he said these words. “You know what he told me when I suggested he should continue his education so he could get a good job? He said, ‘Ignacio, when you come from a place where people are worth less than a dead rat flattened by a truck on the road, where countless children and old people die on sidewalks and nobody even knows their names, it’s fucking insane to want to become a person with regular aspirations. Where I come from, young men don’t want an education, they want guns, drugs, easy money, and girls with big tits who desire boys who can offer them those things. What do you want from me, anyway? To be your boyfriend and live my life in the shadows, pretending to be your best friend, because we could never love each other out in the open? Don’t talk to me about boyfriends and lovers; I reject those terms. The only thing I have now is my freedom, and I don’t want to lose it. If love is not about freedom, then for me it’s nothing.’”

“You romanticize him,” Lucas replied, realizing he could not make Ignacio see Rafael for what he was. Or worse, the possibility that indeed Ignacio saw Rafael for what he was, but didn’t care despite the imminent danger he was in.

* * *

Lucas began to pray for Ignacio every chance he got. He had not prayed so fervently since the time he had begged San Martín de Porres to save his arm from being amputated. But though he had seen over and over how prayer consoled people, he had never seen it bring about the miracles people prayed for. In the church, they were taught that the real miracle of prayer was the consolation it brought to the sufferers at that moment when they believed blindly in God’s compassion, and they surrendered so completely that they experienced a kind of peace in letting go and admitting their powerlessness. But that knowledge no longer appeased him; it was clear that Ignacio was killing himself. Lucas was growing angry with God.

He stopped going to the gay bars on Friday nights with Ignacio. He told himself that maybe his friend needed a good scare before he came to his senses. Lucas had not felt so painfully lonely in a long time. Confession did not bring solace: he could not freely admit to his Father confessor that he had been in love with Ignacio for most of his life, that life without him seemed unthinkable. And the only person who might have consoled him, who might have understood Lucas without judging him—his mother—had been dead for a few years.

* * *

Lucas had always marveled at Ignacio’s stamina, but it was obvious that Ignacio needed to slow down—he was often hyperexcited and irritated. One day he called Lucas sobbing loudly. This was unusual: Lucas had seen Ignacio cry perhaps three times in the years they had known each other. In between sobs, Ignacio managed to get out, “Rafael has AIDS. He decided to return home to his mother to the town on the coast where he grew up.” Ignacio wept uncontrollably. “I love him, Lucas! I don’t know if I want to live without him!”

“Remember that there are many people who need you,” Lucas said, struggling to remain calm. “They depend on you; you cannot abandon them.” But what he wanted to say was, What about me? Don’t you give a damn about how your recklessness affects me too? Could I live without you? Have you thought about that?

Not long after that conversation, Ignacio began to complain about a general achiness, frequent fevers, and chills. He developed itchy rashes all over his body. Lucas had read about the night sweats and he knew they were often a symptom of HIV. But he couldn’t bear to contemplate for more than a few seconds the idea that Ignacio was sick. In the following weeks, Ignacio complained about a persistent cold that never went away. His weight loss was obvious. Lucas tried to console himself that there were new drugs he had read about that prolonged people’s lives. He had also heard that the drugs worked for most people, unless the disease was too advanced. He knew that they were expensive in Colombia, but he and Ignacio were no longer poor priests.

Lucas searched desperately for openings to talk to Ignacio about his physical deterioration, but when Ignacio sensed where the conversation was headed, he always cut Lucas off. All their phone conversations ended with Lucas telling Ignacio to make an appointment to see Doctor Ramírez for a checkup. Ignacio always replied, “Don’t worry, I will.”

Finally, when Ignacio called Lucas to say he had yet another high fever, Lucas said, “You have to go see Doctor Ramírez today.”

Ignacio replied that he was too weak to get out of bed.

Lucas contacted Doctor Ramírez right away and told him about Ignacio’s call.

“If he’s too weak to get out of bed, you need to bring him here immediately,” the doctor said.

Lucas raced over to Soacha. When he opened the front door, he saw no signs of the people who worked in the parish house. He went directly to Ignacio’s bedroom and discovered that the bed was covered in diarrhea and his friend appeared to be unconscious. The bedroom was so fetid that Lucas ran to the window facing the backyard and opened it wide.

The cold breeze that blew in revived Ignacio. When he recognized Lucas, he said, “I’m sorry to put you through this.” He moaned. “I didn’t call the cleaning lady because . . . I’m afraid. I didn’t want her to see me like this.”

“Let’s get you cleaned up before we go see Doctor Ramírez,” Lucas said. He had always been squeamish about bodily functions, but he managed not to gag while he helped Ignacio undress. Then he undressed himself, lifted Ignacio in his arms, and carried him to the bathroom. Lucas was surprised that Ignacio seemed to weigh no more than the robust toddlers he sometimes baptized. He turned on the hot water and, propping Ignacio against the tiled wall, soaped and rinsed his body.

