In the belfry of the old stone church across the road from the hospital, the eleven o’clock bell rang for a special mass, to be celebrated by the Bishop of Rancagua, Monsignor Carlos Concetti. I pulled the rim of my hat down until it touched the top of my sunglasses, kept my head lowered, and slipped in by a side door. No one paid me any attention. Ten days after my talk with Fr. Sergio and I was still weak and underweight, still emaciated really, but fit enough now to get about for short distances on my own. My new clothes, from a Santiago high street store, had been anonymously donated.
I had so much to be thankful for, and today I wanted to express my gratitude by attending the mass and listening to the proceedings. The church was broad, full of stained glass, dark wood and creamy white candles, and about three quarters full. I sat at the back, at the end of the centre aisle, where I could see the activity up at the front. Three brightly robed priests moved around in various ways I didn’t quite follow, the Bishop gave a short homily and then moved down to preside over the mass itself. Despite not knowing the language, the rhythm of the liturgy wrapped itself gently around me. I found myself lulled and soothed by the harmony of words and motions.
When the time came, even though I knew I wasn’t supposed to, I stood up and went to the front along with everyone else. Copying the person in front of me, I knelt and received the little wafer in my mouth, crossed myself and moved on. It felt good, pure, a cleansing thing. Cool fire melting on my tongue. The same mouth which had committed such grave sin now longed for the body of Christ.
Afterwards, I hung around as planned, exploring the nooks and crannies of the building with my eyes, until the church was completely empty. Only then did a priest come out and lead me into a back room.
As soon as I entered the room the Bishop stood up and we embraced. It felt natural and unforced. He was tall, wiry and bald, with steel rimmed glasses. The mitre and fancy robes were gone, and he now wore a plain white gown with a purple clerical collar. A big ruby ring adorned his right index finger.
“You came early,” he said. For a moment I panicked. He must know I was at the service. Took mass when I shouldn’t have . . .
I ignored his comment and thanked him for agreeing to see me.
“Not at all,” he replied, “Fr. Sergio and I go a long way back. He said it would help you and I was coming here today anyway. Let’s talk privately.”
He led me into an even smaller room where there were only two chairs with a small, narrow table between them.
“May I call you Cal?”
I nodded. “Sure.”
“Well, Cal, you asked to make your confession to Fr. Sergio and he explained why that wasn’t possible, as you are not a Catholic. Instead, he thought it would help you to talk to me. I’m happy to listen and here” – he looked around the small room – “we are alone and can have an informal confession if you wish. I hope that meets your needs.”
I said it did and he spoke a short prayer. Then he sat sideways to me and I got on with it. The words flowed easily, as if they were bursting to get out. At the end he nodded several times before looking up.
“Like Fr. Sergio, I do not hesitate to endorse what you did,” he said in his slow, measured way, “You did not take the decision lightly. That you waited so long proves that. Your sober and religious spirit, then and now, is commendable.”
“But, Monsignor–”
“Call me Father, if it’s easier.”
“Father, what about the cannibalism?”
“Your anthropophagy was allowable to stay alive. It was your only possibility of survival. Therefore it cannot be condemned.”
“I condemn myself.”
“Don’t torment yourself, Cal, you’ve already been through enough. Don’t blame yourself for something you would not blame in someone else.”
“People are already blaming me.” I’d managed to borrow a laptop to while away the long hours in bed. The BBC had been first out with the story and, despite the shock of seeing myself on their website, it hadn’t been too bad. I’d expected it. There was a lot worse to come once planes and helicopters located the crash site. It was a story made for the National Enquirer and, sure enough, they and their like jumped on it. In one multi-page spread I came across, the magazine had printed photographs of María’s uncovered limbs and bones, under the headline; ‘May God Forgive Him’. I’d had to be sedated that day.
“Yes, you will have many challenges still ahead.”
No kidding. The Enquirer-type rags had just been a few of many exploiters. The news media had let loose and there was no sign of any let up in the floodtide of broadcasts and editorials. Journalists were besieging the hospital more than ever before and there were now two security guards permanently stationed at my ward doors. Their full time job was showing reporters unceremoniously to the exit.
“Morally,” the Bishop continued, “I, and the Church, see no objection to what you had to do. It was a question of survival, Cal. It was necessary, in spite of the natural repugnance it evoked in you, and now in others.”
My rational mind told me he was right. The one piece of sympathetic coverage I’d found on the internet was L'Osservatore Romano, the news site for the Vatican, which had pronounced me blameless, for the same reasons the Bishop was now giving me. So why couldn’t I accept it, and to hell with gutter journalism and gossip magazines?
“It was so different than they’re all saying,” I replied, hearing the hurt in my own voice, “It was like a kind of communion with her, with God for that matter. Like she was giving herself for me.”
“I know what you’re saying, Cal. It was not equivalent or comparable to the Holy Mass of course, but it was a spiritual communion for you, giving you inspiration needed to carry on, and therefore legitimate.”
There was one more thing haunting me. “Father, why me? Why not her? If God helped me to survive, then why did he allow María to die, and die so horribly? It seems, well, so terribly arbitrary.”
It was a long time before he answered me. “We have to trust that God is love, Cal. Sometimes, however, he does not send us his angels to help us when we need them.” He paused again, thinking some more. “María is now with God in heaven and you are a changed man, stronger and more courageous, more serious about life. More than that, I cannot say.”
The Bishop then prayed again. I felt his hand on my head as he gave me a blessing. Afterwards, I thanked him for his time and we parted with a warm embrace. I felt strengthened and grateful for the man’s wisdom.
I left by the big front doors, still deep in thought. It was a mistake.
Outside, at the top of the steps, a woman in a headscarf stood directly in front of me, blocking my way.
“Señor Knox?”
“Yes,” I replied.
For the first time I noticed she had a small child with her, hugging her legs, so young it looked barely able to stand. She pushed the child between us.
“Señor Knox, my son Maximiliano is very sick. If you can embrace him, say a prayer for his healing, I am sure the Virgin will hear you and Maximiliano will become well again. Please, Señor.”
I was stunned. Obviously this woman thought I was some sort of walking miracle worker. If I only hugged her boy, healing power would flow out of me and he would be cured. My mouth opened and shut. I literally didn’t know what to say or do.
To get it over with, I picked the boy up, hugged him tightly, and put my hand on his head the way the Bishop had done to me. Then I closed my eyes and silently began to count to twenty. Halfway through, I heard men talking rapidly, commotion, and bright lights flashed in front of my eyelids.
I opened my eyes and saw a mass of reporters and photographers flocking around me.
“God bless you, Señor, God bless you!” The woman grabbed the child out of my arms and hurried away. Microphones appeared like magic in front of my face.
“Mr. Knox, can you comment on how you survived?”
“What was your relationship with María Suarez?”
“How does it feel to have eaten human flesh?”
“Are you denying it?”
“What were you doing in the church?”
“Do you now feel you have healing powers?”
The questions came fast as bullets, and just as deadly. My head swam as I pushed my way through the throng, hoping they’d give up and it would just stop.
Relentlessly, they followed me all the way back to the hospital.
And that was just the beginning.