Buch lesen: «Structure Of Prayer», Seite 2

TUESDAY AND WEDNESDAY

Fragrance and stench

Adveniat regnum tuum

It circulates in the environment, evaporating at times, fleeing, having fun, and then peeping out with shyness, once again harassing my sense of pleasure with the impertinence of its appearance. I receive the fragrance and feel the muscles of my face stretch in a smile of delight. I satisfy my need to smell by infiltrating my nose with the charged balsamic air, I calm the odorous rush by inhaling more deeply and I lose myself in the sweat of the flowers. When I open my eyes, the appearance of the boy's face beside me brings me back to the reality of my routine perceptions, for in greeting him I take in the air that has changed from the aroma of his cheeks to the horrid stench of the liver in my morning breath.

I decided that the boy should continue his rest, so I officiated the mass without his help. On this occasion I found his absence more tolerable. I motivated the pendulum movement of the censer whose smoke marked my skin with an essence of resin. Now I see him leaning against the armchair, shaking his nose in a khaki handkerchief while introducing a varied dose of the mobile drawings that pass through the screen. I go out to the street, to the market.

*

Boardwalk is deserted. The freshness of the river gives me a smell of fresh water that mixes with the simple aroma of the palm trees that adorn the contours. The traffic is light. The usual alley welcomes me with the stench of watered beer, of urine implanted in carefree corners, with posts stained with pestilence. I speed up the pace while I observe the name of the new place graphed in capital letters and italics. A place of perdition, Lord, and in my favorite alley.

*

The market is a whirlwind of smells. Legumes and herbs, grains and seafood, processed foods and fruits, spill a wide range of sensations that invade the sense of smell. I rule my body towards the room of the spices. I am impregnated with the pungent emanation of cinnamon, cumin, cloves, sweet pepper. I pay for the spices with some coins that Isaac, the salesman, a bachelor with a fleshy face, receives with a gesture of sympathy.

*

I cut the sea bass into thick slices that I first soak in water and then clean the meat in lemon and salt. I fry and place the foodstuffs on a porcelain plate. The aroma is appetizing and strong, so much so that Tomás has left his daily battle district to watch me with his hungry tongue in the kitchen, a fact that may refute my skepticism about the capacity of his nose. I grind the peppercorns, the cinnamon sticks, the cloves and the cumin. I add vinegar. A tearful liquid runs down from my eyes and I throw the chopped onions into the pan with their sweet smell. I add the fish along with some sherry. I cover it and let it simmer.

*

I have resorted once again to imploring divine forgiveness. I am sorry for having sinned in thought and word, in deed and omission. Lord, welcome this pleading sinner so that he may return to your way and be saved in you.

*

They're there, dancing with joy in the rot. Enraptured by the lasciviousness. Lust is satisfied in the mud of carnal gloating and lust. Dishonest pleasures are sublimated in hideous fish, in abysmal shells, in slime of shit. Goats, dromedaries, horses and birds eager for enjoyment endorse the unbridled. Space reeks of sin, of lust. They corrupt the environment with a plague emanating from the darkest side of our being. I stop looking at the picture and make sure I have a few minutes to rest before the bells ring.

*

I'm about to go to mass with a huge muscle fatigue. I ingest two glasses of water that calm the roar of my liver, or at least that is what I imagine or desire. I put on my cassock. I feel purer.

*

The boy has been bothering me with a question that's been bothering me for a while. He forces me to back off until I fall flat on the couch. I encourage him to sit next to me. He agrees, not without anticipating a gesture that warns me not to transgress his purpose. I caress a tuft of hair that slides down his forehead and place it behind his ear, which is his rightful place. I feel the look charged with expectation. I try not to disappoint him and tell him that God is a good and merciful being and that we cannot know him physically or imagine him with the anatomical profiles to which we are accustomed, but this invocation of catechesis does not satisfy his curiosity. I am strong. I tell him the truth, that we must love God and not pretend to know him. He tells me, with a face of defeat and resignation, that God is complicated. I only have life to breathe in the sweet smell of musk that permeates my nose when I take his buttocks off the furniture. I call him. He turns with a luminous look, with that look that incites me to grab him by the cheeks and satisfy my impulses. But I beg the help of the Lord, who can do everything, and then, with renewed strength, I send the boy to my room. I tell him it's a secret. I reveal to him that I know God. I show him.

