Evangeline
Her cries implore him, “Father, Father,” and her eyes plead. He shifts uncomfortably; the stiff white collar suddenly tightening around his neck. The green gaze penetrates his chest and he can no longer breath comfortably. “You know I can’t…” “Can’t what? Father? I just need you to hear my confession. Once more.”
The sound of her breathing through the thin muslin curtain drives him to distraction. She can no longer see him, but he senses that she can feel exactly how uncomfortable her longing presence makes him, and yet she persists. “Forgive me Father for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession. Father… I have had… impure thoughts.” His voice chokes in his chest as if a frog has suddenly leapt between his vocal chords. He manages only a breathless “My child”. The heat invades him, and the lights suddenly swirl out of control. This cannot be happening. He reaches to steady himself, against the rushing ache. This is impossible. He could be killed for lesser acts of misjudgment. She is the daughter of the cartel kingpin, Manuel Covarrubias, whose gang controls all the comings and goings of this border town.
But her insistence is too much for any mere mortal to endure.
-----------------------------------------
He was born in 1966, two years before the youth uprisings that erupted all over Europe and here in Mexico. His mother was a prostitute in Prague. His father, a mystery. She was brutally murdered in the tumult of the times, although it was unlikely that she would have been involved with the underground student movements that inspired such fear in the power brokers of the time.
He was abandoned then, and the only scrap of his early life that followed him to the Spanish convent where he was raised was a vague recollection of his mother’s hands on his face, her clear eyes gazing lovingly into his. The language of his infancy shriveled up and died within him, and with it, an insularity was formed, a blockade to any human connection. He was touched with an air of divinity that the Priests discovered early, channeling him through the best schools, despite his lack of pedigree. Samuel learned like a machine, consuming every written word that was laid before him. He deeply suffered the plight of the humans around him, he ached for their misery, but he was unable to depend on them the way other children around him seemed so able to do.
--------------------------------------------
In his study, the mahogany desk glistened and the musky smell of old books irritated her nose. She rubbed it instinctively and delicately closed the door behind her. He sat perched on the edge of the curved arm of the burgundy chair, watching her enter silently.
“Father, I did what you asked me to. I wrote down all of my thoughts even the ones that I am afraid of thinking. What will you do with them?”
Samuel stretched his neck, lifting his eyes heavenward. She noticed the way that his Adam’s apple protruded, breaking the smooth line of his neck. He looked tired, and suddenly much older than his years. He looked down at his hands, and he reached out for the papers that she was clutching nervously in her hands, crumpling them up against her thighs and her sex. She took a step back, to observe him. To gauge what his reaction meant. Was he angry with her? Would he slap her after ripping the pages from her hands, for her transgression?
Sensing her hesitation, he pulled himself up, settling both feet on the floor, and reached towards her again. “Don’t fear, my child, you have nothing to be afraid of. Your thoughts are safe with me.” But it wasn’t father Samuel who she needed to fear.
Marina released her grip, his hand gently grazing hers. Their eyes met and she turned away, suddenly ashamed of the things that she had written, and hopeful at the same time of a forgiving audience. She turned the bronze handle and slipped out the door, racing down the empty Parish hallway, towards the arches that were bathed in light. He stood in the doorframe and watched her run, the backlight illuminating her hair in carmine hues. He exhaled slowly: controlled breathing and controlled thoughts.
Alone again in his study he sat down. He began to read, but stopped himself after the first few lines. It wasn't until a week later that he returned to her text.
----------------------------------------
Dear Father,
I don’t really know how to begin this, so I will just start writing. I don’t understand why you don’t want me to confess these things in person, but you must know best. I respect your wisdom, and I don’t know who else would listen to me
Father, I want to be good, I want to be a child of God, and do what I am supposed to, but I can’t understand a God that would make me suffer so. Why must I always fear his wrath, and be ashamed? I can’t tell my father the things that go on in my mind, he thinks that I should be locked up in my room or paraded around like a doll. I am the jewel in his crown, and he brings me out on display for his friends, to show them what power can buy you. I see the looks on the faces of these men and I feel dirty, I see the way their eyes drift down, resting on my bosom, my belly, and below. I feel dirty, but I begin to tingle, I feel this little flicker of heat that starts like a dull throb.
