CHAPTER SEVEN

parish house of soacha

January 2011

After Guillo was killed, Ignacio began to drink heavily again. Most of the time when Lucas called him to say good night, his words were slurred, though he tried—with difficulty—to speak clearly. In the background, Lucas could hear the boleros of Julio Jaramillo playing: the guitar strings tugging at the heart, the heartbreak in the voice of the singer, the lyrics that spoke about lost love and despair and a cruel world; to many Colombians these songs were a kind of national anthem. This was the music that Ignacio listened to when he got drunk on aguardiente. Once he kicked back the first shot of the brew, he could not stop. Most nights Ignacio fell into a stupor and lost consciousness until the following day.

When Ignacio’s tearful monologues turned into angry rants, Lucas knew he was smoking methamphetamine again. One night he yelled at Lucas: “I’ve devoted my life to improving the plight of the people in Soacha, yet many here think I’m a transgressor! They would be happy with a priest who was more distant and impersonal, more godlike.” His anger worried Lucas. “Why do they criticize me, when all I want is to help them? I drink too much and smoke crystal meth because nothing else can lessen my pain!”

From the beginning of his ministry—and even earlier during his years in school—Ignacio’s unrestrained enthusiasms had brushed authorities in the church the wrong way. Lucas understood why there were people in Soacha who disliked Ignacio, just as he knew there were parishioners in Kennedy who disliked him too, because his ideas were more modern than theirs. Yet Lucas was sure the majority of the people in Soacha were grateful to Ignacio. He gave his friend a copy of Mother Teresa’s No Greater Love, the book he read from every morning as soon as he woke up.

“I wish I had an uncomplicated heart like yours,” Ignacio said as he took the book. “It’s true she did great things for the poor, but you know the woman was a terror and a tyrant.”

“I know she had many flaws,” Lucas replied. “That just proves that she was like the rest of us. Perhaps it’s even more admirable to do good if you’re a sinner.”

“Whatever I do for others, I do because I have a conscience,” Ignacio snapped. “It has nothing to do with the desire to be good or to be godly. I seldom see goodness around me. Everywhere I look I see more pain than joy, more illness than health, and evil crushing kindness. I’ve come to the conclusion that your God has a sadistic streak.”

At the risk of infuriating him further, Lucas said, “Maybe we end up thinking evil is all there is because it spreads like an infected fistula that rots everything it comes in contact with, whereas goodness has to be earned.”

“Whatever!” Ignacio exclaimed. “Your watered-down theology makes me want to puke.”

That night Lucas didn’t pray to God to save Ignacio from AIDS; he prayed for Ignacio to find some peace. Lucas was afraid that the gloom in Ignacio’s soul might be contagious.

* * *

The news of Guillo’s disappearance was so absurd—how could a boy who hardly understood the world join the guerrillas?—that the media descended upon Soacha, smelling a juicy story. Television crews, radio announcers, and print journalists came to interview Ignacio when they found out Guillo had lived in the parish house.

Lucas pleaded with Ignacio, “Don’t talk to reporters; don’t get involved in this; don’t be reckless.”

Ignacio confirmed that Guillo had lived in the parish for two years; but that was all he said to the press. However, to Lucas’s horror he began to talk to all who would lend him an ear about the murder of Alejandro Grisales. Once Grisales’s killing was mentioned publicly, there was a flurry of stories about other young men throughout Colombia who had been killed by soldiers in similar circumstances.

In the years following his ordination, Lucas had felt racked with guilt for sticking his head in the ground to avoid commenting on the violence in Colombia. He had told himself that feeling empathy for the unfortunate ones and offering social services they lacked in Kennedy was all he could do. But when Ignacio began to denounce the False Positives, as the men who disappeared were now called, he started to wonder if he had always tried to protect the church from controversy because he was satisfied with his pleasant life and did not want to risk changing it.

* * *

The group that called itself the Mothers of Soacha came forward to confirm that the situation had been going on for almost two years, and that their sons and husbands had been killed in circumstances similar to those of Guillo and Alejandro.

Ignacio publicly accused the military of involvement in the matter, and Lucas feared that he was asking to be killed. Ignacio still said Mass every day, but he began to turn over more responsibilities to his volunteers in the parish. Lucas suspected Ignacio had stopped taking his medications, because his physical appearance suggested that the disease was advancing again.

“If you want the situation with the False Positives to stop,” Lucas told him, “you need to live. And for that, you need to take your medications.”

Ignacio didn’t reply, but Lucas could see that the prospect of his own death did not scare him.

They both received a call from Archbishop Mota’s secretary requesting a meeting. Lucas thought it was an ominous sign they had been asked to appear before the archbishop together, but he didn’t mention this to Ignacio. He had become so volatile that Lucas was frightened of his increasingly explosive outbursts.