*

God is not small, although he seems so at first sight. He's distant for a greater perspective on the world, that's all. His gaze, we know, is ubiquitous. Sitting on his throne, his head is crowned with a tiara and on his legs rests the holy book. His back is protected by a long imperial cloak. I can see him now, while Father Misael shows me this peculiar painting. The darkness of the painting makes me afraid. Nevertheless, I resist it. On the horizon, behind the mist that covers the sky enclosed in the concave glass, there is God, and I can see him. I know him now. And I see his smile.

*

I'm preparing to take sleep with the fragrant stench of its back of the head. We have prayed together, body to body, and have asked God never to turn us away from his way, so that we might ingratiate ourselves with his precepts. There is something charged in the air that prevents me from breathing normally. I feel the absurd premonition that I am about to fall into a nightmare from which I will not be able to wake up. Outside the rain has started to beat down, very softly.

*

The morning is cold. The downpour has cooled the environment. I slept peacefully, at peace with my spirit and welcomed by God's infinite mercy. I am reassured to know that the nightmares have finished their work of nightly torture and have given way to a truce. My optimism does not reach the certainty of having defeated them. One part of me knows that I will succeed in this battle against the devil, but another part, the most fragile, shows me the extent of my failure, for at every moment my mind succumbs to temptation and every part of my body breaks the law that my soul demands.

*

I’ve decided to take a bath. I have felt the sensation of impurity in my skin, and not only because of the stench of my armpits loaded at night, but also because of the mountain of procreation that I carry in thought. Before going up to the altar I must be purified. Cooling a little will not hurt me, so I am about to lather my skin. I also rinse my soul with prayers.

*

The winter season is approaching and the signs are being felt with the sense of smell. This can be done by any mortal, but especially by those beings who are better equipped for such tasks. So Tomas, contrary to what the clergyman thinks, knows this better than anyone else. He recognizes as alien the ethereal aroma that distills from the soil near the almond tree. That is why he often marks out his territory. The summer season, already in its end, is defeated by the elemental humidity of the cycles. The geosmin emerges and floods the portal with its ether. The ancients assured that the petrichor was the blood of the gods, the essence that ruled their veins. Today it is nothing more than a striking aroma that from time to time, as long as its fleeting quality does not fade away, causes us slight discomfort, without us realizing that it is and has been, throughout immemorial times, the true sweat of this earth, its sweating surface. Thomas understands this. His nose has not worn out to the point that he is indifferent to the world. He knows something about smells. He has understood something in his long life as a dog. That is why he stops urinating the almond tree and lies down in a strange mystical posture, already defeated by the weather, on the wet leaves that form a natural mattress. His sense of smell has emphasized the sacred condition of the seasons. Now, at last, an elusive cloud provides him with a bit of sunshine that his dermis appreciates.

*

I met an old friend at the market. We had a pleasant, if brief, chat.

*

Mrs. Salome has arrived while I was away. She explains to me, by way of justification, her hardships. I tell her to avoid worries, that I understand the situation and that she should take the week off. She insists on preparing today's lunch as compensation for her future absence. I do not make myself beg. While the mistress is cooking I lock myself in my room and reach for a bottle of wine from the place of my secrets. I start drinking with long sips.

*

The bottle is half full and I leave it on the nightstand without any care. The swallowed wine causes me a slight sensation of dizziness that I intend to expel with a cup of coffee. I implore a bath of cold water, but Mrs. Salome tells me that the food is ready. I swallow the soup with a burning sensation. The heat calms the emptiness of my stomach, the strange discomfort of bitterness caused by the drink. I get up from the table looking at the boy who is eating and go to my bedroom with an intense desire to sleep.

*

I half-open my eyes and the first image I see is that of the world. My drunkenness is not fit to scrutinize the disgusting delights of your garden. I imagine the naked body of the boy with true lust and then return to sleep. When I wake up I notice an unusual position on the right side of the painted board. I guess someone has checked the painting. Mrs. Salome is forbidden to enter the bedroom and has always been respectful, therefore my only suspicion lies in the boy's curiosity. I'm not angry, but I don't like the intrusion either. Then, I feel the pastiness that has stained my breeches during sleep.

*

Fewer people came to church today than yesterday. Nevertheless, my sermons were longer.

*

The last book of the Bible announces a hell full of fire and brimstone as a condemnation for those who betray the Lord's standards. A hell of stenches, of smelly vapors, would be an unbearable torment, even for any soul alien to the weaknesses of the body. I defecate slowly and with a little pain. My sphincter expels a gas that is released in the form of a high-pitched scream. It stinks, but I breathe it in, imagining a tormented mephitic hell saturated with fetid effluvium, and, sitting here, the stench juxtaposed to the imagination incites me to nausea. I barely open the door and allow a little fresh air to circulate, shaking off the miasmas of excrement, the foul air that has contaminated my organism.