When I am alone, I want to touch myself, but I don’t let myself. I know it is wrong, I know God would be offended but I don’t know why he gives me these feelings if in feeling them I am dishonored. Father can you tell me? If God is a just God, then why does he give us desires, why does he give us temptations, if only to make us see the way of folly? I can’t have faith in a God that wants me to feel an eternally ruinous wretch.
Father, when I am undressing, I watch myself in the mirror. I see myself reflected and I wonder what it would feel like to have someone’s eyes on me the way my own eyes penetrate. I know this is vanity, one of many, I know I am wretched and evil and sick, but Father I don’t know how to be another way? I imagine… How do you do it? How do you turn your back on temptation, driving away desire? Is it that you just don’t feel desire, Father? Does God fill you up the way I long to be filled? I feel as if in mourning, like the feeling when my mother died. My father has never treated me unkindly, but I am still afraid of him. I see the way that he moves through a crowd, people part, they watch him in awe. They fear him. I have only once seen him angry, I had woken late in the night, and I stumbled out of my bedroom, lingering in the hallway. There was a man, his business associate, I don’t remember his name. My father’s knuckles were white as he gripped the edge of the table. The man had tears streaming down his face. Father lifted the table and slammed it back down. The man whimpered. And then he was dismissed. We never saw him again, and I think that is when I began to fear him.
When I was a little girl, he used to hold me on his knees. My mother was jealous of the attention that he gave to me, but then she died and he sent me away to school in Philadelphia. I was vain then, too father, I have always been this way. God will never forgive me my vanities and I am ashamed in the presence of a man of God. You who are so good, and pure, you whose belief is unwavering. How did you find His grace? How can I conquer my nature and bend my will to His? How do you conquer your nature? How is it that we have a God that makes us desire things that we cannot bear to have, or to bear things that we should never see? I want to serve God, to do works of charity, to lower my head among the humble. But...
Father, I imagine other things, darker things. I know that in order to be purified I need to tell you them all, but I can’t. I just can’t. Not yet. I am afraid that if I write them down, I may be invoking the demons. Or is it just another of my vanities? Father, beautiful, clean, wise Father. I am sorry, I am a lost sheep among the wolves.
Forgive me for I have sinned, and I am doubly evil for I cannot utter the words that would make me clean. I want to be free in His eternal love, in your eternal love. Please forgive me,
Marina
The sound of her breathing through the thin muslin curtain drives him to distraction. She can no longer see him, but he senses that she can feel exactly how uncomfortable her longing presence makes him, and yet she persists. “Forgive me Father for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession. Father… I have had… impure thoughts.” His voice chokes in his chest as if a frog has suddenly leapt between his vocal chords. He manages only a breathless “My child”. The heat invades him, and the lights suddenly swirl out of control. This cannot be happening. He reaches to steady himself, against the rushing ache. This is impossible. He could be killed for lesser acts of misjudgment. She is the daughter of the cartel kingpin, Manuel Covarrubias, whose gang controls all the comings and goings of this border town.
But her insistence is too much for any mere mortal to endure.
-----------------------------------------
He was born in 1966, two years before the youth uprisings that erupted all over Europe and here in Mexico. His mother was a prostitute in Prague. His father, a mystery. She was brutally murdered in the tumult of the times, although it was unlikely that she would have been involved with the underground student movements that inspired such fear in the power brokers of the time.
He was abandoned then, and the only scrap of his early life that followed him to the Spanish convent where he was raised was a vague recollection of his mother’s hands on his face, her clear eyes gazing lovingly into his. The language of his infancy shriveled up and died within him, and with it, an insularity was formed, a blockade to any human connection. He was touched with an air of divinity that the Priests discovered early, channeling him through the best schools, despite his lack of pedigree. Samuel learned like a machine, consuming every written word that was laid before him. He deeply suffered the plight of the humans around him, he ached for their misery, but he was unable to depend on them the way other children around him seemed so able to do.
--------------------------------------------
In his study, the mahogany desk glistened and the musky smell of old books irritated her nose. She rubbed it instinctively and delicately closed the door behind her. He sat perched on the edge of the curved arm of the burgundy chair, watching her enter silently.
“Father, I did what you asked me to. I wrote down all of my thoughts even the ones that I am afraid of thinking. What will you do with them?”