They made a plan to go to the meeting together. After coffee was served, and they had chitchatted about the awful traffic, Archishop Mota turned to Lucas and said, “I wanted you to be present at this conversation, Father Lucas, because I know you and Father Ignacio are like Siamese twins. I’m hoping you can help me talk some sense into him.”

Lucas squirmed in his chair and clasped his hands. Although he and Ignacio assumed that everyone in the church in Bogotá knew about the nature of their relationship, it was understood that the church would never interfere with it unless they became a public embarrassment. “After all,” Ignacio had said once, “we’re hardly the only priests who are soul mates.” Furthermore, since the time they had started their ministries, there had never been even a hint of disapproval. For his part, Lucas had always tried to behave in a discreet manner. But the archbishop’s words were a veiled accusation. He braced himself for an unpleasant interview and hoped that Ignacio would keep his composure.

Archbishop Mota now turned to face Ignacio. “I don’t know if you’re aware of the rumors that say you have AIDS, Father Ignacio. I pray they’re not true. As it is, with all the bad publicity we’ve received recently, this is one scandal the church would like to avoid.”

Archbishop Mota was obviously referring to the stories of pedophilia that had surfaced in the media all over the world in the prior decade. Ignacio grimaced; it was a sore subject with him. He and Lucas had had many heated discussions about how, in the public imagination, homosexuals in the church were often lumped together with pedophiles. Before they met with the archbishop, Lucas had said to Ignacio, “Please try very hard to control your short fuse. Whatever happens, don’t end up speaking disrespectfully to the archbishop. I’m terrified of his vindictive anger; I’ve heard of careers in the church he has destroyed because someone crossed him.”

Ignacio bit his lower lip and stared at the burgundy carpet that covered the floor.

“I’ve consulted with other members of the Curia about this matter,” the archbishop said. “In the beginning, I thought we could transfer you to a seminary to be a teacher. But we’ve decided we cannot put you to work mentoring seminarians, not only because you don’t look well, but also because of your notoriety. Damaging gossip spreads quickly, like the flu. Apparently, you’ve displeased important members of the military with your careless statements in the press. So we think it would be better if you leave Bogotá and return to the seminary in Palos de la Quebrada.”

Lucas flinched. Ignacio’s face had become white, as if the light of life had been extinguished in him.

“It’s a place you know well, and where you could be useful,” Archbishop Mota continued. “In Bogotá, you’re a magnet for controversy that the church can’t afford at the moment.”

As Ignacio remained silent, the archbishop turned back to Lucas. “This is where you come in, Father. We hope you can use your influence with your best friend to persuade him that the Putumayo would be the ideal solution to his difficult predicament.”

“Don’t answer that, Lucas,” Ignacio barked. “I don’t plan to go to back to the Putumayo—now, or ever.”

The archbishop stood up. “In that case, I must inform you, Father Ignacio, that I see myself in the painful position of telling you that you will be transferred from your church.”

Ignacio got up too. “On what grounds, Your Grace?”

“Never mind that; there are plenty of reasons, believe me. Don’t think it has escaped our attention that your name has been linked to several male prostitutes in the gay bars in Chapinero, and that you’ve been seen doing drugs with these criminals. It’s my duty to inform you that if you don’t leave your parish in Soacha of your own accord, we’ll have to remove you from the premises—by force, if necessary. Please leave your ministry with some dignity. You have thirty days to move out. Otherwise, you’ll no longer be considered a priest of the church.”

He looked at Lucas. “Good afternoon, Father. I pray you can make Father Ignacio understand that what we’re doing is in his best interest—and the interest of the church.” He stared in the direction of the door to indicate the interview was over.

Later, Ignacio said to Lucas, “Since I was a boy, I’ve always felt an anguish nothing could appease. But I haven’t had any doubts about what I’ve done with my life. Over the years, I’ve noticed, my heart has turned to metal. I understand why God—if He exists—wouldn’t listen to the prayers of a deadened heart. The truth is, I don’t feel the spirit of love guiding me anymore. I shouldn’t stay in the church, Lucas.”

* * *

In the days that followed the interview with Archbishop Mota, it became obvious to Lucas that Ignacio had grown completely discouraged with his efforts to improve the living standards of the poorest in Soacha. He was crushed that he had lost the battle to gangs of drug dealers who were taking more and more control of the neighborhood. The gangs began to ask the store owners to pay for “vaccines” for their protection—just as the guerrillas and the paramilitaries in the countryside had done for years to anyone who owned cattle, or a productive plot of land, or a business. But now it was happening in front of Ignacio’s eyes. Lucas saw him lose whatever restraint he had left.

