and the Virgin Mary. They look just like sisters, except that the Virgin is always holding her baby and Rita isn’t married. Sometimes the Virgin hands Jesus to Rita because there’s a snake on the ground, and Rita acts a little like Lili does. But she doesn’t look whorish, though, because Rita is a saint. I always get the two confused, praying to one, thinking she’s the other. They both have cute little feet that peep out from under their dresses. I can’t figure out why there aren’t any pilgrimages where men can touch their legs to request favours.
Catechism classes are given by Father Giovanni, an Italian priest who can’t speak our language very well. He has a girl named Aurora helping him, otherwise we wouldn’t understand a thing. Father says the only thing priests are good for is seducing women, and it’s true because Miss Aurora is really in love with Giovanni. But he doesn’t seem to realize it, despite the glances she keeps throwing his way, especially when he’s upset with our trouble-making.
If you ask me, Miss Aurora is beautiful. She looks just like the pictures of the Virgin and Rita. Her legs and her tiny feet make me think of a saint’s. Sometimes she’s a little hairy, but after she shaves, the resemblance is remarkable. She’s nice, and never gets mad at us. The other kids are loud and rambunctious. They come from Acre Street, near the harbour, and they all know each other. A few of them have become my friends, and they tell me amazing things about the priest and the schoolmistress: they’re lovers and they hug and kiss in the sacristy after class is over.
These friends are not afraid to shout obscenities in loud voices. They run among the benches, snitch crackers and make a bee-line for the snacks before the end of class. Some of them bring their marbles and start playing as if it was the most natural thing to do.
There’s no point listening to the priest and Miss Aurora; you can’t understand a word. You have to learn it all by heart: you’re supposed to be good, go to mass on Sundays, respect the priest, love your parents, not use bad words or think bad thoughts, not steal, kill or lie, or hide in the church. All the rest is adult stuff that our parents make us recite. I don’t want to get mixed up or forget anything, so I memorize the whole list of sins, including sins of the flesh. Because in our language, we use the same word to name that particular sin and say “meat,” and Father insists that we not eat fish on Fridays, just to show that he doesn’t like priests. Giovanni won’t tolerate that, and every time I confess to the sin of the flesh, he slaps me in the face. The other kids rather not say anything about that subject, because if they do, the Host will bleed in their mouths. I don’t talk about those things at home, to keep from admitting that my mother is right. That’s how it is with penance. You’ve got to suffer in silence.
We’re a bunch of perverts, and nothing good will ever come of us, Giovanni says. But at the last minute he agreed to give us Communion, even if we did whistle through the movie about Maria Goretti. He wanted to show us a movie as a reward for finishing the course. We got excited, and we all were hoping for one of our favourite heroes: Tom Mix, Tarzan, Zorro or Flash Gordon.
But Giovanni was lying. The Goretti movie wasn’t for kids. It was a dark, dreary picture for priests and pious ladies, plus the film kept breaking. You can’t imagine the racket that broke out in the hall when this poor peasant begged Goretti to kiss him. She was an ugly, stuck-up girl. Either she was in love with someone else, or she wanted to be a nun, we never could figure it out. But with that stupid face of hers, she might have been two-timing him. Maybe that’s why he wanted to kill her. The kids were shouting dirty words and making fart noises because the movie was so idiotic. The peasant wasn’t even strong or good-looking, and the Goretti chick couldn’t even find herself a half-decent guy. What a disaster! Miss Aurora was crying — that served Giovanni right. That would teach him to lie to kids! I was amazed that my father didn’t punish us. It just goes to show you that priests are a shameless lot, he said. All they think about is showing dirty movies to little boys to pervert them. He practically forbade us from going back to church. Mother kept her silence, since she had hidden intentions of her own.
When Communion day came, I was disappointed by the Host, though I’d heard so much about it. Just a regular piece of flattened bread, pasty and totally ineffective against my tuberculosis. At home, they baked a cake and took pictures of us in our white suits. That’s all there was to it. Then my brother and I fell into a trap.
It all started with us having to go to mass every Sunday with Mother. Father waved good-bye, told us to pray for his soul and went out by himself. That was the end of our Sunday walks. Mass was long, drawn out, full of singing and noise, the crowd of believers surged forward, crushing me, blocking my view. I couldn’t follow the priest’s movements, so I settled for gazing at the plaster statues and the paintings. The more contact I have with religious matters, the greater my fascination with the Virgin’s feet, which leaves me feeling confused. You have to love the Virgin, I know that, but sometimes I think I love her a little like the heroes in the romance stories love each other. I love some of the girls at school, too. I feel even more confused because the clatter of the old ladies’ dentures as they pray makes me think of my aunts washing themselves on the bidet. I get them mixed up with the Virgin. Or I think of St. Rita going to the toilet with the door wide open, and I can hear the noise. I know it’s not nice, and I’d better not say a word to anyone. The atmosphere during mass brings some very strange thoughts into my head. The drone of the prayers, with the odour of incense and the murmuring of the faithful, puts me to sleep. Yet I walk out of church light-footed, in a state of grace, like a robot. I don’t even miss the walk with my father. All I want to do is go home and sleep. My brother feels drowsy, too, but he claims it’s on account of the Host.
Finally, my mother confesses her true intentions. She has succeeded in contacting the elderly parish priest, Canon Bezerril. They two of them plotted it all out ahead of time. The Canon is an obese character with a malignant look who cares only about the wealthy Portuguese of the parish. The difference between him and Giovanni is like Laurel and Hardy in the movies. Beneath his black robe, Giovanni is thin as a rail, and when he’s not in the confessional he likes children. Bezerril, on the other hand, is usually dressed in white, and always wearing his stole to look more important, like an army officer. Giovanni has the look of poverty about him. He has nothing to do with church decoration, or with reserving seats close to the altar. Those things are very important to Bezerril, especially since people pay separately for the flowers, and that brings in money for the parish. Decoration is at the root of all my problems. Bezerril was looking for two kids to hold the silver candelabras. I don’t know what my mother cooked up with him, but we were taken on as altar boys.
“Tall, blond, as innocent as angels,” said Bezerril as he welcomed us.
We had plenty of things to learn and not much time to learn them. We had to be on time to put on our robes and comb our hair. Then get down to the sacristy to help Giovanni prepare for low mass. A priest can’t get dressed by himself. If he’s not given the right vestments, he stands there frozen in mid-gesture, not budging a hair. Or he starts to shout. You can’t drop things either, on account of they’re sacred and he’ll have to kiss them despite the dust on the floor. Then you light the candelabras and escort him into the church. Stoke up the censer and swing it to and fro without making too much smoke and stopping the mass, and be sure you kneel at the right time. You ring the bell, but only when you’re supposed to. Don’t start fighting, don’t roll the candle wax into balls. Don’t fall when you carry the big book, don’t forget to genuflect, don’t stand between the priest and the altar. Don’t spy on people when they’re praying, don’t pick your nose and don’t giggle. And don’t cough when everyone’s kneeling and the priest is playing with the big Host. If the beadle isn’t there, you have to handle the little bottles of water and wine, then hold the plate so the Host doesn’t fall out of people’s mouths during Communion.
During low mass Giovanni helps us out. He tells us what to do or does it himself, and never loses his temper. Besides, it doesn’t matter if we make a mistake because the church is almost empty. The only worshippers are old ladies in black who don’t like crowds. But the solemn high mass at ten o’clock with Bezerril is a real nightmare. The church is bursting at the seams, the chorus and the organ struggle to get in tune, Bezerril has an attack of the flutters because he can’t put on his costume and rehearse his sermon at the same time.
He