tHe confession of Maria luZ Miguel saucedo

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40 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 41
42 passages 2009/10 drown in the stench of such a sacred sacrament without some kind of confessional, or arbitrary and necessary benediction. In the end, she would go into the living room, look out into the shimmering lights of the vibrant city below, and polish his patented leather shoes with the juice of her own sweet spit, while humming poetic songs out the open windows. He stared at her for a moment, rocking slightly forward and backward like a lost ship at sea, trying to keep his solid frame steady on his heels. It was the 5:26 hour of his saint’s jubilee. He had another vision, and just enough to remember in the young girl’s reflection, someone else—“Don’t leave!” said, a lover, a friend, who knows? It was too damn long to remember now. Then the vision left him. She was waiting patiently to give her confession. It was something toiling in her head as she prayed to St. Michael, her guardian angel back home. Father Dante promised he would hear her confession immediately following his final speech at the parroqial celebration, so that none of her sins could possibly be carried back home by the contemptible lack of Divine Providence. He noticed immediately she was not trapped underneath the layers of the canvas-like robe that constantly protected the innocence of her sacred virtues. She was short and delicate like a flower. And she wore forbidden attire, a silk crimson dress that sweetened her deeply, making her ecclesiastically distant and incorrect. The lamp on the dresser cascaded a stream of light on the surface of her delightful olive skin, exposing the softness of her narrow shoulders and face. His eyes fumbled inside his head, and he lost his will to live when the warm curvature of her voluptuous caramel legs crossed gently in front of his unfortunate life. And he noticed the burst of her single weaved rope of hair that she constantly nurtured - disappeared, and was now flowing with so much freedom and reparation in the breezes of the open windows, that it made her seemingly more divine than ever before. And it was after the silence and salaciousness of her fervent smile that she had openly confessed, and Father Dante surrendered to the temptation that burned deep inside his loins after hearing her amorous confession, and a savage thing, overcame his troubled spirit. fiction: The Confession of Mariz Luz And the thing growing inside him devoured his goodness, shredding his great soul into a thousand pieces, making him want to jump out the open window to exercise the relentless demon. And the guilt whipped him violently into opposing directions like a ragged doll, that he instantly lost his mind after hearing the candor of her secret proclamation. He wanted to possess her immediately, to command her, and do as he pleased with her. More so, how could he have ever predicted, that his little flower, entrapped in her faith driven spirit, would ever sprout the wonderful wings of something so turbulent and untamed. So, he looked up to Heaven, and tears fell to his face as he took her small delicate hand, and led her into the grotto of his bedroom, believing in the blinding foil of his drunkenness, that she truly was, the only lover embedded in the cracks of his now breaking heart. When the group of young saints finally arrived at the hotel, they whispered with joyous praises that the marketeers hadn’t duped them. The last girl locked the door and looked around for her best friend. She was curious. It was never this quiet. She first looked inside the saint’s bedroom, then in the morning room, and she was not there. So she walked out to the hallway, and looked inside the only bathroom on that floor, and it was empty. When she returned to the room, a mysterious cold shiver crawled on the surface of her arms and face. She heard strange sounds coming from Father Dante’s bedroom. She held back a moment, trying to recall her best friend’s soft-spoken voice, but she could not remember. The sounds were of heaving desperate lungs, muffled with the terror of desperate pleading. The groaning deepened with so much intention and force that it made her jump back, her ear pressed against the door. She paused, turned the doorknob, and pushed the door open wide. The room was cold and dark and the sounds did not stop; when suddenly, a terrible crack of lightning exploded through the pane of the window, and for a second, she saw the towers of the Cathedral across the park light up with the intensity of the sun. People would talk about it for months and even years. Some even swore it was the wrath of Heaven that had shaken the earth, but who knows? And a cruel memory instantly photographed in the back of the young girl’s mind forever. And her chest ached, because she had sucked in so much air with one single breath, and when she released it, the awful sound completely deadened her hearing. The other girls quickly ran into the bedroom, and they saw her standing motionless, aloof with her hands over her face, still standing in the center of the room. They also screamed, at the atrocity before them. And they 43
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tHe confession of Maria luZ Miguel saucedo

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