One night on the phone, Ignacio told Lucas, “From now on, in my sermons during daily Mass, I’m going to denounce the gangs. I’ve asked my parishioners to give me the names of the people who are demanding payment for the vaccines.”

“I don’t think that’s wise,” Lucas responded. “You know what happens to people who stand in their way.”

“I’m not afraid of anything anymore—I have nothing to lose. I will denounce them publicly. What’s the worst they can do to me? Kill me?” Ignacio laughed.

Lucas had always loved his raucous laughter: when he laughed, he pointed his chin upward, and what came out of his throat was like a blast of pure air traveling toward the sky, like an antidote to the overcast, dreary days. But this time, Ignacio’s laugh made Lucas shudder.

“I’ve wasted my life,” Ignacio said.

“You’re playing Russian roulette,” Lucas told him. “If you fuck with those criminals they’ll kill you. You’re committing suicide.”

“Listen to this,” Ignacio said. “A man named Don Julio owns a shoe store; so he paid the vaccine because he figured it’d be easier than fighting the gangsters. Then a rival gang demanded a larger vaccine than the one he was already paying. Don Julio saw that between the two gangs he’d be squeezed dry and lose everything. The second gang told him that if he didn’t pay up in twenty-four hours, they would kill one of his children. Don Julio took all the money he could from the bank, put his whole family on a bus, and sent them to stay with relatives on the Atlantic coast.”

“Where’s Don Julio now?” Lucas asked.

“He refused to close his business for good. So he went to the police station here in Soacha to denounce the extortion. Right away he realized the police were not going to do very much to help him. Don Julio received a call announcing that men were on their way to kill him. He didn’t know where he could hide, so he ran to the church to ask for asylum. He’s living with us now, Lucas. He’s sleeping in the room that used to be Guillo’s.”

“My God, Ignacio, those men will kill you too.”

“What else can I do, Lucas? Should I turn Don Julio over to them so they can kill him with impunity?”

Lucas closed his eyes and began to pray silently; he addressed his prayer to San Martín de Porres.

“Are you praying now? Thanks—a lot of good that’s going to do me. Good night, Lucas.”

“Don’t answer the door tonight,” Lucas pleaded. “Call the police and ask them to send some men . . .” He trailed off, realizing Ignacio had hung up. Lucas went to the chapel to pray; when he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, he went to sleep.

It was six fifty a.m. when he woke up. Ignacio must have been getting ready to say early Mass. It was too early to call him, so he texted: Are you okay? There was no reply. Lucas decided that if he didn’t hear from Ignacio by eight, he’d call him.

Lucas showered, shaved, and then went to the kitchen for his first cup of coffee of the day. He felt as if he were sleepwalking; nothing the people who worked in the rectory said registered with him. He headed to his office, drew open the curtains to let the morning light in, sat on his chair, plopped his legs on the desk, and stared out at the aquamarine sky. Now and then Lucas returned to reality when a plane flew overhead—like a migratory prehistoric bird. He remembered some lyrics by Julio Jaramillo that Ignacio loved, something about “the errant birds of memory.” He was brought out of his daze when his phone rang: it was Ignacio.

“Are you okay?” Lucas asked.

“I’m alive, if that’s what you mean.”

Lucas smiled involuntarily. “I was about to call you. I’ve been so worried.”

“I’m worried too,” Ignacio said. “I found a letter under the front door of the parish this morning. It says: ‘Mind your own business—or you’ll be sorry.’”

“Don’t go out today. I’ll come by in the evening and stay over. Promise me you will stay inside all day.”

“I’ll see you later,” Ignacio said.

* * *

That Friday evening, as Lucas walked from his parked car to the front door of Soacha’s parish house, he saw written on the front wall with white paint and in large letters: “Faggot drug addict! Take your AIDS with you! Don’t infect our children!”

Word had spread in the neighborhood that there were thugs who wanted to harm Ignacio, and the rectory was full of worried volunteers who gathered in small groups throughout the house, talking in hushed tones. Around seven p.m., Ignacio came out of his office, assembled everyone in the rectory’s living room, thanked them for their concern, and told them that they should leave. To reassure them, he explained that a few people—Maritza,

Don Julio, the cook, and Lucas—would be staying over. Some men offered to stand guard outside the house during the night. “No,” Ignacio replied to this suggestion, “I can’t allow you to put your lives at risk. Besides, I can’t be protected from those people every night.”

When the house had emptied out, the cook announced that she was ready to serve dinner. The small group sat around the table for a hearty bowl of soup and a basket of still-warm bread. No wine was poured. The silence around the table was oppressive. Maritza informed Lucas and Don Julio that the two rooms for visitors were ready for them.

“Where will you sleep?” Lucas asked her. The cook, who was bringing the soup dishes to the kitchen, overheard him and said, “Maritza will sleep in my bedroom, Father Lucas. I have an extra cot that’s ready for her.”