*

Tomás sniffs my leg, he has surely noticed the smell of soap on my body after the bath. He starts making nasty grunts. He pulls the fabric of my sleeping suit and tears it, flooding it with his drool. Bad dog. Now I watch him walk away, satisfied with the mischief. I take off my robe and find myself naked in front of the mirror. I can't resist directing a caress to my testicle area. An electric current shakes me. My penis swells into a dark crimson. As I react, I walk away from the mirror in horror. I take another wardrobe and urge myself to forget my desires.

*

The Sanhedrin of the senses welcomes the proposal to betray the soul.

*

I strip him of his shirt with a serenity I don't believe in. But it's my hands that strip his torso. I lay him down with his ass rising up to my face which I push away immediately, instantly blushing. I stroke his back which is sure to be burning with the coolness of the menthol. His lungs can already feel it, I am sure of it, because my hands refresh to the rhythm of the massages. I contemplate for the last time his perfect ass as a dominant young man. I turn him over with his face towards me. I hit the menthol on his pectorals and I take the opportunity to feel his shy nipples that emerge without audacity. The strong smell of eucalyptus penetrates me.

*

This morning, they both sleep with the rumination of the rain lashing the street. Neither Father Misael has had the dream of the knife, nor young Manuel the vision of the beast. Maybe they've gone away so they don't come back. We are on the threshold of a new day. In the center of the city, the rain washes away all the stench from the street of the billiards. The downpour cleans the old tree in the backyard. During the rains, some naive people claim that God is the one crying for all the sins of mankind. The most accurate image would not be symbolized by the divine tears that fall upon the world, but by the sizzling of Thomas's urine that soaks into us, similar to this one, which now comes off the bark of the old almond tree. Be it in one form or another, after all it is from the body of the immaterial God that the liquid that bathes us comes.

THURSDAY

Burning and gelidity

Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo, et in terra

I am shaken by a burning discharge whose genesis is the occiput, and it exudes partly through my spine. My tendons wake up and force me to stretch the length of my body in the pleasant pain that consumes itself orgasmically in my underpants. I feel how my penis descends slowly, knocked down by the convulsive pleasure of pollution while in my soul a void is gestated that I cannot stand. The cold slips from the open window and swings in the curtain with a languid and consecutive wail. I watch the velvet shudder against the wall, impacting against the window glass, against the frame made of spruce. I feel the breeze slip and sneak in between my armpits, shaking my skin in a gust that ruffles my whole body. I sigh. I separate myself from the interior, maculated by the semen. I get up and pray for the weakness of my flesh.

*

The warmth of the coffee encourages me to leave it. I prefer to take light sips of the peach juice. The boy tells me a somewhat profane story, but I don't dare rebuke him. I just look at him and give him a cold smile. Today he did not accompany me to mass either and I missed it so much, especially when Bishop Pio imposed the blessing. I look at him and I am enraptured by his features, by his carefree look, by the boisterous hair of the morning. I get up from the table in a hurry, trying to dodge my eyes that are turned to him again and again.

*

I've gone down with a chill. Today I will not leave the house or attend to the parishioners who are preparing for Good Friday. I've left certain minor commitments in charge, following the doctor's recommendation. The boy prepares an infusion for me, which I ingest along with the medicine. As he turns around, I can feel the movement of his buttocks in a provocative sway. I surrender to sleep.

*

When I wake up, I see the boy's face. He has kept me company all this time the fever has lasted. He informs me that he has prepared lunch and comforts my body with a hot soup that he insists on spooning into my mouth. Then comes a hard time. I rebuke him for having examined the painting without consent and he answers that he wanted to know what was in it. It is not a question of forbidding him to know, but I think that he should first consult an authorized voice to confirm whether or not he is qualified to know. He replied that he felt he was qualified and implored me to guide him through the painting. After a struggle of pleas and refusals, I give in to the request and allow him to open it. He expands a face of wonder. It is beautiful, he says, but at the same time horrendous. It's our soul, I tell him, or I just think about it. The residual shock of the fever stuns me. For the moment I only want to get away from the boy, to shout at him to leave my room and disappear forever, that God has revealed to me that he is an emissary of the devil. I am overcome by the desire to excommunicate him from my life. I understand that I will do the opposite, because I stand up to him and place a hand on his shoulder and hold it in an intention-laden embrace. What you are witnessing is a paradise, a hell, and this here, I tell you in a magnanimous voice pointing out the central part, is the world. For now it will be enough to see it, we will have time to study it part by part. My body does not resist the impulse and I kiss him on the cheek while I descend my hand into the cleft of his back. His reaction is not one of rejection. Unexpectedly he asks for my blessing.

