Paul Theroux - My Secret History

Neither fondness for my son, nor reverence

For my aged father, nor the debt of love

That should have cheered Penelope

Could conquer in me the lust

To experience the far-flung world

And human vice and bravery .

“Is that how you’re preparing yourself?”

“Yes, Father.” He blinked. I thought: What was the question? “No, Father.”

It was another trick of priests — not Father Furty — to say nothing, and for you to squirm until you guessed, somehow, what they meant.

“Well, what are you doing to prepare yourself?”

To prepare myself for what?

“Praying, Father.”

He stared: he knew I had just given him an all-purpose answer. And he knew I was lying. I wasn’t praying, I was only worrying whether I would ever experience the far-flung world. But wasn’t praying worrying out loud?

“And asking for God’s help.”

His smile was worse than his stare, his silence more terrible than anything he said. And I was trapped in the tick of his clock.

“And doing penance, Father.”

He pounced on this.

“What sort of penance?”

“Doing things and offering them up. Helping my folks. Drying the dishes. Working up at Wright’s Pond”—I was failing, and I knew it—“and going without things.”

He seemed bored, the air seeping out of him.

“Like candy, and—”

He glanced up.

“And camping equipment,” I said lamely, and added in desperation, “And bullets.”

This made him wince. He said, “So in fact you’re not doing anything to prepare yourself.”

“No, Father.”

“How old are you?”

“Fifteen, Father,” I said in a defeated voice.

“Got a girlfriend?”

“No, Father.” It was bad enough that I was telling a lie, but it seemed so much worse that I was denying Tina’s existence. My lie made her pretty face spring into my mind and made me sad.

He knew I was lying. He was smiling, watching my lies accumulate. I could hear the scrape of his breathing, like a comb in his throat.

Behind his head, a large tufty cloud moved past the window and made me wish I was outside. The cloud climbed, leaving blue sky, and I felt trapped down below.

“What makes you think you could be a priest?”

I said nothing at first. His eyes were perforating my soul. I said, “I don’t know.”

“I’ll tell you something. You don’t simply say, ‘I’m going to be a priest’ the way you say, ‘I’m going to be a doctor or a lawyer.’ ”

Though it struck me that it was much harder to be a doctor or a lawyer, I said, “No, Father.”

“You don’t volunteer. ‘Here I am — might as well have a try!’ ” He made it sound thoroughly foolish. “You are chosen! You are called. To receive the sacrament. To perform the holy sacrifice of the mass.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Almighty God does the choosing!”

I wanted to get out of that room.

“You must think you’re pretty darned important,” the Pastor said.

I looked down, to appear ashamed, and saw his thin socks of black silk and hated them.

“Did you ever think you might be motivated by pride?”

There was no point in saying no. I knew I was beaten.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said, and smiled his terrible smile. “The Church has no use for slackers. You don’t know how lucky you are!” He looked aside, then turned back to me and said, “A non-Catholic once said to a Catholic, ‘Do you believe that Christ is present in your church?’ The Catholic said yes. ‘Do you believe that, when you receive communion, God is in you?’ And the Catholic said yes. ‘Do you believe that when you die you have a chance to spend eternity in Heaven with Almighty God?’ ‘Yes,’ the Catholic said. And the non-Catholic said, ‘If I believed those things I would go to that church on my knees!’ ”

“Yes, Father.”

“I would go to that church on my knees!”

I thought: But he didn’t — didn’t believe, didn’t take communion, didn’t go to church. It was easy to say that, like saying, If I believed men could fly I would jump off the John Hancock Building . Or, If I believed what you believed I would die for it . It was only an if — and a selfish boasting if. All they were really saying was, “… If, and pass the mustard.”

“That’s a pretty powerful example of faith, don’t you think?”

I lied again, and I thought: Powerful example of a lack of faith, you mean!

“Let me ask you a question,” the Pastor said, making a fresh start, as if the conversation had just begun. “If you were chosen by God to be a priest, and if you had enough sanctifying grace — what sort of priest would you be?”

I was stumped. But he went on staring. His stare said: I’ve got all day to watch you squirm.

“I don’t know, Father,” I said in a pleading voice.

“Have a try.” He seemed friendlier saying this — it was the first kindly encouragement he had given me. I decided to tell him the truth.

I said, “I would try to model myself on Father Furty.”

The Pastor began slowly leaning back as if trying to get me into focus by making me small.

I said, “I was his altar boy. I used to watch him.”

But my words were dropping into a void — into the space that had opened up between us. I knew I had already failed. Nothing I said really mattered, and yet I could tell from the flick of his eyes that I had triggered something in the Pastor.

“Wouldn’t that be the easy way out?”

I didn’t know what to say.

“Father Furty — God rest his soul — was alone when he died. He was alone physically. He was alone emotionally and spiritually. Weakness is a terrible thing — it’s a kind of cowardice. It can make you a very easy target for the devil. Father Furty abused his body. Do you think a person can abuse his body without abusing his soul?”

“No, Father.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

It was a cruel question; it was one that Father Furty hated. But I had already failed — and way back, lying about penance and prayer; so I lied again.

“When evil gets a grip on you,” the Pastor said, with a kind of horrible energy, “it never lets go. Never! And you burn for all eternity.” It was what Father Feeney had said, ranting on the Common. The Pastor’s voice was quavering again and the scrape of his breathing began. “That’s why we have to pray for the repose of Father Furty’s soul.”

His chair creaked and he was facing me.

“You don’t want to model yourself on Father Furty.”

I lied once again.

“I think you can do better than that,” the Pastor said.

He meant Father Furty’s disgrace — much worse now that he was dead, because he wasn’t around to repent. He had died and left us with the mess to clean up, getting his stained soul out of Purgatory.

I said yes, I could do better than that; but it was the worst lie I had told all day — not only was it a denial of Father Furty, but it was a claim that I could do something I couldn’t. I was in despair: in belittling my dead friend I had destroyed my vocation. Then I thought: I don’t really have a vocation.

“I think you’re going to work out fine,” the Pastor said, for I had agreed to everything he said. He had me on his terms.

He ended by speaking of the Church. When he mentioned the Church I thought of a church building and saw it very clearly. It was a tiny boxlike thing with a stumpy steeple and very few pews; it was hard to enter and uncomfortable inside, which was why most of us were outside.

“I hope I’ve given you something to think about.”

“Yes, Father.”

He opened a drawer and took out a sheet of paper with typing on it.