Ignacio looked gray and distracted. He barely touched the food. The cook asked him if she could make him some scrambled eggs.

“No, thank you, Señora Tulia,” he said. “I’m not hungry tonight.”

Lucas was worried that Ignacio’s fighting spirit had left him. He looked defeated. Ready for death, Lucas thought.

Maritza got up from the table. “I’m going to help Señora Tulia tidy up the kitchen. Then I’m going straight to bed. I need a good night’s sleep.”

After she left the room, Lucas asked Don Julio if he had heard from his family.

“That reminds me,” Don Julio said, “I need to go to my room and call them. Good night, Father Lucas; good night, Father Ignacio. May God bless you for your generous hospitality.”

Ignacio looked up and his face twitched as he tried to smile. “Good night,” he said finally. “I’m told there’s a new plasma TV set in your room. Sometimes there are good movies on Friday night. Try to get a good night’s sleep.”

“Well,” Ignacio said when he and Lucas were alone in the dining room, “I think it’s time for me to call it a day.” As he tried to get up from his chair, he stumbled.

Lucas rushed to his side. “Here, let me help you.”

Ignacio didn’t protest. As Lucas placed his hand on Ignacio’s waist, his hand brushed Ignacio’s. His skin was very hot.

They walked slowly to the bedroom, in silence. Lucas helped Ignacio lie down, rested his head on a pillow, and then removed his shoes. Squeezing Ignacio’s big toe gently, he said, “Footsie?” When they had first become lovers, if Ignacio complained that his feet were sore at the end of the day, Lucas would rub them. As the years went by and they stopped having sex, these shows of intimacy had ended too. But tonight Ignacio didn’t rebuff him. His feet were clean, but Lucas noticed that his toenails had grown long and looked deformed. Lucas rinsed a towel in hot water and wrapped it around Ignacio’s feet to soften the nails. With the little nail cutter he carried on his keychain, he gave Ignacio a pedicure. Then he toweled his friend’s feet dry and dressed them in a pair of clean socks.

They hadn’t said a word all this time, but once Lucas was done, Ignacio looked up and smiled. For an instant, happiness flashed over his face. Lucas went to the bathroom and got a bottle of rubbing alcohol to use on Ignacio’s skin to bring down the fever. Lucas showed him the bottle. “I’m going to give you a back massage,” he said. “You have a high fever.”

Ignacio did not resist him. He looked as delighted as a child who has just been given a special treat.

Lucas helped him turn over and rubbed his back for a bit. There were so many dark moles on his skin that Lucas didn’t remember noticing the last time he had seen Ignacio’s bare back. The bones protruded so much that Lucas was afraid any pressure he put could be painful. When he finished gently rubbing Ignacio’s back, he turned him over. Then Lucas began to massage his shoulder blades and his upper arms with the tips of his fingers. He became so absorbed in massaging Ignacio’s skin, the skin that he had loved with passion when they were younger, that he was startled when he heard Ignacio starting to snore. Now Lucas could study Ignacio’s chest without feeling self-conscious. It had been years since they had been so close physically, or made love, that the size of Ignacio’s nipples amazed him: it was as if he were seeing them for the first time. His nipples were larger, fleshier, darker than he remembered, and they stood out in sharp contrast to the rest of Ignacio’s emaciated body. Though not particularly attractive or shapely, his nipples demanded Lucas’s full attention. He wanted to kiss them softly but held back. When he had finished massaging Ignacio’s chest, Lucas took a cotton blanket from the wardrobe and spread it over Ignacio’s body.

Lucas turned off the lamp. Then, instead of leaving the room, he lay down on the bed next to Ignacio. He had forgotten Ignacio’s stentorious snoring, and he didn’t have his earplugs with him. It had been a long, exhausting day. As he began to doze off, he remembered how when they first became lovers, he prayed that the two of them would grow old together. Tonight, it didn’t seem like there was the slightest possibility of that happening. The last thing Lucas thought before he fell asleep was: How will I go on without Ignacio?

* * *

The first thing Lucas did when he woke up on Saturday morning was text Father Roberto, a recently ordained priest who had been sent by the archbishop’s office to be trained in Kennedy. If things worked out, he was supposed to stay there permanently, because Lucas’s duties had grown over the years and he had become overextended. “I’m in Soacha with Father Ignacio,” he texted. “He’s very ill. I’ll be here for the weekend.”