*

I sent the boy to the market for supplies. I feel the absence and try to fight the desire with a prayer, but being on my knees, the words get stuck in the throat. This time I cannot pray. I get up, take a warm shower, and prepare to receive him as best I can.

*

The boy finally arrives, but unfortunately accompanied by Miss Rachel, a helpful woman at the disposal of the Church, young despite her almost forty years, unmarried despite her beauty. Behind her, an entourage of ladies who have joined forces to pay me a visit and offer me fruits, bought precisely, I imagine, from the beautiful old maid. Tomás greets them with angry barks. I receive them with apparent gratitude, I give them, with the authority they give me, a couple of admonitions, I impose one or two tasks on them in preparation for tomorrow's procession, and I delicately dismiss them on the pretext of my rest. I close the door behind them, with its moldy iron edge and rusty hinges, and I embark on the search for the boy throughout the house.

*

I invite you once again to my room. We are having a conversation about certain theological aspects that he discusses with some knowledge. I instruct him as I lay my open hand on his fleshy, appetizing thigh. I urge him to begin a prayer together. I stand behind him and we raise the usual shared prayer. I perceive the warmth of his body that soothes the cold of the environment and at the same time refreshes the warmth of my entrails.

*

The body beats me. I lie down with the taste of fruit still evident on my palate. I rehearse a prayer that melts in the attempt. My head is not here, but in the figure of the boy. I stagger to his door. I half-open it and discover the body asleep in the pleasure of the nap in a fetal posture with the beautiful bottom pointing at me, inciting me to caress it, to give it the final bite. My terrified body boils with fever or something else. In a fit of lucidity, I return to my bed.

*

I woke up with the slimy sensation of sweat adhering to my skin. I watch the glimmer of the evening sun refracting on the mirror and flooding the room with its radiance, invading every corner. I understand the need to wash myself, a heat wave invades the bedroom and my crotch is doughy. The fever has passed. I beg for some fresh water.

*

I have sent written instructions to the faithful for the Good Friday procession. The boy was my companion while I wrote the letter which he later delivered, encouraged by the promise to show him a part of the painting. I could not suppress my interest in his movements; my gaze fell on him all the time. He even made me divert my pen to a couple of features.

*

The disc's case has as its cover the image of a road furrowed by autumn leaves that gets lost in a suggestive horizon. The yellowish passage ditches a forest of absolute tranquility. No bird hurts the tranquility. No animal ventures to desecrate the serenity of the small universe of leaves and earth. All are about to emerge to inaugurate, in a spirited way, an infernal paradise. I insert the disc in the player which forces it to spin quickly. That device transforms into a tiny infinite whirlwind that spins at thousands of revolutions per minute. The music invades the room, very slowly, as if struggling to wake up from a lethargy imposed by restrictive forces, inhaling tranquility, absorbing silence, holding on to the space that it will later occupy with its imperial tonality. But it will be the cold. The bass marks the rhythm, it continues in a continuous way, it flows with a crescendo that shades the shy interventions of the violins: they are the steps of the walker to whom some tribulation urges, they are the cracks of the ice about to crack. Now the lightning flashes, set on fire by the solo violin, the storm of the orchestra roars and shakes the space and vibrates at the feet of the wretch. The race originates with the impulse of the bass that throbs insistently and marks the fast tracks. The masterful imposition of the main violinist invades, strikes with its gusts of icy wind, and the intense cold forces the shivering and imposes the gnashing of teeth.

*

You see this area here, and it shows me the top right side of the open painting. The whole painting symbolizes the sufferings of the sinner. But this part here, in particular, is the cliché image, the usual one, that we make of hell. Sulphur falling in continuous rain, mountains destroyed and bathed in darkness, and people in unspeakable torment.

In this area, he indicates the central part with his index finger drawing an ellipse, the ice marks a strong contrast with the sulphurous fire, because within the conception of hell as a place of eternal torment, a space of ice is one of the most horrifying places. Look here how it cracks and the poor man is left at the mercy of the cold water.

In this part, points out the bottom, is what in art is called musical hell, due to the use of musical instruments as symbols of torture. Very common in certain mystical painters. You see this bagpipe, here is the lute, here is the harp. And here a flute, you can see it.

I wonder if this is really hell. Through the window I can feel the night coming on.

Well, he tells me, the desperation and martyrdom, surely are well represented by the author, and here on this board, by the imitator, who is, I like to call him that, a performer.

