Diego Maenza - Structure Of Prayer

I stand behind the headboard and shake the jar of the nard colony with which I moisten my hands. I anoint the surface of his face and I think I perceive a blink that is immediately quenched by the feverish force of the heat. The boy burns. I think I do too, but for other reasons. Sleep, son, I'll take care of you. On the verge of falling asleep, I wake up and notice that the drugs have mitigated the infection. I rub my hands once more and rub his feet with the balm. I go to my room somewhat relieved.

Praise the holy water of the nards that have been smeared on your body. Rest, for tomorrow you will rise and walk.

I am delirious, for I have looked closely at the face of the beast, and this can only happen in my dreams. It is the fever. Its drool floods my body. I hear its exhalation and have no strength to scream, only bravery to spit in its face, not even with spittle, but with a look of disgust and horror. I cry, as is normal in moments of terror, and implore heaven, as is natural for a believer. Cast the beast into hell, Lord. Protect me. Watch over me, Lord. Be my refuge. You, Lord, are my shepherd. With you I shall not want. Nothing and no one can hurt me.

The young man finally sleeps, this time without nightmares, after the outbreak of fever. The father, in his room, is preparing to change his attire for a suit that will provide him with the comfort to rest. He undresses and contemplates his body in front of the mirror. The hairs converge on the pubic area like a whirlpool coming from the thighs and the navel and surround the pelvis reaching the epicenter of his private part, which gradually rises in a powerful erection. Deliver me from sin, Lord, implore, without success. His desire is greater than his capacity for abstinence. But suddenly he feels invaded by an impulse, by an unnatural squall that makes his chest enlarge as a sign of satisfaction and that depresses the flow of blood that his nature has impelled towards his penis. He thanks God, puts on his sleeping clothes and drops to his knees in front of the bed. Thank you, Father, he goes forward to express, with tears of conformity running down his cheekbones. Today his eyes will rest with serenity. His ears are stretched out into the deep silence of the peaceful night. God, it seems, has heard him. At least that is what Father Misael insists on believing.

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.