Lucas stayed with Ignacio all day Saturday. The cook, his secretary, the cleaning lady, and some volunteers came and went, hushed, teary-eyed, fear etched on their faces. Ignacio woke up without a fever but in a paranoid state: any little noise rattled him; if he didn’t recognize someone immediately, he’d say, “He wants to harm me.” However, with Lucas’s help, he got dressed; then he announced he wanted to go to his office. Lucas tried to coax him to call the police again and ask for protection. Despite his weakness, Ignacio screamed at Lucas, “They’re in cahoots with the military! Can’t you see that?”

Lucas decided not to mention the subject again.

At lunchtime, Don Julio came out of his bedroom and joined them. He looked haggard, his eyes were bloodshot, and his hands shook so badly he kept spilling soup on the tablecloth. They all ate in silence. Ignacio barely tasted the food; then, abruptly, he got up from the table. “I’m going back to my office,” he announced. “I don’t want to be disturbed.”

Feeling restless, Lucas headed to the garden in the backyard and started weeding the flower beds, which looked neglected. It was a sunny day, and digging his fingers in the soil and pulling out the weeds had a tranquilizing effect. Now and then, for brief moments, Lucas could forget Ignacio’s terrible predicament. Then all his strength seemed to leave him at once; he collapsed into a canvas chair he had pulled out of the shed, and sat still staring at the motionless blue sky. A wave of images from his childhood in Güicán began to wash over him: he saw himself on the farm playing hopscotch with his sisters in front of the house. Then he remembered the days when he had lived with Ema, while he was recovering from surgery. And he remembered—without pleasure, almost in slow motion, as if he were watching an aquarium—the neighbor with whom he’d had his first sexual experiences. Lucas shook his head to expel the remembrances of that sad time. Images flashed in his mind of the seminary in Facatativá, walking with Ignacio in the yard, so absorbed in their discussions that they could have been the only two people on earth. It was hard to control the rush of memories, and sometimes he struggled to slow them down. After he had been immersed in his reverie for a while, the green of the Putumayo bled into the present, and he could almost feel the stinging heat of the jungle. He saw himself with Ignacio going on their missionary trips to proselytize in Indian villages. In his dream state, he thought he heard the ominous gunshots that rang continuously in Palos de la Quebrada, mixed with the song of birds he could never see, and over the music and the gunshots he heard the haunting hollering of the monkeys. Then he saw Ignacio and himself entering Javeriana University, sitting next to each other in classes, spending weekends at his mother’s house in Suba, making love all through the night, trying not to make any noise.

Lucas was immersed in these reminiscences when a chill ran the length of his body, forcing him to open his eyes and sit up. Suddenly he was gripped by a grim emptiness like he had never before experienced. He realized that after Ignacio died he would feel this void, this nothingness, forever.

The bells of the church were tolling six o’clock. Night had fallen. Lucas’s face was burning from the long exposure to the sun. In the cloudless resplendent sky a pale full moon shone, like a disc made of the purest gold.

Lucas went inside the dark parish house. Without turning the lights on, he made his way to the living room, where Ignacio and Don Julio were sitting around a lamp on a small table. “I fell asleep outside,” he said. “Good evening, Don Julio.”

“We’re having a chat,” Ignacio said. He looked calm. “The cook will have dinner ready soon. Would you like a drink?”

Lucas sat down and noticed a bottle of Scotch and glasses on the table. He declined the drink; Ignacio looked like he’d already had a few too many.

At that moment, there was a loud thump on the front door. They all sat up straight. Another thump followed. The cook came in from the kitchen holding a large wooden spoon in her hands. “Father,” she said, “I just looked out the window and saw some men standing in front of the parish.”

Ignacio started to rise from his chair.

“Please Father, I beg you,” she said, “don’t go out.”

“I can’t stay here forever and hope they’re going to leave me alone. I have to face them.” Suddenly Ignacio seemed energized, younger. He opened the front door before Lucas had a chance to stop him.

Lucas rushed to his side and followed him as he stepped outside. A group of young men carrying weapons stood huddled about twenty yards away from the house. Lucas could see they were on drugs, and angry.

Ignacio took a few steps in the direction of the gang, with Lucas close behind.

One of the men pointed a gun at Ignacio and shouted, “Just hand over Julio and you won’t be harmed!”

“I can’t do what you want,” Ignacio said. “The church is a sanctuary.”

A tall and jittery youth who appeared to be the leader shouted, “If you don’t do as we say, we’ll have to kill you!”

Ignacio continued walking toward them. Lucas stood frozen in his spot and began to silently recite the Lord’s Prayer.

“Go ahead,” Ignacio said loudly, showing no sign of fear. “You’ll have to walk over my dead body to take Don Julio away.”

Shots were fired into the sky, but Ignacio continued moving in the direction of the thugs. “You cowardly scum of the earth!” he burst out. “You’ll burn in hell for all eternity! Go ahead—shoot me. You don’t even have the balls to kill me; you know you’ll be cursed forever.”