When they arrived at the doctor’s office, Ignacio rushed to the bathroom. Several minutes went by. When the nurse said she was ready to have him fill out some forms, Lucas went to bathroom and knocked on the door. “Go away,” Ignacio said.

Lucas snapped, “Let me in, Ignacio, or I’m going to kick the door open!” After he banged on the door loudly a few more times, Ignacio finally opened it: his face was drenched in sweat and there was a look of panic in his eyes.

“I’m okay now,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

“We’re not going anywhere until Doctor Ramírez has seen you,” Lucas said firmly.

When Ignacio finished filling out the forms, the nurse said, “This will be quick, Father. Now we just need to draw some blood.”

Lucas saw the look of panic in Ignacio’s eyes, so he said, “I’ll go first.” He extended his right arm to the nurse.

A few days later they returned to Dr. Ramírez’s office for the results. When they were alone in the office with him, the doctor said, “Father Lucas, you’re HIV negative.” Lucas did not feel any relief. Although he was almost sure of Ignacio’s status, he desperately hoped the doctor would say he was negative too. “But you, Father Ignacio,” the doctor said, “you have AIDS. Your immune system is severely compromised.”

Ignacio sat quietly.

Doctor Ramírez continued, “As you know, Father Ignacio, HIV is no longer a death sentence. It’s treated now as a long-term and manageable illness—something like diabetes. With the new medications, and all the advances in treatment, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t have a long and productive life.”

Ignacio avoided the doctor’s eyes. Lucas got the impression his friend didn’t understand anything the doctor was saying. With disturbing intensity, his shining eyes stared at Lucas. Dr. Ramírez suggested various treatments, gave Ignacio some prescriptions to fill, and made recommendations about lifestyle changes. “You need to avoid stress, Father, and eat nutritious meals.” Then, enunciating each word carefully, he added, “With the medications you’ll be taking, you cannot drink alcohol.”

Ignacio had nodded and maintained his composure throughout the visit, but when they were in the car in the parking lot, the first thing he said was, “Lucas, promise me you won’t tell anybody that I have AIDS. If people find out I’m dying, all funding will stop coming in; all my projects will collapse.”

“Of course,” Lucas said. “You can count on me.” But he was hurt that Ignacio could even think he might divulge his secret.

* * *

All at once, Ignacio stopped going out to gay bars, quit smoking methamphetamine and cocaine and drinking alcohol. The first few days, things got worse and he shook badly for long periods.

“He’s detoxing,” Doctor Ramírez explained to Lucas when he called to express his concern. “Just make sure he drinks lots of liquids. He needs to be hydrated. In a few days he should be okay.”

As the doctor had predicted, Ignacio soon stopped shaking: he became calmer, and did not complain, as if he were resigned to die. Yet he grew paranoid when people stared at him because of his haggard face and thinness.

From the time they had moved to their own parishes after university, Lucas and Ignacio had usually talked on the phone at least twice a day. Lucas called him first thing every morning to wish him a good day, and one of them—usually Lucas—made sure to call the other at night before they went to sleep. But now they were constantly on the phone. Lucas would call to remind Ignacio to take his medications and to make sure he was not overworking and that he ate nourishing meals. As Ignacio made changes in his lifestyle, and began to take his medications with regularity, he started to put on weight, and some color returned to his cheeks.

Lucas was beginning to feel hopeful that the disease had been caught before it was too late, and that Ignacio might be spared a humiliating deterioration. Ignacio no longer seemed obsessed with Rafael; at least, he didn’t mention him in their conversations.

* * *

One night Ignacio called Lucas in complete hysterics. At first Lucas thought something had happened to Rafael.

“Guillo has disappeared without leaving a trace,” Ignacio managed to say through his sobs. “Something awful has happened to him; something tells me Guillo’s dead.”

As soon as he heard the news Lucas had a bad premonition, but he knew he had to reassure Ignacio. “You don’t know that. Let’s not jump to conclusions. Maybe he just got on a bus and by mistake ended up far away from Bogotá and is still trying to figure out how to get back.”

“Or his guardian angel will pick him up and drop him on his bed safe and sound,” Ignacio said scornfully, ending the conversation.

For ten days, Ignacio became frighteningly erratic: he screamed at Lucas on the phone over any perceived criticism, and accused him of coldness and lacking in compassion.

One night Lucas was in his pajamas watching the late news, when Guillo’s face appeared on the television screen. Lucas gasped: Guillo was shown on the ground, shot in the face. The announcer identified him as a guerrilla killed in combat against the Colombian army, in the mountains of Norte de Santander.

Since nothing was known about Guillo’s relatives, Ignacio, accompanied by Lucas, identified Guillo’s corpse in the morgue. Hundreds of people from Soacha attended the funeral Mass. On the phone with Lucas, or in person, Ignacio would launch into scathing tirades against the government and its complicity with the army.

Lucas warned him, “I’m not blind; I agree with you. Some people are aware of what’s happening. But be careful when you talk to strangers; you just don’t know how far what we say can travel and whose ears it might reach. Nobody who messes with the armed forces in this country is safe.”

