–9–

For two years after my mother’s death, I went to mass every Sunday. I was taken by an old domestic of ours who thought it was my duty, as an orphan, to pray to God for my mother’s soul. The architecture of this church was curious. It was simple outside; imposing inside. It had a main nave and two side aisles. The columns separating them were made of dark marble, with fine Corinthian capitals. The high-altar scenography involved a statue of Jesus on the Cross, with statues of Mary and Mary Magdalene on either side, kneeling, gazing at him. Behind them, a purple curtain, like the ones in opera theatres, provided the backdrop. Above the high altar was a fresco of the Resurrection: Jesus, holding a standard with a cross on it, was levitating over the tomb that had held his body, while Roman soldiers shielded their eyes against the light emanating from the divine spectacle. Next to the high altar was a huge pulpit carved in dark wood, where the priest preached. Opposite it, above the main entrance, was a silver organ, which was only used on special occasions. The side aisles had chapels devoted to different saints, most of whom were Italian, since the church had been financed by Italian immigrants. The altar in the left-hand aisle had a statue of Saint Paul of the Cross, while the right-hand one had a statue of the Virgin Mary.

It was in this church that I had taken my first communion and shat my pants during a school ceremony, the shit seeping through the white knee-highs that were part of my school uniform. Both occasions were branded in my memory, not least for the fact that my father wasn’t present at either one. On my first communion, arguing that it was just institutionalised superstition, he spent the day out of town on a friend’s farm. My mother was really hurt, but I liked not having him around. I managed to be the centre of attention all day long. As for the school ceremony, I don’t remember why he wasn’t there. I was relieved he hadn’t witnessed my public humiliation — and my mother didn’t tell him anything about it, on my insistence … You think she might have told him without me knowing about it? I doubt it. He would have mocked me. If he didn’t, it’s because he didn’t know.

This old domestic of ours liked to go to church on Sundays because it was an opportunity for her to have some kind of social life. Not that there wasn’t any religious sincerity in her habit. There was, and lots of it, as demonstrated by the fervour of her prayers and her room full of pictures of saints. But she didn’t hide her happiness at being able to chat with her equals — the absence of which she resented in our oh-so-hierarchical home full of employees who were always being replaced by my father. For this reason, we always arrived at church half an hour early. I took these moments to wander through the church alone, stopping at the chapels with the most shocking paintings and statues. The one that most fascinated me was a statue of Christ dead, lying inside a glass urn. It was in the first chapel of the right-hand aisle, and was always the final destination of my solitary wanderings. The statue only left there when it was carried by the faithful in the Good Friday procession, thereby making the gloomy streets around the church even sadder. I’ve never seen one of these processions — my father wouldn’t allow it — but our domestic’s descriptions were so vivid that, in my mind, the scenes took on the contours of something I’d actually witnessed. It’s as if I’d personally watched the slow steps of the hooded men in white tunics who carried the dead Christ, and the men who lit the way with torches, and the women who chanted the Lord’s Prayer in a lament that could be heard on the top floors of the buildings, although there weren’t as many buildings in the neighbourhood back then. I wonder if the procession still takes place. Do you think you could find out for me? Never mind …

The dead Christ statue seduced and terrified me, like a lover who inspires both attraction and repulsion. Alone, standing before the glass urn, I tried to look away, but it was useless. The stigmata on his feet and hands, the blood running from his chest and head wounds, the crown of thorns that still hurt him — all these details mesmerised me. Nothing in the church seemed as alive as that dead Christ, if you will allow me this paradox. I only turned away from the statue when the small bell that announced the start of mass was rung. No, I’m mistaken. I only left when I saw the priests going into the wooden confessionals that stood between the chapels. I liked confessing, so I could take communion afterwards. My sins were always the same four: disobedience, insolence, recalcitrance, and swear words. I was, in fact, obedient, polite, and helpful, and almost never swore. But you had to have sins in order to confess them and then get the communion wafer. Kneeling in the confessional, I’d murmur my sins to the priest, who would absolve me and prescribe my penance: five Our Fathers, five Hail Marys, and three Acts of Contrition. The accounting was always the same for my four sins.

When I left the confessional, I’d head to the pew where our domestic was sitting, kneel next to her, and pray with great concentration. I’d say, ‘Forgive me, God, forgive me,’ between each of the prescribed prayers and after the mea culpa. After receiving the wafer in the communion ceremony in the last third of mass, I’d go back, kneel again, and say an Our Father and a Hail Mary for my and my mother’s souls. The domestic was always moved by the ardour with which I prayed — so much so that she even spoke to my father about the possibility of my becoming an altar boy. ‘The boy’s blessed,’ she said. My father didn’t answer, let out a sarcastic guffaw, and ordered her to make coffee. ‘I think it’s about time she moved on,’ he said aloud when he was alone with me in the living room.

Where am I going with this story? Well, I think it’s necessary in order for you to understand an important aspect of my unfinished book.

The Sunday before the poor domestic was fired, I made a discovery after mass was over. In fact, that was the last mass I ever attended in my life. It was also the last time I set foot in that church.

Before leaving, the domestic stopped for a quick chat with some acquaintances. Since I wasn’t even remotely interested in their conversation, I decided to take another spin through the side aisles of the church. The sound of my shoes made an echo, an effect I emphasised by stomping. Almost automatically, I ended my jaunt at the chapel that held the glass urn with the dead Christ. There was no one around — the group of women were at the entrance near the baptismal font. I was looking at Christ’s stigmata, when a thought popped into my head: It’s all a lie. But, if it were true, that loser would have deserved to die like this.

I started to shake, and broke into a cold sweat. Where had that thought come from, for God’s sake? Christ was a loser! A loser! The words were now hammering in my brain and, worse, threatening to leave my mouth. Desperate (yes, desperate is the most accurate definition of my state), I ran to the high altar, where there was the statue of the Virgin. I knelt before her, to say however many Hail Marys, Our Fathers, and Acts of Contrition were necessary to atone for my sin. But what happened was even worse. I gazed at the Virgin’s face and thought: This is the pro who bore that loser. And she must be the daughter of another pro, who was the daughter of another pro, who was the daughter of another pro, all the way back to the beginning.

I fled. I ran into a priest coming out of the sacristy. ‘What’s the matter, son?’ he asked, trying to stop me. I wiggled out of his grasp and headed for the entrance, where the domestic was. I tugged at her hand. ‘Let’s go! Let’s go!’ I cried. The terrible thoughts were still echoing in my head: Christ was a loser! The Virgin was a pro who was the daughter of another pro. When I got to the square in front of the church, I looked at the façade with its enormous cross and thought: I’m going to crap all over this bullshit.