tHe confession of Maria luZ Miguel saucedo

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passages 2009/10
candied lips, traced with fuchsia dazzle, puckered laboriously at the ensuing
crowd, while the most mature of the bunch boldly solicited her bosom for
such a bargain price.
Beyond the fountain, the spires of the Cathedral rose above the forest
of the park, harnessing the setting sun in its glistening plaster high above the
street. He watched as the nuns waddled like penguins out for their evening
stroll from the conservatory; black, white, black, white, black, white. He hid
the bottle underneath his robe thinking of his mother. Suddenly, his mouth
filled with the taste of barbed wire, as he contemplated his wrists.
He was drowsy because of the cheap wine, and he saw himself in
a ludicrous dream; he was kissing Pope Pius XI’s hand, while nude lovers
groped each other at the base of His Eminence’s holy feet. Then, another
spark of memory startled him; only this time, he felt a soothing weakness in
his legs. He was thinking of his young virgin saints, those seven young beautiful
maidens that had sworn their loyalty to him, and to God.
And he savored the sweetness of the wine on his lips, with raw images
of young nude girls, squatting lavishly on his lap, telling him how much they
loved him.
And he remembered how he’d line them up in the mornings, with
their backs against the wall according to their age and other things known
only to him, inspecting them before the morning departure, by caressing
them furtively, one at a time.
The girls dressed modestly identical in long blue and white gabardine
uniforms, mimicking the luminous starlight robe of the Virgin Mary.
The cassocks, designed by the nuns of St. Nicholas, were reminiscent of the
layered chastity robes of the 15th century. The unique ruse robes with secret
buttons and pull strings, known only to the kings and governors of that
time, had now become holy secrets to the nuns, and to the tiny fingers of his
most sacred virgin saints…
His thoughts returned to the lovers sitting in front of him, and a
cruel memory dragged him to the past.—A girl was waving from the train station;
she did not want him to go, but it was his calling, he said it so many times, with so much
conviction.—And to think that it was only yesterday she was about to rob him of his
virginity. He waved good-bye, knowing he would never see her again.
He blew smoke rings into the stagnant, liquid air of the park, suffocating
a thin cigar between his lips. He was nearly finished with the wine,
when he remembered the girl waiting for him at the hotel.
fiction: The Confession of Mariz Luz
He poured the last of the wine down his mouth and chanted as he
walked away,—You are the Alpha and the Omega,—My life is but a grain of sand.
And the prostitutes parted the sidewalk, and they touched him, begging for
his grace and forgiveness.
He fumbled into the lobby, and went up the staircase, when he
finally swaggered into the silent room; he was surprised she hadn’t left to be
with the other saints.
She was sitting quietly in the living room of the suite, brushing her
long flowing hair in front of the mirror. The little butterfly he had fantasized in
his long walks back home had finally escaped the captivity of her pious cocoon.
The girl who would rise at 4:30 every morning to make his large pot
of rustic black coffee, continually sat next to him at the festival, while his
hand roamed freely under the table redeeming those things he believed he
had lost. The task of serving became her calling. And because she did it with
so much enthusiasm and pride, she had become his favorite saint.
She also acquired the practice of nursemaid, especially when he’d
return late at night trying to secretly pass by the shadow of the saint’s
bedroom, stumbling on his way towards his room. Of course, he would offer
an excuse with the sign of the cross, and they would do the same, and then he
would vow to the effects of the wine, and he’d forget his pretense, and walk
right into the bedroom of half-naked young girls.
His eyes would cringe with glee to see them without robes, and
he would kiss them, each on their small virgin lips, saying they were small
tokens of God’s eternal love for them. Then he’d stumble to his room, and
fall intoxicated into bed.
The girl would follow him, as if tied with an invisible string to his
dire urgency; first untying his enormous black leather shoes, then removing
his robe and pants. And trying with so much defeat, to ignore those things
not meant for young virgin saints.
And she would try to decipher the mumbling stream of words
spilling from the side of his mouth, as the suggestive hand of his drunkenness
roamed underneath the locked layers of her sacred virgin garment. She
was thinking solely of the dignity of such a great man.
She would soak him gently from top to bottom, exfoliating his
steaming pink marble-like body with the coolness of a damp cloth, and
praying over his comatose flesh, turning his face downward, so if he
happened to vomit because of his consumption of holy wine. He would not
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