Never an Empire (3 page)

The priest stood for a moment gazing at the tabernacle in which was housed that most holy of holies, the bread which was the Christ. Solemnly he lowered himself onto one knee, waited for a moment with head bowed, then stood up. Big candles in heavy, brass candlesticks sat each end of the altar already lit, the heavy Mass book lay on its stand, and the Mass cards were in place on either side of the tabernacle. Everything was in readiness for the service to begin. Behind the tabernacle six more tall candles were throwing their light out into the darkness that shrouded the nave of the church, and to either side of the altar were vases of bright, fresh flowers.

Sunrise would come just before six when Mass began and the church would fill with light as the service progressed. Dawn Masses in the weeks after the great feast of Easter had always been his favourite, like some wonderful new resurrection each day. But now it was different. He feared the coming of the light, feared that he would see himself for what he was, a creature of the night, of lust and darkness. The new light would rise to reveal a priest in mortal sin performing a blasphemous parody of the Holy Rite. None of the congregation would be able to see this new reality but God saw, and from the great crucifix that hung high above the altar Jesus, hanging, dying, suffering for sinful humanity, would see, take his terrible sin on his own holy shoulders and go on suffering, dying.

The priest remained, standing, looking. Everything on the altar stood in readiness. To one side, from an ornate, bronze bracket on the wall, hung a small red light which was always kept burning while the tabernacle held the blessed Eucharist: the very presence of Jesus. Jesus always there, above, on the cross, hidden in the veiled tabernacle, a mystical presence, waiting, watching, knowing all, suffering but loving and waiting to forgive.

From the darkness of the church he could hear the faint murmur of private prayers. There would be over fifty people already in the church. They would be the poorer workers who came to Mass before going on to their jobs. Those in a state of grace would have done as he had done and fasted from food and drink, even water, from midnight. These elect would come to the altar rails and kneel at the low, marble rails to receive Holy Communion from his hands, but none would know that the hands who placed the holy wafer on their tongues were those of a sinner and not only a sinner but a damned soul, utterly and eternally lost. To them, in their ignorance, he would still be their priest, the same today as he was yesterday.

What might happen when he vested and came out onto the altar? Perhaps, in front of the actual divine presence he would be given some sign, some indication that he was forgiven, that he was once again worthy. But he knew there would be no sign because he had no sorrow for his sin, worse, he cherished it, cherished the memory of his entry into her, the rhythm of their bodies together, her cries, his strength, the awful ecstasy of the climax, and, most of all, the vision of her nakedness. No, there was no sorrow, no contrition. He was lost. He blessed himself, turned and slowly walked towards the sacristy door. To say Mass in a state of mortal sin put him beyond forgiveness, beyond the mercy of God. It was the unforgiveable sin, presumption, placing oneself above God, making a god of yourself. In the sacristy he took up the vestments already laid out for him by the old sacristan and as he put on the white robe and over it the heavy chasuble he knew that from now on he would be no more than a whited sepulchre, the same on the outside but inside full of filth and corruption, a beast, a creature of the devil.

The old sacristan waited patiently already wearing the white cotter over the long black cassock, the uniform of an altar server, the priest's assistant at Mass.

The priest joined his hands and nodded to the sacristan. He was ready. The sacristan went in front of him and at the sacristy door rang a small bell. The people in the church stood for the entrance. Dawn light was already beginning to stream into the church. The pair moved out onto the altar and genuflected at the foot of the three stairs which led up to the altar proper. With his back to the people the priest spoke to opening words.

‘Introibo ad altare Dei.'

I will go unto the altar of God.

The reedy voice of the sacristan responded.

‘Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam.'

To God who giveth joy to my youth.

The priest paused. He had never before thought the words absurd on the lips of the old man beside him. Now he thought them worse than absurd. They were an indictment. Youth and joy had gone in one brief act of the flesh and with them innocence and purity. To pretend otherwise and continue would be the worst kind of cowardice as well as a blasphemy. He should turn and walk away in proper shame. There was a silence as the priest and sacristan stood at the foot of the altar steps.

The sacristan glanced at him with a look of concern. Somebody in the congregation coughed. Everyone waited, wondering.

The priest fought with himself in an agony of guilt and indecision. A choice must be made and must be made now.

Then a voice, his own, filled the church.

‘Adjutorium nostrum in nomine Domini.'

Our help is in the name of the Lord.

‘Qui fecit caelum et terram.'

Who made heaven and earth.

The Mass had begun. Life would go on.

Chapter Four

Mass was over. By one wall of the church were the Confessionals: a set of three carved, dark wood cubicles with curtained entrances. In the pews adjacent to these cubicles were about twenty people, a few old men but mostly women with scarves covering their heads. They were waiting to have their sins heard and forgiveness administered. The young priest sat in darkness in the middle cubicle, his face level with the grills on the either side of him each of which had a small, sliding doors which the priest opened in turn and through them the penitents kneeling in the two outer cubicles made their confession.

The young priest had been ordained for six years and parish priest in San Juan for only one of those years, but he had long become used to the litany of sins confessed to him: the petty misdemeanours, small transgressions, the omissions and failings. Serious sinners stayed away; there had never been any murderers, bandits, rapists, robbers. Even when the occasional adulterer, almost always a man, came to him they no longer aroused any urge to offer help, advice or support. There was a formula for dispensing forgiveness and absolution, such and such a sin equalled such and such prayers to be said. The greater the sin the longer the prayers and the more times to be said. Nowadays he hardly heard what was he was told and doled out the Latin formula of forgiveness as a routine.