Lucas closed his eyes. He didn’t want to watch Ignacio get shot. And if they shoot me too, he thought, I don’t want their faces to be the last thing I see.

The leader turned to his gang and said, “Let’s go,” which was met by grumblings of discontent. “But we’ll come back for Julio soon. And the next time, if you stand in our way, Father Ignacio, you’d better be ready to die. There are many people who want you dead; your days are numbered.”

Lucas opened his eyes. As the men walked away, one of them turned around and screamed, “Drug addict! Faggot! Pervert!”

Before they scrambled into their cars, they started to chant: “The priest has AIDS! The priest has AIDS!”

* * *

Later that night, when they were alone sitting next to each other on Ignacio’s bed, Ignacio said, “Lucas, I’ve given some thought to this situation; I think the best solution is for me to kill myself.”

Lucas had been wondering whether Ignacio was considering ending his life. He had always talked about suicide—if life became unbearable—as an honorable option. But on this night, those were the last words Lucas wanted to hear. “You don’t have to die because you have AIDS. Too many people count on you.” Yet even as he pleaded, Lucas knew his words were not enough to make Ignacio change his mind.

“It’s because of them that I need to do this, Lucas. Their needs have to come before mine. My congregation doesn’t need a feeble, bedridden priest who cannot attend to his duties. I didn’t tell you, but you might as well know it now: the doctor told me last week that I waited too long to seek treatment, and though I can probably live many more years, it’s just a matter of time before I lose my eyesight. What kind of life would that be? I wouldn’t be of use to anyone then. I’d be a burden to you, to the people in Soacha, to all those who look up to me. Besides, I’d rather die at my own hand than be sent back to the Putumayo.” He grabbed Lucas by the wrist. “Just don’t abandon me now; will you help me die with grace?”

Lucas said then what he hadn’t dared to say ever to Ignacio: “You’re what matters the most to me in life, Ignacio. Even my faith and my love of Jesus would not be enough to sustain me if you die and I’m left behind.”

Ignacio smiled ruefully, lifted Lucas’s hand, and kissed it. Lucas couldn’t remember the last time Ignacio had been so gentle with him.

“I like what you’ve said. We’re an old married couple who has seldom said, ‘I love you,’ to each other. Well, I’m going to say it now: I love you, Lucas. I know that without you by my side I wouldn’t be able to face life for long.” He was looking at Lucas with a tenderness Lucas had not seen in years. “Please, let’s not get too emotional about all this. I’m perfectly aware of what I’m doing. If there’s a God, I will be going to hell, right? But I’d rather burn in hell than continue to feel the pain I feel now. So promise me you will help me to die when the time comes. It’ll be easier if you help me. Promise me, if you really love me.”

Lucas’s heart beat so fast that it frightened him, but he didn’t want to make things harder for Ignacio. Lucas knew him well enough to accept Ignacio’s words. He knew Ignacio would not change his mind. So he said, “Ignacio, I want to die with you. We’ve been together since we met in Colegio San José. I’ve shared my life with you; now please let me die with you.”

“Don’t do this to me,” Ignacio said, getting angry. “You’re not sick; there’s no reason for you to die now.” Then he exhaled and the anger seemed to leave him. “I do expect you to grieve for me, of course, but then I want you to get it over with and move on. Now promise me you will help me die. It’ll be easier with your help. Please.”

“I’ve shared my life with you, Ignacio,” Lucas protested. “Let me share my death with you too.”

“You’re sentimental and selfish. Don’t let me down when I need you most.” Ignacio got under the blankets and turned his back to Lucas.

* * *

Don Julio managed to leave the rectory without being detected, surrounded by a group of volunteers. Two days later, Ignacio and Lucas got word that he’d made it to the Atlantic coast.

After their conversation about Ignacio’s imminent death, Lucas noticed he began to talk about himself in the past tense, as if he were already dead. When Lucas remarked that he shouldn’t talk about himself as if it were all over, Ignacio said, “Just because I’m still breathing and my heart continues to beat, it doesn’t mean I’m alive.”

Lucas began to spend every night in Soacha, sleeping in the same bed with Ignacio. Still, they weren’t very physical with each other—except for an occasional, tentative hug. It was strange, Lucas thought, that after knowing each other’s bodies for so long, they had grown shy of seeing each other in the nude. But Lucas’s presence in Ignacio’s bed seemed to calm him when he awoke from his nightmares.

For years, their long talks had been about current projects and plans to expand the social work their parishes were doing. Now they talked almost exclusively about the past, about things they didn’t know about each other. One night when they had stayed up past midnight chatting, Lucas noticed that Ignacio was in a good mood and wanted to continue talking.