“I don’t care who hears me!” Ignacio yelled. “If they want me to shut up, they’ll have to kill me! I can’t live the rest of my life like a whimpering mouse, afraid to make a sound. If the army kills me for denouncing them, so be it. At least I’ll die with some dignity. That’s better than dying because of a stupid virus.”

When Ignacio talked like that, he was in a place where Lucas could not reach him. Lucas began to fear that Ignacio might not die of AIDS, but of a bullet to his head. When Lucas was forced to consider the idea of life without his friend, the mere thought was too horrible to contemplate. Lucas felt selfish. In recent years, there had been some days when the never-ending complications of being in charge of a large parish overwhelmed him, and he woke up feeling tired. On those days, being a priest had been the only thing that motivated him to get out of bed. But without Ignacio, Lucas had to admit to himself, attending to the spiritual needs of his flock, the church, even the love of God, would not be enough to keep him going.

Lucas came up with the idea of taking Ignacio for drives on the savannah of Bogotá, and up into the mountains they both loved. Yet even away from the noise of the city, and surrounded by the emerald-green expanses of the Andes, Ignacio remained cocooned in his anger. By the time they drove back to the city late at night under a cobalt sky throbbing with stars, Ignacio would still be immersed in an unrelenting gloom.

One night, as Lucas stopped in front of the rectory in Soacha to drop him off, Ignacio said, “You know when I realized Guillo was truly special? Shortly after he moved into his own room, he came into the house looking happy, with his shirt off. I was in the kitchen having lunch. I was about to tell him he was going to catch a cold if he went around shirtless in the house, when I noticed he had made a bundle of the shirt and inside the bundle there was something fragile. He approached me cautiously, smiling, and uncovered the top of the bundle gingerly to reveal the head of a blackbird. He said, ‘I found her on the street, Father. She has a broken wing; she cannot fly. A cat was going to eat her. Can I keep her, Father? Can I?’”

Sensing this was an important story Ignacio wanted to share with him, Lucas rolled down the window on his side and turned off the engine.

“Guillo had never asked me for anything,” Ignacio went on. “I figured the bird would live a day or two and that would be the end of it. So I told him he could keep the unfortunate creature. ‘I’ll make a sling for her wing. She’ll fly again, Father,’ Guillo said, smiling, happy. Well, I forgot about the bird. One day, as I passed by his room, I heard the distinct song of a blackbird coming from behind the door. I was tempted to open the door to see the bird. But I’d given orders that no one should ever enter Guillo’s room without his permission. We knew he kept the room clean because he was constantly taking a broom and a dustpan inside. I decided not to mention to him that I had heard the bird singing. Soon everyone who worked in the house talked about the most beautiful song coming out of Guillo’s room. Sometimes, when the bird began to sing, people would interrupt whatever they were doing to listen.

“Late one afternoon I was working in the office when the secretary knocked on the door and said that Guillo wanted to speak to me. I stopped what I was doing and walked to the door to let him in. ‘I want to show you something, Father,’ he said. I immediately knew it had something to do with the bird and followed Guillo to his room. He opened the door wide enough so he could go in quickly, and then motioned for me to follow him. I was noticing how immaculate his room looked, when I heard Guillo whistle an imitation of a bird’s song. I felt a swooping of feathers over my head and then saw the bird perch on the index finger of Guillo’s right hand, which he held out in front of him, pointing at me. ‘Her name is Mariela,’ he said, and then placed the open palm of his left hand on the back of the bird and caressed it. Slowly, he walked toward the door, which I opened for him.”

The night had gotten chilly, but Lucas kept the car window down. It had been awhile since Ignacio had been so loquacious. Ignacio took a deep breath and then he spoke faintly, slowly, “I wish you could’ve seen how careful Guillo was as he descended the steps to the garden. When we were outside, he rubbed his nose against the bird’s velvety brown head and then lifted his palm off the bird’s back. The blackbird rowed its wings upward and, in a flash, it took to the air.”

Ignacio paused, then turned to Lucas and began to talk very deliberately, as if he had mulled over what he was about to say for a long time: “For many years I couldn’t find the God of the church through prayer. I want you to know that I finally found a God I can believe in, a merciful God, in the lessons people like Guillo have taught me . . . After that, I stopped fearing God’s retribution, as I’d always been taught. The God I found felt compassion for me, for all human beings, because perhaps God—awed by His own creation—for a second had become distracted and made a world that was both heaven and hell at the same time.”

Lucas thought Ignacio was done speaking, but he had more to say. “I know that to have faith means to take a leap. But it was a leap I wasn’t willing to make. Lucas, I didn’t find faith following a logical path of deduction, as I always stubbornly believed I would. If I’ve found something like faith it was through an accident—Guillo coming into my life.”

Ignacio left the car without closing the door or saying good night. Lucas reached over, closed the door, and waited until Ignacio had entered the rectory before he drove off.