I ask him how he sees hell through what the holy scripture dictates. He does not answer. He seems to be immersed in a reflection that escapes the moment and my doubts. He's really wondering what hell is like.

The holy book shows hell as a place of perpetual incandescence where souls will be thrown into the lakes of sulphur. This is how the painter in the upper part of this work captures it. In fact, the prophet invariably mentions it, noting certain premises such as the fire that never goes out, the wailing and gnashing of teeth, the eternal punishment.

He speaks without looking at me, as if in conversation with himself.

For centuries, fire and ice, that is to say, heat and cold, have been considered the most atrocious tortures in the place of perpetual punishment. A great poet of antiquity describes a part of hell with the usual rain of flames, and another segment, that of the traitors, formed entirely of ice. The devil, as regent of this space of perdition, is embedded from the waist into the icy surface. He cries with his six eyes and flaps his six angry wings.

I imagine a hell of a lot of ice. Hades would be a paradise in comparison. An endless torture in perennial numbness. But what my body can now tolerate is the heat. An intense heat that continues as Father Misael's teaching advances and that oppresses me with the air charged by his close presence, so close. I admit his words as a sign of his spiritual wisdom. I do not intend to bother him any more with the frivolity of my questioning. I ask for his blessing and he gives it to me with greater strength, for he chisels a sacred kiss on my mouth.

*

We've decided to have bread, I'll have some wine and he'll have a glass of juice. At the table we talked about topics of special interest to him. I look into his eyes and as I explain to him certain conceptions about feeling the holy spirit I feel the back of his hand. Then I direct mine to his face. The impact of the blush brushes my face. I caress his cheeks and kiss him again, this time deeply.

*

Feel the abhorrent kiss that will mark the path of treachery and hell.

*

I'm in his room and he points to a beige pajama top. He indicates to me that I am fit to serve a representative of God in the world, who from now on will be his spiritual assistant. He explains to me that the cassock is the only sacred garment that human beings possess. My new tasks consist of undressing him and putting him in his sleeping suit. It is a simple occupation for me and I gladly agree to serve the father, a purified son of God.

*

His hands slide slowly down my thighs. They feel warm, healing, so disturbing and peaceful. I contain a groan. I vibrate when I notice her breathing in the area of my unclothed breaststroke, in the trepidation of my hairs which are agitated attracted by the wave of magnetism of his skin furrowing my skin by the touch of his chaste fingers. Now it is my breast that is satisfied, that rejoices in a delight that does not belong to this world. My skin is bristling. I am dominated by his touch. Taken over by the touch of his immaculate dermis. The folds of my shirt shake as they are slowly unbuttoned. I squeal without contemplation, but he doesn't stop. It seems that he has begun a torture from which he knows he is the executioner and does not want to see his victim escape. I see this segment of my existence as a vital moment. I embrace it and hold it for a time that I dare not establish. It is I who initiate the separation. You saw me with unsuspected agility. A hot flash inflames my body. Formal, he kneels in front of me and begs my blessing. I give him a kiss in his thick hair. I glimpse that my soul will not rest easy until it satisfies my body. My body will not be satisfied until it starts what my soul denies. I can't stand it anymore, and here lying down, I surrender to the sweet torment of solitary pleasure. Then it is the emptiness. I pray all morning for my salvation.

*

The father accepts the defeat of his soul, has resigned himself and gives himself to the will of God. He prostrates himself on the fresh tile floor and prays, falling on his face. My Father, if it is possible, do not make me drink this cup. But let it be done, not as I will, but as you will. Comforted by having avoided his spiritual responsibility, Father Misael tries to rest, but it is impossible for him to sleep. He looks out of the window and finally feels the breeze hitting his face and soothing the long heat.

The young man has entered the depths of sleep, and with him the calamity of the nightmare that does not leave him. This time he tries, despite the fragility of his make, to escape the gasps of the cyclopean beast that is just a step away from reaching him with its drooling fangs. He knows the inevitable end to his story. His sweat will be drops of blood falling to the ground. A blast of heat impregnated into the air circulates uselessly over the boy's chilled body.

We all know that God, being spirit, and the most supreme of all, does not feel. At least not like this wretched man, at least not like this poor young man suffering from a hell that has been inaugurated and is not even executed. It is time to sleep, Father, rest, for tomorrow the world will bring new airs. God does not understand your tortures.

Father Misael's shoulders receive a colossal weight. Exhausted, he lies down on the bed and closes his eyes. The nightmare of the knife and the ears will emerge again from the dark corner of guilt.