But today was different. These people were small sinners, capable of asking and receiving absolution, he was now the great sinner. He closed the grill on the last penitent and shot open the grill on the other side. Did his words and gestures still forgive? Or was it all …

‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I have slept with a man who is not my husband.'

And there she stopped. The priest didn't need to look at the face, he recognised the voice only too well. Before he realised what he was saying he found himself making the habitual response.

‘How many times?'

‘Once, last night.'

The priest fell silent and the woman waited.

He was stunned, not because she had come to him for forgiveness, but that she was married. Suddenly it came to him that he knew nothing about her, not even her name.

They had met the previous day, late in the afternoon. It was a quiet time for him, the siesta was over, people had gone back about their business, and the church was usually empty and pleasantly cool. Unless his paperwork was unusually heavy or urgent he came each day at this time to pray quietly by himself, to spend some personal time with Jesus.

She was sitting in a bench at the back, weeping, with her face in her hands. He had gone to her. At first, looking down at her, he had thought she was no more than a girl.

‘What is it, my child? Why are you crying?'

She took away her hands and looked up. She was not a girl but a woman, a beautiful young woman with the face of an angel or a Madonna. He sat down beside her and they had begun to talk. She had come to San Juan in desperation. She was alone, lonely, she had no work and no money. She could see no future and found herself wanting to die. She was afraid, very afraid, and there was no one she could turn to, no one. She had put her face into her hands and begun to weep once more.

Without thinking, he had put her arm round her shoulders to comfort her.

‘There is always someone you can turn to, my child, someone who is always there for all of us: Jesus.'

She had taken away her hands and looked at him with her tear-stained face which almost glowed as she smiled her thanks. It was at that moment the thunderbolt had hit him and he found himself drowning in her eyes.

He had no idea how long he had sat with his arm round her shoulders and her head leaning against his chest. Perhaps less than a minute, perhaps many minutes. He couldn't tell. All he could tell was that he was happy, that it was right and good to hold her and comfort her. Then a woman with two young children came noisily into the church, she scolding for their reluctance to visit God, they protesting that they wanted to stay with their friends and play.

The priest and the young woman sat upright and moved slightly apart, the magic broken by a stranger.

The woman with the children dragged the younger one forward while the elder sullenly followed.

‘Father, Father, I'm so glad you're here. Tell them that they must visit Jesus and pray. They do not listen to me. I tell them, I shout at them, I take a stick to them, but they will not come to visit God. Tell them, Father, that they will burn, that the devil will come for them.' The two boys stood glumly while their mother harangued the priest. Quietly the young woman stood up, slipped along the bench, genuflected to the altar, and moved away towards the church doors. The voice of the woman went on as the priest watched the young woman go. ‘Tell them, Father, they will listen to you, a man of God, our priest.'

With difficulty he gave his attention to the woman.

‘Let them play. Now is the time for them to be with their friends and enjoy themselves.' He looked down at the two little boys. ‘What games were you playing?'

The elder answered.

‘Soldiers. We were the Yankees and we were killing the revolutionaries.'

‘You see, Father, you see the games they play, killing and fighting.'

‘Your mother is right. It is not good to play such games. Killing and fighting are cruel things, things against God's love.' He turned to the mother. ‘But this is still the time for children to play, not the time for coming to church. They should be outside with their friends. Bring them to Mass: that is the time for church.'

The woman's voice changed.

‘Easy for you to say, Father, you do not have to work. When do I have the time to bring them to Mass?'

‘There is Mass each morning at six.'

The woman gave a derisive laugh.

‘Yes, I know, and each morning at five I have to be in the kitchen making up the fires and then starting breakfast for the family I work for. Then, when that is done, there is the cleaning and after that the shopping. When can I get to Mass and bring my children?'

‘On Sunday?'

‘And my employers don't eat on Sunday? They don't expect me to clean and wash?'

The priest knew he was wasting his time. The woman was right. She was one of those who worked hard, long hours for little pay, whose children ran wild while she earned the money to feed them. She did her best but her best would not be good enough. He tried to think of something to say but his thoughts were elsewhere. He looked at the church doorway. Suddenly in the bright sunlight she was there, standing in the doorway. Was she waiting for him?

He should say something, help in some way. Was there a husband?

The figure in the doorway moved out of sight. Was she gone? Was she waiting? He had to know if she was still there. He looked down at the two boys.

‘Your mother is right; she works hard for you and you must be grateful and obedient. If she says come to church and pray then you must come. There are other times to play your games. Kneel now with your mother and thank God for her.'

The two boys gave voice at once in protest and the woman was about to speak again but he quickly raised his hand intoned the words and made the gesture of a blessing which silenced all of them. ‘
Benedicat vos
…' and was on his way to the doors before they could respond with their Amen.

Outside he looked around, then he saw her. She was standing in the shade of one of the trees that lined the edge of the square which stood in front of the church. He went across and stood beside her.

‘I'm sorry, Father, sorry to trouble you but you have been so kind I thought that perhaps …'

And there she stopped and looked at the ground.

‘Thought what?'

She kept her eyes on the ground and spoke quietly.

‘Perhaps you might give me a few centavos to buy a little rice.' Suddenly she looked up at him and spoke hurriedly. ‘To ask a priest for the price of a meal is not like begging, is it, Father? To ask you is like asking God.'

‘Have you eaten today?'

She shook her head.

‘Not since yesterday morning.'

‘Then come with me.'

The priest's house was large and rather impressive and like the church dated from the early Spanish Colonial times. It had been built to house the parish priest, at least three curates, a housekeeper, and several servants. Whatever it might still lack in modern amenities it was not short of rooms. Its front was covered with melded stucco painted white. It was attached to the church by a high, white wall so that between them the church and the house filled one side of the square.