Samuel stretched his neck, lifting his eyes heavenward. She noticed the way that his Adam’s apple protruded, breaking the smooth line of his neck. He looked tired, and suddenly much older than his years. He looked down at his hands, and he reached out for the papers that she was clutching nervously in her hands, crumpling them up against her thighs and her sex. She took a step back, to observe him. To gauge what his reaction meant. Was he angry with her? Would he slap her after ripping the pages from her hands, for her transgression?
Sensing her hesitation, he pulled himself up, settling both feet on the floor, and reached towards her again. “Don’t fear, my child, you have nothing to be afraid of. Your thoughts are safe with me.” But it wasn’t father Samuel who she needed to fear.
Marina released her grip, his hand gently grazing hers. Their eyes met and she turned away, suddenly ashamed of the things that she had written, and hopeful at the same time of a forgiving audience. She turned the bronze handle and slipped out the door, racing down the empty Parish hallway, towards the arches that were bathed in light. He stood in the doorframe and watched her run, the backlight illuminating her hair in carmine hues. He exhaled slowly: controlled breathing and controlled thoughts.
Alone again in his study he sat down. He began to read, but stopped himself after the first few lines. It wasn't until a week later that he returned to her text.
----------------------------------------
Dear Father,
I don’t really know how to begin this, so I will just start writing. I don’t understand why you don’t want me to confess these things in person, but you must know best. I respect your wisdom, and I don’t know who else would listen to me
Father, I want to be good, I want to be a child of God, and do what I am supposed to, but I can’t understand a God that would make me suffer so. Why must I always fear his wrath, and be ashamed? I can’t tell my father the things that go on in my mind, he thinks that I should be locked up in my room or paraded around like a doll. I am the jewel in his crown, and he brings me out on display for his friends, to show them what power can buy you. I see the looks on the faces of these men and I feel dirty, I see the way their eyes drift down, resting on my bosom, my belly, and below. I feel dirty, but I begin to tingle, I feel this little flicker of heat that starts like a dull throb.
When I am alone, I want to touch myself, but I don’t let myself. I know it is wrong, I know God would be offended but I don’t know why he gives me these feelings if in feeling them I am dishonored. Father can you tell me? If God is a just God, then why does he give us desires, why does he give us temptations, if only to make us see the way of folly? I can’t have faith in a God that wants me to feel an eternally ruinous wretch.
Father, when I am undressing, I watch myself in the mirror. I see myself reflected and I wonder what it would feel like to have someone’s eyes on me the way my own eyes penetrate. I know this is vanity, one of many, I know I am wretched and evil and sick, but Father I don’t know how to be another way? I imagine… How do you do it? How do you turn your back on temptation, driving away desire? Is it that you just don’t feel desire, Father? Does God fill you up the way I long to be filled? I feel as if in mourning, like the feeling when my mother died. My father has never treated me unkindly, but I am still afraid of him. I see the way that he moves through a crowd, people part, they watch him in awe. They fear him. I have only once seen him angry, I had woken late in the night, and I stumbled out of my bedroom, lingering in the hallway. There was a man, his business associate, I don’t remember his name. My father’s knuckles were white as he gripped the edge of the table. The man had tears streaming down his face. Father lifted the table and slammed it back down. The man whimpered. And then he was dismissed. We never saw him again, and I think that is when I began to fear him.
When I was a little girl, he used to hold me on his knees. My mother was jealous of the attention that he gave to me, but then she died and he sent me away to school in Philadelphia. I was vain then, too father, I have always been this way. God will never forgive me my vanities and I am ashamed in the presence of a man of God. You who are so good, and pure, you whose belief is unwavering. How did you find His grace? How can I conquer my nature and bend my will to His? How do you conquer your nature? How is it that we have a God that makes us desire things that we cannot bear to have, or to bear things that we should never see? I want to serve God, to do works of charity, to lower my head among the humble. But...
Father, I imagine other things, darker things. I know that in order to be purified I need to tell you them all, but I can’t. I just can’t. Not yet. I am afraid that if I write them down, I may be invoking the demons. Or is it just another of my vanities? Father, beautiful, clean, wise Father. I am sorry, I am a lost sheep among the wolves.
Forgive me for I have sinned, and I am doubly evil for I cannot utter the words that would make me clean. I want to be free in His eternal love, in your eternal love. Please forgive me,
Marina
posted by ilana at 12:00 a.m.
2 Comments:
what I want to know, dear, is what happens next?
I'm working on it:)
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