“You want to know what the happiest time in my life was?” Ignacio asked. He closed his eyes and then spoke softly: “I remember it so vividly now, like one of those Technicolor movies about the passion of Jesus that we used to watch around Easter . . . Remember them? Well, it was during our last year in the seminary in the Putumayo. You had gone for Easter vacation to visit your mother in Bogotá. For Holy Friday I asked Father Superior if I could stage Jesus’ Stations of the Cross with the people of Palos. Father Superior thought it was a good way to teach people about the Scriptures—instead of giving them another long sermon. I organized a group of volunteers, and in two days we had everything we needed. I asked Señor Segismundo, the carpenter, I don’t know if you remember him, to build a cross made of scraps of wood and to paint it brown. I wanted the pageant to look realistic: I filled up a dozen little balloons with corozo juice and hid them under Isaac Martínez’s robe—I chose him to play Jesus because of his long hair and also because he was so handsome.” Ignacio chuckled. “I instructed Isaac to stop every twenty steps or so and puncture one of the balloons with a pin needle I had wrapped with tape under his thumb. Whenever he pricked one of the balloons and the scarlet juice ran over his white robe and his body, the people watching the pageant would scream, as if they too were in pain. The people of Palos cried, moved by Jesus’ sacrifice for us.” He paused for a moment to catch his breath.

Lucas was shocked that there were still things that were so important to Ignacio that he had never told him about. All he could say was, “What a production that must’ve been. I wish I’d been there.”

Ignacio made a brusque gesture of impatience. His eyes shone in the darkness of the room, as if he had a high fever. “Anyway, I had chosen to play one of the philistines in the crowd, so I could watch it all from the sidelines. I insulted Jesus Christ as He trod along the hot sand of Palos. You know, Lucas, that afternoon, during that procession, I found out something about myself that I didn’t know before: I had created a spectacle that so transported the people of Palos they wept and threw themselves on the sand as Jesus of Nazareth went by . . . and at that moment I experienced the most perfect happiness I’d ever known. For the first time, I saw that my arrogant and prideful intellect had hardened my heart, and I felt the joy of having created something that moved people. I got away from that place in a hurry, and hid behind an old almond tree near the church. When I was satisfied that no one could see me, I wept, openly but with tears of joy, because my deadened heart had finally felt something deeply.”

After he finished his story, Ignacio chose the date of his death. All that remained to be decided was how he was going to do it. “I can tell you what I’ve been thinking, but you must promise not to get upset.” Lucas nodded. “I don’t want to botch this suicide and make it worse for me and others.”

Though it was a tough exercise in humility for Lucas, he listened without interrupting.

From that night on, Lucas too began to think of Ignacio as already dead. His heart filled with a sorrow that threatened to paralyze him. He envisioned what it would be like every morning for the rest of his life to wake up and not hear Ignacio’s voice on the phone, or never watch a movie together in bed, or listen to his rants against the Colombian government, and the pain he experienced was so sharp, it was as if a knife were stabbing him over and over in the chest. For the first time in his life, he knew complete despair—which they had been taught was an offense to God. Agitated, filled with guilt, Lucas concluded that he had no choice but to commit suicide as well, after Ignacio died. In the eyes of the church, suicide was the unpardonable sin, and he knew that he would be condemned to burn in hell. It frightened him that over the years he’d witnessed how only those who believed in the afterlife seemed to accept death with serenity.

* * *

As the date Ignacio had chosen drew closer, Lucas’s resolve was shaken, and he became afraid of the consequences of his decision. He had always been a timid man, averse to taking risks. He had gone through life trying not to make waves. Seeing his own cowardice exposed so nakedly appalled him. Lucas also felt sad about the things he would not ever learn now, the things he would have experienced had he grown older. He had always rejoiced in the unfolding of the tiny mysteries of life.

Lucas spent the last days of their lives at the rectory in Kennedy, though he no longer delivered the early-

morning Mass. Every night he drove to Soacha to be with Ignacio. Daily, Ignacio received threatening e-mails foretelling his death. He showed Lucas a particularly explicit one that mentioned how he would be dismembered. Ignacio scoffed, “They better hurry up or they are going to be really pissed off when I get there before they do.”

Lucas had always been troubled by his friend’s nihilistic humor, but that day he couldn’t help smiling when he realized that Ignacio’s irreverent spirit—which was one of the things he loved most about him—was still fully intact.

A few days before Ignacio was to kill himself, as they were about to go to sleep, he said, “I know you, Lucas. I know that after I die, you will do yourself in—which I think is foolish of you. There’s absolutely no reason for you not to go on. You’re healthy, nobody is trying to kill you, and nobody is threatening you with expulsion from the church. But it’s dawned on me that if you died before I did, I’d probably want to follow you. So I’ve made plans for the two of us to die together, if you decide that’s what you want to do.”

Lucas remained still, holding back his tears and his desire to embrace Ignacio—who he feared might be repelled by the show of affection.

Ignacio went on: “I learned of a young guy named Matias who will kill us for a fee. We’re going to have a talk tomorrow.”

“Don’t tell me anything about him,” Lucas said. “I don’t want to know.”

* * *

The next night Ignacio informed Lucas that Matias was ready. Ignacio had withdrawn ten thousand pesos from the bank. When he showed Lucas the bundle of money in a plastic bag, he said, “This is what he wants.”

Lucas shuddered; there was no turning back now.

“Would you like to meet Matias?” Ignacio asked.

Lucas wondered if Matias was one of the hustlers who frequented the gay bars in Chapinero. Or was he a thug from the neighborhood? “No. I’d rather not,” he said. “I just hope he’s not a flake and he can execute the plan.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Ignacio grinned. “I’ve been reassured that his track record is impeccable.”

Ignacio went to sleep around midnight, but Lucas remained wide awake. At sunrise, while Ignacio was still sleeping soundly, he got dressed and drove to Kennedy, where he worked for hours, writing lists of instructions for his successor in the parish. When he was done writing, he placed his house keys and folders containing information on bank records and bills to be paid on his desk. He decided against leaving a suicide note, as he thought it would be too complicated to explain the reasons for his decision.

In the afternoon he went to visit his mother’s grave in a small cemetery in the outskirts of Suba. He placed two dozens white carnations against the tombstone, kneeled on the patch of grass by the grave, and asked Clemencia to forgive him. “I’m grateful you’ve been spared the pain and humiliation of seeing me die like this, Mami,” he whispered. It saddened him that because he had chosen to end his life, there would be no happy reunion of their souls, as he had no doubt that his mother was in heaven and, if the church was right, he’d go straight to hell. He pressed his lips against the cold slab of marble, made the sign of the cross, and then got up and left.

Later, as he drove to Soacha, despite the crawling traffic, he felt at peace and grateful for the life he had lived. Perhaps he owed his optimistic nature to the fact that few bad things had ever happened to him, other than not seeing his sisters again after he had left the farm for good. He had tried to be a good priest: he had brought comfort to the sick whenever he could; he’d had the privilege of hearing confession, of becoming the recipient of his parishioners’ most shameful secrets, of listening without being judgmental to the baring of their souls, of being present at the moment of absolution when their sins were washed away and they became as unpolluted as the day they were born. He had been taught to believe that at that moment God touched the sinner, because priests are vehicles one uses to get closer to God. He liked to believe that, as a priest, he had served as a conduit between God and His creatures. He considered himself blessed because all he had ever wanted was to be loved by Ignacio, and despite the many difficulties they had encountered, his love for Ignacio had never lessened, and it had always sustained him.

As the hour of his death grew closer, Lucas felt greater love for the priesthood than he’d ever felt before; the priesthood had led him to Ignacio, to being one of the lucky ones who had found a love that even death could not extinguish.

Ignacio went to sleep late that night, but Lucas remained awake, in a trance. He wasn’t sure if God would forgive them for what they had chosen to do. But if God is love, he tried to reassure himself, then He understands.

* * *

Early in the morning Lucas saw that Ignacio was still sound asleep, so he stepped out of the bedroom and went to the garden at the back of the house. During the night, the full moon had traveled toward the cordilleras in the south; even at dawn, it shed so much light that it coated everything with a silvery sheen. Lucas recalled that January night, eleven years earlier, when he had spent his first night at Ignacio’s parish in Los Altos de Cazucá. Now they had spent their last night on earth.

Eleven years later, it was again the month of January, the warmest month of the year in Bogotá, and Venus shone at its brightest over the savannah in the brisk, clear dawn. The morning star looked like a little full moon of burnished platinum; it seemed so close to the earth that Lucas wondered if it was in danger of plunging from the sky. A sudden chill made him shiver; he realized he was barefoot. Despite the cold air, and his freezing feet, he wanted to linger on that spot. The approaching sunrise made the mountains in the distance glow faintly like formations on a planet far, far away from earth. But this morning there was no time for losing himself in contemplation of the Andean daybreak; he had to hasten back to the house; he was ready for the last act of his life.

Lucas searched again for the morning star, for one last glimpse, but it had vanished from the blushing sky. His chin sank heavily to the base of his neck. He took a deep breath and turned around. Just before he went through the door, he felt a stab in his heart and his legs suddenly felt like heavy monoliths. Ignacio’s relatives will probably take his body back to their ancestral farm, he thought, while the church will bury me in Bogotá in unconsecrated ground. How cruel that in death we will not be together as we were in life.

Lucas closed the door behind him and stumbled in the dark toward Ignacio’s bed.